Still with itself compar'd, his text peruse;
And let your comment be the Mantuan mufe.

He then fpeaks of the licences allow'd to poetry, and of the use of them by the ancients; which is thus happily expreffed.

Some beauties yet, no precepts can declare,
For there's a happiness as well as care.
Mufick refembles poetry; in each

Are nameless graces which no methods teach,
And which a mafter-hand alone can reach.
If, where the rules not far enough extend,
(Since rules were made but to promote their end)
Some lucky LICENCE anfwers to the full
Th' intent propos'd, that licence is a rule.
Thus Pegafus, a nearer way to take,
May boldly deviate from the common track.
Great wits fometimes may gloriously offend,
And rife to faults true critics dare not mend;
From vulgar bounds with brave disorder part,
And fnatch a grace beyond the reach of art.
Which, without paffing thro' the judgment, gains
The heart, and all its ends at once attains.
In profpects thus, fome objects please our eyes,
Which out of nature's common order rise,
The shapelefs rock, or hanging precipice.
But care in poetry muft ftill be had,

It afks difcretion ev'n in running mad:
And tho' the ancients thus their rules invade,

(As kings difpenfe with laws themselves have made)
Moderns beware! Or if you must offend

Against the precept, ne'er tranfgrefs its end;
Let it be feldom; and compell'd by need;
And have, at leaft, their precedent to plead.
The critic elfe proceeds without remorse,
Seizes your fame, and puts his laws in force.

I know there are, to whose presumptuous thoughts
Those freer beauties, ev'n in them, feem faults.
Some figures monftrous and mif-shap'd appear,
Confider'd fingly, or beheld too near,

}

}

Which, but proportion'd to their light, or place,
Due distance reconciles to form and grace.
A prudent chief not always must display
His pow'rs in equal ranks, and fair array,
But with th' occafion and the place comply,
Conceal his force, nay feem fometimes to fly.
Those oft are stratagems whlch errors seem,
Nor is it Homer nods, but we that dream.

After this he speaks of the reverence and praife due to the ancients, obferves that pride and imperfect learning hinder us from forming a true judgment, and illuftrates his fubject with a most beautiful fimile.

Of all the caufes which confpire to blind
Man's erring judgment, and mifguide the mind,
What the weak head with ftrongest byafs rules,
IS PRIDE, the never failing vice of fools.
Whatever nature has in worth deny'd,
She gives in large recruits of needful pride:
For as in bodies, thus in fouls, we find

What wants in blood and spirits, fwell'd with wind;
Pride, where wit fails, fteps in to our defence,
And fills up all the mighty void of sense.
If once right reafon drives that cloud away,
Truth breaks upon us with refiftless day.
Truft not yourself; but your defects to know,
Make ufe of ev'ry friend-and ev'ry foe.
A little learning is a dang'rous thing;
Drink deep, or tafte not the Pierian spring:
There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain,
And drinking largely fobers us again.
Fir'd at first fight with what the mufe imparts,
In fearless youth we tempt the heights of arts,
While from the bounded level of our mind,
Short views we take, nor fee the lengths behind;
But more advanc'd, behold with strange furprize
New diftant fcenes of endless science rife!
So pleas'd at firft the tow'ring Alps we try,
Mount o'er the vales, and feem to tread the sky,
Th' eternal fnows appear already past,

And the first clouds and mountains feem the laft:

But, thofe attain'd, we tremble to furvey
The growing labours of the lengthen'd way,
Th' increafing profpect tires our wand'ring eyes,
Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arife!

He then condemns those who judge by a part and not the whole of a performance, as well as thofe who are critics only in Wit, Language, or Verfification, and ridicules others who are too hard to please, or too apt to admire.

A perfect judge will read each work of wit,
With the fame fpirit that its author writ:
Survey the WHOLE, nor feek flight faults to find
Where nature moves, and rapture warms the mind;
Nor lofe, for that malignant dull delight,

The gen'rous pleasure to be charm'd with wit.
But in fuch lays as neither ebb nor flow,
Correctly cold and regularly low,

That fhunning faults, one quiet tenor keep :
We cannot blame indeed-but we may fleep.
In wit, as nature, what affects our hearts,
Is not th' exactness of peculiar parts;
'Tis not a lip, or eye, we beauty call,
But the joint force and full refult of all.

