§ 5. Ode on Solitude*. POPE. HAPPY the man, whose wish and care A few paternal acres bound; Content to breathe his native air,
Whofe herds with milk, whofe fields with bread,
Whofe flocks fupply him with attire ;
Whose trees in fummer yield him fhade,
In winter fire.
Bleft, who can unconcern'dly find
Hours, days, and years flide foft away;
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day.
Sound fleep by night, study and eafe
Together mix'd; fweet recreation!
And innocence, which most does please
With meditation.
Thus let me live, unfeen, unknown,
Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.
6. The dying Chriftian to his Soul. POPE. ODE.
VITAL fpark of heavenly flame!
Quit, oh quit, this mortal frame!
Trembling, hoping, ling ring, flying,
Oh the pain, the blifs of dying!
Ceafe, fond Nature, ceafe thy ftrife,
And let me languish into life!
Hark! they whisper; angels fay,
Sifter Spirit, come away!
What is this abforbs me quite,
Steals my fenfes, fhuts my fight,
Drowns my fpirits, draws my breath?
Tell me, my Soul, can this be Death?
The world recedes, it disappears!
Heav'n opens on my eyes! my cars
With founds feraphic ring!
Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!
O Grave! where is thy Victory:
O Death! where is thy Sting?
7. An Ejay on Criticifm. POPE.
"TIS hard to fay, if greater want of skill
Appear in writing, or in judging, ill;
But, of the two, lefs dang'rous is th' offence
To tire our patience, than mislead our fenfe..
Some few in that, but numbers err in this ;
Ten cenfure wrong for one who writes amifs.
A fool might once himfelf alone expofe;
Now one in verfe makes many more in profe.
'Tis with our judgments as our watches; none Go juft alike, yet each believes his own.
In Poets as true Genius is but rare,
True Tafte as feldom is the Critic's fhare;
Both muft alike from Heaven derive their light,
Let fuch teach others who themselves excel,
These born to judge, as well as those to write.
And cenfure freely who have written well.
Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true;
But are not Critics to their judgment too?
Yet, if we look more closely, we shall find
Moft have the feeds of judgment in their mind:
Nature affords at least a glimm'ring light;
The lines, tho' touch'd but faintly,are drawn right.
But as the slightest sketch, if justly trac'd,
Is by ill colouring but the more difgrac'd;
So by falfe learning is good fenfe defac'd.
Some are bewilder'd in the maze of schools,+
And fome made coxcombs Nature meant but fools.
In fearch of wit thefe lofe their common fenfe,
And then turn Critics in their own defence:
Each burns alike, who can or cannot write,
Or with a Rival's or an Eunuch's fpite.
All fools have still an itching to deride,
And fain would be upon the laughing fide.
If Mævius fcribble in Apollo's fpite,
There are who judge ftill worse than he can write.
Some have at firft for Wits, then Poets pafs'd,
Turn'd Critics next, and prov'd plain fools at last.
Some neither can for Wits nor Critics pafs;
As heavy mules are neither horfe nor afs.
Thofe half-learn'd witlings, num'rous in our ifle,
As half-form'd infects on the banks of Nile;
Unfinish'd things, one knows not what to call,
Their generation's fo equivocal :
To tell 'em would a hundred tongues require;
Or one vain wit's, that might a hundred tire.
But you, who feek to give and merit fame,
And juftly bear a Critic's noble name,
Be fure yourself and your own reach to know,
How far your genius, tafte, and learning go;
Launch not beyond your depth, but be difcreet,
And mark that point where fenfe and dulnefs meet.
Nature to all things fix'd the limits fit,
And wifely curb'd proud man's pretending wit.
As on the land while here the ocean gains,
In other parts it leaves wide fandy plains;
Thus in the foul while memory prevails,
The folid pow'r of understanding fails;
Where beams of warm imagination play,
The memory's foft figures melt away. L
One fcience only will one genius fit;
So vaft is art, fo narrow human wit:
Not only bounded to peculiar arts,
But oft in thofe confin'd to fingle parts.
Like Kings, we lofe the conquefts gain'd before,
By vain ambition still to make them more :
*This was a very early production of our Author, written at about twelve years old.
+ Many are fpoil'd by that pedantic throng,
Who with great pains teach youth to reafon wrong.
Tutors, like virtuofos, oft inclin'd
By range transfufion to improve the mind,
Draw off the fenfe we have, to pour in new;
Which yet, with all their skill, they ne'er could
Each might his fervile province well command, Would all but ftoop to what they understand.
