Yet yield not to a fool's impertinence :
Sometimes conceited fceptics void of fenfe,
By their false taste condemn some finish'd part,
And blame the nobleft flights of wit and art,
In vain their fond opinions you deride,
With their lov'd follies they are fatisfy'd;
And their weak judgment, void of fenfe and light,
Thinks nothing can escape their feeble fight:
Their dangerous counfels do not cure, but wound;
To shun the storm they run your verse aground,
And thinking to escape a rock, are drown'd.
Chufe a fure judge to cenfure what
you write,
Whose reason leads, and knowlege gives you light,
Whose steady hand will prove your faithful guide,
And touch the darling follies you would hide :

He, in your doubts, will carefully advise,

And clear the mift before

your feeble eyes. 'Tis he will tell you, to what noble height

A

generous mufe may fometimes take her flight; When too much fetter'd with the rules of art, May from her ftricter bounds and limits part:

But fuch a perfect judge is hard to fee,
And every rhimer knows not poetry;

Nay fome there are for writing verfe extoll'd,

Who know not Lucan's drofs from Virgil's gold.

Would you in this great art acquire renown? Authors observe the rules I here lay down. In prudent leffons every where abound; With pleasant join the useful and the found: A fober reader a vain tale will flight; He seeks as well instruction as delight. Let all your thoughts to virtue be confin'd, Still offering nobler figures to our mind: I like not those loose writers, who employ Their guilty muse, good manners to destroy; Who with false colors ftill deceive our eyes, And show us vice dress'd in a fair disguise. Yet do I not their fullen mufe approve, Who from all modeft writings banish love; That stript the play-house of its chief intrigue, And make a murderer of Roderigue:

The lighteft love, if decently exprest,

Will raife no vitious motions in our breast.
Dido in vain may weep, and ask relief;

I blame her folly, whilft I fhare her grief.
A virtuous author, in his charming art,

To please the sense needs not corrupt the heart:

His heat will never caufe a guilty fire:

To follow virtue then be your defire,

In vain your art and vigor are expreft;

The obfcene expreffion shows the infected breast.

But above all base jealousies avoid,
In which detracting poets are employ'd.
A noble wit dares liberally commend ;
And scorns to grudge at his deserving friend.
Bafe rivals, who true wit and merit hate,
Caballing still against it with the great,
Maliciously aspire to gain renown,
By standing up, and pulling others down.
Never debase yourself by treacherous ways,
Nor by fuch abject methods seek for praise :
Let not your only business be to be write;
Be virtuous, juft, and in your friends delight.
"Tis not enough your poems be admir'd ;
But strive your conversation be defir'd :
Write for immortal fame; nor ever chufe
Gold for the object of a generous muse.
I know a noble wit may, without crime,
Receive a lawful tribute for his time:
Yet I abhor those writers, who despise
Their honor; and alone their profits prize;
Who their Apollo bafely will degrade,
And of a noble science make a trade.

Before kind reafon did her light difplay,
And government taught mortals to obey,

Men, like wild beafts, did nature's laws pursue,

;

They fed on herbs, and drink from rivers drew
Their brutal force, on luft and rapine bent,
Committed murder without punishment:
Reason at last by her all-conquering arts,
Reduc'd these favages, and tun'd their hearts;
Mankind from bogs, and woods, and caverns calls,
And towns and cities fortifies with walls
Thus fear of juftice made proud rapine cease,
And shelter'd innocence by laws and peace.
These benefits from poets we receiv'd,

From whence are rais'd those fictions fince believ'd,

That Orpheus, by his foft harmonious strains, Tam'd the fierce tigers of the Thracian plains; Amphion's notes, by their melodious powers, Drew rocks and woods, and rais'd the Theban

towers:

These miracles from numbers did arife:

Since which, in verse heaven taught his myfteries,
And by a priest, poffefs'd with rage divine,
Apollo spoke from his prophetic shrine.
Soon after Homer the old heroes prais'd,
And noble minds by great examples rais'd
Then Hefiod did his Grecian fwains incline

To till the fields, and prune the bounteous vine.

Thus ufeful rules were by the poets aid,
In eafy numbers to rude men convey'd,
And pleasingly their precepts did impart ;
First charm'd the ear, and then engag'd the heart:
The muses thus their reputation rais'd,

And with just gratitude in Greece were prais'd.
With pleasure mortals did their wonders see,
And facrific'd to their divinity;

But want, at last, base flattery entertain'd,

And old Parnaffus with this vice was ftain'd:
Defire of gain dazzling the poets eyes,
Their works were fill'd with fulfome flatteries.
Thus needy wits a vile revenue made,
And verfe became a mercenary trade.
Debase not with so mean a vice thy art:
If gold must be the idol of thy heart,
Fly, fly th' unfruitful Heliconian ftrand,

Those streams are not inrich'd with golden fand :
Great wits, as well as warriors, only gain
Laurels and honors for their toil and pain :
But what? an author cannot live on fame,
Or pay a reckoning with a lofty name :
A poet to whom fortune is unkind,

Who when he goes to bed has hardly din'd