A needlefs Alexandrine ends the song,
That, like a wounded snake, drags its flow length along.
Leave fuch to tune their own dull rhymes, and know
What's roundly smooth, or languishingly flow;
And praise the eafy vigour of a line,
Where Denham's strength and Waller's sweetness join,
True ease in writing comes from art, not chance,
As thofe move easiest who have learn'd to dance.
'Tis not enough no harshness gives offence,
The found muft feem an Echo to the fense:
Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows,
And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows ;
But when loud furges lash the founding shore,
The hoarfe, rough verse should like the torrent roar.
When Ajax strives fome rock's vaft weight to throw,
The line too labours, and the words move flow:
Not fo when swift Camilla fcours the plain,
Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the main, Hear how Timotheus' vary'd lays furprize,
And bid alternate paffions fall and rise!
While, at each change, the son of Libyan Jove
Now burns with glory, and then melts with love;
Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury glow,
Now fighs steal out, and tears begin to flow:
Perfians and Greeks like turns of nature found,
And the world's victor stood subdued by found!
The power of Mufic all our hearts allow,
And what Timotheus was, is Dryden now.
Ver. 363, 364. These lines are added.
Ver. 368. But when loud billows, &c.
Avoid extremes; and fhun the fault of fuch,
Who ftill are pleas'd too little or too much.
At every trifle fcorn to take offence,
That always fhews great pride, or little sense;
Those heads, as stomachs, are not sure the best,
Which nauseate all, and nothing can digeft.
Yet let not each gay turn thy rapture move;
For fools admire, but men of sense approve :
As things feem large which we through mists descry,
Dulness is ever apt to magnify."
Some foreign writers, fome our own despise;
The Ancients only, or the Moderns prize;
Thus Wit, like Faith, by each man is apply'd
To one fmall fect, and all are damn'd befide.
Meanly they seek the blessing to confine,
And force that fun but on a part to shine,
Which not alone the fouthern wit fublimes,
But ripens fpirits in cold northern climes;
Which from the first has fhone on ages past,
Enlights the prefent, and shall warm the last;
Though each may feel encreases and decays,
And fee now clearer and now darker days.
Regard not then if wit be old or new,
But blame the falfe, and value ftill the true.
Ver. 394. Ed. 1. Some the French writers, &c.
Some judge of authors names, not works, and then
Nor praise nor blame the writings, but the men.
Of all this fervile herd, the worst is he
That in proud dulnefs joins with quality;
A constant Critic at the great man's board,
To fetch and carry: nonsense for my Lord.
What woful stuff this madrigal would be,
In some starv'd hackney-fonneteer, or me!
But let a Lord once own the happy lines,
How the wit brightens! how the style refines!
Before his facred name flies every fault,
And each exalted stanza teems with thought!
The vulgar thus through imitation err;
As oft the Learn'd by being fingular;
So much they scorn the crowd, that if the throng
By chance go right, they purposely go wrong:
So Schifmatics the plain believers quit,
And are but damn'd for having too much wit.
Some praise at morning what they blame at night; 430 But always think the last opinion right.
A Mufe by these is like a mistress us'd,
This hour the 's idoliz'd, the next abus'd;
While their weak heads like towns unfortify'd,
"Twixt sense and nonsense daily change their fide. 435
Afk them the caufe; they're wiser still, they fay;
And still to-morrow's wifer than to-day.
Ver. 413. Ed. 1. Nor praise nor damn, &c.
Ver. 428. So Schifmatics the dull, &c.
We think our fathers fools; fo wife we grow ;
Our wifer fons, no doubt, will think us fo.
Once School-divines this zealous ifle o'erspread;
Who knew moft fentences was deepest read:
Faith, gofpel, all, feem'd made to be difputed,
And none had fenfe enough to be confuted:
Scotifts and Thomifts, now in peace remain,
Amidst their kindred cobwebs in Duck-lane.
If Faith itself has different dreffes worn,
What wonder modes in Wit should take their turn?
Oft, leaving what is natural and fit,
The current folly proves the ready wit;
And authors think their reputation safe,
Which lives as long as fools are pleas'd to laugh.
Some, valuing those of their own side or mind,
Still make themselves the measure of mankind:
Fondly we think we honour merit then,
Ver. 447. Between this and ver. 448
The rhyming Clowns that gladded Shakespeare's age,
No more with crambo entertain the stage.
Who now in Anagrams their Patron praise,
Or fing their Mistress in Acroftic lays;
Ev'n pulpits pleas'd with merry puns of
Now all are banish'd to th' Hibernian shore !
Thus leaving what was natural and fit,
The current folly prov'd their ready wit;
And authors thought their reputation fafe,
Which liv'd as long as fools were pleas'd to laugh.
Pride, Malice, Folly, against Dryden rofe,
In various shapes of Parfons, Critics, Beaux;
But fense surviv'd, when merry jests were past;
For rifing merit will buoy up at last.
Might he return, and bless once more our eyes,
New Blackmores and new Milbourns muft arife:
Nay should 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 groffness, not its own.
When first that fun too powerful beams displays,
It draws up vapours which obfcure its rays;
But ev'n thofe clouds at laft adorn its way,
Reflect new glories, and augment the day.
Be thou the first true merit to befriend;
His praife is loft, who ftays till all commend.
Short is the date, alas, of modern rhymes,
And 'tis but just to let them 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 fathers' failing language fee,
And fuch as Chaucer is, fhall Dryden be.
So when the faithful pencil has defign'd
Some bright idea of the mafter's mind,
Ver. 485. Ed. 1. Some fair idea, &c.
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