First follow Nature, and your judgment frame
By her juft ftandard, which is still the fame:
Unerring Nature, ftill divinely bright,
One clear, unchang'd, and univerfal light,
Life, force, and beauty, muft to all impart;
At once the fource, and end, and test of Art.
Art from that fund each juft fupply provides;
Works without show, and without pomp prefides:
In fome fair body thus th' informing foul
With fpirits feeds, with vigour fills the whole,
Each motion guides, and ev'ry nerve fuftains;
Iticif unfeen, but in th' effects remains.
Some, to whom Heaven in wit has been profufe,
Want as much more, to turn it to its ufe;
For wit and judgment often are at ftrife,
Tho' meant each other's aid, like man and wife.
'Tis more to guide, than fpur the Mufe's fteed;
Refrain his fury, than provoke his fpeed:
The winged courfer, like a gen'rous horfe,
Shews most true mettle when you check his course.
Thofe rules of old difcover'd, not devis'd,
Are Nature still, but Nature methodiz’d.
Nature, like monarchy, is but reftrain'd
By the fame laws which firft herself ordain'd.
Hear how learn'd Greece her useful rules in-
dites,
When to reprefs, and when indulge our flights:
High on Parnaffus' top her fons the fhew'd,
And pointed out thofe arduous paths they trod;
Held from afar, aloft, th' immortal prize,
And urg'd the reft by equal steps to rife.
Juft precepts thus from great examples given,
She drew from them what they deriv'd from
The gen'rousCritic fann'd the Poct's fire,[heaven.
And taught the world with reafon to admire.
Then Criticifm the Mufe's hand-maid prov'd,
To drefs her charms, and make her more belov'd:
But following wits from that intention stray'd;
Who could not win the miftiefs, woo'd the maid;
Againft the poets their own arms they turn'd,
Sure to hate moft the men from whom they
So modern 'Pothecaries, taught the art [learn'd.
By Doctors bills to play the Doctor's part,
Bld in the practice of miftaken rules,
Preferibe, apply, and call their mafters fools.
Some on the leaves of ancient authors prey;
Nor time nor moths e'er fpoil'd fomuch as they:
Some drily plain, without invention's aid,
Write all receipts how poems may be made.
Thefe leave the fenfe, their learning to diíplay;
And those explain the meaning quite away.
You then whofe judgment the right courfe
would fteer,
Know well each Ancient's proper character:
His Fable, Subject, fcope in ev'ry page;
Religion, Country, genius of his age:
Without all thefe at once before your eyes,
Cavil you may, but never criticize †.
Be Homer's works your ftudy and delight;
Read them by day, and meditate by night:
Thence form your judgment, thence your max-
ims bring,
And trace the Mufcs upward to their fpring.
Still with itfelf compar'd his text peruse;
Or let your comment be the Mantuan Mufe.
When firft young Maro in his boundless mind‡,
A work t'outlaft immortal Rome defign'd,
Perhaps he feem'd above the Critic's law,
And but from Nature's fountains fcorn'd to draw:
But when t'examine ev'ry part he came,
Nature and Homer were, he found, the fame.
Convinc'd, amaz'd, he checks the bold defign;
And rules as ftrict his labour'd work confine,
As if the Stagyrite o'erlook'd each line.
Learn hence for ancient rules a juft efteem;
To copy nature is to copy them.
Some beauties yet no precepts can declare;
For there's a happinefs as well as care.
Mufic refembles Poetry; in cach
Are nameless graces which no methods teach,
And which a mafter-hand alone can reach.
If, where the rules not far enough extend
(Since rules were made but to promote their end),
Some lucky Licence anfwer to the full
Th'intent propos'd, that Licence is a rule.
Thus Pegafus, a ncarer way to take,
May boldly deviate from the common track.
Great Wits fometimes may gloriously offend,
And rife to faults true Critics dare not mend;
From vulgar bounds with brave diforder part,
And fnatch a grace beyond the reach of art;
Which, without paffing through the judgment,
gains
The heart, and all its end at once attains.
In profpects thus, fome objects please our eyes
Which out of nature's common order rife,
The fhapelefs rock, or hanging precipice.
But tho' the Ancients thus their rules invade,
AsKings difpenfe with laws themfelves have made,
Moderns, beware! or, if you must offend
Again the precept, ne'er tranfgrefs its end;
Let it be feldom, and compell'd by need;
And have, at least, their precedent to plead.
The Critic elfe proceeds without remorse,
Scizes your fame, and puts his laws in force.
I know there are, to whofe prefumptuous
thoughts
Thofe ficer beauties, ev'n in them, feem faults.
Some figures monftrous and mif-fhap'd appear,
Confider'd tingly, or beheld too near;
There are whom heaven has blefs'd with store of wit,
Yet want as much again to manage it.
