 | The complete works, poetry and prose, of the Rev. Edward Young prefixed, a life of the author, by John Doran ... With eight illustrations on steel, and a portrait. In two volumes |  |
EPISTLES TO MR. POPE CONCERNING THE AUTHORS OF THE AGE.
MDCCXXX.
EPISTLE I. TO MR. POPE.
Whilst you at Twickenham plan the future wood,
Or turn the volumes of the wise and good,
Our senate meets; at parties parties bawl,
And pamphlets stun the streets, and load the stall.
So rushing tides bring things obscene to light,
Foul wrecks emerge, and dead dogs swim in sight:
The civil torrent foams, the tumult reigns,
And Codrus' prose works up, and Lico's strains.
Lo! what from cellars rise, what rush from high,
Where Speculation roosted near the sky;
Letters, essays, sock, buskin, satire, song;
And all the garret thunders on the throng!
Or turn the volumes of the wise and good,
Our senate meets; at parties parties bawl,
And pamphlets stun the streets, and load the stall.
So rushing tides bring things obscene to light,
Foul wrecks emerge, and dead dogs swim in sight:
The civil torrent foams, the tumult reigns,
And Codrus' prose works up, and Lico's strains.
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Where Speculation roosted near the sky;
Letters, essays, sock, buskin, satire, song;
And all the garret thunders on the throng!
O Pope! I burst; nor can, nor will, refrain:
I'll write; let others, in their turn, complain.
Truce, truce, ye Vandals! my tormented ear
Less dreads a pillory than a pamphleteer;
I've heard myself to death; and, plagued each hour,
Sha'n't I return the vengeance in my power?
For who can write the true absurd like me?—
Thy pardon, Codrus! who, I mean, but thee?
I'll write; let others, in their turn, complain.
Truce, truce, ye Vandals! my tormented ear
Less dreads a pillory than a pamphleteer;
I've heard myself to death; and, plagued each hour,
Sha'n't I return the vengeance in my power?
For who can write the true absurd like me?—
Thy pardon, Codrus! who, I mean, but thee?
Pope! if like mine, or Codrus', were thy style,
The blood of vipers had not stain'd thy file;
Merit less solid less despite had bred;
They had not bit, and then they had not bled.
Fame is a public mistress none enjoys
But, more or less, his rival's peace destroys.
With Fame, in just proportion, Envy grows:
The man that makes a character, makes foes.
Slight, peevish insects round a genius rise,
As a bright day awakes the world of flies;
With hearty malice, but with feeble wing,
(To show they live,) they flutter, and they sting:
But as by depredations wasps proclaim
The fairest fruit, so these the fairest fame.
The blood of vipers had not stain'd thy file;
Merit less solid less despite had bred;
They had not bit, and then they had not bled.
Fame is a public mistress none enjoys
But, more or less, his rival's peace destroys.
With Fame, in just proportion, Envy grows:
The man that makes a character, makes foes.
Slight, peevish insects round a genius rise,
As a bright day awakes the world of flies;
With hearty malice, but with feeble wing,
(To show they live,) they flutter, and they sting:
But as by depredations wasps proclaim
The fairest fruit, so these the fairest fame.
Shall we not censure all the motley train?—
Whether with ale irriguous, or champagne;
Whether they tread the vale of prose, or climb,
And whet their appetites on cliffs of rhyme;
The college sloven, or embroider'd spark;
The purple prelate, or the parish clerk;
The quiet quidnunc, or demanding prig;
The plaintiff Tory, or defendant Whig;
Rich, poor, male, female, young, old, gay or sad;
Whether extremely witty, or quite mad;
Profoundly dull, or shallowly polite;
Men that read well, or men that only write;
Whether peers, porters, tailors, tune the reeds,
And measuring words to measuring shapes succeeds:
For bankrupts write, when ruin'd shops are shut,
As maggots crawl from out a perish'd nut.
His hammer this, and that his trowel, quits,
And, wanting sense for tradesmen, serve for wits.
By thriving men subsists each other trade;
Of every broken craft a writer's made:
Thus his material, paper, takes its birth
From tatter'd rags of all the stuff on earth.
Whether with ale irriguous, or champagne;
Whether they tread the vale of prose, or climb,
And whet their appetites on cliffs of rhyme;
The college sloven, or embroider'd spark;
The purple prelate, or the parish clerk;
The quiet quidnunc, or demanding prig;
The plaintiff Tory, or defendant Whig;
Rich, poor, male, female, young, old, gay or sad;
Whether extremely witty, or quite mad;
Profoundly dull, or shallowly polite;
Men that read well, or men that only write;
Whether peers, porters, tailors, tune the reeds,
And measuring words to measuring shapes succeeds:
For bankrupts write, when ruin'd shops are shut,
As maggots crawl from out a perish'd nut.
His hammer this, and that his trowel, quits,
And, wanting sense for tradesmen, serve for wits.
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Of every broken craft a writer's made:
Thus his material, paper, takes its birth
From tatter'd rags of all the stuff on earth.
Hail, fruitful isle! To thee alone belong
Millions of wits and brokers in old song.
Thee well “a land of liberty” we name,
Where all are free to scandal and to shame.
Thy sons, by print, may set their hearts at ease,
And be mankind's contempt, whene'er they please:
Like trodden filth, their vile and abject sense
Is unperceived but when it gives offence.
