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But you, with pleasure own your errors past,
And make, each day, a Critic on the last.

'Tis not enough, your counsel still 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 fense belov❜d.

Be niggards of advice on no pretence ;
For the worst avarice is that of fenfe.
With mean complacence ne'er betray your trust,
Nor be fo civil as to prove unjust :
Fear not the anger of the wife to raise;

Those best can bear reproof, who merit praise.
'Twere well might Critics still 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 most to tax an Honorable fool,
Whose 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 unfuccessful Satyrs,

And flattery to fulfome Dedicators,

Whom, when they praife, the world believes no more,
Than when they promise to give scribling 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 lafh'd afleep.
Falfe steps but help them to renew the race,
As after stumbling, 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 laft dull droppings of their fenfe,
And rhyme with all the rage of Impotence!

Such shameless 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 still 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, most authors fteal their works, or buy;
Garth did not write his own Difpenfary.

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 is Paul's church more fafe than Paul's church-yard:
Nay, fly to altars; there they'll talk you dead;
For Fools rush in where Angels fear to tread.
Distrustful sense with modeft caution fpeaks,
It still looks home, and short excurfions makes;
But rattling nonfenfe in full vollies breaks,
And never fhock'd, and never turn'd afide,
Bursts out, refistlefs, with a thund'ring tyde!

But where's the man, who counfel can beftow,
Still pleas'd to teach, and yet not proud to know?
Unbiafs'd, or by favor, or by fpite;

Not dully prepoffefs'd, or blindly right;

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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 taste exact, yet unconfin'd;
A knowledge both of books and humankind;
Gen'rous converfe; a foul exempt from pride;
And love to praise, with reafon on his fide?
Such once were Critics; fuch the happy few,
Athens and Rome in better ages knew.

The mighty Stagyrite first left the fhore,
Spread all his fails, and durft the deeps explore;
He fteer'd fecurely, and discover'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 still 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,

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 fle'me:
Nor fuffers Horace more in wrong Tranflations
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 eafe.
In grave Quintilian's copious work, we find
The justest rules, and cleareft method join'd:
Thus useful 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 cafe.
Thee, bold Longinus! all the Nine infpire,
And blefs their Critic with a Poet's fire.

* Dionyfius of Halicarnaffus.

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