LL write at London; fhall the abate
Here, where it most should shine, the Muses' feat?
Where, mortal or immortal, as they please,
The learn'd may chuse eternity, or ease?
Has not a * Royal Patron wifely strove
To woo the Muse in her Athenian grove?
Added new strings to her harmonious shell,
And given new tongues to those who spoke so well ?
Let thefe inftruct, with truth's illustrious ray,
Awake the world, and fcare our owls away.
Mean while, O friend! indulge me, if I give
Some needful precepts how to write, and live;
Serious fhould be an author's final views;
Who write for pure amusement, ne'er amuse.
An Author! 'Tis a venerable name!
How few deferve it, and what numbers claim!
Unbleft with fenfe above their peers refin'd,
Who shall stand up, dictators to mankind?
Nay, who dare shine, if not in virtue's cause,
That fole proprietor of juft applaufe?
Ye restless men, who pant for letter'd praise,
With whom would you confult to gain the bays ?—
With those great authors whose fam'd works you
'Tis well go, then, confult the laurel'd shade,
What answer 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, wifh'd unwrote
The sprightlieft efforts of their wanton thought:
Sidney and Waller, brightest fons of fame,
Condemn the charm of ages to the flame :
And in one point is all true wifdom caft,
To think that early we must think at last.
Immortal 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 verse 'tis worse,
Provokes the Mufe, extorts Apollo's curfe;
His facred influence never fhould be fold;
'Tis arrant fimony 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 their pride!
But fhould both fail to take him to their care,
He boasts a greater friend, and both may spare.
Letters to man uncommon light dispense;
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 atheists in a gown?
'Tis harder far to please than give offence ;
The least misconduct damns the brightest sense;
Each fhallow pate, that cannot read your name,
Can read your life, and will be proud to blame.
Flagitious manners make impreffions deep
On those that o'er a page of Milton sleep :
Nor in their dulnefs think to fave your shame,
True, these are fools; but wife men fay the 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 difpenfe,
And play the fool, because they 're men of fenfe,
What instances 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 sense life's current coin is made;
With that we drive the moft fubftantial trade.
Prudence protects and guides us; wit betrays;
A fplendid fource of ill ten thousand ways;
A certain fnare to miferies immenfe;
A gay prerogative from common fense;
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 fhew, but greater to conceal;
As it is great to feize the golden prize
Of place or power; but greater to despise.
If ftill 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 't will cost,
To write one page which you may justly boast.
Senfe may be good, yet not deserve the prefs;
Who write, an awful character profess;
The world as pupil of their wifdom claim,
And for their ftipend an immortal fame :
Nothing but what is folid or refin`d,
Should dare ask 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 reflexion more :
More had the antients writ, they more had taught;
Which fhews fome work is left for modern thought.
This weigh'd, perfection know; and, known, adore; 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 fwiftnefs ne'er applaud your pen.
Leave to the jockeys that Newmarket praise,
Slow runs the Pegasus that wins the bays.
· Much time for immortality to pay,
Is juft and wife; for less 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 impoffibilities they feek;
What man can be immortal in a week?
Excufe no fault; though beautiful, 't will harm; One fault shocks more than twenty beauties charm. *Our age demands correctnefs; Addifon
And you this commendable hurt have done.
Now writers find, as once Achilles found,
The whole is mortal, if a part's unfound.
He that frikes out, and ftrikes not out the best,
Pours luftre in, and dignifies the rest:
Give e'er fo little, if what 's right be there,
We praise for what you burn, and what you spare:
The part you burn, finells sweet 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 much, excel.
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