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So fare the men, who writers dare commence
Without their patent, probity, and sense.

From thefe, their politics our quidnuncs seek,
And Saturday's the learning of the week:

Thefe labouring wits, like paviours, mend our ways,
With heavy, huge, repeated, flat, effays;

Ram their coarse nonsense down, though ne'er fo dull;
And hem at every thump upon your skull:
Thefe ftaunch-bred writing hounds begin the cry,
And honeft folly echoes to the lye.

O how I laugh, when I a blockhead fee,
Thanking a villain for his probity;

Who ftretches out a moft refpectful ear,
With fnares for woodcocks in his holy leer;
It tickles thro' my foul to hear the cock's
Sincere encomium on his friend the fox,
Sole patron of his liberties and rights!
While graceless Reynard liftens-till he bites.

As when the trumpet founds, th' o'erloaded ftate
Discharges all her poor and profligate;

Crimes of all kinds difhonour'd weapons wield,
And prifons pour their filth into the field;
Thus nature's refuse, and the dregs of men,
Compofe the black militia of the pen.

EPISTLE

EPISTLE II.

FROM

OXFORD.

A

L L write at London; fhall the rage abate Here, where it most should shine, the Mufes feat? Where, mortal or immortal, as they please, The learn'd may chufe eternity, or ease? Has not a * ROYAL PATRON wifely ftrove To woo the mufe in her Athenian grove? Added new strings to her harmonious shell, And giv'n new tongues to those who spoke so well? Let thefe inftruct, with truth's illuftrious ray, Awake the world, and scare our owls away. Mean while, O friend! indulge me, if I give Some needful precepts how to write, and live!

*His late Majefty's benefaction for modern languages.

VOL, I.

N

Serious

Serious fhould be an author's final views;
Who write for pure amusement, ne'er amuse.
An Author! "Tis a venerable name!

How few deserve it, and what numbers claim!
Unbleft with fense above their peers refin'd,
Who shall stand up, dictators to mankind?
Nay, who dare shine, if not in virtue's cause ?
That fole proprietor of just applause.

read?

Ye restless men, who pant for letter'd praise,
With whom would you confult to gain the bays?—
With those great authors whose fam'd works you
"Tis well go, then, confult the laurell'd fhade.
What answer will the laurell'd fhade return?
Hear it, and tremble! he commands you burn
The nobleft works his envy'd genius writ,
That boast of nought more excellent than wit.
If this be true, as 'tis a truth most dread,
Woe to the page which has not that to plead !
Fontaine and Chaucer, dying, wifh'd unwrote,
The sprightlieft efforts of their wanton thought:
Sidney and Waller, brightest fons of fame,
Condemn the charm of ages to the flame:
And in one point is all true wisdom caft,
To think that early we must think at last.

Immortal wits, ev'n dead, break nature's laws,

Injurious ftill to virtue's facred caufe;

And their guilt growing, as their bodies rot,
(Revers'd ambition!) pant to be forgot.

Thus ends your courted fame: does lucre then,
The facred thirst of gold, betray your pen ?
In profe 'tis blameable, in verfe 'tis worse,
Provokes the mufe, extorts Apollo's curfe:
His facred influence never fhould be fold;
'Tis arrant Simony to fing for gold:

"Tis

"Tis immortality fhould fire your mind;
Scorn a less paymaster than all mankind.

If bribes you feek, know this, ye wri.ing tribe!
Who writes for virtue has the largest bribe:
All's on the party of the virtuous man;
The good will furely ferve him, if they can;
The bad, when interest, or ambition guide,
And 'tis at once their interest and their pride:
But should both fail to take him to their care,
He boasts a greater friend, and both may spare.
Letters to man uncommon light dispense;

And what is virtue, but fuperior sense?

In parts and learning you who place your pride,
Your faults are crimes, your crimes are double-dy'd.
What is a scandal of the first renown,
But letter'd knaves, and atheifts in a gown?

'Tis harder far to please than give offence ;
The leaft misconduct damns the brightest sense;
Each shallow pate, that cannot read your name,
Can read your life, and will be proud to blame.
Flagitious manners make impreffions deep
On thofe, that o'er a page of Milton sleep:
Nor in their dulness think to fave your shame,
True, these are fools; but wife men say the fame.
Wits are a despicable race of men,

If they confine their talents to the pen ;

When the man shocks us, while the writer fhines,
Our scorn in life, our envy in his lines.

Yet, proud of parts, with prudence fome difpenfe,
And play the fool, because they're men of sense.
What inftances bleed recent in each thought,
Of men to ruin by their genius brought!
Against their wills what numbers ruin fhun,
Purely through want of wit to be undone !

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Nature has fhewn, by making it fo rare,
That wit's a jewel which we need not wear.
Of plain found fenfe life's current coin is made;
With that we drive the most fubftantial trade.

Prudence protects and guides us; wit betrays;
A fplendid source of ill ten thousand ways;
A certain fnare to miseries immense;
A gay prerogative from common sense;
Unless strong judgment that wild thing can tame,
And break to paths of virtue and of fame.

But grant your judgment equal to the best,
Senfe fills your head, and genius fires your breast ;
Yet ftill forbear: your wit (confider well)
'Tis great to fhew, but greater to conceal ;
As it is great to feize the golden prize
Of place or power; but greater to despise.

If ftill you languish for an author's name,
Think private merit lefs than public fame,
And fancy not to write is not to live;
Deferve, and take, the great prerogative.
But ponder what it is; how dear 'twill cost,
To write one page which you may justly boaft.
Senfe may be good, yet not deserve the prefs;
Who write, an awful character profess;
The world as pupil of their wisdom claim,
And for their ftipend an immortal fame :
Nothing but what is solid or refin'd,
Should dare ask public audience of mankind.

Severely weigh your learning and your wit:
Keep down your pride by what is nobly writ:
No writer, fam'd in your own way, pass o'er;
Much truft example, but reflection more:
More had the ancients writ, they more had taught;
Which fhews fome work is left for modern thought.

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