Their heavy prose our injured reason tires;
Their verse immoral kindles loose desires:
Our age they puzzle, and corrupt our prime;
Our sport and pity, punishment and crime.
Millions of wits and brokers in old song.
Thee well “a land of liberty” we name,
Where all are free to scandal and to shame.
Thy sons, by print, may set their hearts at ease,
And be mankind's contempt, whene'er they please:
Like trodden filth, their vile and abject sense
Is unperceived but when it gives offence.
Their heavy prose our injured reason tires;
Their verse immoral kindles loose desires:
Our age they puzzle, and corrupt our prime;
Our sport and pity, punishment and crime.
What glorious motives urge our authors on,
Thus to undo, and thus to be undone?
One loses his estate, and down he sits,
To show (in vain!) he still retains his wits:
Another marries, and his dear proves keen;
He writes, as an hypnotic for the spleen:
Some write, confined by physic; some, by debt;
Some, for 'tis Sunday; some, because 'tis wet:
Through private pique some do the public right,
And love their king and country out of spite:
Another writes because his father writ,
And proves himself a bastard by his wit.
Thus to undo, and thus to be undone?
One loses his estate, and down he sits,
To show (in vain!) he still retains his wits:
Another marries, and his dear proves keen;
He writes, as an hypnotic for the spleen:
Some write, confined by physic; some, by debt;
Some, for 'tis Sunday; some, because 'tis wet:
Through private pique some do the public right,
And love their king and country out of spite:
Another writes because his father writ,
And proves himself a bastard by his wit.
“Has Lico learning, humour, thought profound?”—
Neither:—“Why write, then?”—He wants twenty pound:
His belly, not his brains, this impulse give:
He'll grow immortal; for he cannot live.
He rubs his awful front, and takes his ream,
With no provision made but of his theme;
Perhaps a title has his fancy smit,
Or a quaint motto, which he thinks has wit.
He writes, in inspiration puts his trust;
Though wrong his thoughts, the gods will make them just;
Genius directly from the gods descends;
And who by labour would distrust his friends?
Thus having reason'd with consummate skill,
In immortality he dips his quill:
And, since blank paper is denied the press,
He mingles the whole alphabet by guess,
In various sets, which various words compose,
Of which, he hopes, mankind the meaning knows.
So sounds spontaneous from the Sibyl broke;
Dark to herself the wonders which she spoke:
The priests found out the meaning, if they could;
And nations stared at what none understood.
Neither:—“Why write, then?”—He wants twenty pound:
His belly, not his brains, this impulse give:
He'll grow immortal; for he cannot live.
He rubs his awful front, and takes his ream,
With no provision made but of his theme;
Perhaps a title has his fancy smit,
Or a quaint motto, which he thinks has wit.
He writes, in inspiration puts his trust;
Though wrong his thoughts, the gods will make them just;
Genius directly from the gods descends;
And who by labour would distrust his friends?
Thus having reason'd with consummate skill,
In immortality he dips his quill:
And, since blank paper is denied the press,
He mingles the whole alphabet by guess,
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Of which, he hopes, mankind the meaning knows.
So sounds spontaneous from the Sibyl broke;
Dark to herself the wonders which she spoke:
The priests found out the meaning, if they could;
And nations stared at what none understood.
Clodio dress'd, danced, drank, visited,—the whole
And great concern of an immortal soul!
Oft have I said, “Awake! exist! and strive
For birth! nor think to loiter is to live!”
As oft I overheard the demon say,
Who daily met the loiterer in his way,
“I'll meet thee, youth, at White's:” the youth replies,
“I'll meet thee there,” and falls his sacrifice.
His fortune squander'd leaves his Virtue bare
To every bribe, and blind to every snare:
Clodio for bread his indolence must quit,
Or turn a soldier, or commence a wit.
Such heroes have we! all, but life, they stake:
How must Spain tremble, and the German shake!
Such writers have we! all, but sense, they print;
E'en George's praise is dated from the Mint.
In arms contemptible, in arts profane,
Such swords, such pens, disgrace a monarch's reign.
Reform your lives before you thus aspire,
And steal (for you can steal) celestial fire.
And great concern of an immortal soul!
Oft have I said, “Awake! exist! and strive
For birth! nor think to loiter is to live!”
As oft I overheard the demon say,
Who daily met the loiterer in his way,
“I'll meet thee, youth, at White's:” the youth replies,
“I'll meet thee there,” and falls his sacrifice.
His fortune squander'd leaves his Virtue bare
To every bribe, and blind to every snare:
Clodio for bread his indolence must quit,
Or turn a soldier, or commence a wit.
Such heroes have we! all, but life, they stake:
How must Spain tremble, and the German shake!
Such writers have we! all, but sense, they print;
E'en George's praise is dated from the Mint.
In arms contemptible, in arts profane,
Such swords, such pens, disgrace a monarch's reign.
Reform your lives before you thus aspire,
And steal (for you can steal) celestial fire.
O the just contrast, O the beauteous strife,
'Twixt their cool writings and Pindaric life!
They write with phlegm, but then they live with fire:
They cheat the lender, and their works the buyer.
'Twixt their cool writings and Pindaric life!
They write with phlegm, but then they live with fire:
They cheat the lender, and their works the buyer.
