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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 loved folly sacrifice.

Once on a time, La Mancha's knight,

they say,

A certain bard encountering on the way, Discoursed in terms as just, with looks as sage,

As e'er could Dennis of the Grecian stage; Concluding all were desperate sots and fools,

Who durst depart from Aristotle's rules. Our author, happy in a judge so nice, Produced his play, and begged 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. "What! leave the combat out?" exclaims

the knight;

Yes, or we must renounce the Stagirite. "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 glittering thoughts struck out at every line;

Pleased with a work where nothing's just

or fit;

One glaring chaos and wild heap of wit. Poets like painters, thus unskilled to trace The naked nature and the living grace, With gold and jewels cover every part, And hide with ornaments their want of art. True wit is nature to advantage dressed, What oft was thought, but ne'er so well expressed;

Something, whose truth convinced 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 'em 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 every place;
The face of nature we no more survey,
All glares alike, without distinction gay:
But true expression, like the 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 expressed,
Is like a clown in regal purple dressed:
For different styles with different subjects
sort,

As several garbs with country, town, and

court.

Some by old words to fame have made pretense,

Ancients in phrase, mere moderns in their

sense;

Such laboured nothings, in so strange a style,

Amaze the unlearned, and make the learned smile.

Unlucky, as Fungoso 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
dressed.

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.

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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 main.

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,

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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 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 invent.

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 starved hackney sonneteer, or me? But let a lord once own the happy lines, How the wit brightens; how the style refines!

Before his sacred name flies every fault, And each exalted stanza teems with thought!

The vulgar thus through imitation err; As oft the learned by being singular;

So much they scorn the crowd, that if the throng

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-divines this zealous isle o'erspread;

Who knew most Sentences, was deepest read;

Faith, Gospel, all seemed made to be disputed:

And none had sense enough to be confuted: Scotists and Thomists, now in peace re

main,

Amidst their kindred cobwebs in Duck Lane,

If faith itself has different 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 pleased to
laugh.

Some valuing those of their own side of

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, beaus; But sense survived, when merry jests were past;

For rising merit will buoy up at last.

By chance go right, they purposely go Might he return, and bless once more our

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For envied wit, like Sol eclipsed, makes known

The opposing body's grossness, not its own. When first that sun too powerful beams

displays,

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 defend, 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 survived a thousand years:

Now length of fame (our second life) is lost,

And bare threescore is all ev'n that can boast;

Our sons their fathers' failing language see, And such as Chaucer is, shall Dryden be. So when the faithful pencil has designed Some bright idea of the master's mind, Where a new word 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 mellow years their full perfection give,

And each bold figure just begins to live, The treacherous 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 its empty praise we boast, But soon the short-lived vanity is lost: Like some fair flower the early spring supplies,

That gaily blooms, but even in blooming dies.

What is this wit, which must our cares em

ploy?

The owner's wife, that other men enjoy; Then most our trouble still when most admired,

And still the more we give, the more required;

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 't is hated, and by knaves undone !

If wit so much from ignorance undergo, Ah, let not learning too commence its foe! Of old, those met rewards who could excel, And such were praised who but endeavoured well:

Though triumphs were to generals only due,

Crowns were reserved 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 urged 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 purged 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,
Though 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

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The fair sat panting at a courtier's play, And not a mask went unimproved away: The modest fan was lifted up no more, And virgins smiled at what they blushed before.

The following license of a foreign reign. Did all the dregs of bold Socinus drain; Then unbelieving priests reformed 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 learned to spare And vice admired to find a flatterer there! Encouraged thus, wit's Titans braved the skies,

And the press groaned with licensed 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 the infected spy, As all looks yellow to the jaundiced eye.

*

JONATHAN SWIFT

GULLIVER AMONG THE
LILLIPUTIANS

From THE TRAVELS OF LEMUEL

GULLIVER, 1726

My gentleness and good behaviour had gained so far on the emperor and his court, and indeed upon the army and people in general, that I began to conceive hopes of getting my liberty in a short time. I took all possible methods to cultivate this favorable disposition. The natives came, by degrees, to be less apprehensive of any danger from me. I would sometimes lie down, and let five or six of them dance on my hand; and at last the boys and girls would venture to come and play at hideand-seek in my hair. I had now made a

good progress in understanding and speaking their language. The emperor had a mind one day to entertain me with several of the country shows, wherein they exceed all nations I have known, both for dexterity and magnificence. I was diverted with none so much as that of the ropedancers, performed upon a slender white thread, extended about two foot and twelve inches from the ground. Upon which I shall desire liberty, with the reader's patience, to enlarge a little.

This diversion is only practised by those persons who are candidates for great employments and high favour at court. They are trained in this art from their youth, and are not always of noble birth or liberal education. When a great office is vacant, either by death or disgrace (which often happens), five or six of those candidates petition the emperor to entertain his majesty and the court with a dance on the rope; and whoever jumps the highest without falling, succeeds in the office. Very often the chief ministers themselves are commanded to show their skill, and to convince the emperor that they have not lost their faculty. Flimnap, the treasurer, is allowed to cut a caper on the straight rope, at least an inch higher than any other lord in the whole empire. I have seen him do the summerset several times together, upon a trencher fixed on the rope, which is no thicker than a common pack-thread in England. My friend Reidresal, principal secretary for private affairs, is, in my opinion, if I am not partial, the second after the treasurer; the rest of the great officers are much upon a par.

These diversions are often attended with fatal accidents, whereof great numbers are on record. I myself have seen two or three candidates break a limb. But the danger is much greater when the ministers themselves are commanded to show their dexterity; for, by contending to excel themselves and their fellows, they strain so far that there is hardly one of them who hath not received a fall, and some of them two or three. I was assured that, a year or two before my arrival, Flimnap would

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