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Some praise at morning what they blame at night;
But always think the last opinion right.
A Muse by these is like a mistress used;
This hour she's idolised, the next abused;
While their weak heads, like towns unfortified,
"Twixt sense and nonsense daily change their side.
Ask them the cause; they 're wiser still, they say;
And still to-morrow's wiser than to-day.
We think our fathers fools, so wise we grow ;
Our wiser sons, no doubt, will think us so.
Once school divines this zealous isle o'erspread;
Who knew most sentences was deepest read; 441
Faith, Gospel, all, seem'd made to be disputed,
And none had sense enough to be confuted:
Scotists and Thomists now in peace


Amidst their kindred cobwebs in Duck-lane. 445 If faith itself has different dresses worn,

What wonder modes in wit should take their turn?

Oft, leaving what is natural and fit,


The current folly proves the ready wit;
And authors think their reputation safe,
Which lives as long as fools are pleased to laugh.

444 Scotists. The disciples of Johannes Duns Scotus, the great unintelligible doctor, the Kant of his day. Thomists,' the disciples of Thomas Aquinas, celebrated for his singular subtlety, and his 'Summa Summæ,' containing comments on Aristotle, &c.

445 Kindred cobwebs. Bale narrates, as a miracle of the seventh century, that, at the sixth general council of Constantinople, where the mass was established, and the clergy were forbidden to marry, a vast quantity of cobwebs were seen suddenly to fall on the heads of the people.

445 Duck-lane. A place where old and second-hand books were sold formerly, near Smithfield.-Pope.


Some, valuing those of their own side or mind, Still make themselves the measure of mankind: Fondly we think we honor merit then, When we but praise ourselves in other men. Parties in wit attend on those of state, And public faction doubles private hate. Pride, malice, folly, against Dryden rose, In various shapes of parsons, critics, beaux; But sense survived when merry jests were pass'd; For rising merit will buoy up at last.



Might he return, and bless once more our eyes,
New Blackmores and new Milbourns must arise:
Nay, should great Homer lift his awful head,
Zoilus again would start up from the dead.
Envy will merit, as its shade, pursue;
But, like a shadow, proves the substance true:
For envied wit, like Sol eclipsed, makes known
The opposing body's grossness, not its own.


458 Against Dryden rose. Dryden unhappily exposed himself too much to the censure of the moralist: living in a loose day, he submitted to the general habit, and increased the degeneracy which his powerful mind was given to reclaim. The parson here carelessly alluded to, was Jeremy Collier, a rough critic, but an honest writer: the critic was the duke of Buckingham, who ridiculed with memorable pleasantry the extravagances of Dryden's plays.

463 Milbourns. Luke Milbourn, a clergyman, and a tolerable critic; but, unluckily for his fame, opposed to Pope in his comments on Shakspeare.

465 Zoilus. A lesson to criticism in both his life and death: a general trafficker in abuse, he wrote against all the highest names of Greek literature, Homer, Aristotle, Plato, Demosthenes, &c.: having thus rendered himself obnoxious to his countrymen, he fled to Egypt, where, according to the narrative of Vitruvius, he was seized by Ptolemy Philadelphus, who, in his abhorrence of critical libel, ordered him to be stoned to death.

When first that sun too powerful beams dis


It draws up vapors which obscure its rays;
But ev'n those clouds at last adorn its way,
Reflect new glories, and augment the day.

Be thou the first true merit to befriend;
His praise is lost, who stays till all commend. 475
Short is the date, alas! of modern rhymes,
And 'tis but just to let them live betimes.
No longer now that golden age appears,
When patriarch-wits survived a thousand years:
Now length of fame, our second life, is lost,
And bare threescore is all ev'n that can boast:
Our sons their fathers' failing language see;
And such as Chaucer is, shall Dryden be.


482 Our sons their fathers' failing language see. This is one of the fantastic sorrows of poetry: the language of Dryden is still as fresh as it was on the day when it flowed from his powerful pen. What portion of the dialect of Shakspeare have we lost? unless a change in the spelling is to be held equivalent to a change in the language. Yet in this instance the trial was the more severe; as within the two hundred years since, England has made unexampled advances in dominion, commerce, science, and the arts, the chief sources of change in a national language. Still, the wit, the eloquence, the pathos, and even the exquisite poetic cadence, of Shakspeare are as vividly preserved and as keenly felt, as in the palaces of Elizabeth. The cause is permanent, and such will be the consequence. The great changes of all languages occur in their earlier periods. While no great writer has arisen to establish the national style, or while the nation continue illiterate, the usage of the populace moulds the language; but that usage varying from year to year, the language must fluctuate. Where the great writer has arisen at last, and where the nation read, his authority becomes a ground of reference; the usage of the vulgar loses its authority; the educated ranks continually adhere to the standard of the national taste; and the reign of vulgarity and of change are alike at an end.

So when the faithful pencil has design'd

Some bright idea of the master's mind,
Where a new world leaps out at his command,
And ready nature waits upon his hand;



When the ripe colors soften and unite,
And sweetly melt into just shade and light;
When mellowing years their full perfection give,
And each bold figure just begins to live ;-
The treacherous colors the fair art betray,
And all the bright creation fades away.



Unhappy wit, like most mistaken things, Atones not for that envy which it brings. In youth alone its empty praise we boast, But soon the short-lived vanity is lost; Like some fair flower the early spring supplies, That gaily blooms, but ev'n in blooming dies. What is this wit, which must our cares employ? The owner's wife, that other men enjoy ; Then most our trouble still when most admired, And still the more we give the more required; Whose fame with pains we guard, but lose with ease; Sure some to vex, but never all to please: "Tis what the vicious fear, the virtuous shun; By fools 'tis hated, and by knaves undone. If wit so much from ignorance undergo, Ah, let not learning too commence its foe!

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508 If wit so much from ignorance undergo. Warton refers to the amusing anecdote of Boileau's presenting the order for his pension to the French treasurer. The order was expressed, in satisfaction for his works' the treasurer, who may be supposed to have been buried from his infancy in the dust of his office, asked what kind of works?'- Masonry,' replied the contemptuous bard; 'I am a builder.'

A still more curious example of this species of ignorance


Of old, those met rewards who could excel,
And such were praised who but endeavor'd well :
Though triumphs were to generals only due,
Crowns were reserved to grace the soldiers too.
Now, they who reach Parnassus' lofty crown,
Employ their pains to spurn some others down;
And while self-love each jealous writer rules, 516
Contending wits become the sport of fools;
But still the worst with most regret commend;
For each ill author is as bad a friend.

To what base ends, and by what abject ways, 520
Are mortals urged through sacred lust of praise!
Ah, ne'er so dire a thirst of glory boast;
Nor in the critic let the man be lost.
Good nature and good sense must ever join;
To err is human, to forgive, divine.

But if in noble minds some dregs remain,
Not yet purged off, of spleen and sour disdain;
Discharge that rage on more provoking crimes,
Nor fear a dearth in these flagitious times.
No pardon vile obscenity should find,



Though wit and art conspire to move your mind;
But dulness with obscenity must prove

As shameful sure as impotence in love.
In the fat age of pleasure, wealth, and ease,
Sprung the rank weed, and thrived with large

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lately occurred even in our own stirring country. An opulent banker in the west of England was requested to receive subscriptions for the testimonial to the memory of Sir Walter Scott: the banker gravely replied, that he had no objection to receive the subscriptions, except his never having heard the name before; and he wished previously to know to what firm it belonged.'

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