O'erdo not Naiveté; 'tis apt to lull;

You know, 'tis very Natural to be dull.

Write not like Gentlemen, with ease exceeding;
Such eafy writing is not eafy reading.

To fay things rare and excellent with ease,
Not trite and tafless, is the way to please.
In fluent ftile to pour uncommon Senfe,
Is the short Whole of Sacred Eloquence.
Think with the few, the many are your own;
Think with the many, and be heard by none.

Nor be to prefent time your View confin'd,
Nor for one Nation write, but for mankind;
On late Pofterity your thought let fall,
And with a Just Ambition grafp the Ball;

Thro' Scenes of future Being let it stray,

For Truth fhall fhine, when Planets fhall decay.

Letters

Letters admit not of a half-renown,

They give you nothing, or they give a Crown.
No work e'er gain'd true fame, or ever can,
But what did honour to the name of Man,

Weighty the Subject, cogent the Discourse, Clear be the Stile, the very Sound of force, Eafy the Conduct, fimple the Defign,

Striking the Moral, and the Soul Divine :

Let Nature, Art; and Judgment, Wit, exceed;

O'er Learning Reason reign; o'er That, your Creed:
Thus Virtue's Seeds at once, and Laurels, grow;
Do thus, and rife a Pope, or a Defpreau.

And when your Genius exquifitely fhines,
Live up to the full luftre of your Lines:

Parts but expose those men who Virtue quit,
A fallen Angel is a fallen Wit;

And they plead Lucifer's detefted Cause,
Who for bare Talents challenge our applause,

Would you restore just Honours to the Pen?
From able Writers rife to worthy Men.

[strain ?

"Who's This with Nonfenfe, Nonfenfe would re"Who's This, (they cry) fo vainly schools the vain? « Who damns our Trash, with so much Trash replete? "As three Ells round, huge Ch-ne rails at Meat ?

Shall I, with Bavius then, my voice exalt,
And challenge all mankind to find one Fault?
With huge Examens overwhelm my page,
And darken reafon with dogmatic rage?
As if, one tedious volume writ in rhyme,
In profe a duller cou'd excufe the crime?
Sure, next to writing, the most idle thing
Is gravely to harangue on what we fing.

At

At That Tribunal stands the writing Tribe, Which nothing can Intimidate, or Bribe; Time is the Judge; Time has nor Friend, nor Foe; Falle Fame must wither, and the true will grow. Arm'd with this Truth, all Criticks I defy; For if I fall, by my own pen I die;

While Snarlers strive, with proud but fruitless pain, To wound Immortals, or to flay the flain.

Sore preft with danger, and in awful dread
Of twenty Pamphlets level'd at my head,
Thus have I forg'd a Buckler in my brain
Of recent form, to ferve me this Campaign;
And safely hope to quit the dreadful field
Delug'd with ink, and fleep behind my Shield;
Unless dire Codrus roufes to the fray

In all his might, and damns me--for a day.

As

As turns a Flock of Geefe, and on the Green,

Poke out their foolish necks in awkward spleen, (Ridiculous in rage!) to bifs, not bite;

So warr the Quills, when Sons of Dulness write.

ERRAT A.

AGE 7. Verfe 1 and 2, for belongs and Songs, read belong and Song.

I

Page 11. Verfe7, for Yet who fo fad, read For who fo fad ?

Page 17. Verse 10, for their greatest Powers, read the greatest Powers.