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In the bright mufe tho' thoufand charms conspire,
Her voice is all thefe tuneful fools admire;
Who haunt Parnaffus but to please their ear,
Not mend their minds; as fome to church repair,
Not for the doctrine, but the music there.
Thefe equal fyllables alone require,

Tho' * oft' the ear the open vowels tire;
While expletives their feeble aid to join;

And ten low words oft' creep in one dull line;
While they ring round the fame unvary'd chimes,
With fure returns of ftill-expected rhymes.
Where-e'er you find the cooling western breeze,`
In the next line, it whispers thro' the trees;
If cristal streams with pleasing murmurs creep,
The reader's threaten'd (not in vain) with fleep.
Then, at the laft, an only couplet fraught
With fome unmeaning thing they call a thought,
A needlefs Alexandrine ends the fong,

That like a wounded fnake, drags it flow length along.
Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes, and know
What's roundly fmooth, or languishingly flow;

* Fugiemus crebras vocalium concurfiones, que vaftam atque hiantem orationem reddunt. Cic. ad Herenn, lib, 4. Vide etiam Quintil. lib. 9. C. 4.

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And praise the eafy vigor of a line,

Where Denham's ftrength, and Waller's fweetness join
True eafe in writing comes from art, not chance,
As thofe move eafieft who have learn'd to dance.
'Tis not enough no harshness gives offence,
The found must seem an echo to the fenfe.

Soft is the ftrain when Zephyr gently blows,
And the fmooth ftream in fmoother numbers flows;
But when loud billows lafh the founding fhore,
The hoarse rough verse should like the torrent roar.
When Ajax ftrives, fome rock's vaft weight to throw,
The line too labours, and the words move flow;
Not fo when fwift Camilla fcours the plain,

Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the main.
Hear how Timotheus' various lays furprize,
And bid alternate paffions fall and rise!

While, at each change, the son of Lybian Jove
Now burns with glory, and then melts with love:
Now his fierce eyes with fparkling fury glow,
Now fighs fteal out, and tears begin to flow:
Perfians and Greeks like turns of nature found,
And the world's victor stood subdu'd by found!

* Alexander's feast, or the power of music; an ode by Mr. Dryden,

The pow'r of mufic all our hearts allow;
And what Timotheus was, is Dryden now.
Avoid extreams; and fhun the fault of fuch,
Who still are pleas'd too little, or too much.
At ev'ry trifle fcorn to take offence,

That always fhows great pride or little sense;
Thofe heads, as ftomachs, are not sure the best,
Which naufeate all, and nothing can digeft.
Yet let not each gay turn thy rapture move,
For fools admire, but men of fenfe appove.
As things feem large which we thro' mists descry,
Dulness is ever apt to magnify.

Some the French writers, fome our own defpife; The ancients only, or the moderns prize.

(Thus wit, like faith, by each man is apply'd
To one fmall fect, and all are damn'd befide.)
Meanly they seek the bleffing to confine,
And force that fun but on a part to shine,
Which not alone the southern wit fublimes,
But ripens fpirits in cold northern climes;
Which from the firft has fhone on ages paft,
Enlights the prefent, and shall warm the laft.
(Tho' each may feel encreases and decays,
And fee now clearer and now darker days)
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Regard

Regard not then if wit be old or new,

But blame the false, and value ftill the true.

Some ne'er advance a judgment of their own,
But catch the fpreading notion of the town;
They reafon and conclude by precedent

And own ftale nonfenfe which they ne'er invent.
Some judge of authors names, not works, and then
Nor praise, nor blame the writings, but the men.
Of all the fervile herd, the worst is he
That in proud dulnefs joins with quality,
A conftant critic at the great man's board,
To fetch and carry nonfenfe for my Lord.
What woeful stuff this madrigal would be,
In fome ftarv'd hackny fonneteer, or me?
But let a Lord once own the happy lines,
How the wit brightens! how the ftyle refines!
Before his facred name flies ev'ry fault,

And each exalted ftanza teems with thought!
The vulgar thus through imitation err;
As oft the learn'd by being fingular;

So much they scorn the crowd, that if the throng
By chance go right, they purposely go wrong:
So fchifmatics the plain believers quit,

And are but damn'd for having too much wit.

Some

Some praise at morning what they blame at night; But always think the last opinion right.

A mufe by thefe is like a mistress us'd,--
This hour she's idoliz'd, the next abus'd;

While their weak heads, like towns unfortify'd, -
'Twixt sense and nonfenfe daily change their fide.
Ask them the caufe; they're wifer still they say,
And still to morrow's wifer than to day.

We think our fathers fools, fo wife we grow;
Our wifer fons, no doubt will think us fo.
Once school-divines this zealous ifle o'erfpread;
Who knew moft fentences was deepest read;
Faith, Gospel, all, feem'd made to be difputed,
And none had fenfe enough to be confuted:
Scotifts, and Thomifts, now in peace remain
Amidst their kindred cobwebs in Duck-lane. ~

If Faith itself has diff'rent dreffes worn,

What wonder modes in wit fhould take their turn? Oft', leaving what is natural and fit,

The current folly proves our ready wit;

And authors think their reputation fafe,

Which lives as long as fools are pleas'd to laugh. Some valuing thofe of their own fide, or mind, -Still make themselves the measure of mankind:

C4

Fondly

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