+ Zoilus, had thefe been known, without a name
Had died, and Perault ne'er been damn'd to fame;
The fenfe of found Antiquity had reign'd,
And facred Homer yet been unprophan'd.
None e'er had thought his comprehensive mind
To modern cuftoms, modern rules confin'd,
Who for all ages writ, and all mankind.
When first young Maro fung of Kings and Wars,
Ere warning Phoebus touch'd his trembling ears.
Which, but proportion'd to their light, or place,
Due diftance reconciles to form and grace.
A prudent chief not always muft difplay
His pow'rs in equal ranks, and fair array;
But with th' occafion and the place comply,
Conceal his force, nay feem fometimes to fly.
Thofe oft are ftratagems which errors feem;
Nor is it Homer nods, but we that dream.
Still green with bays each ancient altar stands,
Above the reach of facrilegious hands;
Secure from Flames, from Envy's fiercer rage,
Deftructive War, and all-involving Age.
See from each clime the learn'd their incenfe bring!
Hear, in all tongues confenting Pæans ring!
In praife fo juft let ev'ry voice be join'd,
And fill the gen'ral chorus of mankind.
Hail, Bards triumphant! born in happier days;
Immortal heirs of univerfal praise !
Whole honours with increase of ages grow,
As ftreams roll down, enlarging as they flow;
Nations unborn your mighty names fhall found,
And worlds applaud that must not yet be found!
O may fome fpark of your celeftial fire
The laft, the meanest, of your fons inspire[flights;
(That on weak wings, from far, purfues your
Glows while he reads, but trembles as he writes),
To teach vain Wits a science little known;
T'admire fuperior fenfe, and doubt their own!
Of all the caufes which confpire to blind
Man's erring judgment, and mifguide the mind,
What the weak head with ftrongest bias rules,
Is Pride, the never-failing vice of fools.
Whatever Nature has in worth denied,
She gives in large recruits of needful Pride;
For as in bodies, thus in fouls we find [wind:
What wants in blood and fpirits, fwell'd with
Pride, where Wit fails, fteps in to our defence,
And fills up all the mighty void of sense.
If once right reafon drives that cloud away,
Truth breaks upon us with refiftless day.
Truft not yourself; but, your defects to know,
Make ufe of ev'ry friend-and ev'ry foe.
A little learning is a dang rous thing;
Drink deep, or tafte not the Pierian fpring:
There fhallow draughts intoxicate the brain,
And drinking largely fobers us again.
Fir'd at firft fight with what the Mufe imparts,
In fearless youth we tempt the heights of Arts,
While from the bounded level of our mind
Short views we take, nor fee the lengths behind;
But, more advanc'd, behold with strange surprise
New diftant fcenes of endlefs fcience rite!
So pleas'd at firft the tow ring Alps we try
Mount o'er the vales, and feem to tread the fky;
Th'eternal foows appear already paft,
And the first clouds and mountains feem the laft:
But, thofe attain'd, we tremble to furvey
The growing labours of the lengthen'd way;
Th' increafing profpect tires our wand'ring eyes,
Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arife!
So pleas'd at first the tow'ring Alps to try, Fill'd with ideas of fair Italy,
A perfect judge will read each work of Wit
With the fame fpirit that its author writ:
Survey the whole, nor feek flight faults to find,
Where nature moves, and rapture warms the mind;
Nor lofe, for that malignant dull delight,
The gen'rous pleasure to be charm'd with wit.
But in fuch lays as neither ebb nor flow,
Correctly cold, and regularly low;
That, fhunning faults, one quiet tenor keep;
We cannot blame indeed-but we may fleep.
In Wit, as Nature, what affects our hearts
Is not th'exactnefs of peculiar parts;
Tis not a lip, or eye, we beauty call,
But the joint force and full refult of all.
Thus when we view fome well-proportion'd dome,
The world's juft wonder, and ev'n thine, O Rome!
No fingle parts unequally furprife;
All comes united to th' admiring eyes:
No monftrous height, or breadth, or length ap-
The whole at once is bold and regular.
Whoever thinks a faultlefs picce to fec,, Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er fhall be. In ev'ry work regard the writer's end, Since none can compafs more than they intend; And if the means be just, the conduct true, Applaufe, in fpite of trivial faults, is due. As men of breeding, fometimes men of wit, T'avoid great errors, muft the lefs commit; Neglect the rules cach verbal Critic lays, For not to know fome trifles is a praife. Moft Critics, fond of fome fubfervient art, Still make the Whole depend upon a Part: They talk of principles, but notions prize; And all to one lov'd felly facrifice.