I reverence Misfortune, not deride;
I pity Poverty, but laugh at Pride:
For who so sad but must some mirth confess
At gay Castruchio's miscellaneous dress?
Though there's but one of the dull works he wrote,
There's ten editions of his old laced coat.
I pity Poverty, but laugh at Pride:
For who so sad but must some mirth confess
At gay Castruchio's miscellaneous dress?
Though there's but one of the dull works he wrote,
There's ten editions of his old laced coat.
These, Nature's commoners, who want a home,
Claim the wide world for their majestic dome:
They make a private study of the street,
And, looking full on every man they meet,
Run souse against his chaps; who stands amazed
To find they did not see, but only gazed.
How must these bards be rapt into the skies!
You need not read, you feel their ecstasies.
Claim the wide world for their majestic dome:
They make a private study of the street,
And, looking full on every man they meet,
Run souse against his chaps; who stands amazed
To find they did not see, but only gazed.
How must these bards be rapt into the skies!
You need not read, you feel their ecstasies.
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Will they persist? 'Tis madness:—Lintot, run,
See them confined!—“O, that's already done.
Most, as by leases, by the works they print,
Have took for life possession of the Mint.”
If you mistake, and pity these poor men,
Est Ulubris, they cry, and write again.
See them confined!—“O, that's already done.
Most, as by leases, by the works they print,
Have took for life possession of the Mint.”
If you mistake, and pity these poor men,
Est Ulubris, they cry, and write again.
Such wits their nuisance manfully expose,
And then pronounce just judges “Learning's foes.”
O frail conclusion! the reverse is true:
If foes to Learning, they'd be friends to you.
Treat them, ye judges, with an honest scorn,
And weed the cockle from the generous corn:
There's true good-nature in your disrespect;
In justice to the good, the bad neglect:
For immortality if hardships plead,
It is not theirs who write, but ours who read.
And then pronounce just judges “Learning's foes.”
O frail conclusion! the reverse is true:
If foes to Learning, they'd be friends to you.
Treat them, ye judges, with an honest scorn,
And weed the cockle from the generous corn:
There's true good-nature in your disrespect;
In justice to the good, the bad neglect:
For immortality if hardships plead,
It is not theirs who write, but ours who read.
But, O, what wisdom can convince a fool
But that 'tis dulness to conceive him dull?
'Tis sad Experience takes the censor's part,
Conviction, not from reason, but from smart.
But that 'tis dulness to conceive him dull?
'Tis sad Experience takes the censor's part,
Conviction, not from reason, but from smart.
A virgin-author, recent from the press,
The sheets yet wet, applauds his great success;
Surveys them, reads them, takes their charms to bed,
Those in his hand, and glory in his head.
'Tis joy too great, a fever of delight!
His heart beats thick, nor close his eyes all night.
But, rising the next morn to clasp his fame,
He finds that without sleeping he could dream.
So sparks, they say, take goddesses to bed,
And find next day the devil in their stead.
The sheets yet wet, applauds his great success;
Surveys them, reads them, takes their charms to bed,
Those in his hand, and glory in his head.
'Tis joy too great, a fever of delight!
His heart beats thick, nor close his eyes all night.
But, rising the next morn to clasp his fame,
He finds that without sleeping he could dream.
So sparks, they say, take goddesses to bed,
And find next day the devil in their stead.
In vain advertisements the town o'erspread:
They're epitaphs, and say the work is dead.
Who press for fame, but small recruits will raise:
'Tis volunteers alone can give the bays.
They're epitaphs, and say the work is dead.
Who press for fame, but small recruits will raise:
'Tis volunteers alone can give the bays.
A famous author visits a great man,
Of his immortal work displays the plan,
And says, “Sir, I'm your friend; all fears dismiss;
Your glory and my own shall live by this;
Your power is fix'd, your fame through time convey'd,
And Britain Europe's queen—if I am paid.”
A statesman has his answer in a trice:
“Sir, such a genius is beyond all price:
What man can pay for this?”—Away he turns;
His work is folded, and his bosom burns:
His patron he will patronize no more,
But rushes like a tempest out of door.
Lost is the patriot, and extinct his name!
Out comes the piece, another and the same;
For A his magic pen evokes an O,
And turns the tide of Europe on the foe:
He rams his quill with scandal, and with scoff;
But 'tis so very foul, it won't go off.
Dreadful his thunders, while unprinted, roar;
But, when once publish'd, they are heard no more.
Thus distant bugbears fright; but, nearer draw,
The block's a block, and turns to mirth your awe.
Of his immortal work displays the plan,
And says, “Sir, I'm your friend; all fears dismiss;
Your glory and my own shall live by this;
Your power is fix'd, your fame through time convey'd,
And Britain Europe's queen—if I am paid.”
A statesman has his answer in a trice:
“Sir, such a genius is beyond all price:
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His work is folded, and his bosom burns:
His patron he will patronize no more,
But rushes like a tempest out of door.
Lost is the patriot, and extinct his name!
Out comes the piece, another and the same;
For A his magic pen evokes an O,
And turns the tide of Europe on the foe:
He rams his quill with scandal, and with scoff;
But 'tis so very foul, it won't go off.
Dreadful his thunders, while unprinted, roar;
But, when once publish'd, they are heard no more.
Thus distant bugbears fright; but, nearer draw,
The block's a block, and turns to mirth your awe.
