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196
ON Reading the Critique on Milton, IN THE SPECTATOR.
By the same Hand.
Look here, ye Pedants, who deserve that Name,
And lewdly ravish the great Critick's Fame,
In cloudless Beams of Light true Judgment plays,
How mild the Censure, how refin'd the Praise!
Beauties ye pass, and Blemishes ye cull,
Profoundly read, and Eminently dull.
Tho' Lynnets sing, yet Owls feel no delight;
For they the best can Judge, who best can write.
O! had great Milton but surviv'd to hear
His Numbers try'd, by such a tuneful Ear,
How would he all thy just Remarks commend?
The more the Critick own the more the Friend.
197
Th'exalted Pleasure would encrease to Pain:
He would not blush for Faults he rarely knew,
But blush for Glories, thus excell'd by you.
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