The treacherous 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 soon the short-lived vanity is lost;
Like some fair flow'r the early spring supplies,
That gaily blooms, but even in blooming dies.
What is this wit, which must our cares employ?
The owner's wife, that other men enjoy;
Then most our trouble still when most admired,
And still the more we give, the more required;
Whose fame with pains we guard, 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 excel,
And such were praised who but endeavoured well:
Though triumphs were to gen'rals only due,
Crowns were reserved 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 urged through sacred lust of praise!
Ah, ne'er so dire a thirst of glory boast,
Nor in the critic let the man be lost.
Good-nature and good-sense must ever join;
To err is human, to forgive, divine.
But if in noble minds some dregs remain
Not yet purged off, of spleen and sour disdain;
Discharge that rage on more provoking crimes,
Nor fear a dearth in these flagitious times.
No pardon vile obscenity should find,
Though 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 thrived with large increase;
When love was all an easy monarch's care;'
Seldom at council, never in a war:
Jilts ruled the state, and statesmen farces writ:2
Nay, wits had pensions, and young lords had wit:
The fair sat panting at a courtier's play,
And not a mask went unimproved away:3
The modest fan was lifted up no more,
And virgins smiled at what they blushed before.
The following licence of a foreign reign
Did all the dregs of bold Socinus drain;*
Then unbelieving priests reformed the nation,
And taught more pleasant methods of salvation;
Where Heav'n's free subjects might their rights dis-
pute,
Lest God Himself should seem too absolute;
Pulpits their sacred satire learned to spare,
And vice admired to find a flatterer there!
Encouraged thus, wit's Titan's braved the skies,
And the press groaned with licensed blasphemies,
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 seems infected that th' infected spy,
As all looks yellow to the jaundiced eye.
LEARN then what morals critics ought to show,
For 'tis but half a judge's task to know.
'Tis not enough, taste, judgment, learning, join;
In all you speak, let truth and candour shine:
That not alone what to your sense is due
All may allow; but seek your friendship too.
2 He alludes to the Duke of Buckingham, who, as we have said, wrote "The Rehearsal."
3 Ladies used at that time to wear masks at the play; probably on account of the immorality of the stage.
4 The reign of William III. The principles of the Socinians are understood, of course by "Socinus." Warburton called some of the clergy of William's time Latitudinarian divines. The author has omitted two lines which stood here, as containing a national reflection, which in his stricter judgment he could not but disapprove on any people whatever.*-Pope.
*The cancelled couplet was:
Then first the Belgian morals were extolled,
We their religion had, and they our gold.—Croker.
ut good breeding, truth is disapproved;
nly makes superior sense beloved.
iggards of advice on no pretence
e worst avarice is that of sense.
mean complacence ne'er betray your trust,
e so civil as to prove unjust.
ot the anger of the wise to raise;
best can bear reproof who merit praise. ere well might critics still this freedom take, ppius reddens at each word you speak, tares, tremendous, with a threatening eye,1 Some fierce tyrant in old tapestry. nost to tax an Honourable fool,
e right it is, uncensured to be dull; without wit, are poets when they please, hout learning they can take degrees. dangerous truths to unsuccessful satires, attery to fulsome dedicators,
1, when they praise, the world believes no more,
when they promise to give scribbling o'er.
est sometimes your censure to restrain,
haritably let the dull be vain:
silence there is better than your spite,
ho can rail so long as they can write?
umming on their drowsy course they keep,
ashed so long, like tops, are lashed asleep,
steps but help them to renew the race,
ter stumbling, jades will mend their pace.
picture was taken to himself by John Dennis, a furious old y profession, who, upon no other provcation, wrote against say and its author, in a manner perfectly lunatic: for, as to tion made of him in ver. 270, he took it as a compliment, and was treacherously meant to cause him to overlook this abuse erson.-Pope.
hat time noblemen and sons of noblemen were allowed to e degree of M. A. after keeping the terms for two years. Th privilege is of course abolished,
What crowds of these impenitently bold,
In sounds and jingling syllables grown old,
Still run on poets, in a raging vein,
Even to the dregs and squeezings of the brain,
Strain out the last dull droopings of their sense,
And rhyme with all the rage of impotence.
Such shameless bards we have; and yet 'tis true,
There are as mad abandoned critics too,
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 Durfey's tales.
With him, most authors steal their works, or buy
Garth did not write his own Dispensary.1
Name a new play, and he's the poet's friend,
Nay, showed his faults-but when would poets mend?
No place so sacred from such fops is barred,
Nor is Paul's church more safe than Paul's churchyard:
Nay, fly to altars; there they'll talk you dead:
For fools rnsh in where angels fear to tread.
Distrustful sense with modest caution speaks,
It still looks home and short excursions makes;
But rattling nonsense in full volleys breaks,
And never shocked, and never turned aside,
Bursts out, resistless, with a thund'ring tide.
But, where's the man, who counsel can bestow,
Still pleased to teach, and yet not proud to know?
Unbiassed, or by favour, or by spite;
Not dully prepossessed, nor blindly right!
Though learned, well-bred; and though 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 unconfined;
A knowledge both of books and human kind:
Gen'rous converse; a soul exempt from pride;
And love to praise, with reason on his side?
1 A common slander at that time in prejudice of that deserving author. Our poet did him this justice, when that slander most prevailed and it is now (perhaps the sooner for this very verse) dead and forgotten.-Pope,
Such once were critics; such the happy few,
Athens and Rome in better ages knew,
The mighty Stagirite first left the shore,
Spread all his sails, and durst the deeps explore:
He steered securely, and discovered far,
Led by the light of the Mæonian star.
Poets, a race long unconfined, and free,
Still fond and proud of savage liberty,
Received his laws; and stood convinced 'twas fit,
Who conquered nature,' should preside o'er wit.
Horace still charms with graceful negligence,
And without method talks us into sense,
Will, like a friend, familiarly convey
The truest notions in the easiest way.
He, who supreme in judgment, as in wit,
Might boldly censure, as he boldly writ,
Yet judged with coolness, though he sung with fire;
His precepts teach but what his works inspire,
Our critics take a contrary extreme,
They judge with fury, but they write with phlegm:
Nor suffers Horace more in wrong translations
By wits, than critics in as wrong quotations.
See Dionysius Homer's thoughts refine,'
And call new beauties forth from every 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 joined:
Thus useful arms in magazines we place,
All ranged in order and disposed with grace,
But less to please the eye than arm the hand,
Still fit for use, and ready at command.
Thee, bold Longinus! all the Nine inspire,"
1 Aristotle wrote a history of animals. Alexander gave orders that the creatures of the different countries he conquered should be sent to Aristotle for inspection.
2 Of Halicarnassus.-Pope. He was an historian and critic, and lived in the first century before Christ.
3 Petronius, an elegant Latin poet, the favourite of Nero. Being suspected of a conspiracy against the tyrant, he destroyed himself by opening his veins, A.D. 65.
4 Quintillian, a Latin critic of great celebrity. He was intimate with Pliny, and died at Rome A.D. 60. His "Institutiones Oratoricæ are well-known.
5 Longinus, a native of Athens, was celebrated as a critic and philosopher. He became tutor to the children of Zenobia, Queen of Palmyra, and was put to death by Aurelian on the charge of having instigated her rebellion against Rome A.D. 273, His "Treatise on the Sublime" is well known,
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