Can those oblige, whose heads and hearts are such?
No; every party's tainted by their touch.
Infected persons fly each public place,
And none, or enemies alone, embrace:
To the foul fiend their every passion's sold;
They love, and hate, extempore, for gold.
“What image of their fury can we form?”
Dulness and rage,—a puddle in a storm.
“Rest they in peace?” If you are pleased to buy,
To swell your sails, like Lapland winds, they fly.
“Write they with rage?” The tempest quickly flags;
A state-Ulysses tames 'em with his bags,
Let him be what he will, Turk, Pagan, Jew:
For Christian ministers of state are few.
No; every party's tainted by their touch.
Infected persons fly each public place,
And none, or enemies alone, embrace:
To the foul fiend their every passion's sold;
They love, and hate, extempore, for gold.
“What image of their fury can we form?”
Dulness and rage,—a puddle in a storm.
“Rest they in peace?” If you are pleased to buy,
To swell your sails, like Lapland winds, they fly.
“Write they with rage?” The tempest quickly flags;
A state-Ulysses tames 'em with his bags,
Let him be what he will, Turk, Pagan, Jew:
For Christian ministers of state are few.
Behind the curtain lurks the fountain-head
That pours his politics through pipes of lead,
Which far and near ejaculate, and spout,
O'er tea and coffee, poison to the rout:
But when they have bespatter'd all they may,
The statesman throws his filthy squirts away!
That pours his politics through pipes of lead,
Which far and near ejaculate, and spout,
O'er tea and coffee, poison to the rout:
But when they have bespatter'd all they may,
The statesman throws his filthy squirts away!
With golden forceps these another takes,
And state-elixirs of the vipers makes.
And state-elixirs of the vipers makes.
The richest statesman wants wherewith to pay
A servile sycophant, if well they weigh
How much it costs the wretch to be so base;
Nor can the greatest powers enough disgrace,
Enough chastise, such prostitute applause,
If well they weigh how much it stains their cause.
A servile sycophant, if well they weigh
How much it costs the wretch to be so base;
Nor can the greatest powers enough disgrace,
Enough chastise, such prostitute applause,
If well they weigh how much it stains their cause.
“But are our writers ever in the wrong?
Does Virtue ne'er seduce the venal tongue?”
Yes; if well-bribed, for Virtue's self they fight;
Still in the wrong, though champions for the right.
Whoe'er their crimes, for interest only, quit,
Sin on in virtue, and good deeds commit.
Does Virtue ne'er seduce the venal tongue?”
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Still in the wrong, though champions for the right.
Whoe'er their crimes, for interest only, quit,
Sin on in virtue, and good deeds commit.
Nought but inconstancy Britannia meets,
And broken faith, in their abandoned sheets.
From the same hand how various is the page!
What civil war their brother pamphlets wage!
Tracts battle tracts, self-contradictions glare:
Say, is this lunacy?—I wish it were.
If such our writers, startled at the sight,
Felons may bless their stars they cannot write!
And broken faith, in their abandoned sheets.
From the same hand how various is the page!
What civil war their brother pamphlets wage!
Tracts battle tracts, self-contradictions glare:
Say, is this lunacy?—I wish it were.
If such our writers, startled at the sight,
Felons may bless their stars they cannot write!
How justly Proteus' transmigrations fit
The monstrous changes of a modern wit!
Now, such a gentle stream of eloquence
As seldom rises to the verge of sense;
Now, by mad rage, transform'd into a flame,
Which yet fit engines, well applied, can tame;
Now, on immodest trash, the swine obscene
Invites the town to sup at Drury-Lane;
A dreadful lion, now he roars at power,
Which sends him to his brothers at the Tower;
He's now a serpent, and his double tongue
Salutes, nay, licks, the feet of those he stung.
What knot can bind him, his evasion such?
One knot he well deserves, which might do much.
The monstrous changes of a modern wit!
Now, such a gentle stream of eloquence
As seldom rises to the verge of sense;
Now, by mad rage, transform'd into a flame,
Which yet fit engines, well applied, can tame;
Now, on immodest trash, the swine obscene
Invites the town to sup at Drury-Lane;
A dreadful lion, now he roars at power,
Which sends him to his brothers at the Tower;
He's now a serpent, and his double tongue
Salutes, nay, licks, the feet of those he stung.
What knot can bind him, his evasion such?
One knot he well deserves, which might do much.
The flood, flame, swine, the lion, and the snake,
Those fivefold monsters, modern authors make.
The snake reigns most: snakes, Pliny says, are bred,
When the brain's perish'd, in a human head.
Ye grovelling, trodden, whipp'd, stripp'd, turncoat things,
Made up of venom, volumes, stains, and stings!
Thrown from the tree of knowledge, like you, cursed
To scribble in the dust, was Snake the First.
Those fivefold monsters, modern authors make.
The snake reigns most: snakes, Pliny says, are bred,
When the brain's perish'd, in a human head.
Ye grovelling, trodden, whipp'd, stripp'd, turncoat things,
Made up of venom, volumes, stains, and stings!
Thrown from the tree of knowledge, like you, cursed
To scribble in the dust, was Snake the First.
What, if the figure should in fact prove true?
It did in Elkanah; why not in you?
