No longer now that golden age appears, When Patriarch-wits surviv'd a thousand years; Now length of fame (our second life) is loft, And bare threescore is all ev'n that can boaft: Our fons their father's failing language fee, And fuch as Chaucer is, shall Dryden be. So when the faithful pencil has defign'd Some bright 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 years their full perfection give, And each bold figure just begins to live; The treach'rous 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 some fair flow'r the early spring supplies, That gaily blooms, but ev'n in blooming dies. What is this wit which must our cares employ? The owner's wife, that other men enjoy;

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500

Still

Still most our trouble when the 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!
If wit so much from ign'rance undergo,
Ah! let not learning too commence its foe!:
Of old, those met rewards who could excell,
And fuch were prais'd who 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 Parnaffus' lofty crown,
Employ their pains to spurn some others down;
And while felf-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 base ends, and by what abject ways,,
Are mortals urg'd thro' facred luft of praise!!
Ah! ne'er so dire a thirst of glory boaft, 525
Nor in the Critic let the Man be loft!
Good nature and good sense must ever join;-
To err is humane, to forgive, divine..

But

But if in noble minds some dregs remain,
Not yet purg'd off, of spleen and fow'r disdain,
Difcharge 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 fure as impotence in love..
In the fat age of pleasure, wealth, and ease,
Sprung the rank weed, and thriv'd with large increafe;
When Love was all an easy Monarch's care;
Seldom at council, never in a war:

Jilts rul'd the state, and statesmen farces writ;
Nay wits had penfions, and young Lords had wit:
The Fair sate panting at a courtier's play,
And not a mask went unimprov'd away:
The modeft fan was lifted up no more,
And virgins fmil'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: 550
Then unbelieving priests reform'd the nation,..
And taught more pleasant methods of falvation;

C6

Where

Where heav'ns free subjects might their rights dispute Left God himself should feem too abfolute. Pulpits their facred satyre 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 blafphemies 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 feems infected that th' infected spy, As all looks yellow to the jaundic'd eye. Learn then what morals critics 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 filent always when you doubt your sense; And speak, tho' fure, with seeming diffidence: Some positive, perfisting fops we know, That, if once wrong, will needs be always fo; But you, with pleasure own your errors paft, 575 And make, each day, a critic 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 unknown propos'd as things forgot. Without good breeding, truth is dif-approv'd; That only makes fuperior 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 wife to raise; Those best can bear reproof, who merit praise. 'Twere well might critics still this freedom take; But Appius reddens at each word you speak, And stares, tremendous, with a threat'ning eye, Like some fierce tyrant in old tapestry! Fear most to tax an honorable 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 unfuccessful fatyrs, And flattery to fulsome dedicators, Whom, when they praise, the world believes no more, Than when they promise to give fcribling o'er. 600