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No monstrous height, or breadth, or length || As shades more sweetly recommend the light,

appear ;

The whole at once is bold and regular.

Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see, Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be. In ev'ry work regard the writer's end, Since none can compass more than they intend; And if the means be just, the conduct true, Applause, in spite of trivial faults, is due. As men of breeding, sometimes men of wit, T'avoid great errors, must the less commit; Neglect the rules each verbal Critic lays, For not to know some trifles is a praise. Most Critics, fond of some subservient art, Still make the whole depend upon a part: They talk of principles, but notions prize; And all to one lov'd folly sacrifice.

So modest plainness sets off sprightly wit.
For works may have more wit than does them

good,

As bodies perish thro' 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 ev'ry place;
The face of Nature we no more survey ;
All glares alike, without distinction gay:
For true expression, like th' unchanging sun

Once on a time La Mancha's Knight, they Clears and improves whate'er it shines upon;

say,

A certain Bard encount'ring on the way, Discours'd with terms as just, with looks as

sage,

As e'er could Dennis, of the Grecian stage;
Concluding all were desp'rate sots and fools
Who durst depart from Aristotle's rules.
Our Author, happy in a judge so nice,
Produc'd his play, and begg'd the Knight's
advice,

Made him observe the subject and the plot,
The manners, passions, unities: what not?
All which, exact to rule, were brought about,
Were but a combat in the lists left out.

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 exprest,
Is like a clown in regal purple drest :
For diff'rent styles with diff'rent subjects sort,
As sev'ral garbs with country, town, and court,
Some by old words, to fame have made pre-
tence;

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.

"What! leave the combat out?" exclaims the Unlucky as Fungoso in the play,

Knight;

"Yes, or we must renounce the Stagyrite." "Not so, by heaven!" he answers in a rage; "Knights, squires, and steeds, must enter on the stage."

"So vast a throng the stage can ne'er contain." "Then build a new, or act it in a plain."

Thus Critics of less judgment than caprice, Curious, not knowing; not exact, but nice, Form short ideas; and offend in arts (As most in manners) by a love to parts.

Some to conceit alone their taste confine, And glitt'ring thoughts struck out at ev'ry

line;

Pleas'd with a work where nothing's just or fit;
One glaring chaos and wild heap of wit.
Poets, like painters, thus, unskill'd to trace
The naked nature and the living grace,
With gold and jewels cover ev'ry part,
And hide with ornaments their want of art.
True wit is Nature to advantage dress'd;
What oft was thought, but ne'er so well ex-
press'd;

Something, whose truth convinc'd at sight we find,

That gives us back the image of our mind.

These sparks with awkward vanity, display
What the fine gentlenian wore yesterday!
And but so mimic ancient wits at best,
As apes our grands ires, 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 tho' thousand charms conspire,

Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire ; Who haunt Parnassus but to please their

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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 sweet-
ness 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 tor

reut 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 sconrs the plain,
Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along
the main.

Hear how Timotheus' varied lays surprise,
And bid alternate passions 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 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 pow'r of music all our hearts allow;
And what Timotheus was, is Dryden now.

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

That always shews great pride, or little sense. Those heads, as stomachs, 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 : La Belle Assemblée-No. XL.

As things seem large which we thro' 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 damnn'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;
Tho' 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 judgment 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 in-

vent.

Some judge of authors' names, not works; and

then

Nor praise nor blame the writings, but the

men

Of all this servile herd, the worst is he
That in proud dulness joins with quality:
A constant critic at the great man's board,
To fetch and carry nonsense for my lord:
What woeful stuff this madrigal would be,
In some starv'd hackney sonnetteer, or me!
But let a lord once own the happy lines,
How the wit brightens how the style refines!
Before his sacred name flies ev'ry fault,
And each exalted stanza teems with thought!
The vulgar thus thro' imitation err;
As oft the learn'd by being singular:
So much they scorn the crowd, that if the
throng

By chance go` right, they purposely go wrong:
So schismatics the plain believers quit,
And are but damn'd for having too much wit.
Some praise at morning what they blame at
night,

But always think the last opinion right.

Muse by these is like a mistress us'd; This hour she's idoliz'd, the next abus'd; While their weak heads, like towns unfortified, 'Twixt sense and nonsense daily change their side.

Ask them the cause; they're wiser still, they

say;

And still to-morrow's wiser than to day.
We think our fathers fools, so wise we grow;
Our wiser sons, no doubt, will think us so.
Once school-divinès this zealous isle o'er-

spread;

Who knew most sentences was deepest read:

C

Faith, gospel, all seem'd made to be disputed,
And none had sense enough to be confuted:
Scotists and Thomists now in peace remain
Amidst their kindred cobwebs in Duck-lane.
If faith itself has diff'rent dresses worn,
What wonder modes in wit should take their
turn!

Oft, leaving what is natural and fit,

The current folly proves the ready wit;

And authors think their reputation safe,

Unhappy wit, like most mistaken things, Atoues not for that envy which it brings. In youth alone its empty praise we boast; But soon the short liv'd vanity is lost : Like some fair flow'r the early spring supplies That gaily blooms, but ev'n in blooming dies. What is this wit, which must our cares employ? The owner's wife, that other men enjoy : Then most our trouble still when most admir'd, And still the more we give, the more requir'd;

Which lives as long as fools are pleas'd to Whose fame with pains we guard, but lose

laugh.

Some valuing those of their own side or mind,|| Still make themselves the measure of mankind;

Fondly we think we honour merit then,
When we but praise ourselves in other men.
Parties in wit attend on those of state,
And public faction doubles private hate.
Pride, malice, folly, against Dryden rose,
In various shapes of parsons, critics, beaux :
But sense surviv'd when merry jests were past,
For rising merit will buoy up at last,
Might he return, and bless once more our eyes,
New Blackmores and new Milbourns must
arise:

Nay, should great Homer lift his awful head,
Zoilus again would start up from the dead.
Envy will merit, as its shade, pursue ;
But, like a shadow, proves the substance true.
For envied wit, like Sol eclips'd, makes known
Th' opposing body's grossness, not its own.
When first that sun too pow'rful beams dis-
plays,

It draws up vapours which obscure its rays;
But ev'n those clouds at last adorn its way,
Reflect new glories, and augment the day.
Be thou the first true merit to befriend;
His praise is lost who stays till all commend.
Short is the date, alas! of modern rhymes,
And 'tis but just to let them live betimes.
No longer now that golden age appears,
When patriarch wits surviv'd a thousand
years:

Now length of fame (our second life) is lost,
And bare threescore is all e'en that can boast;
Our sons their fathers' failing language sec,
And such as Chaucer is shall Dryden be,
So when the faithful pencil has design'd
Some bright idea of the master's mind,
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,

And each bold figure just begins to live;
The treach'rous colours the fair art betray,
And all the bright creation fades away!

with ease,

Sure some to vex, but never all to please: 'Tis what the vicious fear, the virtuous shun: By fools 'tis hated, and by knaves undone !

If wit so much from ign'rance undergo, Ah let not learning too commence its foe! Of old, those met rewards who could excel, And such were prais'd who but endeavour'd well:

Tho' triumphs were to gen'rals only due, Crowns were reserv'd to grace the soldiers too. Now, they who reach Parnassus' lofty crown Employ their paius to spurn some others down; 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.

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 case,
Sprung the rank weed, and thriv'd with larg
increase:

When love was all an easy monarch's care;
Seldom at council, never in a war,

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,
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 be-
fore.

The following licence of a foreign reign
Did all the dregs of bold Socinus drain;

Then unbelieving priests reform'd the nation, And taught more pleasant methods of salvation;

Where Heaven's free subjects might their rights dispute,

Lest God himself should seem too absolute : Pulpits their sacred satire learn'd to spare, And vice admir'd to find a flatt'rer there! Encourag'd thus, wit's Titans 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!

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
shew,

For 'tis 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 needs be always so;
But you with pleasure own your errors past,
And make each day a critique on the last.

'Tis 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.

