Treat them, ye judges! with an honest scorn,
And weed the cockle from the generous corn:
There's true good-nature in your disrespect;
In justice to the good, the bad neglect:
For immortality, if hardships plead,
It is not theirs who write, but ours who read.
But, what wifdom can convince a fool,
But that 'tis dulnefs to conceive him dull?
Tis fad experience takes the cenfor's part,
Conviction, not from reason, but from fmart. -
A virgin-author, recent from the prefs,
The fheets yet wet, applauds his great fuccefs;
Surveys them, reads them, takes their charms
to bed,

Thofe in his hand, and glory in his head :
'Tis joy too great; a fever of delight!
His heart beats thick, nor clofe his eyes all night:
But, rifing the next morn to clafp his fame,
He finds that without fleeping he could dreams:
So fparks, they fay, take goddeffes to bed,
And find rext day the devil in their stead.

In vain advertisements the town o'erfpread; They 're epitaphs, and say the work is dead. Who prefs for fame, but fmall recruits will raife; 'Tis volunteers alone can give the bays.

A famous author vifits a great man, Of his immortal work difplays the plan, And fays, "Sir, I'm your friend; all feats difmis;

"Your glory, and my own, fhall live by this; *Your power is fixt, your fame through time convey'd.

"And Britain Europe's Queen-if I am paid."
A Statesman has his anfwer in a trice;
Sir, fuch a genius is beyond all price;
"What man can pay for this Away he turns:
His work is folded, and his bofom burns:
His patron he will patronize no more;
But ruthes like a tempeft out of door.
Loft is the patriot, and extinct. his name!"
Out comes the piece, another, and the fame;
For A, his magic pen evokes an O,
And turns the tide of Europe on the foe:
He rams his quill with fcandal and with fcoff;
But 'tis fo very foul, it won't go off:
Dreadful his thunders, while unprinted, roar;
But, when once publish'd, they are heard no

more.

Thus diftant bugbears fright, but, nearer draw, The block's a block, and turns to mirth your

awe.

Can thofe oblige, whofe heads and hearts are fuch?

No; every party 's tainted by their touch.
Infected perfons ffy each public place;
And none, or enemies alone, embrace :
To the foul fiend their every paffion's fold:
They love, and hate, extempore, for gold":
What image of their fury can we form?
Dulness and rage, a puddle in a storm.
Reft they in peace? If you are pleas'd to buy,
To fwell your fails, like Lapland winds they fly:
Write they with rage? The tempeft quickly
flags;

Aftate-Ulyffes tames them with his bags;

Let him be what he will, Turk, Pagah, Jew 1 For Chriftian ministers of state are few.

Behind the curtain lurks the fountain head, That pours his politics through pipes of lead; Whilft far and near ejaculate, and spout O'er tea and coffee, poifon to the rout: But when they have befpatter'd all they may, The statesman throws his filthy iquirts away! With golden forceps, thefe, another takes, And ftate elixirs of the vipers makes.

The richest statesman wants wherewith to pay A fervile fycophant, if well they weigh How much it costs the wretch to be fo base; Nor can the greateft powers enough disgrace, Enough cheftife, fuch prostitute applause, If well they weigh how much it stains their caufe.

But are our writers ever in the wrong?
Does virtue ne'er feduce the venal tongue?
Yes; if well brib'd, for virtue's felf they fight;
Still in the wrong, though champions for the
right:

Whoe'er their crimes for interest only quit,
Sia on in virtue, and good deeds commit.

Nought but inconflancy Britannia meets, And broken faith in their abandon'd sheets; From the fame hand how various is the page! What civil war their brother pamphlets wage! Tracts battle tracts, felf-contradictions glare; Say, is this lunacy?—I wish it were.

If fuch our writers, ftartled at the fight,
Felons may bless their flars they cannot write!
How justly Proteus' tranfmigrations fit
The monstrous changes of a modern wit!
Now fuch a gentle fream of eloquence
As feldom rifes to the verge of sense;
Now, by mad rage, transform'd into a flame,
Which yet fit engines, well apply'd, can tame;
Now, on immodest trash, the fine obfcene
Invites the town to fup at Drury-lane;
A dreadful lion, now he roars at power,
Which fends him to his brothers at the Tower;
He's now a ferpent, and his double tongue
Salutes, nay licks, the feet of those he stung;
What knot can bind him, his evasion such?
One knot he well deferves, which might do much.

The flood, flame, fwine, the lion, and the fnake, Thofe fivefold monsters, modern authors make : The Snake reigns moft, Snakes, Pliny fays, ate bred,

When the brain's perifh'd in a human head. Ye grovelling, trodden, whipt, stript, turncoat things,

Made up of venom, volumes, ftains, and ftings! Thrown from the Tree of Knowledge, like you, curft

To fcribble in the duft, was Snake the first.
What if the figure should in fact prove true}
It did in Elkenah *, why not in you?
Poor Elkenah, all other changes past,
For bread in Smithfield dragons hilt at last,
Spit ftreams of fire to make the butchers gape,
And found his manners suited to his shape:

Such is the fate of talents mifapply'd;
So liv'd your Prototype; and fo he dy’d.

Th' abandon'd manners of our writing train
May tempt mankind to think religion vain;
"But in their fate, their habit, and their mien,
That gods there are is eminently feen:
Heav'n stands abfolv'd by vengeance on their pen,
And marks the murderers of fame from men :
Through meagre jaws they draw their venal
breath,

As ghaftly as their brothers in Macbeth :
Their feet through faithlefs leather meet the dirt,
And oftener chang'd their principles than fhirt.
The transient vestments of these frugal men,
Haftens to paper for our mirth again':
Too foon (O merry-melancholy fate!)
They beg in rhyme, and warble through a grate :
The man lampoon'd forgets it at the Light;
The friend through pity gives, the foe through
spite;

And, though full confcious of his injar'd purse,
Lintot relents, nor Curll can with them worse.
So fare the men, who writers dare commence
Without their patent, probity and sense.

From thefe, their politics our Quidnuncs feek,
And Saturday's the learning of the week:
Thefe labouring wits, like paviours, mend our ways,
With heavy, huge, repeated, flat effays;
Ram their coarfe nonfenfe down, though ne'er
fo dull;

And hem at every thump upon your feull:
Thefe ftaunch-bred writing hounds begin the cry,
And honeft folly echoes to the lye.

O how I laugh, when I a blockhead fee,
Thanking a villain for his prohity!
Who ftretches out a most refpectful ear,
With fnares for woodcocks in his holy leer:
It tickles through my foul to hear the cock's
Sincere encomium on his friend the fax,
Sole patron of his liberties and rights!
While gracelets Reynard liftens-till he bites.
As, when the trumpet founds, th' o'erloaded
Rate

Difcharges all her poor and profligate;
Crimes of all kinds difhonour'd weapons wield,
And prifons pour their filth into the field;
Thus nature's refufe, and the dregs of men,
Compofe the black militia of the

EPISTLE

FROM OXFORD,

pen

II.

LL write at London; fhall the rage abate

Mufes' feat?

Where, mortal, or immortal, as they please,
'The learn'd may chufe eternity or cafe?
Has not at Royal Patron wifely ftrove
To woo the Muse in her Athenian grove?
Added new strings to her harmonious thell,

Let these instruct, with truth's illustrious ray, Awake the world, and feare our owls away.

Mean while, O friend! indulge me, if I give Some needful precepts how to write, aud live & Serious should be an author's final views ; Who write for pure amusement, ne'er amufe.

An Author! "Tis a venerable name! How few deferve it, and what numbers claim!, Unbleft with fenfe above their peers refin'd, Who shall ftand up, dictators to mankind? Nay, who dare shine, if not in virtue's cause, That fole proprietor of juft applause?

Ye reftless men, who pant for letter'd praise, With whom would you confult to gain the bays? With thofe great authors whofe fam'd works you read?

'Tis well go, then, confult the laurel'd shade,
What anfwer will the laurel'd fhade return?
Hear it, and tremble! he commands you burn
The nobleft works his envy'd genius writ,
That boast of nought more excellent than wit.
If this be true, as 'tis a truth most dread,
Woe to the page which has not that to plead!
Fontaine and Chaucer, dying, wish'd unwrote
The fprightlieft efforts of their wanton thought:
Sidney and Waller, brighteft fons of fame,
Condemn the charm of ages to the flame :
And in one point is all true wisdom caft,
To think that early we must think at laft.

Immo tal wits, ev'n dead, break nature's laws,
Injurious still to virtue's facred caufe;
And their guilt growing, as their bodies rot,
(Revers'd ambition!) pant to be forgot.

Thus ends your courted fame: does lucre then, The facred thirst of gold, betray your pen? In profe 'tis blameable, in verfe 'tis worse, Provokes the Mufe, extorts Apollo's curfe; His facred influence never fhould be fold,, "Tis arrant mony to fing for gold: 'Tis immortality fhould fire your mind; Scorn a lefs paymaster than all mankind,

If bribes ye feek, know this, ye writing tribe! Who writes for virtue has the largest bribe : All's on the party of the virtuous man; The good will furely ferve him, if they can; The bad, when intereft or ambition guide, And 'tis at once their intereft and theit pride: But should both fail to take him to their care, He boasts a greater friend, and both may fpare. Letters to man uncommon light difpenfe; And what is virtue, but fuperior sense? In parts and learning ye who place your pride, Your faults are crimes, your crimes are double

dy'd.

What is a fcandal of the first renown,
But letter'd knaves, and atheifis in a gown?

'Tis harder far to please than give offence;
The least misconduct damns the brighteft fenfe;
Each fhallow pate, that cannot read your name,
Can read your life, and will be proud to blame.
Flagitious manners make impreffious deep
On thofe that o'er a page of Milton fleep :
Nor in their dulnefs think to fave your fhame,

well?

fame,

Wits are a defpicable race of men, If they confine their talents to the pen; When the man fhocks us, while the writer fhines, Our fcorn in life, our envy in his lines. Yet, proud of parts, with prudence fome dispense, And play the fool, because they're men of enfe. What inftantes bleed recent in each thought, Of men to ruin by their genius, brought! Against their wills what numbers ruin fhun, Purely through want of wit to be undone? Nature has fhewn, by making it fo rare, That wit's a jewel which we need not wear. Of plain found fenfe life's current coin is made; With that we drive the most fubstantial trade. Prudence protects and guides us, wit betrays; A fplendid fource of ill ten thousand ways; A certain fnire to miferies immenfe; A gay prerogative from common fenfe; 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 thew, but greater to conceal; As it is great to feize the golden prize Of place or power; but greater to defpife.

If fill you languish for an author's name, Think private merit lefs than public fame, And fancy not to write is not to live; Deferve, and take, the great prerogative. But ponder what it is; how dear 'twill coft, To write one page which you may juftly boaft. Senfe may be good, yet not deferve the prefs; Who write, an awful character profefs; The world as pupil of their wildom claim, And for their ftipend an immortal fame : Nothing but what is folid or refin'd, Should dare afk public 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, pafs o'er; Much truft example, but réflexion more: More had the antients writ; they more had taught ;

Which fhews fome work is left for modern throught."

This weigh'd perfection know; and, know
Toil, burn for that; but do not aim at more;
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 fiftarfs ne'er applaud your pen.
Leave to the jockeys that Newmarket praife,
Slow runs the Pegafus that wins the bays.
Much time for immortality to pay,

Is juft and wife; for les 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 impoffibilitics they feek;
What man can be immortal in a week?
Excufe no fault; though beautiful,
harm;

will

One fault shocks more than twenty beauties charm.

Our age demands correctness; Addifon
And this commendable hurt have done.
you
Now writers find, as once Achilles found,
The whole is mortal, if a part's unfound.

He that ftrikes out, and frikes not out the best,
Pours luftre in, and dignifies the reft.
Give e er fo little, it what's right be there,
We praife for what you burn, and what you spare;
The part yon burn, Ime'ls fweet before the shrine,
And is as incenfe to the part divine.

Nor frequent write, though you can do it well: Men may too oft, though not too mub, excel. A few good works gain fame, more fink their price;

Mankind are fickle, and hate paying twice:
They granted you writ well, what can they more,
Unless you let them praife for giving o'er?

Do boldly what you do; and let your page
| Smile, if it fmiles, and if it rages, rage.
So faintly Lucius cenfures and commends,
That Lucius has no foes, except his friends.

Let fatire lefs engage you than applause:
It fhews a generous mind to wink at flaws:
Is genius yours? Be yours a glorious end,
Be your king's, country's, truth's, religion's friend;
The public glory by your own beget;

Run nations, run pofterity, in debt.

nd fince the fan'd alone make others live, Firft have that glory you prefume to give

If fatire charms, ftrike faults, but fpare the

man;

"Tis dull to be as witty as you can.
Satire recoils whenever charg'd too high;
Round your own fame the fatal fplinters fly.
As the foft plume gives fwiftnefs to the dart,
Good-breeding fends the fatire to the heart.

Painters and furgeons may the structure scan; Genius and morals be with you the man: Defaults in thofe alone should give offence! Who frikes the perfon, pleads his innocence. My narrow-minded fatire can't extend

To Codras' form; I'm not fo much his friend:
Himfelf should publifh that (the world agree)
Before his works, or in the pillory.
Let him be black, fair, tail, fhort, thin, or fat,
Dirty or clean, I find no theme in that.
Is that call'd humour? It has this pretence,
'Tis neither virtue, breeding, wit or fenfe.
Unless you boat the genius of a Swift,
Beware of humour, the dull rogue's laft fpift.

Can others write like you? Your talk give o'er,
Tis printing what was publish'd long before.
If nought peculiar through your labours run,
They're duplicates, and twenty are but one.
Think frequently, think clofe, read nature, turn
Mens manners o'er, and half your volumes burn;
To nurfe with quick reflection be your ftrife,
Thoughts born from prefent objects, warm from
life;

When most unfought, fuch infpirations rife,
Slighted by fools, and cherith'd by the wife:
Expect peculiar fame from these alone;
Thefe make an author, thefe are all your own.
Life, like their bibles, coolly men turn o'er;
Hence unexperienc'd children of threefcore.

True

All feel a want, though none the cause fufpects, But hate their patron, for their own defects; Such none can please, but who reforms their hearts,

And, when he gives them places, gives them parts.

As thefe o'erprize their worth, fo fure the great May fell their favour at too dear a rate; When merit pines, while claniour is preferr'd, And long attachment waits among the herd; When no distinction, where diftinction 's due, Marks from the many the fuperior few; When strong cabal constrains them to be just, And makes them give at last—because they muft; What hopes that men of real worth fhould prize, What neither friendship gives, nor metit buys? The man who justly o'er the whole presides, His well-weigh'd choice with wife affection guides;

Knows when to stop with grace, and when ad

vance,

Nor gives through importunity or chance, But thinks how little gratitude is ow'd,

When favours are extorted, not bestow'd.

When, fafe on fhore ourselves, we fee the
crowd

Surround the great, importunate, and loud ;
Through fuch a tumult, 'tis no easy task
To drive the man of real worth to afk;
Surrounded thus, and giddy with the show,
Tis hard for great men, rightly to bestow;
From hence fo few are skill'd, in either cafe,
To afk with dignity, or give with grace.
Sometimes the great, feduc'd by love of parts,
Confult our genius, and neglect our hearts;
Pleas'd with the glittering fparks that genius
Aings,

They lift us, towering on their eagle's wings,
Mark out the fights by which themselves begun,
And teach our dazzled eyes to bear the fun;
"Till we forget the hand that made us great,
And grow to envy, not to emulate :
To emulate, a generous warmth implies,
To teach the virtues, that make great men r
But envy wears a mean malignant face,
And aims not at their virtues-but their place.
Such to oblige, how vain is the pretence !
When every favour is a fresh offence,
By which fuperior power is ftill imply'd,
And, while it helps their fortune, hurts their
pride.

Slight is the hate, neglect or hardships breed ;
But thofe who hate from envy, hate indeed.
"Since fo perplex'd the choice, whom fhall
we truft ?

Methinks I hear thee cry-The brave and juft; The man by no mean fears or hopes control'd, Who serves thee from affection, not for gold.

We love the honest, and esteem the brave,
Defpife the coxcomb, but deteft the knave;
No fhew of parts the truly wife feduce,
To think that knaves can be of real use.

The man who contradicts the public voice,
And frives to dignify a worthless choice,
Attempts a task that on that choice reflects,
And lends us light to point out new defects.
One worthless man, that gains what he pretends,
Disgusts a thousand unpretending friends :
And fince no art can make a counterpafs,
Or add the weight of gold to mimic brass,
When princes to bad ore their image join,
They more debase the flamp, than raile the coin

Be thine the care, true merit to reward,
And gain the good-nor will that task be hard;
Souls form'd alike fo quick by nature blend,
An honeft man is more than half thy friend.
Him, no mean views, or hafte to rife, fhall
fway,

Thy choice to fully, or thy trust betray:
Ambition, here, fhall at due diftance ftand;
Nor is wit dangerous in an honeft hand :
Befides, if failings at the bottom lie,
We view thofe failings with a lover's eye;
Though small his genius, let him do his best,
Our wishes and belief supply the rest.

Let others barter fervile faith for gold,
His friendship is not to be bought or fold:
Fierce oppofition he, unmov'd, shall face,
Modest in favour, daring in difgrace,
To share thy adverse fate alone, pretend;
In power, a fervant; out of power, a friend.
Here pour thy favours in an ample flood,
Indulge thy boundless thirst of doing good:
Nor think that good to him alone confin'd;
Such to oblige, is to oblige mankind.

If thus thy mighty master's steps thou trace, The brave to cherish, and the good to grace; Long halt thou stand from rage and faction free, And teach us long to love the king, through thee: Or fall a victim dangerous to the foe,

And make him tremble when he ftrikes the blow;

While honour, gratitude, affection join
To deck thy close, and brighten thy decline;
(Illuftrious doom!) the great, when thus dif
plac'd,

With friendship guarded, and with virtue grac❜d,
In aweful ruin, like Rome's fenate, fall,
The prey and worship of the wondering Gaul.
No doubt, to genius fome reward is due,
(Excluding that, were fatirizing you ;)
But, yet, believe thy undefigning friend,
When truth and genius for thy choice contend,
Though both have weight when in the balance
caft,

Let probity be firft, and parts the last.

On these foundations if thou dar'si be great,
And check the growth of folly and deceit;
When party rage fhall droop through length of
days,

And calumny be ripen'd into praife,
Then future times fhall to thy worth allow
That fame, which envy would call flattery now.