AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM.
[]'TIS hard to ſay, if greater Want of Skill
Appear in Writing or in Judging ill;
But, of the two, leſs dang'rous is th' Offence,
To tire our Patience, than miſ-lead our Senſe.
Some few in that, but Numbers err in this,
Ten Cenſure wrong for one who Writes amiſs;
A Fool might once himſelf alone expoſe,
Now One in Verſe makes many more in Proſe.
[2]
'Tis with our Judgments as our Watches, none
Go juſt alike, yet each believes his own.
In Poets as true Genius is but rare,
True Taſte as ſeldom is the Critick's Share;
Both muſt alike from Heav'n derive their Light,
Theſe born to Judge, as well as thoſe to Write.
† Let ſuch teach others who themſelves excell,
And cenſure freely who have written well.
Authors are partial to their Wit, 'tis true,
But are not Criticks to their Judgment too?
Yet if we look more cloſely, we ſhall find
* Moſt have the Seeds of Judgment in their Mind;
Nature affords at leaſt a glimm'ring Light;
The Lines, tho' touch'd but faintly, are drawn right.
But as the ſlighteſt Sketch, if juſtly trac'd,
Is by ill Colouring but the more diſgrac'd,
So by falſe Learning is good Senſe defac'd.
Some are bewilder'd in the Maze of Schools,
And ſome made Coxcombs Nature meant but Fools.
[3] In ſearch of Wit theſe loſe their common Senſe,
And then turn Criticks in their own Defence:
Thoſe hate as Rivals all that write; and others
But envy Wits, as Eunuchs envy Lovers.
All Fools have ſtill an Itching to deride,
And fain wou'd be upon the Laughing Side:
If Maevius Scribble in Apollo's ſpight,
There are, who judge ſtill worſe than he can write.
Some have at firſt for Wits, then Poets paſt,
Turn'd Criticks next, and prov'd plain Fools at laſt.
Some neither can for Wits nor Criticks paſs,
As heavy Mules are neither Horſe nor Aſs.
Thoſe half-learn'd Witlings, num'rous in our Iſle,
As half-form'd Infects on the Banks of Nile;
Unfiniſh'd Things, one knows not what to call,
Their Generation's ſo equivocal:
To tell 'em, wou'd a hundred Tongues require,
Or one vain Wit's, that might a hundred tire.
But you who ſeek to give and merit Fame,
And juſtly bear a Critick's noble Name,
Be ſure your ſelf and your own Reach to know,
How far your Genius, Taſte, and Learning go;
[4] Launch not beyond your Depth, but be diſcreet,
And mark that Point where Senſe and Dulneſs meet.
Nature to all things fix'd the Limits fit,
And wiſely curb'd proud Man's pretending Wit.
As on the Land while here the Ocean gains,
In other Parts it leaves wide ſandy Plains;
Thus in the Soul while Memory prevails,
The ſolid Pow'r of Underſtanding fails;
Where Beams of warm Imagination play,
The Memory's ſoft Figures melt away.
One Science only will one Genius fit;
So vaſt is Art, ſo narrow Human Wit:
Not only bounded to peculiar Arts,
But oft in thoſe, confin'd to ſingle Parts.
Like Kings we loſe the Conqueſts gain'd before,
By vain Ambition ſtill t'extend them more.
Each might his ſev'ral Province well command,
Wou'd all but ſtoop to what they underſtand.
Firſt follow NATURE, and your Judgment frame
By her juſt Standard, which is ſtill the ſame:
Unerring Nature, ſtill divinely bright,
One clear, unchang'd, and Univerſal Light,
[5] Life, Force, and Beauty, muſt to all impart,
At once the Source, and End, and Teſt of Art.
That Art is beſt which moſt reſembles Her;
Which ſtill preſides, yet never does Appear:
In ſome fair Body thus the ſprightly Soul
With Spirits feeds, with Vigour fills the whole,
Each Motion guides, and ev'ry Nerve ſuſtains;
It ſelf unſeen, but in th' Effects, remains.
There are whom Heav'n has bleſt with ſtore of Wit,
Yet want as much again to manage it;
For Wit and Judgment ever are at ſtrife,
Tho' meant each other's Aid, like Man and Wife.