Poor Elkanah, all other changes past,
For bread in Smithfield-dragons hiss'd at last,
Spit streams of fire to make the butchers gape,
And found his manners suited to his shape.
Such is the fate of talents misapplied;
So lived your prototype, and so he died.
It did in Elkanah; why not in you?
Poor Elkanah, all other changes past,
For bread in Smithfield-dragons hiss'd at last,
Spit streams of fire to make the butchers gape,
And found his manners suited to his shape.
Such is the fate of talents misapplied;
So lived your prototype, and so he died.
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The' abandon'd manners of our writing train
May tempt mankind to think religion vain;
But in their fate, their habit, and their mien,
That gods there are, is eminently seen:
Heaven stands absolved, by vengeance on their pen,
And marks the murderers of fame from men.
Through meagre jaws they draw their venal breath,
As ghastly as their brothers in Macbeth:
Their feet through faithless leather meet the dirt,
And oftener changed their principles than shirt.
The transient vestments of these frugal men
Hasten to paper for our mirth again:
Too soon (O merry-melancholy fate!)
They beg in rhyme, and warble through a grate:
The man lampoon'd forgets it at the sight;
The friend through pity gives, the foe through spite;
And though full conscious of his injured purse,
Lintot relents, nor Curll can wish them worse.
So fare the men who writers dare commence
Without their patent,—probity and sense.
May tempt mankind to think religion vain;
But in their fate, their habit, and their mien,
That gods there are, is eminently seen:
Heaven stands absolved, by vengeance on their pen,
And marks the murderers of fame from men.
Through meagre jaws they draw their venal breath,
As ghastly as their brothers in Macbeth:
Their feet through faithless leather meet the dirt,
And oftener changed their principles than shirt.
The transient vestments of these frugal men
Hasten to paper for our mirth again:
Too soon (O merry-melancholy fate!)
They beg in rhyme, and warble through a grate:
The man lampoon'd forgets it at the sight;
The friend through pity gives, the foe through spite;
And though full conscious of his injured purse,
Lintot relents, nor Curll can wish them worse.
So fare the men who writers dare commence
Without their patent,—probity and sense.
From these their politics our quidnuncs seek,
And Saturday's the learning of the week.
These labouring wits, like paviours, mend our ways
With heavy, huge, repeated, flat essays;
Ram their coarse nonsense down, though ne'er so dull
And hem at every thump upon your skull.
These staunch-bred writing-hounds begin the cry,
And honest Folly echoes to the lie.
O how I laugh, when I a blockhead see
Thanking a villain for his probity!
Who stretches out a most respectful ear,
With snares for woodcocks in his holy leer.
It tickles through my soul to hear the cock's
Sincere encomium on his friend the fox,
“Sole patron of his liberties and rights!”
While graceless reynard listens—till he bites.
And Saturday's the learning of the week.
These labouring wits, like paviours, mend our ways
With heavy, huge, repeated, flat essays;
Ram their coarse nonsense down, though ne'er so dull
And hem at every thump upon your skull.
These staunch-bred writing-hounds begin the cry,
And honest Folly echoes to the lie.
O how I laugh, when I a blockhead see
Thanking a villain for his probity!
Who stretches out a most respectful ear,
With snares for woodcocks in his holy leer.
It tickles through my soul to hear the cock's
Sincere encomium on his friend the fox,
“Sole patron of his liberties and rights!”
While graceless reynard listens—till he bites.
As, when the trumpet sounds, the' o'erloaded state
Discharges all her poor and profligate;
Crimes of all kinds dishonour'd weapons wield,
And prisons pour their filth into the field;
Thus Nature's refuse, and the dregs of men,
Compose the black militia of the pen.
Discharges all her poor and profligate;
Crimes of all kinds dishonour'd weapons wield,
And prisons pour their filth into the field;
Thus Nature's refuse, and the dregs of men,
Compose the black militia of the pen.
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EPISTLE II. FROM OXFORD.
All write at London: shall the rage abate
Here, where it most should shine,—the Muses' seat;
Where, mortal or immortal, as they please,
The learn'd may choose eternity or ease?
Has not a royal patron wisely 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 these instruct, with Truth's illustrious ray,
Awake the world, and scare our owls away.
Here, where it most should shine,—the Muses' seat;
Where, mortal or immortal, as they please,
The learn'd may choose eternity or ease?
Has not a royal patron wisely 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 these instruct, with Truth's illustrious ray,
Awake the world, and scare our owls away.
Meanwhile, O friend! indulge me, if I give
Some needful precepts how to write and live.
Serious should be an author's final views:
Who write for pure amusement, ne'er amuse.
Some needful precepts how to write and live.
Serious should be an author's final views:
Who write for pure amusement, ne'er amuse.
An author! 'Tis a venerable name:
How few deserve it, and what numbers claim!
Unbless'd with sense above their peers refined,
Who shall stand up, dictators to mankind?
Nay, who dare shine, if not in Virtue's cause,
The sole proprietor of just applause?
How few deserve it, and what numbers claim!
Unbless'd with sense above their peers refined,
Who shall stand up, dictators to mankind?
Nay, who dare shine, if not in Virtue's cause,
The sole proprietor of just applause?
Ye restless men, who pant for letter'd praise,
With whom would you consult to gain the bays?
With those great authors whose famed works you read?
'Tis well: go, then, consult the laurell'd shade.
