Letters to man uncommon light difpenfe,

And what is Virtue but fuperior Senfe?

In Parts and Learning You who place your Pride,

Your Faults are Crimes, your Crimes are double-dy'd, What is a Scandal of the first renown,

But letter'd Knaves, and Atheists in a Gown?

"Tis harder far to please than give offence;

The least misconduct damns the brightest Sense;
Each fhallow
pate that cannot read your Name,

Can read your Life, and will be proud to blame.
Flagitious Manners make impreffions deep

On those, that o'er a page of Milton sleep:

Nor in their Dulness think to fave

your Shame, True, these are Fools, but Wifemen say the fame.

Wits are a despicable race of Men

If they confine their talents to the Pen;

When

When the man fhocks us, while the writer fhines, Our scorn in life, our envy in his lines.

Yet proud of parts, with Prudence fome difpenfe, And play the Fool because they're men of Senfe. What inftances bleed recent in each thought, Of men to Ruin by their Genius brought? Against their wills what numbers ruin shun, Purely thro' Want of Wit to be undone? Nature has shewn by making it fo rare, That Wit's a Jewel which we need not wear; Of plain found Senfe life's current Coin is made, With that we drive the most substantial Trade: Outlaw'd of choice, all Fortune's paths you quit; Our Courts know no fuch Creature as a Wit. Substance you flight, and fhadows you adore; Wits you may be, but Fools cou'd do no more,

Prudence

Prudence protects and guides us, Wit betrays,

A fplendid source of ill ten thousand ways;

À certain fnare to miferies immense;

A gay Prerogative from common fense;

Unless strong Judgment that wild thing can tame, And break, to paths of Virtue and of Fame.

But

grant your Judgment equal to the Best, Senfe fills your head and Genius fires

your breast; Yet ftill forbear: Your wit (confider well) "Tis great to fhew, but greater to conceal; As it is great to feize the golden prize Of Place or Power; but greater to despise.

If ftill you languish for an Author's name, Think private merit less than publick fame, And fancy, not to write is not to live;

Deserve, and take, the great Prerogative.

But ponder what it is; how dear 'twill coft,

To write one page which you may justly boast.

Senfe may be Good, yet not deferve the Prefs;
Who write, an awful Character profess;
The World as Pupil of their Wisdom claim,
And for their Stipend, an Immortal Fame:
Nothing but what is folid or refin'd,

Shou'd dare ask publick Audience of Mankind.

Severely weigh your Learning and your Wit; Keep down

your Pride by what is nobly writ:

No Writer fam'd in your own way pass o'er;
Much truft Example, but Reflection more:
More had the Antients writ, they more had taught,
Which fhews fome Work is left for modern Thought.

This weigh'd; Perfection know, and known adore; Toil, burn for That, but do not aim at more;

1

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 fwiftness ne'er applaud your pen.
Leave to the Jockeys that New-market praise,
Slow runs the Pegafus 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 fenfe that makes a man excel,
Still makes him doubt he ne'er has written well.

Downright Impoffibilities they feek,

What man can be Immortal in a Week?

Excufe no fault, tho' beautiful, 'twill harm;

One Fault shocks more than twenty Beauties charm.

Our