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Reject that vulgar error (which appears

So fair) of making PERFECT CHARACTERS;
There's no fuch thing in nature, and you'll draw
A faultlefs monfter which the world ne'er faw.
Some faults must be, that his misfortunes drew,
But fuch as may deferve compaffion too.
Befides the main defign compos'd with art,
Each moving SCENE must be a plot apart;
Contrive each little turn, mark ev'ry place,
As painters first chalk out the future face:
Yet be not fondly your own flave for this,
But change hereafter what appears amifs.

[place,

Think not fo much where fhining THOUGHTS te

As what a man would fay in fuch a cafe:
Neither in comedy will this fuffice,

The PLAYER too must be before your eyes;
And, tho' 'tis drudgery to ftoop fo low,
To him you must your fecret meaning fhow.
Expofe no fingle fop, but lay the load
More equally, and spread the folly broad;
Mere coxcombs are too obvious; oft we fee
A fool derided by as bad as he :

Hawks fly at nobler game; in this low way,
A very owl may prove a bird of prey.
Small poets thus will one poor fop devour,
But to collect, like bees, from ev'ry flow'r,
Ingredients to compofe that precious juice,
Which ferves the world for pleafure and for use,
In spite of faction this would favour get;
But * FALSTAFF stands inimitable yet.

* An admirable character in a play of SHAKESPEARE,

Another fault which often may befall,
Is, when the wit of fome great poet shall
So overflow, that is, be none at all;

That ev'n his fools fpeak fenfe, as if poffeft,
And each by inspiration breaks his jelt.
If once the justness of each part be loft,
Well we may laugh, but at the poet's coft.
That filly thing men call SHEER-WIT avoid,
With which our age fo naufeously is cloy'd;
HUMOUR is all; wit should be only brought
To turn agreeably fome proper thought.

But fince the poets we of late have known, Shine in no dress so much as in their own, The better by example to convince, Caft but a view on this wrong fide of fenfe. Firft, a SOLILOQUY is calmly made, Where ev'ry reason is exactly weigh'd; Which once perform'd, most opportunely comes Some hero frighted at the noise of drums; For her sweet fake, whom at first fight he loves, And all in METAPHOR his paffion proves : But fome fad accident, tho' yet unknown, Parting this pair, to leave the fwain alone; He ftrait grows jealous, tho' we know not why; Then, to oblige his rival, needs will die: But first he makes a SPEECH, wherein he tells The abfent nymph how much his flame excels; And yet bequeaths her generously now, To that lov'd rival whom he does not know! Who strait appears; but who can fate withstand? Too late, alas! to hold his hafty hand,

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That juft has giv'n himself the cruel ftroke!
At which his very rival's heart is broke:
He, more to his new friend than mistress kind,
Moft fadly mourns at being left behind;
Of fuch a death prefers the pleasing charms
To love, and living in a lady's arms.

What shameful and what monftrous things are these?
And then they rail at those they cannot please;
Conclude us only partial to the dead,

And grudge the fign of old BEN JOHNSON's head;
When the intrinsick value of the stage
Can fcarce be judg'd but by a following age:
For dances, flutes, Italian fongs, and rhime,
May keep up finking nonfenfe for a time;
But that must fail, which now fo much o'er-rules,
And sense no longer will submit to fools.

By painful fteps at last we labour up
Parnaffus' hill, on whofe bright airy top,
The EPICK poets fo divinely fhow,
And with juft pride behold the relt below.
Heroick poems have a juft pretence

To be the utmost stretch of human sense;
A work of fuch inestimable worth,

There are but two the world has yet brought forth!
HOMER and VIRGIL! with what facred awe,
Do thofe mere founds the world's attention draw!
Juft as a changeling feems below the rest
Of men, or rather is a two-legg'd beast;
So thefe gigantick fouls amaz'd we find
As much above the rest of human kind!
Nature's whole ftrength united! endlefs fame,
And universal shouts, attend their name !

Read HOMER once, and you can read no more;
For all books else appear fo mean, so poor,
Verse will seem profe; but ftill perfift to read,
And HOMER will be all the books you need.
Had Bossu never writ, the world had still,
Like Indians, view'd this wondrous piece of skill;
As fomething of divine, the work admir'd;
Not hop'd to be inftructed, but infpir'd:
But he, disclosing sacred mysteries,
Has fhewn where all the mighty magick lies;
Defcrib'd the feeds, and in what order fown,
That have to such a vast proportion grown.
Sure, from fome angel he the secret knew,
Who thro' this labyrinth has lent the clue!

But what, alas! avails it poor mankind,
To fee this promis'd land, yet stay behind?
The way is fhewn, but who has strength to go?
Who can all sciences profoundly know?
Whofe fancy flies beyond weak reafon's fight,
And yet has judgment to direct it right?
Whofe juft difcernment, VIRGIL-like, is fuch,
Never to say too little, or too much?
Let fuch a man begin without delay;
But he must do beyond what I can say;
Muft above TAsso's lofty flights prevail,

Succeed where SPENCER, and ev'n MILTON fail.

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'T

I.

IS faid, that favorite, mankind,

Was made the lord of all below;

But yet the (a) doubtful are (b) concern'd to find, 'Tis (c) only one man tells another fo.

And, for this great dominion here,
Which over other beasts we claim,
(d) REASON our beft credential does appear;
By which, indeed, we domineer;
But how abfurdly, we may fee with shame.

REASON, that folemn trifle! light as air;
Driv'n up and down by (e) cenfure or applaufe:
By partial love away 'tis blown,

Or the least prejudice can weigh it down;
Thus our high privilege becomes our (ƒ) snare.
In any nice and weighty caufe,

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