'Tis more to guide than ſpur the Muſe's Steed;
Reſtrain his Fury, than provoke his Speed;
The winged Courſer, like a gen'rous Horſe,
Shows moſt true Mettle when you check his Courſe.
Thoſe RULES of old diſcover'd, not devis'd,
Are Nature ſtill, but Nature Methodiz'd:
Nature, like Monarchy, is but reſtrain'd
By the ſame Laws which firſt herſelf ordain'd.
Firſt learned Greece juſt Precepts did indite,
When to repreſs, and when indulge our Flight.
[6] High on Parnaſſus' Top her Sons ſhe ſhow'd,
And pointed out thoſe arduous Paths they trod,
Held from afar, aloft, th' Immortal Prize,
And urg'd the reſt by equal Steps to riſe.
From great Examples uſeful Rules were giv'n;
She drew from them what they deriv'd from Heav'n.
The gen'rous Critick fann'd the Poet's Fire,
And taught the World, with Reaſon to Admire.
Then Criticiſm the Muſes Handmaid prov'd,
To dreſs her Charms, and make her more belov'd:
But following Wits from that Intention ſtray'd;
Who cou'd not win the Miſtreſs, woo'd the Maid,
Set up themſelves, and drove a ſep'rate Trade;
Againſt the Poets their own Arms they turn'd,
Sure to hate moſt the Men from whom they learn'd.
So modern Pothecaries, taught the Art
By Doctor's Bills to play the Doctor's Part,
Bold in the Practice of miſtaken Rules,
Preſcribe, apply, and call their Maſters Fools.
Some on the Leaves of ancient Authors prey,
Nor Time nor Moths e'er ſpoil'd ſo much as they.
[7] Some dryly plain, without Invention's Aid,
Write dull Receits how Poems may be made.
Theſe loſt the Senſe, their Learning to diſplay,
And thoſe explain'd the Meaning quite away.
You then whoſe Judgment the right Courſe wou'd ſteer,
Know well each ANCIENT's proper Character;
His Fable, Subject, Scope in ev'ry Page;
Religion, Country, Genius of his Age:
Without all theſe at once before your Eyes,
Cavil you may, but never Criticize.
Be HOMER's Works your Study, and Delight,
Read them by Day, and meditate by Night;
Thence form your Judgment, thence your Notions bring,
And trace the Muſes upward to their Spring.
Still with It ſelf compar'd, his Text peruſe;
And let your Comment be the Mantuan Muſe.
Ere warning Phoebus touch'd his trembling Ears,
Perhaps he ſeem'd above the Critick's Law,
And but from Nature's Fountains ſcorn'd to draw:
[8] But when t'examine ev'ry Part he came,
Nature and Homer were, he found, the ſame:
Convinc'd, amaz'd, he checkt the bold Deſign,
And did his Work to Rules as ſtrict confine,
As if the Stagyrite o'erlook'd each Line.
Learn hence for Ancient Rules a juſt Eſteem;
To copy Nature is to copy Them.
Some Beauties yet, no Precepts can declare,
For there's a Happineſs as well as Care.
Muſick reſembles Poetry, in each
Are nameleſs Graces which no Methods teach,
And which a Maſter-Hand alone can reach.
† If, where the Rules not far enough extend,
(Since Rules were made but to promote their End)
Some Lucky LICENCE anſwers to the full
Th'Intent propos'd, that Licence is a Rule.
Thus Pegaſus, a nearer way to take,
May boldly deviate from the common Track.
Great Wits ſometimes may gloriouſly offend,
And riſe to Faults true Criticks dare not mend;
[9] From vulgar Bounds with brave Diſorder part,
And ſnatch a Grace beyond the Reach of Art,
Which, without paſſing thro' the Judgment, gains
The Heart, and all its End at once attains.
In Proſpects, thus, ſome Objects pleaſe our Eyes,
Which out of Nature's common Order riſe,
The ſhapeleſs Rock, or hanging Precipice.