Some to conceit alone their tafte confine,
And glitt'ring thoughts ftruck out at ev'ry line;
Pleas'd with a work where nothing's juft or fit;
One glaring chaos and wild heap of wit.
Poets, like painters, thus unfkill'd to trace
The naked nature and the living grace,
With gold and jewels cover ev'ry part,
And hide with ornaments their want of art.
For works may have more wit than does them good,
As bodies perish through excess of blood.

Others for Language all their care exprefs
And value books, as women men, for dress:
Their praife is ftill,-the ftyle is excellent :
The fenfe, they humbly take upon content.
Words are like leaves; and where they most abound,
Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found.
Falfe eloquence, like the prismatic glass,
Its gaudy colours spreads on ev'ry place;

The face of nature we no more furvey,
All glares alike, without diftinction gay:
But true expreffion, like th' unchanging fun,
Clears, and improves whate'er it fhines upon,
It gilds all objects, but it alters none.

But moft by numbers judge a poet's fong;

And fmooth or rough, with them, is right or wrong:
In the bright mufe tho' thousand charms confpire,
Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire;
Who haunt Parnaffus but to please their ear,
Not mend their minds; as fome to church repair,
Not for the doctrine but the music there.
Thefe equal fyllables alone require,
Tho' oft the ear the open n vowels tire:
While expletives their feeble aid do join ;
And ten low words oft creep in one dull line :
While they ring round the fame unvary'd chimes,
With fure returns of ftill expected rhymes;
Where'er you find the cooling western breeze,"
In the next line, it, "whifpers thro' the trees:"
If cryftal ftreams with pleafing murmurs creep,"
The reader's threaten'd (not in vain) with "fleep :"
Then, at the laft and only couplet fraught
With fome unmeaning thing they call a thought,
A needlefs Alexandrine ends the fong,

}

That, like a wounded fnake, drags its flow length along.
True eafe in writing comes from art, not chance,
As those move eafieft who have learn'd to dance.
"Tis not enough no harshness gives offence,
The found must seem an eccho to the fenfe.
Avoid extremes; and fhun the fault of fuch,
Who ftill are pleas'd too little or too much,
At ev'ry trifle fcorn to take offence,

That always fhews great pride or little fenfe ;
T'hofe heads, as ftomachs, are not sure the beft,
Which nauseate all, and nothing can digeft.
Yet let not each gay turn thy rapture move;
For fools admire, but men of fenfe approve:
As things feem large which we thro' mifts defcry,
Dulness is ever apt to magnify.

The poet next complains of the partiality of critics. to fome particular fect, party, nation, or age: He obferves

that fome give all applaufe to the ancients, fome admire only the moderns; that fome affect to be fingular whether right or wrong, while others borrow their opinions from the town, and change them, as they change their company.

Some ne'er advance a judgment of their own,
But catch the fpreading notion of the town;
They reafon and conclude by precedent,

And own ftale nonsense which they ne'er invent.
Some judge of author's names, not works, and then
Nor praise nor blame the writings, but the men.
Some praise at morning what they blame at night;
But always think the laft opinion right.

A mufe by thefe 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 fenfe and nonfenfe daily change their fide.
Some valuing those of their own fide or mind,
Still make themselves the measure of mankind:
Fondly we think we honour merit then,
When we but praise ourselves in other men ;
Parties in wit attend on thofe of state,
And public faction doubles private hate.
Envy will merit, as its fhade, pursue ;
But like a fhadow, proves the substance true:
For envy'd wit, like fol eclips'd, makes known,
Th' oppofing body's groffness, not his own.
When first that fun too pow'rful beams displays,
It draws up vapours which obfcure its rays;
But ev'n thofe clouds at last adorn its way,
Reflect new glories, and augment the day.

Be thou the first true merit to befriend;
His praise is loft, who ftays 'till all commend.
Short is the date alas, of modern rhymes,
And 'tis but juft to let them live betimes.

He then laments the fate of wit, which is ever pursued by envy, and advises the critic to temper his mind with good nature.