This weigh'd, perfection know; and, known, adore;
Toil, burn for that; but do not aim at more ;
Above, beneath it, the juft limits fix;
And zealously prefer four lines to fix.
Write, and re-write, blot out, and write again,
And for its fwiftnefs ne'er applaud your pen.
Leave to the jockeys that Newmarket praise,
Slow runs the Pegafus that wins the bays.
Much time for immortality to pay,
Is just and wife; for less is thrown away.
Time only can mature the labouring brain ;
Time is the father, and the midwife pain:
The fame good sense that makes a man excel,
Still makes him doubt he ne'er has written well.
Downright impoffibilities they seek ;
What man can be immortal in a week?
Excufe no fault; though beautiful, 'twill harm;
One fault fhocks more than twenty beauties charm.
Our age demands correctnefs; Addifon
And you this commendable hurt have done.
Now writers find, as once Achilles found,
The whole is mortal, if a part's unfound.
He that ftrikes out, and strikes not out the best,
Pours luftre in, and dignifies the rest:
Give e'er fo little, if what's right be there,
We praife for what you burn, and what you spare ;
The part you burn, fmells fweet before the shrine,
And is as incenfe to the part divine.
Nor frequent write, though you can do it well;
Men may too oft, though not too much, excel.
A few good works gain fame; more fink their price;
Mankind are fickle, and hate paying twice:
They granted you writ well, what can they more,
Unless you let them praise for giving o'er?
Do boldly what you do, and let your page
Smile, if it fmiles, and if it rages, rage.
So faintly Lucius cenfures and commends,
That Lucius has no foes, except his friends.
Let fatire lefs engage you than applaufe ;
It fhews a gen'rous mind to wink at flaws :
Is genius yours? be yours a glorious end,
Be your king's, country's, truth's, religion's friend;
The public glory by your own beget;
Run nations, run posterity, in debt.
And fince the fam'd alone make others live,
Firft have that glory you prefume to give.
If fatire charms, ftrike faults, but spare the man: "Tis dull to be as witty as you can.
Satire recoils whenever charg'd too high;
Round your own fame the fatal splinters fly.
As the foft plume gives swiftnefs to the dart,
Good-breeding fends the fatire to the heart.
Painters and furgeons may the ftructure scan;
Genius and morals be with you the man:
Defaults in those alone should give offence!
Who ftrikes the perfon, pleads his innocence.
My narrow-minded fatire can't extend
To Codrus' form; I'm not fo much his friend;
Himself should publish that (the world agree)
Before his works, or in the pillory.
Let him be black, fair, tall, fhort, thin, or fat,
Dirty or clean, I find no theme in that.
Is that call'd humour? It has this pretence,
'Tis neither virtue, breeding, wit, or fenfe,
Unless you boaft the genius of a Swift,
Beware of humour, the dull rogue's last shift.
Can others write like you? Your task give o'er, 'Tis printing what was publish'd long before,
If nought peculiar through your labours run,
They're duplicates, and twenty are but one.
Think frequently, think close, read nature, turn
Mens manners o'er, and half your volumes burn;
To nurse with quick reflection be your ftrife,
Thoughts born from present objects, warm from life:
When most unfought, such inspirations rise,
Slighted by fools, and cherish'd by the wife:
Expect peculiar fame from these alone;
These make an author, these are all your own.
Life, like their bibles, coolly men turn o'er;
Hence unexperienc'd children of threescore.
True, all men think of course, as all men dream
And if they slightly think, 'tis much the fame.
Letters admit not of a half-renown;
They give you nothing, or they give a crown.
No work e'er gain'd true fame, or ever can,
But what did honour to the name of man.
Weighty the fubject, cogent the difcourfe,
Clear be the style, the very found of force;
Eafy the conduct, fimple the defign,
Striking the moral, and the foul divine:
Let nature art, and judgment wit, exceed ;
O'er learning reason reign; o'er that, your Creed:
Thus virtue's feeds, at once, and laurel's, grow;
Do thus, and rife a Pope, or a Defpreau:
And when your genius exquifitely fhines,
Live up to the full luftre of your
Parts but expose those men who virtue quit ;
A fallen angel is a fallen wit;
And they plead Lucifer's detefted cause,
Who for bare talents challenge our applause.
Would you restore just honours to the pen?
From able writers rife to worthy men.
"Who's this with nonsense, nonsense would restrain? "Who's this (they cry) fo vainly schools the vain ? "Who damns our trash, with so much trash replete? "As, three ells round, huge Cheyne rails at meat?" Shall I with Bavius then my voice exalt, And challenge all mankind to find one fault? With huge Examens overwhelm my page, And darken reafon with dogmatic rage? As if, one tedious volume writ in rhime, In profe a duller could excuse the crime: Sure, next to writing, the most idle thing Is gravely to harangue on what we fing. At that tribunal ftands the writing tribe, Which nothing can intimidate or bribe: Time is the judge; Time has nor friend nor foe; False fame must wither, and the true will grow. Arm'd with this truth, all critics I defy; For if I fall, by my own pen I die;
While fnarlers ftrive with proud but fruitless pain,
To wound immortals, or to flay the flain.
Sore preft with danger, and in awful dread
Of twenty pamphlets levell'd at my head,
Thus have I forg'd a buckler in my brain,
Of recent form, to ferve me this campaign:
And fafely hope to quit the dreadful field
Delug'd with ink, and fleep behind my shield;
Unless dire Codrus roufes to the fray
In all his might, and damns me
As turns a flock of geefe, and, green, Poke out their foolish necks in awkward fpleen, (Ridiculous in rage!) to bifs, not bite,
So war their quills, when fons of dulnefs write.
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