And smooth or rough, with them, is right or wrong:

In the bright muse, tho' thousand charms conspire,

Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire;

Who haunt Parnassus but to please their car,

Not mend their minds; as some to church repair,

Not for the doctrine, but the music there.

These equal syllables alone require, Tho' oft the ear the open vowels tire: While expletives their feeble aid do join;

And ten low words oft creep in one dull line:

While they ring round the same unvaried chimes,

With sure returns of still expected rhymes;

Where'er you find "the cooling western breeze,"

In the next line, it "whispers through

the trees":

Now sighs steal out, and tears begin to flow:

Persians and Greeks like turns of nature found,

And the world's victor stood subdu'd by sound!

The power of music all our hearts allow, And what Timotheus was, is Dryden

now.

Avoid extremes; and shun the fault of such,

Who still are pleas'd too little or too much.

At ev'ry trifle scorn to take offence, That always shows great pride, or little

sense:

Those heads, as stomachs, are not sure the best,

Which nauseate all, and nothing can digest.

Yet let not each gay turn thy rapture

move;

For fools admire, but men of sense ap

prove:

As things seem large which we through mists descry,

Dulness is ever apt to magnify.

Some foreign writers, some our own despise;

The ancients only, or the moderns prize. Thus wit, like faith, by each man is ap ply'd

To one small sect, and all are damn'd beside.

Meanly they seek the blessing to confine,

And force that sun but on a part to shine,

Which not alone the southern wit sublimes,

But ripens spirits in cold northern climes;

Which from the first has shone on ages past,

Enlights the present, and shall warm the last;

Tho' each may feel increases and decays, And see now clearer and now darker days.

Regard not, then, if wit be old or new, But blame the false, and value still the

true.

THE RAPE OF THE LOCK.

CANTO II.

NOT with more glories, in th' ethereal plain,

The sun first rises o'er the purpled main, Than, issuing forth, the rival of his beams

Launch'd on the bosom of the silver Thames.

Fair nymphs, and well-drest youths around her shone,

But every eye was fix'd on her alone. On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore,

Which Jews might kiss, and infidels adore.

Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose,

Quick as her eyes, and as unfix'd as those:

Favors to none, to all she smiles ex

his prayer,

The rest the winds dispers'd in empty air.

But now secure the painted vessel glides,

The sunbeams trembling on the floating tides:

While melting music steals upon the sky,

And soften'd sounds along the waters die:

Smooth flow the waves, the Zephyrs gently play,

Belinda smil'd, and all the world was gay,

All but the Sylph -with careful thoughts opprest,

Th' impending woe sat heavy on his breast.

He summons straight his denizens of air:

The lucid squadrons round the sails repair:

Some dire disaster, or by force, or flight; But what, or where, the fates have wrapt in night.

Whether the nymph shall break Diana's law,

Or some frail china jar receive a flaw; Or stain her honor, or her new brocade; Forget her pray'rs, or miss a masquerade;

Or lose her heart, or necklace, at a ball; Or whether heaven has doom'd that Shock must fall.

Haste then, ye spirits! to your charge repair:

The flutt'ring fan be Zephyretta's care; The drops to thee, Brillante, we consign;

And, Momentilla, let the watch be thine;

Do thou, Crispissa, tend her fav'rite lock:

Ariel himself shall be the guard of Shock.

To fifty chosen Sylphs, of special note,