What answer will the laurell'd shade return?
Hear it, and tremble!—He commands you burn
The noblest works his envied 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, wish'd unwrote
The sprightliest efforts of their wanton thought:
Sidney and Waller, brightest sons of Fame,
Condemn the charm of ages to the flame:
And in one point is all true wisdom cast,—
To think that early we must think at last.
With whom would you consult to gain the bays?
With those great authors whose famed works you read?
'Tis well: go, then, consult the laurell'd shade.
What answer will the laurell'd shade return?
Hear it, and tremble!—He commands you burn
The noblest works his envied 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, wish'd unwrote
The sprightliest efforts of their wanton thought:
Sidney and Waller, brightest sons of Fame,
Condemn the charm of ages to the flame:
And in one point is all true wisdom cast,—
To think that early we must think at last.
40
Immortal wits, even dead, break Nature's laws,
Injurious still to Virtue's sacred cause;
And, their guilt growing, as their bodies rot,
(Reversed ambition!) pant to be forgot.
Injurious still to Virtue's sacred cause;
And, their guilt growing, as their bodies rot,
(Reversed ambition!) pant to be forgot.
Thus ends your courted Fame: does lucre, then,
“The sacred thirst of gold,” betray your pen?
In prose 'tis blamable, in verse 'tis worse,
Provokes the muse, extorts Apollo's curse:
His sacred influence never should be sold;
'Tis arrant simony to sing for gold.
'Tis immortality should fire your mind:
Scorn a less paymaster than all mankind.
“The sacred thirst of gold,” betray your pen?
In prose 'tis blamable, in verse 'tis worse,
Provokes the muse, extorts Apollo's curse:
His sacred influence never should be sold;
'Tis arrant simony to sing for gold.
'Tis immortality should fire your mind:
Scorn a less paymaster than all mankind.
If bribes you seek, 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 surely serve him, if they can;
The bad, when interest or ambition guide,
And 'tis at once their interest and their pride:
But should both fail to take him to their care,
He boasts a greater Friend, and both may spare.
Who writes for Virtue has the largest bribe:
All's on the party of the virtuous man;
The good will surely serve him, if they can;
The bad, when interest or ambition guide,
And 'tis at once their interest and their pride:
But should 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 superior sense?
In parts and learning you who place your pride,
Your faults are crimes, your crimes are double-dyed.
What is a scandal of the first renown,
But letter'd knaves, and atheists in a gown?
And what is virtue but superior sense?
In parts and learning you who place your pride,
Your faults are crimes, your crimes are double-dyed.
What is a scandal 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 shallow pate, that cannot read your name,
Can read your life, and will be proud to blame.
Flagitious manners make impressions deep
On those that o'er a page of Milton sleep:
Nor in their dulness think to save your shame:
True, these are fools; but wise men say the same.
The least misconduct damns the brightest sense:
Each shallow pate, that cannot read your name,
Can read your life, and will be proud to blame.
Flagitious manners make impressions deep
On those that o'er a page of Milton sleep:
Nor in their dulness think to save your shame:
True, these are fools; but wise men say the same.
Wits are a despicable race of men,
If they confine their talents to the pen;
When the man shocks us, while the writer shines,
Our scorn in life, our envy in his lines.
Yet, proud of parts, with prudence some dispense,
And play the fool, because they're men of sense.
What instances breed recent in each thought,
Of men to ruin by their genius brought!
Against their wills what numbers ruin shun,
Purely through want of wit to be undone!
Nature has shown, by making it so rare,
That wit's a jewel which we need not wear.
Of plain sound sense life's current coin is made;
With that we drive the most substantial trade.
If they confine their talents to the pen;
When the man shocks us, while the writer shines,
Our scorn in life, our envy in his lines.
Yet, proud of parts, with prudence some dispense,
And play the fool, because they're men of sense.
What instances breed recent in each thought,
Of men to ruin by their genius brought!
Against their wills what numbers ruin shun,
Purely through want of wit to be undone!
41
That wit's a jewel which we need not wear.
Of plain sound sense life's current coin is made;
With that we drive the most substantial trade.
Prudence protects and guides us; Wit betrays;
A splendid source of ill ten thousand ways;
A certain snare to miseries immense;
A gay prerogative from common-sense;
Unless strong judgment that wild thing can tame,
And break to paths of virtue and of fame.
A splendid source of ill ten thousand ways;
A certain snare to miseries immense;
A gay prerogative from common-sense;
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,
Sense fills your head, and genius fires your breast;
Yet still forbear: your wit (consider well)
'Tis great to show, but greater to conceal;
As it is great to seize the golden prize
Of place or power, but greater to despise.
Sense fills your head, and genius fires your breast;
Yet still forbear: your wit (consider well)
'Tis great to show, but greater to conceal;
As it is great to seize the golden prize
Of place or power, but greater to despise.
If still you languish for an author's name,
Think private merit less than public fame,
And fancy not to write is not to live;
Deserve, and take, the great prerogative.
But ponder what it is; how dear 'twill cost,
To write one page which you may justly boast.
Think private merit less than public fame,
And fancy not to write is not to live;
Deserve, and take, the great prerogative.
But ponder what it is; how dear 'twill cost,
To write one page which you may justly boast.
