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 Pegasus that wins the bays.
Much time for immortality to pay,
Is juft 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 fense 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 shocks more than twenty beauties charm.
Our demands correctness; Addison
age
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 frikes out, and strikes not out the best,
Pours luftre in, and dignifies the reft:
Give e'er fo little, if what's right be there,
We praise for what you burn, and what you spare:
The part you burn, smells sweet before the shrine,
And is as incense 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 applause ;
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 pofterity, 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 swiftness to the dart,
Good-breeding sends the satire 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 person, 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, short, 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 sense,
Unless you boast 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 strife,
Thoughts born from prefent objects, warm from life:
When most unfought, fuch inspirations rise,
Slighted by fools, and cherish'd by the wife:
Expect peculiar fame from thefe 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 flightly think, 'tis much the same.
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 ftyle, the very found of force;
Eafy the conduct, fimple the defign,
Striking the moral, and the soul divine:
Let nature art, and judgment wit, exceed;
O'er learning reafon reign; o'er that, your Creed:
Thus virtue's feeds, at once, and laurel's, grow;
Do thus, and rise a Pope, or a Defpreau :
And when your genius exquifitely fhines,
Live up to the full luftre of your lines:
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 applaufe.
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 reason with dogmatic rage As if, one tedious volume writ in rhime, In profe a duller could excufe the crime: Sure, next to writing, the most idle thing Is gravely to harangue on what we fing. At that tribunal stands 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 serve me this campaign: And fafely hope to quit the dreadful field Delug'd with ink, and sleep behind my shield; Unless dire Codrus roufes to the fray
In all his might, and damns me-for a day.
As turns a flock of geese, and, on the green, Poke out their foolish necks in awkward spleen, (Ridiculous in rage!) to his, not bite,
So war their quills, when fons of dulness write.
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