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Something, whose truth convinc'd at sight we find,
That gives us back the image of our mind.

As shades more sweetly recommend the light,
So modest plainness sets off sprightly wit;
For works may have more wit than does them good,
As bodies perish through excess of blood.

}

Others for language all their care express,
And value books, as women men, for dress:
Their praise is still--the style is excellent;
The sense they humbly take upon content.
Words are like leaves; and where they most abound,
Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found.
False eloquence, like the prismatic glass,
Its gaudy colours spreads on every place;
The face of nature we no more survey,
All glares alike, without distinction gay:
But true expression, like th' unchanging sun,
Clears and improves whate'er it shines upon;
It gilds all objects, but it alters none.
Expression is the dress of thought, and still
Appears more decent, as more suitable:
A vile conceit in pompous words express'd,
Is like a clown in regal purple dress'd:
For different styles with different subjects sort,
As several garbs, with country, town, and court.
Some by old words to fame have made pretence,
Ancients in phrase, mere moderns in their sense;
Such labour'd nothings, in so strange a style,
Amaze th' unlearn'd, and make the learned smile.
Unlucky, as Fungosa in the play,

These sparks with awkward vanity display
What the fine gentleman wore yesterday,
And but so mimic ancient wits at best,

As apes our grandsires in their doublets drest.
In words, as fashions, the same rule will hold;

Alike fantastic if too new or old:

Be not the first by whom the new are tried,
Nor yet the last to lay the old aside.

}

But most by numbers judge a poet's song; And smooth or rough with them, is right or wrong:

In the bright muse though thousand charms con

spire,

Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire;
Who haunt Parnassus but to please their ear,
Not mend their minds; as some to church repair,
Not for the doctrine, but the music there.
These, equal syllables alone require,
Though oft the ear the open vowels tire;
While expletives their feeble aid do join,
And ten low words oft creep in one dull line:
While they ring round the same unvaried chimes,
With sure returns of still expected rhymes;

Where'er you find

In the next line it

If crystal streams

the cooling western breeze,' whispers through the trees:' with pleasing murmurs creep,' The reader's threaten'd (not in vain) with 'sleep:' Then at the last and only couplet, fraught With some unmeaning thing they call a thought, A needless Alexandrine ends the song,

That like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.

Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes and know What's roundly smooth or languishingly slow; And praise the easy vigour of a line,

Where Denham's strength and Waller's sweetness join.

True ease in writing comes from art, not chance,
As those move easiest who have learn'd to dance.
'Tis not enough no harshness gives offence,
The sound must seem an echo to the sense:
Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows,
And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows;
But when loud surges lash the sounding shore,
The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar.
When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to
throw,

The line too labours, and the words move slow:
Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain,

Flies o'er the unbending corn, and skims along the

Hear how Timotheus' varied lays surprise,
And bid alternate passions fall and rias

While, at each change, the son of fabyan Jove
Now burns with glory, and then meit, with ju e
Now his fierce eyes with sparkling layo
Now sighs steal out, and tears begu ubun
Persians and Greeks like tura. of us
And the world's victor stood bowed.
The power of music all our s
And what Timotheus was in lo
Avoid extremes, and sous for
Who still are pleas'd too if
At every trifle scorn to take t
That always shows great pr
Those heads, as stomach, as is whe
Which nauseate ali, and

Yet let not each gay was
For foois admire, ou des
As things seemi large Wha
Dulness is erat apo dog
Some foreign rust

The ancients on

Thus wit, me lart

To one smas

Meaniy tacy ander

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In the bright muse though thousand charms con

spire,

Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire;
Who haunt Parnassus but to please their ear,
Not mend their minds; as some to church repair,
Not for the doctrine, but the music there.
These, equal syllables alone require,
Though oft the ear the open vowels tire;
While expletives their feeble aid do join,
And ten low words oft creep in one dull line:
While they ring round the same unvaried chimes,
With sure returns of still expected rhymes;

Where'er you find

In the next line it

If crystal streams

the cooling western breeze,' whispers through the trees:' with pleasing murmurs creep,' The reader's threaten'd (not in vain) with 'sleep:' Then at the last and only couplet, fraught With some unmeaning thing they call a thought, A needless Alexandrine ends the song,

That like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.

Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes and know What's roundly smooth or languishingly slow; And praise the easy vigour of a line,

Where Denham's strength and Waller's sweetness join.

True ease in writing comes from art, not chance,
As those move easiest who have learn'd to dance.
'Tis not enough no harshness gives offence,
The sound must seem an echo to the sense:
Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows,
And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows;
But when loud surges lash the sounding shore,
The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar.
When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to
throw,

The line too labours, and the words move slow:
Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain,

Flies o'er the unbending corn, and skims along the

Hear how Timotheus' varied lays surprise,
And bid alternate passions fall and rise!
While, at each change, the son of Libyan Jove
Now burns with glory, and then melts with love;
Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury glow,
Now sighs steal out, and tears begin to flow:
Persians and Greeks like turns of nature found,
And the world's victor stood subdued by sound!
The power of music all our hearts allow,
And what Timotheus was, is Dryden now.

Avoid extremes; and shun the fault of such
Who still are pleas'd too little or too much.
At every trifle scorn to take offence,

That always shows great pride, or little sense:
Those heads, as stomach, are not sure the best,
Which nauseate all, and nothing can digest.
Yet let not each gay turn thy rapture move;
For fools admire, but men of sense approve:
As things seem large which we through mists descry,
Dulness is ever apt to magnify.

Some foreign writers, some our own despise;
The ancients only, or the moderns prize:
Thus wit, like faith, by each man is applied
To one small sect, and all are damn'd beside.
Meanly they seek the blessing to confine,
And force that sun but on a part to shine,
Which not alone the southern wit sublimes,
But ripens spirits in cold northern climes;
Which from the first has shone on ages past,
Enlights the present, and shall warm the last;
Though each may feel increases and decays,
And see now clearer and now darker days.
Regard not then if wit be old or new,
But blame the false, and value still the true.
Some ne'er advance a judgement of their own,
But catch the spreading notion of the town;
They reason and conclude by precedent,
And own stale nonsense which they ne'er invent.
Some judge of authors' names, not works, and then
Nor praise nor blame the writings, but the men.

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