201 Of all the causes which conspire to blind
202 Man's erring judgment, and misguide the mind,
203 What the weak head with strongest bias rules,
204 Is pride, the never-failing vice of fools.
205 Whatever Nature has in worth denied,
206 She gives in large recruits of needful pride;
207 For as in bodies, thus in souls, we find
208 What wants in blood and spirits, swell'd with wind;
209 Pride, where wit fails, steps in to our defence,
210 And fills up all the mighty void of sense!
211 If once right reason drives that cloud away,
212 Truth breaks upon us with resistless day;
213 Trust not yourself; but your defects to know,
214 Make use of ev'ry friend--and ev'ry foe.
215 A little learning is a dang'rous thing;
216 Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring:
217 There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain,
218 And drinking largely sobers us again.
219 Fir'd at first sight with what the Muse imparts,
220 In fearless youth we tempt the heights of arts,
221 While from the bounded level of our mind,
222 Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind,
223 But more advanc'd, behold with strange surprise
224 New, distant scenes of endless science rise!
225 So pleas'd at first, the tow'ring Alps we try,
226 Mount o'er the vales, and seem to tread the sky;
227 Th' eternal snows appear already past,
228 And the first clouds and mountains seem the last;
229 But those attain'd, we tremble to survey
230 The growing labours of the lengthen'd way,
231 Th' increasing prospect tires our wand'ring eyes,
232 Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise!
233 A perfect judge will read each work of wit
234 With the same spirit that its author writ,
235 Survey the whole, nor seek slight faults to find,
236 Where nature moves, and rapture warms the mind;
237 Nor lose, for that malignant dull delight,
238 The gen'rous pleasure to be charm'd with wit.
239 But in such lays as neither ebb, nor flow,
240 Correctly cold, and regularly low,
241 That shunning faults, one quiet tenour keep;
242 We cannot blame indeed--but we may sleep.
243 In wit, as nature, what affects our hearts
244 Is not th' exactness of peculiar parts;
245 'Tis not a lip, or eye, we beauty call,
246 But the joint force and full result of all.
247 Thus when we view some well-proportion'd dome,
248 (The world's just wonder, and ev'n thine, O Rome!'
249 No single parts unequally surprise;
250 All comes united to th' admiring eyes;
251 No monstrous height, or breadth, or length appear;
252 The whole at once is bold, and regular.
253 Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see,
254 Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be.
255 In ev'ry work regard the writer's end,
256 Since none can compass more than they intend;
257 And if the means be just, the conduct true,
258 Applause, in spite of trivial faults, is due.
259 As men of breeding, sometimes men of wit,
260 T' avoid great errors, must the less commit:
261 Neglect the rules each verbal critic lays,
262 For not to know such trifles, is a praise.
263 Most critics, fond of some subservient art,
264 Still make the whole depend upon a part:
265 They talk of principles, but notions prize,
266 And all to one lov'd folly sacrifice.
267 Once on a time, La Mancha's knight, they say,
268 A certain bard encount'ring on the way,
269 Discours'd in terms as just, with looks as sage,
270 As e'er could Dennis of the Grecian stage;
271 Concluding all were desp'rate sots and fools,
272 Who durst depart from Aristotle's rules.
273 Our author, happy in a judge so nice,
274 Produc'd his play, and begg'd the knight's advice,
275 Made him observe the subject and the plot,
276 The manners, passions, unities, what not?
277 All which, exact to rule, were brought about,
278 Were but a combat in the lists left out.
279 "What! leave the combat out?" exclaims the knight;
280 "Yes, or we must renounce the Stagirite."
281 "Not so by Heav'n" (he answers in a rage)
282 "Knights, squires, and steeds, must enter on the stage."
283 So vast a throng the stage can ne'er contain.
284 "Then build a new, or act it in a plain."
285 Thus critics, of less judgment than caprice,
286 Curious not knowing, not exact but nice,
287 Form short ideas; and offend in arts
288 (As most in manners) by a love to parts.