But Care in Poetry muſt ſtill be had,
It asks Diſcretion ev'n in running Mad:
And tho' the Ancients thus their Rules invade,
(As Kings diſpenſe with Laws Themſelves have made)
Moderns, beware! Or if you muſt offend
Againſt the Precept, ne'er tranſgreſs its End;
Let it be ſeldom; and compell'd by Need;
And have, at leaſt, Their Precedent to plead.
The Critick elſe proceeds without Remorſe,
Seizes your Fame, and puts his Laws in force.
I know there are, to whoſe preſumptuous Thoughts
Thoſe Freer Beauties, ev'n in Them, ſeem Faults.
Some Figures monſtrous and miſ-ſhap'd appear,
Conſider'd ſingly, or beheld too near,
[10] Which, but proportion'd to their Light, or Place
Due Diſtance reconciles to Form and Grace.
A prudent Chief not always muſt diſplay
His Pow'rs in equal Ranks, and fair Array,
But with th' Occaſion and the Place comply,
Conceal his Force, nay ſeem ſometimes to Fly.
Thoſe oft are Stratagems which Errors ſeem,
Nor is it Homer Nods, but We that Dream.
Still green with Bays each ancient Altar ſtands,
Above the reach of Sacrilegious Hands;
Secure from Flames, from Envy's fiercer Rage,
Deſtructive War, and all-devouring Age.
See, from each Clime the Learn'd their Incenſe bring;
Hear, in all Tongues conſenting Paeans ring!
In Praiſe ſo juſt, let ev'ry Voice be join'd,
And fill the Gen'ral Chorus of Mankind!
Hail Bards Triumphant! born in happier Days;
Immortal Heirs of Univerſal Praiſe!
Whoſe Honours with Increaſe of Ages grow,
As Streams roll down, enlarging as they flow!
Nations unborn your mighty Names ſhall ſound,
And Worlds applaud that muſt not yet be found!
[11] Oh may ſome Spark of your Coeleſtial Fire
The laſt, the meaneſt of your Sons inſpire,
(That on weak Wings, from far, purſues your Flights;
Glows while he reads, but trembles as he writes)
To teach vain Wits a Science little known,
T'admire Superior Senſe, and doubt their own!
OF all the Cauſes which conſpire to blind
Man's erring Judgment, and miſguide the Mind,
What the weak Head with ſtrongeſt Byaſs rules,
Is Pride, the never-failing Vice of Fools.
Whatever Nature has in Worth deny'd,
She gives in large Recruits of needful Pride;
For as in Bodies, thus in Souls, we find
What wants in Blood and Spirits, ſwell'd with Wind:
Pride, where Wit fails, ſteps in to our Defence,
And fills up all the mighty Void of Senſe!
If once right Reaſon drives that Cloud away,
Truth breaks upon us with reſiſtleſs Day;
Truſt not your ſelf; but your Defects to know,
Make uſe of ev'ry Friend—and ev'ry Foe.
[12]
A little Learning is a dang'rous Thing;
Drink deep, or taſte not the Pierian Spring:
There ſhallow Draughts intoxicate the Brain,
And drinking largely ſobers us again.
Fir'd with the Charms fair Science does impart,
In fearleſs Youth we tempt the Heights of Art,
While from the bounded Level of our Mind,
Short Views we take, nor ſee the Lengths behind;
But more advanc'd, behold with ſtrange Surprize
New, diſtant Scenes of endleſs Science riſe!
So pleas'd at firſt the towring Alps we try,
Mount o'er the Vales, and ſeem to tread the Sky,
Th' Eternal Snows appear already paſt,
And the firſt Clouds and Mountains ſeem the laſt:
But thoſe attain'd, we tremble to ſurvey
The growing Labours of the lengthen'd Way,
Th' increaſing Proſpect tires our wandring Eyes,
Hills peep o'er Hills, and Alps on Alps ariſe!
† A perfect Judge will read each Work of Wit
With the ſame Spirit that its Author writ,
[13] Survey the Whole, nor ſeek ſlight Faults to find;
Where Nature moves, and Rapture warms the Mind;
Nor loſe, for that malignant dull Delight,
The gen'rous Pleaſure to be charm'd with Wit.
But in ſuch Lays as neither ebb, nor flow,
Correctly cold, and regularly low,
That ſhunning Faults, one quiet Tenour keep;
We cannot blame indeed—but we may ſleep.