Sense may be good, and yet not deserve the press:
Who write, an awful character profess;
The world as pupil of their wisdom claim,
And for their stipend an immortal fame.
Nothing but what is solid or refined
Should dare ask public audience of mankind.
Who write, an awful character profess;
The world as pupil of their wisdom claim,
And for their stipend an immortal fame.
Nothing but what is solid or refined
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, famed in your own way, pass o'er;
Much trust example, but reflection more:
More had the ancients writ, they more had taught;
Which shows, some work is left for modern thought.
Keep down your pride by what is nobly writ:
No writer, famed in your own way, pass o'er;
Much trust example, but reflection more:
More had the ancients writ, they more had taught;
Which shows, some 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 just limits fix;
And zealously prefer four lines to six.
Toil, burn for that; but do not aim at more:
Above, beneath it, the just limits fix;
And zealously prefer four lines to six.
Write, and re-write, blot out, and write again,
And for its swiftness 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 just and wise; for less is thrown away.
Time only can mature the labouring brain:
Time is the father, and the midwife Pain.
The same good-sense that makes a man excel,
Still makes him doubt he ne'er has written well.
Downright impossibilities they seek;
What man can be immortal in a week?
And for its swiftness 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 just and wise; for less is thrown away.
42
Time is the father, and the midwife Pain.
The same good-sense that makes a man excel,
Still makes him doubt he ne'er has written well.
Downright impossibilities they seek;
What man can be immortal in a week?
Excuse no fault; though beautiful, 'twill harm;
One fault shocks more than twenty beauties charm.
Our age demands correctness: Addison
And you this commendable hurt have done.
Now writers find, as once Achilles found,
The whole is mortal if a part's unsound.
One fault shocks more than twenty beauties charm.
Our age demands correctness: Addison
And you this commendable hurt have done.
Now writers find, as once Achilles found,
The whole is mortal if a part's unsound.
He that strikes out, and strikes not out the best,
Pours lustre in, and dignifies the rest.
Give e'er so little, if what's right be there,
We praise for what you burn, and what you spare:
The part you burn, smells sweet before the shrine,
And is as incense to the part divine.
Pours lustre in, and dignifies the rest.
Give e'er so little, if what's right be there,
We praise for what you burn, and what you spare:
The part you burn, smells sweet before the shrine,
And is as incense to the part divine.
Nor frequent write, though you can do it well:
Men may too oft, though not too much, excel.
A few good works gain fame; more sink their price:
Mankind are fickle, and hate paying twice:
They granted you writ well; what can they more,—
Unless you let them praise for giving o'er?
Men may too oft, though not too much, excel.
A few good works gain fame; more sink their price:
Mankind are fickle, and hate paying twice:
They granted you writ well; what can they more,—
Unless you let them praise for giving o'er?
Do boldly what you do, and let your page
Smile, if it smiles, and, if it rages, rage.
So faintly Lucius censures and commends,
That Lucius has no foes—except his friends.
Smile, if it smiles, and, if it rages, rage.
So faintly Lucius censures and commends,
That Lucius has no foes—except his friends.
Let satire less engage you than applause;
It shows a generous mind to wink at flaws.
Is genius yours? be yours a glorious end;
Be your king's, country's, truth's, religion's friend;
The public glory by your own beget;
Run nations, run posterity, in debt.
And since the famed alone make others live,
First have that glory you presume to give.
It shows a generous mind to wink at flaws.
Is genius yours? be yours a glorious end;
Be your king's, country's, truth's, religion's friend;
The public glory by your own beget;
Run nations, run posterity, in debt.
And since the famed alone make others live,
First have that glory you presume to give.
If satire charms, strike faults, but spare the man;
'Tis dull to be as witty as you can.
Satire recoils whenever charged too high;
Round your own fame the fatal splinters fly.
As the soft plume gives swiftness to the dart,
Good-breeding sends the satire to the heart.
'Tis dull to be as witty as you can.
Satire recoils whenever charged too high;
Round your own fame the fatal splinters fly.
As the soft plume gives swiftness to the dart,
Good-breeding sends the satire to the heart.
Painters and surgeons may the structure scan;
Genius and morals be with you the man:
Defaults in those alone should give offence:
Who strikes the person, pleads his innocence.
My narrow-minded satire can't extend
To Codrus' form; I'm not so much his friend:
Himself should publish that (the world agree)
Before his works, or in the pillory.
Let him be black, fair, tall, short, thin or fat,
Dirty or clean, I find no theme in that.
Is that call'd humour? It has this pretence,—
'Tis neither virtue, breeding, wit, nor sense.
Unless you boast the genius of a Swift,
Beware of humour,—the dull rogue's last shift.
Genius and morals be with you the man:
43
Who strikes the person, pleads his innocence.
My narrow-minded satire can't extend
To Codrus' form; I'm not so much his friend:
Himself should publish that (the world agree)
Before his works, or in the pillory.
Let him be black, fair, tall, short, thin or fat,
Dirty or clean, I find no theme in that.
Is that call'd humour? It has this pretence,—
'Tis neither virtue, breeding, wit, nor sense.
Unless you boast the genius of a Swift,
Beware of humour,—the dull rogue's last shift.
Can others write like you? Your task give o'er;
'Tis printing what was publish'd long before.
If nought peculiar through your labours run,
They're duplicates, and twenty are but one.