289 Some to conceit alone their taste confine,
290 And glitt'ring thoughts struck out at ev'ry line;
291 Pleas'd with a work where nothing's just or fit;
292 One glaring chaos and wild heap of wit.
293 Poets, like painters, thus, unskill'd to trace
294 The naked nature and the living grace,
295 With gold and jewels cover ev'ry part,
296 And hide with ornaments their want of art.
297 True wit is nature to advantage dress'd,
298 What oft was thought, but ne'er so well express'd,
299 Something, whose truth convinc'd at sight we find,
300 That gives us back the image of our mind.
301 As shades more sweetly recommend the light,
302 So modest plainness sets off sprightly wit.
303 For works may have more wit than does 'em good,
304 As bodies perish through excess of blood.
305 Others for language all their care express,
306 And value books, as women men, for dress:
307 Their praise is still--"the style is excellent":
308 The sense, they humbly take upon content.
309 Words are like leaves; and where they most abound,
310 Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found.
311 False eloquence, like the prismatic glass,
312 Its gaudy colours spreads on ev'ry place;
313 The face of Nature we no more survey,
314 All glares alike, without distinction gay:
315 But true expression, like th' unchanging sun,
316 Clears, and improves whate'er it shines upon,
317 It gilds all objects, but it alters none.
318 Expression is the dress of thought, and still
319 Appears more decent, as more suitable;
320 A vile conceit in pompous words express'd,
321 Is like a clown in regal purple dress'd:
322 For diff'rent styles with diff'rent subjects sort,
323 As several garbs with country, town, and court.
324 Some by old words to fame have made pretence,
325 Ancients in phrase, mere moderns in their sense;
326 Such labour'd nothings, in so strange a style,
327 Amaze th' unlearn'd, and make the learned smile.
328 Unlucky, as Fungoso in the play,
329 These sparks with awkward vanity display
330 What the fine gentleman wore yesterday!
331 And but so mimic ancient wits at best,
332 As apes our grandsires, in their doublets dress'd.
333 In words, as fashions, the same rule will hold;
334 Alike fantastic, if too new, or old;
335 Be not the first by whom the new are tried,
336 Not yet the last to lay the old aside.
337 But most by numbers judge a poet's song;
338 And smooth or rough, with them is right or wrong:
339 In the bright Muse though thousand charms conspire,
340 Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire,
341 Who haunt Parnassus but to please their ear,
342 Not mend their minds; as some to church repair,
343 Not for the doctrine, but the music there.
344 These equal syllables alone require,
345 Tho' oft the ear the open vowels tire,
346 While expletives their feeble aid do join,
347 And ten low words oft creep in one dull line,
348 While they ring round the same unvaried chimes,
349 With sure returns of still expected rhymes.
350 Where'er you find "the cooling western breeze",
351 In the next line, it "whispers through the trees":
352 If "crystal streams with pleasing murmurs creep",
353 The reader's threaten'd (not in vain) with "sleep".
354 Then, at the last and only couplet fraught
355 With some unmeaning thing they call a thought,
356 A needless Alexandrine ends the song,
357 That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.
358 Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes, and know
359 What's roundly smooth, or languishingly slow;
360 And praise the easy vigour of a line,
361 Where Denham's strength, and Waller's sweetness join.
362 True ease in writing comes from art, not chance,
363 As those move easiest who have learn'd to dance.
364 'Tis not enough no harshness gives offence,
365 The sound must seem an echo to the sense.
366 Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows,
367 And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows;
368 But when loud surges lash the sounding shore,
369 The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar.
370 When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw,
371 The line too labours, and the words move slow;
372 Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain,
373 Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the main.
374 Hear how Timotheus' varied lays surprise,
375 And bid alternate passions fall and rise!
376 While, at each change, the son of Libyan Jove
377 Now burns with glory, and then melts with love;
378 Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury glow,
379 Now sighs steal out, and tears begin to flow:
380 Persians and Greeks like turns of nature found,
381 And the world's victor stood subdu'd by sound!
382 The pow'r of music all our hearts allow,
383 And what Timotheus was, is Dryden now.
384 Avoid extremes; and shun the fault of such,
385 Who still are pleas'd too little or too much.
386 At ev'ry trifle scorn to take offence,
387 That always shows great pride, or little sense;
388 Those heads, as stomachs, are not sure the best,
389 Which nauseate all, and nothing can digest.
390 Yet let not each gay turn thy rapture move,
391 For fools admire, but men of sense approve;
392 As things seem large which we through mists descry,
393 Dulness is ever apt to magnify.
394 Some foreign writers, some our own despise;
395 The ancients only, or the moderns prize.
396 Thus wit, like faith, by each man is applied
397 To one small sect, and all are damn'd beside.
398 Meanly they seek the blessing to confine,
399 And force that sun but on a part to shine;
400 Which not alone the southern wit sublimes,
401 But ripens spirits in cold northern climes;
402 Which from the first has shone on ages past,
403 Enlights the present, and shall warm the last;
404 (Though each may feel increases and decays,
405 And see now clearer and now darker days.)
406 Regard not then if wit be old or new,
407 But blame the false, and value still the true.
408 Some ne'er advance a judgment of their own,
409 But catch the spreading notion of the town;
410 They reason and conclude by precedent,
411 And own stale nonsense which they ne'er invent.
412 Some judge of authors' names, not works, and then
413 Nor praise nor blame the writings, but the men.
414 Of all this servile herd, the worst is he
415 That in proud dulness joins with quality,
416 A constant critic at the great man's board,
417 To fetch and carry nonsense for my Lord.
418 What woeful stuff this madrigal would be,
419 In some starv'd hackney sonneteer, or me?
420 But let a Lord once own the happy lines,
421 How the wit brightens! how the style refines!
422 Before his sacred name flies every fault,
423 And each exalted stanza teems with thought!
424 The vulgar thus through imitation err;
425 As oft the learn'd by being singular;
426 So much they scorn the crowd, that if the throng
427 By chance go right, they purposely go wrong:
428 So Schismatics the plain believers quit,
429 And are but damn'd for having too much wit.
430 Some praise at morning what they blame at night;
431 But always think the last opinion right.
432 A Muse by these is like a mistress us'd,
433 This hour she's idoliz'd, the next abus'd;
434 While their weak heads, like towns unfortified,
435 Twixt sense and nonsense daily change their side.
436 Ask them the cause; they're wiser still, they say;
437 And still tomorrow's wiser than today.
438 We think our fathers fools, so wise we grow;
439 Our wiser sons, no doubt, will think us so.
440 Once school divines this zealous isle o'erspread;
441 Who knew most Sentences, was deepest read;
442 Faith, Gospel, all, seem'd made to be disputed,
443 And none had sense enough to be confuted:
444 Scotists and Thomists, now, in peace remain,
445 Amidst their kindred cobwebs in Duck Lane.
446 If Faith itself has different dresses worn,
447 What wonder modes in wit should take their turn?
448 Oft, leaving what is natural and fit,
449 The current folly proves the ready wit;
450 And authors think their reputation safe
451 Which lives as long as fools are pleased to laugh.
452 Some valuing those of their own side or mind,
453 Still make themselves the measure of mankind;
454 Fondly we think we honour merit then,
455 When we but praise ourselves in other men.
456 Parties in wit attend on those of state,
457 And public faction doubles private hate.
458 Pride, Malice, Folly, against Dryden rose,
459 In various shapes of Parsons, Critics, Beaus;
460 But sense surviv'd, when merry jests were past;
461 For rising merit will buoy up at last.
462 Might he return, and bless once more our eyes,
463 New Blackmores and new Milbourns must arise;
464 Nay should great Homer lift his awful head,
465 Zoilus again would start up from the dead.
466 Envy will merit, as its shade, pursue,
467 But like a shadow, proves the substance true;
468 For envied wit, like Sol eclips'd, makes known
469 Th' opposing body's grossness, not its own.
470 When first that sun too powerful beams displays,
471 It draws up vapours which obscure its rays;
472 But ev'n those clouds at last adorn its way,
473 Reflect new glories, and augment the day.
474 Be thou the first true merit to befriend;
475 His praise is lost, who stays till all commend.
476 Short is the date, alas, of modern rhymes,
477 And 'tis but just to let 'em live betimes.
478 No longer now that golden age appears,
479 When patriarch wits surviv'd a thousand years:
480 Now length of Fame (our second life) is lost,
481 And bare threescore is all ev'n that can boast;
482 Our sons their fathers' failing language see,
483 And such as Chaucer is, shall Dryden be.
484 So when the faithful pencil has design'd
485 Some bright idea of the master's mind,
486 Where a new world leaps out at his command,
487 And ready Nature waits upon his hand;
488 When the ripe colours soften and unite,
489 And sweetly melt into just shade and light;
490 When mellowing years their full perfection give,
491 And each bold figure just begins to live,
492 The treacherous colours the fair art betray,
493 And all the bright creation fades away!
494 Unhappy wit, like most mistaken things,
495 Atones not for that envy which it brings.
496 In youth alone its empty praise we boast,
497 But soon the short-liv'd vanity is lost:
498 Like some fair flow'r the early spring supplies,
499 That gaily blooms, but ev'n in blooming dies.
500 What is this wit, which must our cares employ?
501 The owner's wife, that other men enjoy;
502 Then most our trouble still when most admir'd,
503 And still the more we give, the more requir'd;
504 Whose fame with pains we guard, but lose with ease,
505 Sure some to vex, but never all to please;
506 'Tis what the vicious fear, the virtuous shun;
507 By fools 'tis hated, and by knaves undone!
508 If wit so much from ign'rance undergo,
509 Ah let not learning too commence its foe!
510 Of old, those met rewards who could excel,
511 And such were prais'd who but endeavour'd well:
512 Though triumphs were to gen'rals only due,
513 Crowns were reserv'd to grace the soldiers too.
514 Now, they who reach Parnassus' lofty crown,
515 Employ their pains to spurn some others down;
516 And while self-love each jealous writer rules,
517 Contending wits become the sport of fools:
518 But still the worst with most regret commend,
519 For each ill author is as bad a friend.
520 To what base ends, and by what abject ways,
521 Are mortals urg'd through sacred lust of praise!
522 Ah ne'er so dire a thirst of glory boast,
523 Nor in the critic let the man be lost!
524 Good nature and good sense must ever join;
525 To err is human; to forgive, divine.
526 But if in noble minds some dregs remain,
527 Not yet purg'd off, of spleen and sour disdain,
528 Discharge that rage on more provoking crimes,
529 Nor fear a dearth in these flagitious times.
530 No pardon vile obscenity should find,
531 Though wit and art conspire to move your mind;
532 But dulness with obscenity must prove
533 As shameful sure as impotence in love.
534 In the fat age of pleasure, wealth, and ease,
535 Sprung the rank weed, and thriv'd with large increase:
536 When love was all an easy monarch's care;
537 Seldom at council, never in a war:
538 Jilts ruled the state, and statesmen farces writ;
539 Nay wits had pensions, and young Lords had wit:
540 The fair sat panting at a courtier's play,
541 And not a mask went unimprov'd away:
542 The modest fan was lifted up no more,
543 And virgins smil'd at what they blush'd before.
544 The following licence of a foreign reign
545 Did all the dregs of bold Socinus drain;
546 Then unbelieving priests reform'd the nation,
547 And taught more pleasant methods of salvation;
548 Where Heav'n's free subjects might their rights dispute,
549 Lest God himself should seem too absolute:
550 Pulpits their sacred satire learned to spare,
551 And Vice admired to find a flatt'rer there!
552 Encourag'd thus, wit's Titans brav'd the skies,
553 And the press groan'd with licenc'd blasphemies.
554 These monsters, critics! with your darts engage,
555 Here point your thunder, and exhaust your rage!
556 Yet shun their fault, who, scandalously nice,
557 Will needs mistake an author into vice;
558 All seems infected that th' infected spy,
559 As all looks yellow to the jaundic'd eye.