Jilts rul'd the state, and statesmen farces writ;
Nay wits had pensions, and young lords had wit;
The fair sat panting at a courtier's play,
And not a mask went unimprov'd away;
The modest fan was lifted up no more,
And virgins smil'd at what they blush'd before.
The fall'wing license of a foreign reign
Did all the dregs of old Socinus drain ;
Then unbelieving priests reform'd the nation
And taught more pleasant methods of salvation;
Where Heav'n's free subjects might their rights dis-
Lest God himself should seem too absolute :
Pulpits their sacred satire 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 press groan'd with licens'd blasphemies.
These monsters, Critics! with your darts engage,
Here point your thunder, and exhaust your rage!
Yet shun their fault who, scandalously nice,
Will needs mistake an author into vice:
All seems infected that th' infected spy,
As all looks yellow to the jaundic'd eye.
LEARN then what morals critics ought to show, 560 For 'tis but half a judge's task to know.
'Tis not enough taste, judgment, learning, join;
In all you speak let truth and candour shine;
That not alone what to your sense is due
All may allow, but seek your friendship too.
Be silent always when you doubt your sense,
And speak, tho' sure, with seeming diffidence :
Some positive persisting fops we know,
Who if once wrong will needs be always so;
But you with pleasure own your errors past,
And make each day a critique on the last.
'Tis not enough your counsel still be true,
Blunt truths more mischief than nice falshoods do;
Men must be taught as if you taught them not,
And things unknown propos'd as things forgot.
Without good-breeding truth is disapprov❜d;
That only makes superior sense belov❜d.
Be niggards of advice on no pretence,
For the worst avarice is that of sense.
With mean complacence ne'er betray your trust, 580 Nor be so civil as to prove unjust.
Fear not the anger of the wise 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 stares tremendous, with a threat'ning eye,
Like some fierce tyrant in old tapestry.
Fear most to tax an honourable fool,
Whose right it is, uncensur'd, to be dull:
Such without wit are poets when they please,
As without learning they can take degrees.
Leave dang❜rous truths to unsuccessful satires,
And flattery to fulsome dedicators,
Whom, when they praise, the world believes no more Than when they promise to give scribbling o'er. 595 'Tis best sometimes your censure to restrain,
And charitably let the dull be vain ;
Your silence there is better than your spite,
For who can rail so long as they can write?
Still humming on their drowsy course they keep, 600
And lash'd so long, like tops are lash'd asleep.
False steps but help them to renew their race,
As after stumbling jades will mend their pace.
What crowds of these, impenitently bold,
In sounds and jingling syllables grown old,
Still run on poets in a raging vein,
Ev'n to the dregs and squeezings of the brain,
Strain out the last dull droppings of their sense,
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 list'ning to himself appears: All books he reads, and all he reads assails, From Dryden's Fables down to Durfey's Tales. With him most 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, show'd his faults-but when would poets mend? No place so sacred from such fops is barr'd,
Nor is Paul's Church more safe than Paul's Church
Nay, fly to altars, there they'll talk you dead;
For fools rush in where angels fear to tread.
Distrustful sense with modest caution speaks,
It still looks home, and short excursions makes;
But rattling nonsense in full vollies breaks,
And never shock'd, and never turn'd aside,
Bursts out, resistless, with a thund'ring tide.
But where's the man who counsel can bestow,
Still pleas'd to teach, and yet not proud to know;
Unbiass'd or by favour or by spite,
Not dully prepossess'd nor blindly right:
Tho' learn'd well-bred, and tho' well-bred sincere ;
Modestly bold, and humanely severe;
Who to a friend his faults can freely show,
And gladly praise the merit of a foe;
Blest with a taste exact, yet unconfin'd
A knowledge both of books and human kind;
Gen'rous converse; a soul exempt from pride;
And loves to praise, with reason on his side.
Such once were Critics; such the happy few
Athens and Rome in better ages knew.
The mighty Stagirite first left the shore,
Spread all his sails, and durst the deeps explore;
He steer'd securely, and discovered far,
Led by the light of the Mæonian star,
Poets, a race long unconfin'd and free,
Still fond and proud of savage liberty,
Receiv'd his laws, and stood convinc'd 'twas fit,
Who conquer'd Nature should preside o'er wit.
Horace still charms with graceful negligence,
And without method talks us into sense;
Will, like a friend, familiarly convey
The truest notions in the easiest way.
He who, supreme in judgment as in wit,
Might boldly censure as he boldly writ,
Yet judg'd with coolness, tho' he sung with fire;
His precepts teach but what his works inspire.
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