Without good-breeding, truth is disapprov'd;
That only makes superior sense belov'd.
Be niggards of advice on no pretence;
For the worst avarices that of sense.
With mean complacence ne'er betray your
trust,

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.
"Twere well might critics still this freedom
take;

But Appius reddens at each word you speak,

Leave dang'rous truths to unsuccessful sa. tires,

And flattery to fulsome dedicators,
Whom, when they praise, the world believes

no more

Than when they promise to give scribbling

o'er.

'Tis best sometimes your censure to restrain, And charitably let the dull be vaiu :

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,

And lash'd so long, like tops, are lash'd asleep. False steps but help them to renew the race; As, after stumbling, jades will mend their

pace.

What crowds 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;

Such shameless bards we have; and yet 'tis

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 listening to himself appears.
All books he reads, and all he reads assails,
From Dryden's Fables down to Durfey's

Tales:

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, Nay, shew'd his faults, but when would Poets

mend?

No place so sacred from such fops is barr'd, Nor is Paul's church more safe than Paul's

church-yard:

Nay, 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 lookshome,andshort excursionsmakes,
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 be
stow,

And stares tremendous, with a threat'ning Still pleas'd to teach, and yet not proud to

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.

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, sin

cere,

Modestly bold, and humanely severe;

Faith, gospel, all seem'd made to be disputed,
And none had sense enough to be confuted:
Scotists and Thomists now in peace remain
Amidst their kindred cobwebs in Duck-lane.
If faith itself has diff'rent dresses worn,
What wonder modes in wit should take their
turn!

Oft, leaving what is natural and fit,
The current folly proves the ready wit;
And authors think their reputation safe,
Which lives as long as fools are pleas'd to
laugh.

Some valuing those of their own side or mind, Still make themselves the measure of mankind;

Fondly we think we honour merit then,
When we but praise ourselves in other men.
Parties in wit attend on those of state,
And public faction doubles private hate.
Pride, malice, folly, against Dryden rose,
In various shapes of parsons, critics, beaux :
But sense surviv'd when merry jests were past,
For rising merit will buoy up at last,
Might he return, and bless once more our eyes,
New Blackmores and new Milbourns must
arise:

Nay, should great Homer lift his awful head,
Zoilus again would start up from the dead.
Envy will merit, as its shade, pursue;
But, like a shadow, proves the substance true.
For envied wit, like Sol eclips'd, makes known
Th' opposing body's grossness, not its own.
When first that sun too pow'rful beams dis-
plays,

It draws up vapours which obscure its rays;
But ev'n those clouds at last adorn its way,
Reflect new glories, and augment the day.
Be thou the first true merit to befriend;
His praise is lost who stays till all commend.
Short is the date, alas! of modern rhymes,
And 'tis but just to let them live betimes.
No longer now that golden age appears,
When patriarch wits surviv'd a thousand
years:

Now length of fame (our second life) is lost,
And bare threescore is all e'en that can boast;
Our sous their fathers' failing language sec,
And such as Chaucer is shall Dryden be,
So when the faithful pencil has design'd
Some bright idea of the master's mind,
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,

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,
Atoues not for that envy which it brings.
In youth alone its empty praise we boast;
But soon the short liv'd vanity is lost :
Like some fair flow'r the early spring supplies
That gaily blooms, but ev'n in blooming dies.
What is this wit, which must our cares employ?
The owner's wife, that other men enjoy :
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:
'Tis what the vicious fear, the virtuous shun:
By fools 'tis hated, and by knaves undone !

If wit so much from ign'rance undergo,
Ah let not learning too commence its foe!
Of old, those met rewards who could excel,
And such were prais'd who but endeavour'd
well:

Tho' triumphs were to gen'rals 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;
And while self-love each jealous writer rules,
Contending wits become the sport of fools,
But still the worst with most regret com-
mend,

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.

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,
|| Sprung the rank weed, and thriv'd with larg
increase:

When love was all an easy monarch's care;
Seldom at council, never in a war,
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,
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 be
fore.

The following licence of a foreign reiga
Did all the dregs of bold Socinus drain;

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