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Some judge of authors names, not works, and then
Nor praise nor blame the writings, but the men.
Of all this fervile herd, the worst is he
That in proud dulnefs joins with quality;

A constant Critic at the great man's board,
To fetch and carry nonsense for my Lord.
What woful stuff this madrigal would be,
In some starv'd hackney-fonneteer, or me!
But let a Lord once own the happy lines,
How the wit brightens! how the style refines!
Before his facred name flies every fault,
And each exalted stanza teems with thought!
The vulgar thus through imitation err;

415

420

As oft the Learn'd by being fingular;

425

So much they scorn the crowd, that if the throng

By chance go right, they purposely go wrong:

So Schifmatics the plain believers quit,

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

Some praise at morning what they blame at night; 430 But always think the laft opinion right.

A Mufe by these is like a mistress us'd,

This hour the 's idoliz'd, the next abus'd;

While their weak heads like towns unfortify'd,

'Twixt fenfe and nonfenfe daily change their fide. 435 Ask them the caufe; they're wifer ftill, they fay; And ftill to-morrow's wifer than to-day.

VARIATIONS.

Ver. 413. Ed. 1. Nor praise nor damn, &c.
Ver. 428. So Schifmatics the dull, &c.

We

We think our fathers fools; fo wife we grow;
Our wifer fons, no doubt, will think us fo.
Qnce School-divines this zealous isle o'erspread;
Who knew most sentences was deepest read:
Faith, gospel, all, seem'd made to be disputed,
And none had fenfe enough to be confuted:

440

Scotifts and Thomifts, now in peace remain,

Amidst their kindred cobwebs in Duck-lane.

445

If Faith itself has different dreffes 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,

450

Which lives as long as fools are pleas'd to laugh.
Some, valuing those of their own side or mind,
Still make themselves the meafure of mankind:
Fondly we think we honour merit then,

When we but praise ourselves in other men.

455

Parties in Wit attend on thofe of State,

And public faction doubles private hate.

VARIATION.

Ver. 447. Between this and ver. 448.

Pride,

The rhyming Clowns that gladded Shakespeare's age, No more with crambo entertain the stage.

Who now in Anagrams their Patron praise,

Or fing their. Miftrefs in Acroftic lays;

Ev'n pulpits pleas'd with merry puns of yore;.
Now all are banish'd to th' Hibernian fhore!
Thus leaving what was natural and fit,
The current folly prov'd their ready wit;
And authors thought their reputation fafe,
Which liv'd as long as fools were pleas'd to laugh.

Pride, Malice, Folly, against Dryden rofe,
In various shapes of Parfons, Critics, Beaux;
But sense surviv'd, when merry jests were past;
For rifing merit will buoy up at last.

Might he return, and bless once more our eyes,
New Blackmores and new Milbourns must arife:
Nay fhould great Homer lift his awful head,
Zoilus again would start up from the dead.

Envy will merit, as its fhade, purfue;

But, like a fhadow, proves the fubftance true:
For envy'd Wit, like Sol eclips'd, makes known
Th' oppofing body's groffnefs, not its own.
When first that fun too powerful beams displays,
It draws up vapours which obfcure its rays;
But ev'n thofe clouds at last adorn its way,
Reflect new glories, and augment the day.

460

465

470

Be thou the first true merit to befriend; His praife is loft, who stays till all commend.

475

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 furviv'd a thousand years:
Now length of Fame (our fecond life) is loft,

480

And bare threefcore is all ev'n that can boaft;
Our fons their fathers' failing language fee,
And fuch as Chaucer is, fhall Dryden be..
So when the faithful pencil has design'd
Some bright idea of the mafter's mind,

VARIATION.

Ver. 485. Ed. 1. Some fair idea, &c.

485 Where

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,

490

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 foon the short-liv'd vanity is loft:

Like fome fair flower the early spring supplies,

That gayly blooms, but ev'n in blooming dies.

495

What is this Wit, which muft our cares employ? 500
The owner's wife, that other men enjoy;

The 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 fome to vex, but never all to please;

VARIATIONS.

505

"Tis

Ver. 490. Ed. I. When mellowing time does, &c. Ver. 492. The treacherous colours in few years decay, Ver. 495. Repays not half that envy, &c.

Ver. 498.

Like fome fair flower that in the spring does rife. Ver. 500. What is this wit that does our cares employ? Ver. 502.

The more his trouble as the more admir'd;

Where wanted, fcorn'd; and envy'd where acquir'd; Maintain'd with pains, but forfeited with ease, &c.

'Tis what the vicious fear, the virtuous fhun,
By fools 'tis hated, and by knaves undone!

If Wit fo much from ignorance undergo,
Ah, let not learning too commence its foe!
Of old, thofe met rewards, who could excell,
And fuch were prais'd who but endeavour'd well:
Though triumphs were to generals only due,
Crowns were referv'd to grace the foldiers too.
Now, they who reach Parnaffus' lofty crown,
Employ their pains to spurn fome others down;
And while self-love each jealous writer rules,
Contending wits become the sport of fools:
But ftill the worst with most regret commend,
For each ill author is as bad a friend.
To what bafe ends, and by what abject ways,
Are mortals urg'd through facred luft of praise!
Ah, ne'er fo dire a thirst of glory boast,

Nor in the Critic let the man be loft.
Good-nature and good-fense must ever join;

To err, is human; to forgive, divine.

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But if in noble minds fome dregs remain

Not yet purg'd off, of spleen and four disdain ;
Discharge that rage on more provoking crimes,
Nor fear a dearth in these flagitious times.

VARIATIONS.

Ver. 508. Ed. 1. Too much does Wit, &c.
Ver. 514. Now those that reach, &c.
Ver. 519. And each, &c.

Ver. 521. Are mortals urg'd by facred, &c.

510

515

520

No

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