An Essay on Criticism | Page 6

flow: Persians and Greeks like turns of nature found, And
the world's victor stood subdued by sound? [381] The power of music
all our hearts allow, And what Timotheus was, is Dryden now.
Avoid extremes, and shun the fault of such, Who still are pleased too
little or too much. At every trifle scorn to take offense, That always
shows great pride, or little sense: Those heads, as stomachs, are not
sure the best, Which nauseate all, and nothing can digest. Yet let not
each gay turn thy rapture move; For fools admire, but men of sense
approve: As things seem large which we through mist descry, Dullness
is ever apt to magnify. [393]
Some foreign writers, some our own despise, The ancients only, or the
moderns prize. Thus wit, like faith, by each man is applied To one
small sect, and all are damned beside. Meanly they seek the blessing to
confine, And force that sun but on a part to shine, Which not alone the
southern wit sublimes, But ripens spirits in cold northern climes. Which
from the first has shone on ages past, Enlights the present, and shall
warm the last, Though each may feel increases and decays, And see
now clearer and now darker days. Regard not then if wit be old or new,
But blame the false, and value still the true.
Some ne'er advance a judgment of their own, But catch the spreading
notion of the town, They reason and conclude by precedent, And own
stale nonsense which they ne'er invent. Some judge of authors names

not works, and then Nor praise nor blame the writing, but the men. Of
all this servile herd the worst is he That in proud dullness joins with
quality A constant critic at the great man's board, To fetch and carry
nonsense for my lord What woful stuff this madrigal would be, In some
starved hackney sonnetteer, or me! But let a lord once own the happy
lines, How the wit brightens! how the style refines! Before his sacred
name flies every fault, And each exalted stanza teems with thought!
The vulgar thus through imitation err; As oft the learned by being
singular. So much they scorn the crowd that if the throng By chance go
right they purposely go wrong: So schismatics the plain believers quit,
And are but damned for having too much wit. 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 idolized, 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, seemed made to be
disputed, And none had sense enough to be confuted: Scotists and
Thomists now in peace remain, [444] 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.
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; [459]
But sense survived, when merry jests were past; For rising merit will
buoy up at last. Might he return, and bless once more our eyes, New
Blackmores and new Millbourns must arise: [463] Nay, should great
Homer lift his awful head, Zoilus again would start up from the dead

[465] 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. When first that sun too
powerful beams displays, It draws up vapors which obscure its rays,
But even 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 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 [479] Now length of fame (our
second life) is lost And bare threescore