صور الصفحة
PDF
النشر الإلكتروني

Fondly we think we honour merit then,

When we but praise our selves in other men.
Parties in wit attend on those of state,

And publick faction doubles private hate.
Pride, malice, folly, against Dryden rofe,
In various fhapes of parfons, critics, beaus;
But fenfe furviv'd, when merry jefts were past;
For rifing merit will buoy up at last.

Might he return and blefs once more our eyes,
New Blackmores and new Milbourns muft arife:
Nay fhould great Homer lift his awful head,
Zoilus again would ftart up from the dead.
Envy will merit, as its fhade, pursue;
But like a fhadow, proves the fubstance true.
For envy'd wit, like Sol eclips'd, makes known
Th' oppofing body's groffnefs, not its own.
When first that fun too pow'rful beams difplays,
It draws up vapours which obfcures its rays;

[ocr errors]

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 juft to let 'em live betimes.

[merged small][ocr errors]

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 threescore 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 defign'd
Some bright idea of the mafter's mind,
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 just shade and light,
When mellowing years their full perfection give,
And each bold figure just begins to live;
The treach'rous 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 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;
C 5

[ocr errors]

Still

Still moft our trouble when the most admir'd;
The more we give, the more is ftill 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 fpurn fome others down:
And while self-love each jealous writer rules,
Contending wits become the fport of fools.
But ftill the worst with moft 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 boast,

Nor in the Critic let the Man be loft!

Good nature and good fenfe muft ever join;
To err is humane, to forgive, divine.

But

But if in noble minds fome dregs remain,

Not yet purg'd off, of spleen and fow'r difdain,
Discharge that rage on more provoking crimes,...
Nor fear a dearth in these flagitious times.

No pardon vile obfcenity fhould find,

[ocr errors]

Tho' wit and art confpire to move your mind ; -
But dulnefs with obscenity muft prove

As fhameful fure as impotence in love.

In the fat age of pleasure, wealth, and eafe,
Sprung the rank weed, and thriv'd with large increafe;:

When Love was all an eafy Monarch's care;

Seldom at council, never in a war:

Jilts rul'd the ftate, and statesmen farces writ ;
Nay wits had penfions, and young Lords had wit-
The fair fate panting at a courtier's play,
And not a mask went unimprov'd away:

The modeft 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 priefts reform'd the nation,
And taught more pleasant methods of falvation;

[blocks in formation]

Where heav'ns free fubjects might their rights difpute

Left God him felf fhould feem too abfolute.
Pulpits their facred fatyre learn'd to spare,
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-
Thefe monfters, critics! with your darts engage,
Here point your thunder, and exhauft your rage!
Yet fhun their fault, who fcandalously nice,
Will needs mistake an author into vice;
All feems 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 speak, 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 fense;
And speak, tho' fure, with feeming diffidence:
Some pofitive, perfifting fops we know,

That, if once wrong, will needs be always fo;
But you, with pleasure own your errors past,
And make, each day, a critic on the laft.

« السابقةمتابعة »