A needlefs Alexandrine ends the fong,

That like a wounded fnake, drags its flow length along.
Leave fuch to tune their own dull rhimes, and know
What's roundly fmooth, or languishingly flow;
And praise the easy vigor of a line,

Where Denham's ftrength, and Waller's sweetness join.
True ease in writing comes from art, not chance,
As thofe move eafieft who have learn'd to dance.
'Tis not enough no harshness gives offence,
The found must seem an echo to the fense.
Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows,
And the smooth stream in fmoother numbers flows
But when loud billows lafh the founding fhore,
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' various lays furprize,
And bid alternate paffions fall and rife!

* Alexander's Feaft, or the Power of Mufic; An Ode by Mr. Dryden.

A a

ST

While,

While, at each change, the son of Lybian Jove
Now burns with glory, and then melts with love:
Now his fierce eyes with fparkling fury glow,
Now fighs fteal out, and tears begin to flow :
Perfians and Greeks like turns of nature found,
And the World's victor stood fubdu'd by Sound!
The pow'r of Music all our hearts allow ;
And what Timotheus was, is Dryden now.

Avoid Extreams; and fhun the fault of fuch,
Who still are pleas'd too little, or too much.
At ev'ry trifle fcorn to take offence, i...!

That always fhows great pride, or little sense; ⠀
Thofe heads, as ftomachs, are not fure the beft,
Which nauseate all, and nothing can digest, od!
Yet let not each gay Turn thy rapture move,
For fools admire, but men of fenfe approve. il l
As things feem large which we thro' mists descry,
Dulness is ever apt to magnify.

Some the French writers, fome our own defpife;
The ancients only, of the moderns prizels bid La'
(Thus Wit, like Faith, by each man is apply'd
To one fmall fect, and all are damn'd befide.)

Blid W

4

Meanly

Meanly they seek the bleffing 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 firft has fhone on ages paft,
Enlights the prefent, and shall warm the last.
(Tho' 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.

Some ne'er advance a judgment of their own,
But catch the spreading notion of the town;
They reason and conclude by precedent,
And own ftale nonfenfe which they ne'er invent.
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 conftant Critic at the great man's board,
To fetch and carry nonfenfe for my Lord.
What woful stuff this madrigal would be,
In fome ftarv'd hackny Sonneteer, or me?
dis

But

But let a Lord once own the happy lines,
How the wit brightens! how the style refines!
Before his facred name flies ev'ry 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;
But always think the last opinion right.
A Mufe by these is like a mistress us'd,

This hour fhe's idoliz'd, the next abus'd;
While their weak heads, like towns unfortify'd,
'Twixt sense and nonfenfe daily change their fide:
Ask them the cause; they're wiser still, they fay;
And still to morrow's wifer than to day.
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'erfpread;
Who knew moft Sentences was deepest read;

3

Faith,

Faith, Gospel, all, feem'd made to be difputed,
And none had sense enough to be confuted:
Scotifts and Thomifts, now, in peace remain,
Amidft their kindred cobwebs in Duck-lane.
If Faith itself has diff'rent dresses worn,
What wonder Modes in wit fhould take their turn?
Oft', leaving what is natural and fit,

The current folly proves our 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 themfelves the measure of mankind:
Fondly we think we honour merit then,
When we but praise our selves in other men.
Parties in Wit attend on thofe of State,

And publick faction doubles private hate.
Pride, malice, folly, against Dryden rofe,
In various fhapes of Parfons, Critics, Beaus;
But fense surviv'd, when merry jests were past;
For rifing merit will buoy up at last.

Might he return, and blefs once more our eyes,
New Blackmores and new Milbourns must arife: