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Save me alike from foolish pride
Or impious difcontent;

At aught thy wisdom has deny'd,
Or aught thy goodness lent.

Teach me to feel another's woe,
To hide the fault I fee;
That mercy I to others show,
That mercy fhew to me.

Mean tho' I am, not wholly fo,
Since quicken'd by thy breath;
O lead me, wherefoe'er I go,
Thro' this day's life or death!

This day be bread and peace my lot;
All elfe beneath the fun

Thou know'ft if beft beftow'd or not,
And let thy will be done.

To Thee, whose temple is all space,
Whofe altar earth, fea, fkies!
One chorus let all Being raife!
All Nature's incenfe rife!

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PART I.

"TIS hard to fay if greater want of skill
Appear in writing or in judging ill;
But of the two lefs dang'rous is th' offence
To tire our patience than mislead our sense:
Some few in that, but numbers err in this,
Ten cenfure wrong for one who writes amifs;
A fool might once himself alone expose;
Now one in verfe makes many more in profe.
'Tis with our judgments as our watches, none
Go juft alike, yet each believes his own.
In poets as true genius is but rare,
True tafte as feldom is the critic's fhare;
Both must alike from Heav'n derive their light,
These born to judge as well as thofe to write.
Let fuch teach others who themselves excel,
And cenfure freely who have written well.
Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true,
But are not critics to their judgment too?
Yet if we look more clofely we shall find
Moft have the feeds of judgment in their mind:
Nature affords at least a glimm'ring light;
The lines tho' touch'd but faintly are drawn right:
But as the slightest sketch, if justly trac’d,
Is by ill-colouring but the more difgrac'd,
So by falfe learning is good fenfe defac❜d :
Some are bewilder'd in the maze of schools,
And fome made coxcombs Nature meant but fools:
In fearch of wit thefe lofe their common fenfe,
And then turn critics in their own defence:
Each burns alike who can or cannot write,
Or with a rival's or an eunuch's spite.
All fools have ftill an itching to deride,
And fain would be upon the laughing fide.
If Mævius fcribble in Apollo's fpite,

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There are who judge ftill worfe than he can write.
Some have at first for wits, then poets, paft,
Turn'd critics next, and prov'd plain fools at last.
VOL. I.

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Some neither can for wits nor critics pafs,

As heavy mules are neither horse nor afs.

Thofe half-learn'd witlings, num'rous in our ifle, 49
As half-form'd infects on the banks of Nile;
Unfinish'd things, one knows not what to call,
Their generation's fo equivocal;

To tell them would an hundred tongues require,
Or one vain wit's, that might an hundred tire.
But you who feek to give and merit fame,
And justly bear a Critic's noble name,
Be fure yourself and your own reach to know,
How far your genius, tafte, and learning, go;
Launch not beyond your depth, but be difcreet,
And mark that point where fenfe and dulnefs meet.
Nature to all things fix'd the limits fit,
And wifely curb'd proud man's pretending wit.
As on the land while here the ocean gains,
In other parts it leaves wide fandy plains;
Thus in the foul while memory prevails,
The folid pow'r of understanding fails;
Where beains of warm imagination play,
The memory's foft figures melt away.
One fcience only will one genius fit ;
So vaft is art, fo narrow human wit:
Not only bounded to peculiar arts,
But oft' in thefe confin'd to single parts.
Like kings we lofe the conquefts gain'd before,
By vain ambition ftill to make them more:
Each might his fev'ral province well command,
Would all but ftoop to what they understand.

First follow Nature, and your judgment frame
By her juft ftandard, which is ftill the fame :
Unerring Nature! till divinely bright,
One clear, unchang'd, and univerfal light,
Life, force, and beauty, muft to all impart,
At once the fource, and end, and teft, of art.
Art from that fund each just supply provides,
Works without show, and without pomp prefides:
In fome fair body thus th' informing foul

With fpirits feeds, with vigour fills, the whole;

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