Expofe no fingle fop, but lay the load
More equally, and spread the folly broad;
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 every flower,
Ingredients to compofe that precious juice,
Which ferves the world for pleasure and for use,
In fpite 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 speak fenfe, as if poffeft,
And each by infpiration 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 fheer-wit avoid,
With which our age so nauseously is cloy'd:
Humour is all; wit fhould be only brought
To turn agreeably fome 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.
The matchlefs character of Shakespeare.
First, a foliloquy is calmly made,
Where every reason is exactly weigh'd;
Which once perform'd, most opportunely comes
Some hero frighted at the noise of drums;
For her sweet fake, whom at first sight he loves,
And all in metaphor his paffion proves :
But fome fad accident, though yet unknown,
Parting this pair, to leave the fwain alone;
He strait grows jealous, though 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!
Who ftrait appears; but who can fate withstand?
Too late, alas! to hold his hafty hand,
That juft has given 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.
What shameful and what monftrous things are thefe
And then they rail at those they cannot please;
Conclude us only partial to the dead,
And grudge the fign of old Ben Jonson's head;
When the intrinfic 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,
And fenfe no longer will fubmit to fools.
By painful steps at last we labour up
Parnaffus' hill, on whofe bright airy top
The Epick poets fo divinely fhow,
And with just pride behold the rest below.
Heroic poems have a juft pretence
To be the utmoft ftretch of human fenfe;
A work of fuch ineftimable worth,
There are but two the world has yet brought forth !
Homer and Virgil! with what facred awe,
Do those mere founds the world's attention draw!
Juft as a changeling feems below the reft
Of men, or rather is a two-legg'd beast ;
So thefe gigantic fouls amaz'd we find
As much above the rest of human kind!
Nature's whole strength united! endlefs fame,
And univerfal fhouts attend their name!
Read Homer once, and you can read no more,
For all books elfe appear so mean, fo poor,
Verfe will feem profe; but ftill perfift to read,
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 infpir'd:
But he, difclofing facred myfteries,
Has fhewn where all the mighty magic lies;
Defcrib'd the feeds, and in what order sown,
That have to fuch a vast proportion grown.
Sure from fome angel he the fecret knew,
Who through 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 fhewn, 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?
Whose just discernment, Virgil-like, is such
Never to fay too little or too much?
Let fuch a man begin without delay ;
But he must do beyond what I can say;
Must above Tafso's lofty flights prevail,
Succeed where Spenfer, and ev'n Milton fail.
"TIS faid, that favourite, mankind,
Was made the lord of all below;
But yet the doubtful are concern'd to find,
'Tis only one man tells another fo.
And, for this great dominion here,
Which over other beafts we claim,
Reason our best credential does appear,
By which indeed we domineer,
But how abfurdly, we may fee with shame.
Reason, that folemn trifle! light as air,
Driven up and down by cenfure or applause;
By partial love away 'tis blown,
Or the least prejudice can weigh it down;
Thus our high privilege becomes our snare.
In any nice and weighty cause,
How weak, at beft, is Reafon ! yet the grave
Impofe on that fmall judgment which we have.
In all those wits, whose names have spread so wide,
And ev'n the force of time defy'd,
Some failings yet may be defcry'd.
Among the reft, with wonder be it told,
That Brutus is admir'd for Cæfar's death;
By which he yet survives in Fame's immortal breath.
Brutus, ev'n he, of all the rest,
In whom we should that deed the most deteft,
Is of mankind esteem'd the best.
As fnow defcending from fome lofty hill,
Is by its rolling courfe augmenting still,
So from illuftrious authors down have roll'd
Thofe great encomiums he receiv'd of old :
Republic orators will fhew esteem,
And gild their eloquence with praise of him :
But Truth, unveil'd, like a bright fun appears,
To shine away this heap of feventeen hundred years.
In vain 'tis urg'd by an illuftrious wit,
(To whom in all befides I willingly fubmit)
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