In Wit, as Nature, what affects our Hearts
Is not th' Exactneſs of peculiar Parts;
'Tis not a Lip, or Eye, we Beauty call,
But the joint Force and full Reſult of all.
Thus when we view ſome well proportion'd Dome,
(The World's juſt Wonder, and ev'n thine, O Rome!)
No ſingle Parts unequally ſurprize;
All comes united to th' admiring Eyes;
No monſtrous Height, or Breadth, or Length ap⯑pear;
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;
[14] And if the Means be juſt, the Conduct true,
Applauſe, in ſpite of trivial Faults, is due.
As Men of Breeding, oft the Men of Wit
T' avoid great Errors, muſt the leſs commit,
Neglect the Rules each Verbal Critick lays,
For not to know ſome Trifles, is a Praiſe.
Moſt Criticks fond of ſome ſubſervient Art,
Still make the Whole depend upon a Part,
They talk of Principles, but Parts they prize,
And All to one lov'd Folly Sacrifice.
Once on a time, La Mancha's Knight, they ſay,
A certain Bard encountring on the Way,
Diſcours'd in Terms as juſt, with Looks as Sage,
As e'er cou'd D [...]s, of the Laws o'th' Stage;
Concluding all were deſp'rate Sots and Fools,
That durſt depart from Ariſtotle's Rules.
Our Author, happy in a Judge ſo nice,
Produc'd his Play, and beg'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 Combate in the Liſts left out.
[15] What! Leave the Combate out? Exclaims the Knight;
Yes, or we muſt renounce the Stagyrite.
Not ſo by Heav'n (he anſwers in a Rage)
Knights, Squires, and Steeds, muſt enter on the Stage.
The Stage can ne'er ſo vaſt a Throng contain.
Then build a New, or act it in a Plain.
Thus Criticks, 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.
What oft was Thought, but ne'er ſo well Expreſt;
[16] Something, whoſe Truth convinc'd 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 through 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 a⯑bound,
Much Fruit of Senſe beneath is rarely found.
Falſe Eloquence, like the Priſmatic Glaſs,
Its gawdy Colours ſpreads on ev'ry place;
The Face of Nature we no more ſurvey;
All glares alike, without Diſtinction gay:
But true Expreſſion, like th'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;
[17] 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 ſeveral Garbs with Country, Town, and Court.
* Some by Old Words to Fame have made Pretence;
Ancients in Phraſe, meer Moderns in their Senſe!
Such labour'd Nothings, in ſo ſtrange a Style,
Amaze th' unlearn'd, and make the Learned Smile.
Unlucky, as Fungoſo in the † Play,
Theſe Sparks with aukward Vanity diſplay
What the Fine Gentlemen wore Yeſterday:
And but ſo mimick ancient Wits at beſt,
As Apes our Grandſires, in their Doublets dreſt.
In Words, as Faſhions, the ſame Rule will hold;
Alike Fantaſtick, if too New, or Old;
Be not the firſt by whom the New are try'd,
Nor yet the laſt to lay the Old aſide.
[18]
* But moſt by Numbers judge a Poet's Song,
And ſmooth or rough, with ſuch, 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 Ear,
Not mend their Minds; as ſome to Church repair,
Not for the Doctrine, but the Muſick there.
Theſe Equal Syllables alone require,
† Tho' oft the Ear the open Vowels tire;
While Expletives their feeble Aid do join;
And ten low Words oft creep in one dull Line;
While they ring round the ſame unvary'd Chimes,
With ſure Returns of ſtill-expected Rhymes.
Where-e'er you find the cooling Weſtern Breeze,
In the next Line, it whiſpers thro' the Trees;
If Chryſtal Streams with pleaſing Murmurs creep,
The Reader's threaten'd (not in vain) with Sleep.
Then, at the laſt, and only Couplet fraught
With ſome unmeaning Thing they call a Thought,
[19] A needleſs Alexandrine ends the Song,
That like a wounded Snake, drags its ſlow Length along.
Leave ſuch to tune their own dull Rhimes, and know
What's roundly ſmooth, or languiſhingly ſlow;
And praiſe the Eaſie Vigor of a Line,
Where Denham's Strength, and Waller's Sweet⯑neſs join.