Think frequently, think close, read Nature, turn
Men's manners o'er, and half your volumes burn.
To nurse with quick reflection, be your strife,
Thoughts born from present objects, warm from life:
When most unsought, such inspirations rise,
Slighted by fools, and cherish'd by the wise.
Expect peculiar fame from these alone;
These make an author, these are all your own.
'Tis printing what was publish'd long before.
If nought peculiar through your labours run,
They're duplicates, and twenty are but one.
Think frequently, think close, read Nature, turn
Men's manners o'er, and half your volumes burn.
To nurse with quick reflection, be your strife,
Thoughts born from present objects, warm from life:
When most unsought, such inspirations rise,
Slighted by fools, and cherish'd by the wise.
Expect peculiar fame from these alone;
These make an author, these are all your own.
Life, like their Bibles, coolly men turn o'er;
Hence unexperienced children of threescore.
True, all men think of course, as all men dream;
And if they slightly think, 'tis much the same.
Hence unexperienced children of threescore.
True, all men think of course, as all men dream;
And if they slightly think, 'tis much the same.
Letters admit not of a half-renown;
They give you nothing, or they give a crown.
No work e'er gain'd true fame, or ever can,
But what did honour to the name of man.
They give you nothing, or they give a crown.
No work e'er gain'd true fame, or ever can,
But what did honour to the name of man.
Weighty the subject, cogent the discourse,
Clear be the style, the very sound of force;
Easy the conduct, simple the design,
Striking the moral, and the soul divine.
Let nature art, and judgment wit, exceed;
O'er learning reason reign; o'er that, your Creed:
Thus virtue's seeds, at once, and laurel's, grow;
Do thus, and rise a Pope, or a Despreaux.
And when your genius exquisitely shines,
Live up to the full lustre of your lines:
Parts but expose those men who virtue quit:
A fallen angel is a fallen wit;
And they plead Lucifer's detested cause,
Who for bare talents challenge our applause.
Would you restore just honours to the pen?
From able writers rise to worthy men.
Clear be the style, the very sound of force;
Easy the conduct, simple the design,
Striking the moral, and the soul divine.
Let nature art, and judgment wit, exceed;
O'er learning reason reign; o'er that, your Creed:
Thus virtue's seeds, at once, and laurel's, grow;
Do thus, and rise a Pope, or a Despreaux.
And when your genius exquisitely shines,
Live up to the full lustre of your lines:
Parts but expose those men who virtue quit:
A fallen angel is a fallen wit;
44
Who for bare talents challenge our applause.
Would you restore just honours to the pen?
From able writers rise to worthy men.
“Who's this with nonsense nonsense would restrain?
Who's this,” they cry, “so vainly schools the vain?
Who damns our trash, with so much trash replete?
As, three ells round, huge Cheyne rails at meat.”
Who's this,” they cry, “so vainly schools the vain?
Who damns our trash, with so much trash replete?
As, three ells round, huge Cheyne rails at meat.”
Shall I with Bavius, then, my voice exalt,
And challenge all mankind to find one fault?
With huge examens overwhelm my page,
And darken reason with dogmatic rage?
As if, one tedious volume writ in rhyme,
In prose a duller could excuse the crime!
Sure, next to writing, the most idle thing
Is gravely to harangue on what we sing.
And challenge all mankind to find one fault?
With huge examens overwhelm my page,
And darken reason with dogmatic rage?
As if, one tedious volume writ in rhyme,
In prose a duller could excuse the crime!
Sure, next to writing, the most idle thing
Is gravely to harangue on what we sing.
At that tribunal stands the writing tribe
Which nothing can intimidate or bribe:
Time is the judge; Time has nor friend nor foe;
False fame must wither, and the true will grow.
Arm'd with this truth, all critics I defy;
For if I fall, by my own pen I die:
While snarlers strive, with proud but fruitless pain,
To wound immortals, or to slay the slain.
Which nothing can intimidate or bribe:
Time is the judge; Time has nor friend nor foe;
False fame must wither, and the true will grow.
Arm'd with this truth, all critics I defy;
For if I fall, by my own pen I die:
While snarlers strive, with proud but fruitless pain,
To wound immortals, or to slay the slain.
Sore press'd with danger, and in awful dread
Of twenty pamphlets levell'd at my head,
Thus have I forged a buckler in my brain,
Of recent form, to serve me this campaign;
And safely hope to quit the dreadful field,
Deluged with ink, and sleep behind my shield;
Unless dire Codrus rouses to the fray
In all his might, and damns me—for a day.
Of twenty pamphlets levell'd at my head,
Thus have I forged a buckler in my brain,
Of recent form, to serve me this campaign;
And safely hope to quit the dreadful field,
Deluged with ink, and sleep behind my shield;
Unless dire Codrus rouses to the fray
In all his might, and damns me—for a day.
As turns a flock of geese, and, on the green,
Poke out their foolish necks in awkward spleen,
(Ridiculous in rage!) to hiss, not bite;
So war their quills, when sons of Dulness write.
Poke out their foolish necks in awkward spleen,
(Ridiculous in rage!) to hiss, not bite;
So war their quills, when sons of Dulness write.
| The complete works, poetry and prose, of the Rev. Edward Young prefixed, a life of the author, by John Doran ... With eight illustrations on steel, and a portrait. In two volumes | |