"Tis not enough your counsel ftill be true,
Blunt truths more mischief than nice falfhoods do;
Men must be taught as if you taught them not,
And things unknown propos'd as things forgot,
Without good breeding, truth is dif-approv'd;
That only makes fuperior fenfe belov'd.
Be niggards of advice on no pretence;
For the worft avarice is that of fenfe.
With mean complacence ne'er betray your truft,
Nor be fo civil as to prove unjuft;
Fear not the anger of the wife to raise;
Those beft can bear reproof, who merit praise.
'Twere well might critics ftill this freedom take;
But Appius reddens at each word you speak,
And ftares, tremendous, with a threat'ning eye,
Like fome fierce tyrant in old tapestry!
Fear moft to tax an honourable fool,
Whofe right it is, uncenfur'd to be dull;
Such without wit are poets when they please,
As without learning they can take degrees.
Leave dang'rous truths to unfuccefsful fatyrs,
And flattery to fulfome dedicators,
Whom, when they praife, the world believes no more,
Than when they promife to give fcribling o'er.
'Tis best fometimes your cenfure to restrain, And charitably let the dull be vain.
Your filence there is better than your spite,
For who can rail fo long as they can write?
Still humming on, their drowzy course they keep,
And lafh'd fo long, like tops, are lash'd asleep.
False steps but help them to renew their race;
As after ftumbling, jades will mend their pace.
What crouds of thefe, impenitently bold,
In founds and jingling fyllables grown old,
Still run on poets, in a raging vein,
Ev'n to the dregs and fqueezings of the brain;
Strain out the last dull droppings of their fenfe,
And rhyme with all the rage of impotence!
Such fhameless bards we have; and yet tis true,
There are as mad, abandon'd critics too.
The bookful blockhead, ignorantly read,
With loads of learned lumber in his head,
With his own tongue ftill edifies his ears,
And always lift'ning to himself appears.
All books he reads, and all he reads affails,
From Dryden's fables down to Dy's tales.
With him, moft authors steal their works, or buy;'
Garth did not write his own Dispensary.
Name a new play, and he's the poet's friend,
Nay fhow'd his faults-but when wou'd poets mend?
No place fo facred from fuch fops is barr'd,
Nor isPaul's church more fafe than Paul's church-yard;
Nay, fly to altars; there they'll talk you dead;
For fools rufh in where angels fear to tread.
Diftruftful fenfe with modeft caution speaks,
It still looks home, and fhort excurfions makes;
But rattling nonfenfe in full vollies breaks;
And never shock'd, and never turn'd afide,
Burfts out refiftlefs with a thund'ring tide!
But where's the man who counsel can beftow, Still pleas'd to teach, and yet not proud to know! Unbiafs'd, or by favor, or by spite;
Not dully prepoffefs'd, or blindly right;
Tho' learn'd, well-bred; and tho' well-bred fincere ;
Modeftly bold, and humanly fevere?
Who to a friend his faults can freely fhow,
And gladly praise the merit of a foe?
Bleft with a tafte exact, yet unconfin'd;
A knowledge both of books and humankind;
Gen'rous converfe; a foul exempt from pride;
And love to praife, with reafon on his fide?
Such once were critics; fuch the happy few,
Athens and Rome in better ages knew.
The mighty Stagyrite firft left the shore,
Spread all his fails, and durft the deeps explore;
He fteer'd fecurely, and difcover'd far,
Led by the light of the Maonian star.
Poets, a race long unconfin'd and free,
Still fond and proud of favage liberty,
Receiv'd his laws; and ftood convinc'd, 'twas fit
Who conquer'd nature, fhould prefide o'er wit.
Horace ftill charms with graceful negligence,
And without method talks us into fenfe,
Will like a friend, familiarly convey
The trueft notions in the easiest way.
He, who fupreme in judgment, as in wit,
Might boldly cenfure, as he boldly writ,
Yet judg'd with coolness tho' he fung with fire,
His precepts teach but what his works infpire.
Our critics take a contrary extream,
They judge with fury, but they write with phle'me:
Nor fuffers Horace more in wrong translations
By wits, than critics in as wrong quotations,
See Dionyfius Homer's thoughts refine,
And call new beauties forth from ev'ry 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 jufteft rules, and cleareft method join'd:
Thus ufeful arms in magazines we place,
All rang'd in order, and difpos'd with grace;
Nor thus alone the curious eye to please,
But to be found when need requires, with eafe.
Thee, bold Longinus! all the nine infpire,
And bless their critic with a poet's fire.
An ardent judge, who zealous in his trust,
With warmth gives fentence, yet is always just
Whofe own example ftrengthens all his laws,
And is himself that great fublime he draws.
Thus long fucceeding critics justly reign'd, Licence reprefs'd, and useful laws ordain'd. Learning and Rome alike in empire grew, And arts ftill follow'd where her eagles flew. From the fame foes, at last, both felt their doom, And the fame age faw learning fall, and Rome.
* Dionyfius of Halicarnaffus.
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