Marinda :: :: University of Virginia Library

A just Applause, and an Immortal Name
Is the true Object of the Poet's Aim;
In quest of this they boldly quit the Shoar,
And dangerous Seas and unknown Lands explore.
In the whole Plan their Interest has no share,
The Goods of Fortune are beneath their Care,
They on the Smoak of publick Incence live,
Look down on Wealth, and think it mean to thrive.

This meager Author keeps himself in heart,
With the Conceit alone of the huge Part
He has in our Esteem, fancy's he hears
Fame with her Trumpet sounding in his Ears
Such loud and charming Notes, while all this Noise
Is but the Ecchoe of his single Voice.

This proudly boasts he with Success has try'd
The Secret Waller left him when he dy'd

T'Embalm the Hero's Name, and by his Rhymes
Preserve it fresh, and sweet to future Times.

E're he begins his Poem to rehearse,
He thus bespeaks your Praises: Sir, my Verse
Has the good luck to please both Town, and Court,
Dennis was nibling, but his Teeth paid for't:
And (this premis'd) at reading every Line,
An awkward Joy thro' the Fool's Face does shine,
His sparkling Eyes with Pride and Pleasure glow,
His panting Breast heaves quick, his Voice is low,
Each Act does Extasie and Rapture show.
Speak:—He is sure it must be in his Praise,
You are struck dumb, if silent, with his Lays.
This Phrase seems low and flat:—O Sir, I see
You're not well skill'd in true Simplicity.
That Passage is too dark, might I advise
A little clearing up; God help your Eyes.
Here Pegasus requires a stricter Rein:
Sir, for Buffoonry you've a pretty Vein.

'Tis thus our Author, who with Anger burns,
For each Advice an Injury returns.
Is he applauded? Truth must needs prevail.
If censur'd: Men will still at Merit rail.

Be't then a Poet's Care himself to raise
Above the reach of a malicious Praise,
Or treacherous Friend: these following Rules, tho' few,
A false Applause distinguish from a true.

Be sure you press the Circle to declare
Their Sentiments, ev'n where they doubt you Err;
Press them, in such a way, as if 'twere meant
To ask Advice, not beg a Compliment:
With wary heed view well their Looks, and Air,
Men's real Thoughts are first discover'd there.
Mark more their Accent than their Words; be wise,
And trust less to their Tongue, than to their Eyes.
Here wide glaz'd Opticks openly betray
The forc'd. Attention which your Hearers pay,

Who strive at last by an ill-tim'd Applause
To make up for a long suspicious Pause:
Here an affected Praise pronounc'd with Art,
Wou'd cover the true Language of the Heart.
'Tis in a Word scap'd from them, in the streaks
Of a quick springing Joy, that Nature speaks.

When a Work pleases, each Man claims a share
In the Immortal piece, makes it his care,
And Int'rest too, that it shou'd perfect be,
And wou'd have what he likes from Censure free.
Insipid is th'Encomium you receive,
Unless the Critick does a Relish give:
A General Praise distrust, he's not your Friend
That nothing censures, or does all commend.

Marinda, let your steady Judgment guide
Your Poet thro' those Dangers, steer him wide
Of all these Shelves, let your unerring Taste
Secure him from the Malice of the rest.