our sons their fathers failing language see, and such as Chaucer is, shall Dryden be. So when the faithful pencil has design'd some bright idea of the master's mind,

485

where a new world leaps out at his command, and ready nature waits upon his hand; when the ripe colours soften and unite, and sweetly melt into just shade and light; when mellowing years their full perfection give, 490 and each bold figure just begins to live; the treach'rous colours the fair art betray, and all the bright creation fades away! Unhappy wit, like most mistaken things, atones not for that envy which it brings; in youth alone it's empty praise we boast, but soon the short-liv'd vanity is lost: like some fair flower the early spring supplies, that gaily blooms, but ev'n in blooming dies. What is this wit, which must our cares employ? 500, the owner's wife, that other men enjoy;

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505

then most our trouble still when most admir'd, and still the more we give, the more requir'd; whose fame with pains we guard, but lose with ease, sure some to vex, but never all to please; It is what the vicious fear, the virtuous shun; by fools 't is hated, and by knaves undone! If wit so much from ignorance undergo, ah, let not learning too commence it's foe! of old, those met rewards, who could excel, and such were prais'd who but endeavour'd well; tho' triumphs were to generals only due, Crowns were reserv'd to grace the soldiers too. Now, they who reach Parnassus' lofty crown, employ their pains to spurn some others down; 515 No. 79.

4

510

and while self-love each jealous writer rules,
contending wits become the sport of fools;
but still the worst with most regret commend,
for each ill author is as bad a friend.
To what base ends, and by what abject ways,
are mortals urg'd through sacred lust of praise!
ah, ne'er so dire a thirst of glory boast,
nor in the critic let the man be lost.
Good-nature and good-sense must ever join;
to err, is human; to forgive, divine.

520

525

530

But if in noble minds some dregs remain, not yet purg'd off, of spleen and sour disdain; discharge that rage on more provoking crimes, nor fear a dearth in these flagitious times. No pardon vile obscenity should find, tho' wit and art conspire to move your mind; but dulness with obscenity must prove as shameful sure as impotence in love. In the fat age of pleasure, wealth, and ease, sprang the rank weed, and thriv'd with large increase: when love was all an easy monarch's care; seldom at council, never in a war:

536

jilts rul'd the state, and statesmen farces writ; nay wits had pensions, and young lords had wit; the fair sat panting at a courtier's play,

540

and not a mask went unimprov'd away;

the modest fan was lifted up no more,

and virgins smil'd at what they blush'd before. The following license of a foreign reign

did all the dregs of bold Socinus drain;

545

then unbelieving priests reform'd the nation,
and taught more pleasant methods of salvation;

where heaven's free subjects might their rights di

lest God himself should seem too absolute:

[puk

550

pulpits their sacred satire learn'd to spare,
and vice admir'd to find a flatterer there!
encourag'd thus, wit's Titians brav'd the skies,
and the press groan'd with licens'd blasphemies.
These monsters, Critics! with your darts engage,
here point your thunder, and exhaust your rage! 555
yet shun their fault who, scandalously nice,

will needs mistake an author into vice:
all seems infected that th' infected spy,
as all looks yellow to the jaundic'd eye.
Learn then what morals critics ought to show,
for 't is but half a judge's task to know.
'Tis not enough taste, judgment, learning, join;
in all you speak let truth and candour shine;
that not alone what to your sense is due
all may allow, but seek your friendship too.
Be silent always when you doubt your sense,
and speak, tho' sure, with seeming diffidence;
some positive persisting fops we know,
who if once wrong will need be always so;
but you with pleasure own your errors past,
and make each day a critique on the last.

560

565

570

'T is not enough your counsel still be true, blunt truths more mischief than nice falsehoods do: men must be taught as if you taught them not, and things unknown propos'd as things forgot. 575 Without good-breeding truth is disapprov'd, that only makes superior sense belov❜d.

Be niggards of advice on no pretence, for the worst avarice is that of sense.

With mean complacence ne'er betray your trust, 580 nor be so civil as to prove unjust.

Fear not the anger of the wise to raise ;

those best can bear reproof who merit praise.

'T were well might critics still this freedom take, But Appius reddens at each word you speak, and stares tremendous, with a threat'ning eye, like some fierce tyrant in old tapestry. Fear most to tax an honourable fool, whose right it is, uncensur'd, to be dull: such without wit are poets when they please, as without learning they can take degrees. Leave dang'rous truths to unsuccessful satires, and flattery to fulsome dedicators,

585

590

whom, when they praise, the world believes no more than when they promise to give scribbling o'er. 595 'Tis best sometimes your censure to restrain, and charitably let the dull be vain;

your silence there is better than your spite, for who can rail so long as they can write? still humming on their drowsy course they keep, 600 and lash'd so long, like tops are lash'd asleep. False steps but help them to renew their race, as, after stumbling, jades will mend their pace. What crouds of these, impenitently bold, in sounds and jingling syllables grown old, still run on poets in a raging vein, ev'n to the dregs and squeezings of the brain, strain out the last dull droppings of their sense, and rhyme with all the rage of impotence.

605

611

Such shameless bards we have; and yet 't is true there are as mad abandon'd critics too. The bookful blockhead, ignorantly read, with loads of learned lumber in his head, with his own tongue still edifies his ears, and always list'ning to himself appears : all books he reads, and all he reads assails, from Dryden's Fables down to Durfey's Tales.

615

With him most authors steal their works or buy;
Garth did not write his own Dispensary.

Name a new play, and he 's the poet's friend;

620

625

nay, show'd his fault-but when would poets mend? no place so sacred from such fops is barr'd, [yard. nor is Paul's Church more safe than Paul's ChurchNay, fly to altars, there they'll talk you dead; for fools rush in where angels fear to tread. Distrustful sense with modest caution speaks, it still looks home, and short excursions makes; but rattling nonsense in full vollies breaks, and never shock'd, and never turn'd aside, bursts out, resistless, with a thund'ring tide. But where's the man who counsel can bestow, still pleas'd to teach, and yet not proud to know? unbiass'd or by favour or by spite,

not dully prepossess'd nor blindly right:

tho' learn'd well-bred, and tho' well-bred sincere;

modestly bold, and humanely severe;

who to a friend his faults can freely show,
and gladly praise the merit of a foe?
bless'd with a taste exact, yet unconfin'd,
a knowledge both of books and human-kind;
gen'rous converse; a soul exempt from pride;
and love to praise, with reason on his side?
Such once were Critics; such the happy few
Athens and Rome in better ages knew.

The mighty Stagirite first left the shore,

spread all his sails, and durst the deeps explore;

he steer'd securely, and discover'd far, led by the light of the Mæonian star. Poets, a race long unconfin'd and free, still fond and proud of savage liberty,

receiv'd his laws, and stood convinc'd 't was fit,

*

630,

636

640

645

650