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النشر الإلكتروني

Nay fhould great Homer lift his awful head,
Zoilus again would start up from the dead.
Envy will merit, as its fhade, pursue;
But like a fhadow, proves the substance true.
For envy'd Wit, like Sol eclips'd, makes known
Th' oppofing body's grofsnefs, not its own.
When first that fun too pow'rful beams difplays,
It draws up vapours which obfcure its rays;
But ev❜n those clouds at laft adorn its way,
Reflect new glories, and augment the day.

Be thou the first true merit to befriend,
His praise is loft, 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 furviv'd a thousand years;
Now length of fame (our fecond life) is loft,
And bare Threefcore is all ev'n that can boaft:
Our fons their father's failing language fee,
And fuch as Chaucer is, fhall Dryden be.
So when the faithful pencil has design'd
Some bright Idea of the master's mind,

Where

Where a new world leaps out at his command,
And ready nature waits upon his hand;
When the ripe colours foften and unite,

And fweetly melt into juft fhade and light,
When mellowing years their full perfection give,
And each bold figure juft begins to live;
The treach❜rous colours the fair art betray,
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 boaft,
But foon the fhort-liv'd vanity is loft!
Like fome fair flow'r the early fpring fupplies,
That gaily blooms, but ev'n in blooming dies.
What is this wit which muft our cares employ ?
The owner's wife, that other men enjoy;
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 fome to vex, but never all to please;
'Tis what the vicious fear, the virtuous fhun;
By fools 'tis hated, and by knaves undone!

If wit fo much from ign'rance undergo, Ah let not learning too commence its foe! Of old, thofe 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 referv'd to grace the Soldiers too. Now, they who reach Parnaffus' lofty crown, Employ their pains to spurn fome others down; And while felf-love each jealous writer rules, Contending wits become the fport of fools. But still the worst with most regret commend, For each Ill Author is as bad a Friend. To what bafe ends, and by what abject ways, Are mortals urg'd thro' facred Luft of praise! Ah ne'er fo dire a thirft of glory boaft, Nor in the Critic let the Man be loft! Good-nature and good-fense must ever join; To err is humane, to forgive, divine. But if in noble minds fome dregs remain, Not yet purg'd off, of spleen and fow'r disdain, Discharge that rage on more provoking crimes, Nor fear a dearth in these flagitious times.

No

No pardon vile Obfcenity fhould find,
Tho' wit and art confpire to move your mind;
But Dulnefs with obscenity must prove

As fhameful fure as Impotence in love.

In the fat age of pleafure, wealth, and ease,
Sprung the rank weed, and thriv'd with large increase;
When Love was all an eafy 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 fate 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 fmil'd at what they blush'd before---
The following licence of a foreign reign
Did all the dregs of bold Socinus drain ;
Then firft 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 falvation;
Where heav'ns free fubjects might their rights difpute
Left God himself should seem too abfolute.

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Pulpits their facred fatire learn'd to fpare,
And Vice admir'd to find a flatt'rer there!
Encourag'd thus, wit's Titans brav'd the skies,
And the Prefs groan'd with licenc'd blafphemies----
These monsters, Critics! with your darts engage,
Here point your thunder, and exhaust your rage!
Yet fhun their fault, who, fcandalously 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 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 fpeak, let truth and candor fhine: That not alone what to your judgment's due, All may allow; but feek your friendship too.

Be filent always when you doubt your sense; And fpeak, tho' fure, with feeming diffidence: Some pofitive, perfifting fops we know,

That, if once wrong, will needs be always fo;

But

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