Mere coxcombs are too obvious; oft' we fee
A fool derided by as bad as he.
Hawks fly at nobler game; in this low way
A very owl may prove a bird of prey.
Small poets thus will one poor fop devour,
But to collect, like bees, from ev'ry flow'r
Ingredients to compose that precious juice
Which ferves the world for pleasure and for use,
In spite of faction this would favour get;
But Falstaff* ftands inimitable yet.

Another fault which often may befall
Is, when the wit of fome great poet shall
So overflow, that is, be none at all,
That ev'n his fools fpeak fenfe as if poffeft,
And each by inspiration breaks his jest.
If once the juftness of each part be loft,
Well may we laugh, but at the poet's cost.
That filly thing men call Sheer-wit avoid,
With which our age fo naufeously is cloy'd:
Humour is all; wit fhould be only brought
To turn agreeably some proper thought.

But fince the poets we of late have known
Shine in no drefs fo much as in their own,
The better by example to convince,

Caft but a view on this wrong fide of sense.

First, a Soliloquy is calmly made, Where ev'ry reafon is exactly weigh'd;

*The matchlefs character of Shakespeare.

250

255

260

265

270

275

Which once perform'd, most opportunely comes
Some hero frighted at the noise of drums,

For her fweet fake whom at first fight he loves,
And all in metaphor his paffion proves;

280

But fome fad accident, tho' yet unknown,
Parting this pair, to leave the fwain alone,
He straight grows jealous, tho' we know not why,
Then to oblige his rival needs will die;
But first he makes a speech, wherein he tells
The abfent nymph how much his flame excels,
And yet bequeaths her generously now

To that lov'd rival whom he does not know!

285

Who ftraight appears; but who can Fate withstand? 'Too late, alas! to hold his hafty hand,

'That juft has giv'n himself the cruel stroke,

At which his very rival's heart is broke:

He, more to his new friend than mistress kind,
Most fadly mourns at being left behind,

Of fuch a death prefers the pleasing charms
To love, and living in a lady's arms.

290

295

What shameful and what monftrous things are thefe! And then they rail at thofe they cannot please ;

Conclude us only partial to the dead,

And grudge the fign of old Ben. Johnson's head. 300

When the intrinsic value of the stage

Can fcarce be judg'd but by a following age,
For dances, flutes, Italian fongs, and rhyme,
May keep up finking nonsense for a time;

But that must fail which now fo much o'er-rules, 305 And fenfe no longer will fubmit to fools.

By painful steps at last we labour up Parnaffus' hill, on whose bright airy top The Epic poets fo divinely fhow,

And with just pride behold the rest below.
Heroic poems have a just pretence

310

To be the utmost stretch of human sense;

A work of fuch inestimable worth,

There are but two the world has yet brought forth! Homer and Virgil! With what facred awe

315

Do thofe mere founds the world's attention draw!
Juft as a changeling feems below the rest
Of men, or rather is a two-legg'd beaft;
So thefe gigantic fouls amaz'd we find
As much above the reft of human-kind!
Nature's whole ftrength united! endless fame
And univerfal fhouts attend their name!
Read Homer once, and you can read no more,
For all books elfe appear fo mean, fo poor,

320

Verfe will feem profe; but ftill perfift to read, 325 And Homer will be all the books you need.

Had Boffu never writ, the world had still,

Like Indians, view'd this wondrous piece of skill,

As fomething of divine the work admir'd,

Not hop'd to be inftructed, but inspir'd;

But he, difclefing facred mysteries,

Has shown where all the mighty magic lies;

330

Defcrib'd the feeds, and in what order fown,
That have to fuch a vast proportion grown.
Sure from fome angel he the secret knew,
Who thro' this labyrinth has lent the clue.

But what, alas! avails it poor mankind
To fee this promis'd land, yet stay behind?
The way is shewn, but who has strength to go?
Who can all sciences profoundly know?
Whofe fancy flies beyond weak Reason's fight,
And yet has judgment to direct it right?
Whofe juft difcernment, Virgil-like, is fuch,
Never to fay too little or too much?
Let fuch a man begin without delay,
But he must do beyond what I can fay;
Muft above Taffo's lofty flights prevail,
Succeed where Spenser and ev'n Milton fail.

DESPAIR.

ALL hopelefs of relief,

Incapable of reft,

In vain I strive to vent a grief

That's not to be exprest.

This rage within my veins

No reafon can remove;

Of all the mind's most cruel pains
The fharpeft, fure, is love.

335

340

345

348

Yet while I languish fo,

And on thee vainly call,

Take heed, fair Cause of all my woe!
What fate may thee befall.

Ungrateful cruel faults

Suit not thy gentle fex;

Thy tender conscience vex?

Hereafter how will guilty thoughts

When welcome Death shall bring
Relief to wretched me,

My foul enlarg'd, and once on wing,
In hafte will fly to thee.

When in thy lonely bed

My ghost its moan fhall make,

With faddeft figns that I am dead,
And dead for thy dear fake;

Struck with that confcious blow
Thy very foul will start;

Pale as my fhadow thou wilt grow,
And cold as is thy heart.

Too late remorfe will then

Untimely pity fhow

To him who of all mortal men

Did most thy value know.

ΤΟ

15

20

25

30