'Tis not enough no Harſhneſs gives Offence,
The Sound muſt ſeem an Eccho 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 ſhou'd 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 th' unbending Corn, and skims along the Main.
Hear how † Timotheus' various Lays ſurprize,
And bid Alternate Paſſions fall and riſe!
[20] 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 ſubdu'd by Sound!
The Pow'r of Muſick all our Hearts allow;
And what Timotheus was, is Dryden now.
Avoid Extreams; and ſhun the Fault of ſuch,
Who ſtill are pleas'd too little, or too much.
At ev'ry Trifle ſcorn to take Offence,
That always ſhows 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;
As things ſeem large which we thro' Miſts deſcry,
Dulneſs is ever apt to Magnify.
Some the French Writers, ſome our own deſpiſe;
The Ancients only, or the Moderns prize.
(Thus Wit, like Faith, by each Man is apply'd
To one ſmall Sect, and All are damn'd beſide.)
[21] 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 invent.
Some judge of Author's Names, not Works, and then
Nor praiſe nor damn the Writings, but the Men.
Of all this Servile Herd the worſt is He
That in proud Dulneſs joins with Quality,
A conſtant Critick at the Great-man's Board,
To fetch and carry Nonſenſe for my Lord.
What woful ſtuff this Madrigal wou'd be,
In ſome ſtarv'd Hackny Soneteer, or me?
[22] 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 through 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.
A 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 unfortify'd,
'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;
[23] 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 it ſelf has diff'rent Dreſſes worn,
What wonder Modes in Wit ſhou'd take their Turn?
Oft, leaving what is Natural and fit,
The currant Folly proves our 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 Our ſelves in Other Men.
Parties in Wit attend on thoſe of State,
And publick Faction doubles private Hate.
Pride, Malice, Folly, againſt Dryden roſe,
In various Shapes of Parſons, Criticks, Beaus;
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 S [...]s and new M [...]ns muſt ariſe:
[24] Nay ſhou'd 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 too.
For envy'd Wit, like Sol eclips'd, makes known
Th' 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 befriend,
His Praiſe is loſt, who ſtays till All commend.
Short is the Date, alas, of Modern Rhymes,
And 'tis but juſt to let 'em 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 ev'n That can boaſt:
Our Sons their Father's failing Language ſee,
And ſuch as Chancer is, ſhall Dryden be.
So when the faithful Pencil has deſign'd
Some fair Idea of the Maſter's Mind,
[25] 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 Time does full Perfection give,
And each Bold Figure juſt begins to Live;
The treach'rous Colours in few Years decay,
And all the bright Creation fades away!
Unhappy Wit, like moſt miſtaken Things,
Attones 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 that in the Spring does riſe,
And gaily blooms, but ev'n in blooming dies.
What is this Wit which does our Cares employ?
The Owner's Wife, that other Men enjoy;
'Tis moſt our Trouble when 'tis moſt admir'd;
The more we give, the more is ſtill requir'd:
The Fame with Pains we gain, 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!
[26]
Too much does Wit from Ign'rance undergo,
Ah let not Learning too commence its Foe!
Of old, thoſe met Rewards who cou'd excell,
And ſuch were Prais'd as 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 commend,
For each Ill Author is as bad a Friend.
To what baſe Ends, and by what abject Ways,
Are Mortals urg'd by Sacred Luſt of Praiſe?
Ah ne'er ſo dire a Thirſt of Glory boaſt,
Nor in the Critick let the Man be loſt!
Good-Nature and Good-Senſe muſt ever join;
To Err is Humane; to Forgive, Divine.
But if in Noble Minds ſome Dregs remain,
Not yet purg'd off, of Spleen and ſow'r Diſdain,
Diſcharge that Rage on more provoking Crimes,
Nor fear a Dearth in theſe Flagitious Times.
