Let these instruct, with truth's illustrious ray Meanwhile, O Friend! indulge me, if I give An Author! 'tis a venerable name! How few deserve it, and what numbers claim ? ΤΟ 20 Ye restless Men! who pant for letter'd praise, With whom would you consult to gain the bays?--With those great authors whose fam'd works you read ? 'Tis well; go, then, consult that laurell'd shade. What answer will the laurell'd shade return Hear it, and tremble; he commands you burn The noblest works his envy'd genius writ, The boast of nought more excellent than wit. If this be true, as 'tis a truth most dread, Woe to the page which has not that to plead ! Fontaine and Chaucer, dying, wish'd unwrote The sprightliest efforts of their wanton thought: Sidney and Waller, brightest sons of Fame, Condemn'd the charm of ages to the flame. And in one point is all true wisdom cast? To think that early, we must think at last. Volume 111. 30 Immortal wits, ev'n dead, break Nature's laws, Injurious still to virtue's sacred cause; And their guilt growing, as their bodies rot, (Revers'd ambition!) pant to be forgot. Thus ends your courted fame: does lucre then, In prose 'tis blameable, in verse 'tis worse, If bribes you seek, know this, ye writing Tribe! In parts and learning you who place your pride; But letter'd knaves, and Atheists in a gown? 'Tis harder far to please than give offence; The east misconduct damns the brightest sense: 50 61 Each shallow pate, that cannot read your name, If they confine their talents to the pen; When the man shocks us, while the writer shines, Yet, proud of parts, with prudence some dispense, Prudence protects and guides us; wit betrays, But grant your judgment equal to the best, Sense fills your head, and genius fires your breast; 80 Yet still forbear: your wit (consider well) 100 110 Severely weigh your learning and your wit; Keep down your pride by what is nobly writ: No writer, fam'd in your own way, pass o'er; Much trust example, but reflection more: More had the Ancients writ they more had taught, Which shows some work is left for modern thought. This weigh'd, perfection know, and know n, adore, Toil, burn for that, but do not aim at more: Above, beneath it, the just limits fix, And zealously prefer four lines to six. Write, and re-write, blot out, and write again, And for its swiftness ne'er applaud your pen; Leave to the jockeys that Newmarket praise; Is just and wise; for less is thrown away. The same good sense that makes a man excel, What man can be immortal in a week? Excuse no fault, tho' beautiful 'twill harm; One fault shocks more than twenty beauties charm. Our age demand correctness; Addison And you this commendable hurt have done. Now writers find, as once Achilles found, He that strikes out, and strikes not out the best, Give e'er so little, if what's right be there, 130 We praise for what you burn, and what you spare: The part you burn smells sweet before the shrine, 141 And is as incense to the part divine. Nor frequent write, tho' you can do it well; Men may too oft', tho' not too much excel. A few good works gain fame; more sink their price; Mankind are fickle, and hate paying twice: They granted you writ well; what can they more, Unless you let them praise for giving o'er ? |