Do boldly what you do, and let your page
Smile if it smiles, and if it rages, rage,
So faintly Lucius censures and commends,
That Lucius has no foes except his friends.
Let satire less engage you than applause;
It shews a gen'rous mind to wink at flaws.
Is genius yours? be yours a glorious end,
Be your king's, country's, truth's, religion's, friend. The public glory by your own beget;
Run nations, run posterity, in debt;
And since the fam'd alone make others live,
First have that glory you presume to give.
If satire charms, strike faults, but spare the man; 'Tis dull to be as witty as you can.
Satire recoils whenever charg'd too high;
Round your own fame the fatal splinters fly.
As the soft plume gives swiftness to the dart,{
Good-breeding sends the satire to the heart.
Painters and surgeons may the structure scan,
Genius and morals be with you the man':
Defaults in those alone should give offence;
Who strikes the person pleads his innocence;
My narrow-minded satire cann't extend
To Codrus' form; I'm not so much his friend:
Himself should publish that (the world agree)
Before his works, or in the pillory.
Let him be black, fair, tall, short, thin or fat,
Dirty or clean, I find no theme in that.
Is that call'd humour; it has this pretence,
'Tis neither virtue, breeding, wit, nor sense.
Unless you boast the genius of a Swift,
Beware of humour, the dull rogue's last shift.
Can others write like you? your task give o'er,
'Tis printing what was publish'd long before.
If nought peculiar thro' your labours run,
They 're duplicates, and twenty are but one.
Think frequently, think close, read Nature, turn
Men's manners o'er, and half your volumes burn.
To nurse with quick reflection be your strife,
Thoughts borne from present objects warm from life;
When most unsought, such inspirations rise,
Slighted by fools, and cherish'd by the wise:
Expect peculiar fame from these alone;
These make an author, these are all your own.
Life, like their Bibles, cooly men turn o'er,
Hence unexperienc'd children of threescore.
True, all men think of course, as all men dream,
And if they slightly think, 'tis much the same.
Letters admit not of a half renown;
They give you nothing, or they give a crown.
No work e'er gair'd true fame, or ever can,
But what did honour to the name of man.
Weighty the subject, cogent the discourse;
Clear be the style, the very sound of force;
Easy the conduct, simple the design,
Striking the moral, and the soul divine,
Let Nature art, and judgment wit, exceed;
O'er learning reason reign, o'er that your Creed;
Thus virtue's seeds at once, and laurels grow;
Do thus, and rise a Pope or a Despreau;
And when your genius exquisitely shines,
Live up to the full lustre of your lines.
Parts but expose those men who virtue quit;
A fallen angel is a fallen wit;
And they plead Lucifer's detested cause,
Who for bare talents challenge our applause.
Would you restore just honours to the pen?
From able writers rise to worthy men.
"Who's this with nonsense nonsense would restrain? "Who's this (they cry) so vainly schools the vain ? "Who damns our trash with so much trash replete ? "As three ells round, huge Chey ne rails at meat ?”
Shall I with Bavius, then, my voice exalt,
And challenge all mankind to find one fault?
With huge examens overwhelm my page,
And darken reason with dogmatic rage?
As if, one tedious volume writ in rhyme,
In prose a duller could excuse the crime?
Sure next to writing, the most idle thing
Is gravely to harangue on what we sing.
At that tribunal stands the writing tribe,
Which nothing can intimidate or bribe:
Time is the judge; Time has nor friend nor foe;
False fame must wither, and the true will grow.
Arm'd with this truth, all critics I defy;
For if I fall, by my own pen I die;
While snarlers strive with proud but fruitless pain,
To wound immortals, or to slay the slain.
Sore press'd with danger, and in awful dread
Of twenty pamphlets levell'd at my head,
Thus have I forg'd a buckler in my brain,
Of recent form, to serve me this campaign,
And safely hope to quit the dreadful field
Delug'd with ink, and sleep behind my shield,
Unless dire Codrus rouses to the fray
In all his might, and damns me---for a day.
As turns a flock of geese, and on the green
Poke out their foolish necks in awkward spleen,
(Ridiculous in rage!) to hiss not bite,
So war their quills when sons of dulness write.
TO THE RIGHT HON, GEORGE LORD LANSDOWN.
WHEN Rome, my Lord, in her full glory shone,
And great Augustus rul'd the globe alone;
While suppliant kings, in all their pomp and state,
Swarm'd in his courts, and throng'd his palace-gate,
Horace did oft' the mighty man detain,
And sooth'd his breast with no ignoble strain;
Now soar'd aloft, now struck an humbler string,
And taught the Roman genius how to sing.
Pardon, if I his freedom dare pursue,
Who know no want of Cæsar, finding you;
The Muses' friend is pleas'd, the Muse should press
Thro' circling crowds, and labour for access;
That partial to his darling he may prove,
And shining throngs for her approach remove,
To all the world industrious to proclaim
His love of arts, and boast the glorious flame.
Long has the Western World reclin'd her head,
Pour'd forth her sorrow, and bewail'd her dead;
Fell Discord thro' her borders fiercely rang'd
And shook her nations, and her monarchs chang'd; 20
By land and sea its utmost rage employ'd,
Nor Heav'n repair'd so fast as men destroy'd.
In vain kind summers plenteous fields bestow'd,
In vain the vintage liberally flow'd;
Alarms from loaden boards all pleasure chas'd,
And robb'd the rich Burgundian grape of taste;
The smiles of Nature could no blessing bring.
The fruitful Autumn, or the flow'ry spring;
Time was distinguish'd by the sword and spear,
Not by the various aspects of the year;
The trumpet's sound proclaim'd a milder sky,
And bloodshed told us when the sun was nigh.
But now (so soon is Britain's blessing seen,
When such as you are near, her glorious Queen!)
Now Peace, tho' long repuls'd, arrives at last,
And bids us smile on all our labours past;
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