[27] 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 large In⯑creaſe;
When Love was all an eaſie 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 ſate panting at a Courtier's Play,
And not a Mask went un-improv'd away:
The modeſt Fan was lifted up no more,
And Virgins ſmil'd at what they bluſh'd before—
The following Licence of a Foreign Reign
Did all the Dregs of bold Socinus drain;
Then firſt the Belgian Morals were extoll'd;
We their Religion had, and they our Gold:
Then Unbelieving Prieſts reform'd the Nation,
And taught more Pleaſant Methods of Salvation;
Where Heav'ns free Subjects might their Rights diſ⯑pute,
Leſt God himſelf ſhou'd ſeem too Abſolute.
[28] 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 Licenc'd Blaſphemies—
Theſe Monſters, Criticks! 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 Criticks ought to ſhow,
For 'tis but half a Judge's Task, to Know.
'Tis not enough, Wit, Art, and Learning join;
In all you ſpeak, let Truth and Candor ſhine:
That not alone what to your Judgment's 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,
That, if once wrong, will needs be always ſo;
But you, with Pleaſure own your Errors paſt,
And make, each Day, a Critick on the laſt.
[29]
'Tis not enough your Counſel ſtill be true;
Blunt Truths more Miſchief than nice Falſhoods do;
Men muſt be taught as if you taught them not;
And things ne'er known propos'd as Things forgot.
Without Good Breeding, Truth is not approv'd;
That only makes Superior Senſe belov'd.
Be Niggards of Advice on no Pretence;
For the worſt Avarice is 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 Criticks ſtill this Freedom take;
But Appius reddens at each Word you ſpeak,
And ſtares, Tremendous! with a threatning 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.
Leave dang'rous Truths to unſucceſsful Satyrs,
And Flattery to fulſome Dedicators,
[30] Whom, when they Praiſe, the World believes no more,
Than when they promiſe to give Scribling o'er.
'Tis beſt ſometimes your Cenſure to reſtrain,
And charitably let the dull be vain.
Your Silence there is better than your Spite,
For who can rail ſo long as they can write?
Still humming on, their drowzy 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 Crouds 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 Criticks too.
* The Bookful Blockhead, ignorantly read,
With Loads of Learned Lumber in his Head,
[31] With his own Tongue ſtill edifies his Ears,
And always Liſt'ning to Himſelf appears.
All Books he reads, and all he reads aſſails,
From Dryden's Fables down to D [...]y'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 ſhow'd his Faults—but when wou'd 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 looks home, and ſhort Excurſions makes;
But ratling Nonſenſe in full Vollies breaks;
And never ſhock'd, and never turn'd aſide,
Burſts out, reſiſtleſs, with a thund'ring Tyde!
But where's the Man, who Counſel can beſtow,
Still pleas'd to teach, and yet not proud to know?
Unbiaſs'd, or by Favour, or by Spite;
Not dully prepoſſeſt, or blindly right;
Tho' Learn'd, well-bred; and tho' well-bred, ſin⯑cere;
Modeſtly bold, and Humanly ſevere?
[32] Who to a Friend his Faults can freely ſhow,
And gladly praiſe the Merit of a Foe?
Bleſt with a Taſte exact, yet unconfin'd;
A Knowledge both of Books and Humankind;
Gen'rous Converſe; a Soul exempt from Pride;
And Love to Praiſe, with Reaſon on his Side?
Such once were Criticks; ſuch the Happy Few,
Athens and Rome in better Ages knew.
The mighty Stagyrite firſt left the Shore,
Spread all his Sails, and durſt the Deeps explore;
He ſteer'd ſecurely, and diſcover'd far,
Led by the Light of the Maeonian Star.
Poets, a Race long unconfin'd and free,
Still fond and proud of Savage Liberty,
Receiv'd his Laws; and ſtood convinc'd 'twas fit
Who conquer'd Nature, ſhou'd preſide o'er Wit.
Horace ſtill charms with graceful Negligence,
And without Method talks us into Senſe,
Does like a Friend, familiarly convey
The trueſt Notions in the eaſieſt way.
He, who ſupream in Judgment, as in Wit,
Might boldly cenſure, as he boldly writ,
[33] Yet judg'd with Coolneſs tho' he ſung with Fire,
His Precepts teach but what his Works inſpire.
Our Criticks take a contrary Extream,
They judge with Fury, but they write with Fle'me:
Nor ſuffers Horace more in wrong Tranſlations
By Wits, than Criticks in as wrong Quotations.
