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Tho' wine and women are his only care,
Of both he takes a lamentable share.
The flesh he lives on is too rank and strong;
His meat and mistresses are kept too long.
But, fure, we all mistake the pious man,
Who mortifies his person all he can ;
And what the world counts lewdnefs, vice, and fin,
Are penances of this odd capuchin :
For never hermit, under grave pretence,
Has liv'd more contrary to common sense.
Expecting fupper is his chief delight;
Like any labourer, our little knight

Toils all the day, but to be drunk at night;
When o'er his cups this night-bird chirping fits,
Till he takes HUETT and JACK HALL for wits.
Last enter RR, of sprightly wit,

Yet not for converse safe, or business fit.
Mean in each action, lewd in ev'ry limb,
Manners themselves are mischievous in him.
A glofs he gives to ev'ry foul design,
And we must own his very vices fhine.
But of this odd ill-nature to mankind
Himself alone the ill effects will find.
So envious hags in vain their witchcraft try,
Yet for intended mischief justly die.

For what a BESSUs has he always liv'd,

And his own kickings notably contriv'd?
For (there's the folly that's still mix'd with fear)
Cowards more blows than any heroes bear.
Of fighting sparks fame may her pleasure say;
But 'tis a bolder thing to run away.

The world may well forgive him all his ill,
For ev'ry fault does prove his penance still.
Eafily he falls into fome dang'rous noose,
And then as meanly labours to get loose :
A life fo infamous is better quitting,
Spent in bafe injuring, and low fubmitting.
How weak, and yet how vain a thing is man,
Mean what he will, endeavour what he can!
I, who defign'd to be fo wondrous wife,
Perceive at last, where the great folly lies:
While others weakness is fo gravely shown,
Their fame we ruin, but to raise our own;
That we may angels feem, we paint them elves,
And write but fatires, to fet up ourfelves.
Tho' to myself this task appear'd so nice,
That ev'n the ancients feem'd to want advice;
With strength unequal I have dar'd to climb
That lofty height unreach'd in former time.
No wonder in the bold attempt I fall,
And this, too late, to my remembrance call;
"Learn to write well, or not to write at all."

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ESSAY

ON

POETRY.

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F all thofe arts in which the wife excel,
Nature's chief mafter-piece is writing well:
No writing lifts exalted man so high,
As facred and foul-moving poefy:
No kind of work requires so nice a touch,
And, if well finish'd, nothing shines so much.
But heav'n forbid we fhou'd be fo profane,
To grace the vulgar with that noble name.
'Tis not a flash of fancy, which sometimes,
Dazling our minds, fets off the slightest rhimes;
Bright as a blaze, but in a moment done:
True wit is everlasting, like the fun,

Which, tho' fometimes behind a cloud retir'd,
Breaks out again, and is by all admir'd.

Number and rhime, and that harmonious found,

Which not the nicest ear with harshness wound,

Are neceffary, yet but vulgar arts;
And all in vain these fuperficial parts
Contribute to the ftructure of the whole,
Without a Genius too; for that's the Soul:
A fpirit which infpires the work throughout,
As that of nature moves the world about;
A flame that glows amidst conceptions fit;
Ev'n fomething of divine, and more than wit;
Itself unfeen, yet all things by it shown,
Defcribing all men, but defcrib'd by none.

Where dost thou dwell? What caverns of the brain
Can fuch a vast and mighty thing contain?

When I, at vacant hours, in vain thy absence mourn,
Oh! where dost thou retire? and why dost thou return,
Sometimes with pow'rful charms to hurry me away,
'From pleasures of the night, and bus'ness of the day?
Ev'n now, too far transported, I am fain

To check thy course, and use the needful rein.
As all is dulnefs, when the fancy's bad;
So, without judgment, fancy is but mad:
And judgment has a boundless influence
Not only in the choice of words, or fenfe,
But on the world, on manners, and on men ;
Fancy is but the feather of the pen;

Reason is that substantial useful part,

Which gains the head, while t'other wins the heart.
Here I fhould all the various forts of verfe,
And the whole art of poetry rehearse;
But who that task would after HORACE do?
The best of masters, and examples too!
Echoes at beft, all we can say is vain;
Dull the defign, and fruitless were the pain.

'Tis true, the ancients we may rob with ease;
But who with that mean shift himself can please,
Without an actor's pride? A player's art
Is above his, who writes a borrow'd part.
Yet modern laws are made for later faults,
And new abfurdities inspire new thoughts;
What need has fatire then to live on theft,
When fo much fresh occasion still is left?
Fertile our foil, and full of rankeft weeds,
And monsters worse than ever Nilus breeds.
But hold, the fools shall have no cause to fear;
'Tis wit and sense that is the subject here:
Defects of witty men deserve a cure,

And those who are fo, will ev'n this endure.
First then, of SONGS, which now so much abound,
Without his fong no fop is to be found;
A most offenfive weapon, which he draws
On all he meets, against APOLLO's laws.
Tho' nothing feems more easy, yet no part
Of poetry requires a nicer art;

For as in rows of richest pearl there lies
Many a blemish that escapes our eyes,
The least of which defects is plainly shown
In one fmall ring, and brings the value down :
So fongs should be to just perfection wrought;
Yet where can one be feen without a fault?
Exact propriety of words and thought;
Expression eafy, and the fancy high;
Yet that not feem to creep, nor this to fly;
No words tranfpos'd, but in fuch order all,
As wrought with care, yet seem by chance to fall.

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