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Are neceffary, yet but vulgar arts;
And all in vain these fuperficial parts
Contribute to the ftructure of the whole,
Without a genius too; for that's the foul:
A fpirit which infpires the work throughout,
As that of nature moves the world about;
A flare that glows amidft conceptions fit;
Ev'n foraething of divine, and more than wit;
Itfelf unfuen, yet all things by it shown,
Defcribing all men, but defcrib'd by none.

Where do thou dwell? What caverns of the brain
Can fuch a vast and mighty thing contain?

When I, at vacant hours, in vain thy abfence mourn,
Oh! where dost thou retire? and why doft thou return,
Sometimes with pow'rful charms to hurry me away,
From pleasures of the night, and bus'nefs of the day?
Ev'n now, too far tranfported, I am fain

To check thy courfe, and ufe the needful rein.
As all is dulnefs, when the fancy's bad;
So, without judgment, fancy is but mad:
And judgment has a boundless influence
Not only in the choice of words, or fenfe,
But on the world, on manners, and on men ;

Fancy is but the feather of the pen ;

Reason is that fubftantial, useful part,

Which gains the head, while t'other wins the heart.
Here I fhall all the various forts of verfe,

And the whole art of poetry rehearse;
But who that talk would after Horace do?

The best of maiters, and examples too!

Echoes

Echoes at beft, all we can fay is vain;
Dull the defign, and fruitless were the pain.
"Tis true, the ancients we may rob with ease;
But who with that mean shift himself can please,
Without an actor's pride? A player's art
Is above his who writes a borrow'd part.
Yet modern laws are made for later faults,
And new absurdities inspire new thoughts;
What need has Satire, then, to live on theft,
When fo much fresh occafion ftill is left?
Fertile our foil, and full of rankest weeds,
And monsters worse than ever Nilus breeds.
But hold, the fools fhall have no cause to fear;
'Tis wit and sense that is the subject here:
Defects of witty men deserve a cure,

And those who are fo, will ev'n this endure.

First, then, of Songs, which now so much abound,

Without his fong no fop is to be found;

A most offenfive weapon, which he draws
On all he meets, against Apollo's laws.
Tho' nothing feems more eafy, yet no part
Of poetry requires a nicer art;

For as in rows of richest pearl there lies
Many a blemish that efcape our eyes,
The leaft of which defects is plainly shown
In one fmall ring, and brings the value down:
So Songs should be to just perfection brought;
Yet where can one be feen without a fault?
Exact propriety of words and thought;
Expreffion eafy, and the fancy high;
Yet that not feem to creep, nor this to fly;

}

No words tranfpos'd, but in fuch order all,

As wrought with care, yet feem by chance to fall?
Here, as in all things elfe, is moft unfit,
Bare ribaldry, that poor pretence to wit;
Such naufeous fongs by a late author made,
Call an unwilling cenfure on his fhade.
Not that warm thoughts of the transporting joy
Can fhock the chafteft, or the nicest cloy;
But words obfcene, too grofs to move defire,
Like heaps of fuel, only choak the fire.
On other themes he well deferves our praise;
But palls that appetite he meant to raise.

Next, Elegy, of sweet, but folemn voice,
And of a fubject grave, exacts the choice;
The praife of beauty, valour, wit contains;
And there too oft defpairing love complains:
In vain, alas! for who by wit is mov'd?
That Phoenix-fhe deferves to be belov'd;
But noify nonfenfe, and fuch fops as vex
Mankind, take moft with that fantastic sex.
This to the praise of those who better knew;
The many raise the value of the few.
But here (as all our fex too oft have try'd)
Women have drawn my wand'ring thoughts aside.
Their greatest fault, who in this kind have writ,
Is not defect in words, or want of wit ;
But fhould this muse harmonious numbers yield,
And ev'ry couplet be with fancy fill'd;

If yet a juft coherence be not made

Between each thought, and the whole model laid

So

So right, that ev'ry line may higher rife,

Like goodly mountains, till they reach the skies :
Such trifles may, perhaps, of late, have pass'd,
And may be lik'd awhile, but never last:
'Tis epigram, 'tis point, 'tis what you will,
But not an Elegy, nor writ with skill,
No Panegyric, nor a Cooper's Hill.

A higher flight, and of a happier force,
Are Odes: the Mufes' moft unruly horse,

That bounds fo fierce, the rider has no reft,

}

Here foams at mouth, and moves like one poffefs'd.
The poet, here, must be, indeed, inspir'd,
With fury too, as well as fancy fir'd.

Cowley might boast to have perform'd this part,
Had he with nature join'd the rules of art;

But, fometimes, diction mean, or verfe ill-wrought,
Deadens, or clouds, his noble frame of thought.
Tho' all appear in heat and fury done,
The language ftill muft foft and easy run.
These laws may found a little too severe ;
But judgment yields and fancy governs here,
Which, tho' extravagant, this mufe allows,
And makes the work much easier than it shows.
Of all the ways that wifeft men could find
To mend the age, and mortify mankind,
Satire well-writ has moft fuccefsful prov'd,
And cures, because the remedy is lov'd;
"Tis hard to write on fuch a subject more,
Without repeating things faid oft before:
Some vulgar errors only we'll remove,
That ftain a beauty which we fo much love.

Of chofen words some take not care enough,
And think they should be, as the subject, rough;
This poem must be more exactly made,

And sharpeft thoughts in smootheft words convey'd.
Some think, if fharp enough, they cannot fail,
As if their only bus'nefs was to rail:
But human frailty nicely to unfold,
Distinguishes a fatyr from a scold.

Rage you must hide, and prejudice lay down ;
A fatyr's fmile is fharper than his frown;
So, while you seem to flight fome rival youth,
Malice itself may pafs fometimes for truth.
The Laureat, here, may juftly claim our praise,
Crown'd by Mack-Fleckno with immortal bays;
Yet once his Pegafus has borne dead weight,
Rid by fome lumpish minister of state.

Here reft, my Mufe, fufpend thy cares awhile,
A more important tafk attends thy toil.
As fome young eagle, that defigns to fly
A long unwonted journey through the sky,
Weighs all the dang'rous enterprize before,
O'er what wide lands and feas fhe is to foar,
Doubts her own strength so far, and justly fears
That lofty road of airy travellers;

But yet, incited by fome bold defign,

That does her hopes beyond her fears incline,
Prunes ev'ry feather, views herself with care,
At laft refolv'd, fhe cleaves the yielding air;
Away fhe flies, fo ftrong, fo high, fo faft,
She leffens to us, and is loft at laft:

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