See * Dionyſius Homer's Thoughts refine,
And call new Beauties forth from ev'ry Line!
Fancy and Art in gay Petronius pleaſe,
The Scholar's Learning, with the Courtier's Eaſe.
In grave Quintilian's copious Work we find
The juſteſt Rules, and cleareſt Method join'd.
Thus uſeful Arms in Magazines we place,
All rang'd in Order, and diſpos'd with Grace,
Nor thus alone the curious Eye to pleaſe,
But to be found, when Need requires, with Eaſe.
The Muſes ſure Longinus did inſpire,
And bleſt their Critick with a Poet's Fire.
An ardent Judge, who zealous in his Truſt,
With Warmth gives Sentence, yet is always Juſt;
Whoſe own Example ſtrengthens all his Laws,
And Is himſelf that great Sublime he draws.
[34]
Thus long ſucceeding Criticks juſtly reign'd,
Licence repreſs'd, and uſeful Laws ordain'd.
Learning and Rome alike in Empire grew,
And Arts ſtill follow'd where her Eagles flew.
From the ſame Foes, at laſt, both felt their Doom,
And the ſame Age ſaw Learning fall, and Rome.
With Tyranny, then Superſtition join'd,
As that the Body, this enſlav'd the Mind;
Much was Believ'd, but little underſtood,
And to be dull was conſtru'd to be good;
A ſecond Deluge Learning thus o'er-run,
And the Monks finiſh'd what the Goths begun.
At length Eraſmus, that great, injur'd Name,
(The Glory of the Prieſthood, and the Shame!)
Stemm'd the wild Torrent of a barb'rous Age,
And drove thoſe Holy Vandals off the Stage.
But ſee! each Muſe, in Leo's Golden Days,
Starts from her Trance, and trims her wither'd Bays!
Rome's ancient Genius, o'er its Ruins ſpread,
Shakes off the Duſt, and rears his rev'rend Head!
Then Sculpture and her Siſter-Arts revive;
Stones leap'd to Form, and Rocks began to live;
[35] With ſweeter Notes each riſing Temple rung;
Immortal Vida! on whoſe honour'd Brow
The Poet's Bays and Critick's Ivy grow:
Cremona now ſhall ever boaſt thy Name,
As next in Place to Mantua, next in Fame!
But ſoon by Impious Arms from Latium chas'd,
Their ancient Bounds the baniſh'd Muſes paſt;
Thence Arts o'er all the NorthernWorld advance;
But Critic Learning flouriſh'd moſt in France.
The Rules, a Nation born to ſerve, obeys,
And Boileau ſtill in Right of Horace ſways.
But we, brave Britains, Foreign Laws deſpis'd,
And kept unconquer'd, and unciviliz'd,
Fierce for the Liberties of Wit, and bold,
We ſtill defy'd the Romans, as of old.
Yet ſome there were, among the ſounder Few
Of thoſe who leſs preſum'd, and better knew,
Who durſt aſſert the juſter Ancient Cauſe,
And here reſtor'd Wit's Fundamental Laws.
[36] Such was Roſcommon—not more learn'd than good,
With Manners gen'rous as his Noble Blood;
To him the Wit of Greece and Rome was known,
And ev'ry Author's Merit, but his own.
Such late was Walſh,—the Muſes Judge and Friend,
Who juſtly knew to blame or to commend;
To Failings mild, but zealous for Deſert;
The cleareſt Head, and the ſincereſt Heart.
This humble Praiſe, lamented Shade! receive,
This Praiſe at leaſt a grateful Muſe may give!
The Muſe, whoſe early Voice you taught to Sing,
Preſcrib'd her Heights, and prun'd her tender Wing,
(Her Guide now loſt) no more attempts to riſe,
But in low Numbers ſhort Excurſions tries.
Content, if hence th' Unlearn'd their Wants may view,
The Learn'd reflect on what before they knew.
Careleſs of Cenſure, nor too fond of Fame,
Still pleas'd to praiſe, yet not afraid to blame;
Averſe alike to Flatter, or Offend,
Not free from Faults, nor yet too vain to mend.
FINIS.