AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM.

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 . '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 . Qui scribit artificiose , ab aliis commode scripta facile intelligere poterit . Cic. ad . Herenn . lib. 4. 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 Omnes tacito quodam sensu , sine ulla arte , aut ratione , quae sint in artibu ac rationibus recta ac prava dijudicant . Cic. de Orat. lib. 3. 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 . 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 ; 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 , 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 . 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 . 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 . Virgil Eclog. 6. Cum canerem Reges & Praelia , Cynthius aurem Vellit — When first young Maro sung of Kings and Wars , 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 : 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 . Neque tam sancta sunt ista Praecepta , sed hoc quicquid est , Utilitas excogi tavit ; Non negabo autem sic utile esse plerunque ; verum si eadem illa nobis aliud suadebit utilitas , hanc , relictis magistrorum autoritatibus , sequemur . Quintil. l. 2. cap. 13. 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 ; 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 , 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 ! 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 . 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 ! Diligenter legendum est , ac poene ad scribendi sollicitudinem : Nec per partes modo scrutanda sunt omnia , sed perlectus liber utique ex Integro resumendus . Quin tilian . A perfect Judge will read each Work of Wit With the same Spirit that its Author writ , 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 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 , 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 . 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 . Naturam intueamur , hanc sequamur ; Id facillimè accipiunt animi quod ag noscunt . Quintil. lib. 8. c. 3. True Wit is Nature to Advantage drest , What oft was Thought , but ne'er so well Exprest ; 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 abound , 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 ; 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 . Abolita & abrogata retinere , insolentiae cujusdam est , & frivolae in parvis jactantiae . Quint . lib. 1. c. 6. Opus est ut Verba a vetustate repetita neque crebra sint , neque manifesta , quia nil est odiosius affectatione , nec utique ab ultimis repetita temporibus . Oratio , cujus summa virtus est perspicuitas , quam sit vitiosa si egeat interprete ? Ergo ut novorum optima erunt maximè vetera , ita veterum maximè nova . Idem . 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 Ben . Johnson's Every Man in his Humour . 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 . Quis populi sermo est ? quis enim ? nisi carmine molli Nunc demum numero fluere , ut per laeve severes Effugit junctura ungues : scit tendere versum , Non se cus ac si cculo rubricam dirigat uno . Persius , Sat. 1. 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 , Fugiemus crebras vocalium concursiones , quae vastam atque hiantem orati mem reddunt . Cic. ad Herenn . lib. 4. Vide etiam Quintil. lib. 9. c. 4. Tho' oft the Ear the open Vowels tire ; The following lines are performative in nature: l. 348: all the vowels in this line are open; l. 349: the do in this line is an expletive; l. 350: this line has ten words in it; ll. 351/2: Chimes/Rhymes, a common rhyme. 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 , 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 Sweetness 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 Alexander's Feast , or the Power of Musick ; An Ode by Mr. Dryden . Timotheus' various Lays surprize , 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 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 . ) 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 ? 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 ; 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 : 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 , 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 ! 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 . 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 Increase ; 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 dispute , Lest God himself shou'd 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 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 . '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 , 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 . Nihil pejus est iis , qui paullum aliquid ultra primas litteras progressi , fal sam sibi scientiae persuasionem induerunt : Nam & cedere praecipiendi peritis indig nantur , & velut jure quodam potestatis , quo ferè hoc hominum genus intumescit , imperiosi , atque interim ; aevientes , Stultitiam suam perdocent . Quintil. lib. 1. ch. 1. The Bookful Blockhead , ignorantly read , With Loads of Learned Lumber in his Head , 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 Churchyard : 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 , sincere ; Modestly bold , and Humanly severe ? 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 , 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 of Halicarnassus . 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 . 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 ; With sweeter Notes each rising Temple rung ; A Raphael painted , and a M. Hieronymus Vida , an excellent Latin Poet , who writ an Art of Poe try in Verse . He flourish'd in the time of Leo the Tenth . Vida sung ! 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 . 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 .