Once on a time, LaMancha's Knight, they fay, A certain Bard encount'ring on the way, Difcours'd in terms as juft, with looks as fage, As c'er could Dennis, of the Grecian ftage; Concluding all were defp'rate fets and fools Who durft depart from Ariftotle's rules. Our Author, happy in a judge fo nice, Produc'd his play, and begg 'd the Knight's advice, Made him obferve the fubject and the plot, The manners, paffions, unities; what not? All which, exact to rule, were brought about, Were but a Combat in the lifts left out. "What! leave the Combat out?" exchims the Yes, or we must renounce the Stagyrite. [Knight; "Not fo, by heaven!" he aufwers in a rage; Knights, 'fquires, and steeds, muft enter on the ftage."
So vaft a throng the ftage can ne'er contain. "Then build a new, or act it in a plain."
Thus Critics of lefs judgment than caprice, Curious, not knowing; not exact, but nice, Form fhort ideas; and offend in arts (As moft in manners) by a love to parts.
Some to Conceit alone their taste confine, And glitt'ring thoughts ftruck out at ev'ry line;
Pleas'd with a work where nothing's juft or fit; | Then, at the last and only couplet fraught
One glaring Chaos and wild heap of it.
Poets, like painters, thus, unfkill'd to trace
The naked nature and the living grace,
With gold and jewels cover ev'ry part,
And hide with ornaments their want of art.
True wit is Nature to advantage drefs'd;
What oft was thought, but ne'er fo well exprefs'd;
Something, whofe truth convinc'd at fight we find,
That gives us back the image of our mind.
As fhades more fweetly recommend the light,
So modeft plainness sets off sprightly wit.
For works may have more wit than does 'em good,
As bodies perish thro' excefs of blood.
Others for language all their care exprefs,
And value books, as women men, for drefs:
Their praife is ftill-The Style is excellent;
The Senfe they humbly take upon content.
Words are like leaves; and, where they most
abound,
Mech fruit of fenfe beneath is rarely found.
Faife cloquence, like the prifmatic glafs,
Is gaudy colours spreads on ev'ry place;
The face of Nature we no more furvey;
All glares alike, without diftinction gay:
But true Expreffion, like th unchanging Sun,
Clears and improves whate'er it fhines upon;
It gilds all objects, but it alters none.
Expreifion is the drefs of thought, and still
Appears more decent as more fuitable;
A vile conceit, in pompous words exprefs'd,
I like a clown in regal purple drefs'd:
For diffrent styles with different fubje&ts fort,
As fevral garbs with country, town, and court.
Some, by old words, to fame have made pretence;
Ancients in phrafe, mere moderns in their fenfe:
Such labour'd nothings, in fo ftrange a style,
Amaze th' unlearn`d, and make the learned imile.
Unlucky as Fungofo in the play,
Thefe fparks, with aukward vanity, display
What the fine gentleman wore yefterday;
And but fo mimic ancient wits at beft,
As apes our grandfires, in their doublets dreft.
La words, as fafhions, the fame rule will hold;
Alike fantaftic, if too new or old.
Be not the first by whom the new are tried,
Nor vet the last to lay the old afide.
But moft by numbers judge a poet's fong;
And fmooth or rough with them is right or wrong:
In the bright Mufe tho' thoufand charms confpire,
Her voice is all thefe tuneful fools admire;
Who haunt Parnaffus but to please their ear,
Not mend their minds; as fome to church repair
Not for the doctrine, but the mufic there.
Thefe equal fyllables alone require,
Tho oft the ear the open vowels tire;
While expletives their feeble aid do join,
And ten low words oft creep in one dull line :
While they ring round the fame unvaried chimes,
With fure returns of ftill expected rhymes;
Where'er you find "the cooling weftern breeze,"
In the next line," it whitpers thro' the trees:"
If cryftal ftreams "with pleafing murmurs creep,
The reader's threaten'd (not in vain) with "leep."
With fome unmeaning thing they call a thought,
A needlefs Alexandrine ends the foog, [along.
That, like a wounded fnake, drags its flow length
Leave fuch to tune their own dull rhymes, and
know
What's roundly fmooth, or languifhingly flow;
And praife the cafy vigour of a line
Where Denham's frength and Waller's fweetness
join.
True cafe in writing comes from art, not chance;
As thofe move caficft who have learn'd to dance.
'Tis not enough no harfinefs gives offence,
The found muft feem an echo to the fenfe:
Soft is the ftrain when zephyr gently blows,
And the smooth stream in fimoother numbers flows;
But when loud furges lafh the founding fhore,
The hoarfe, rough verfe fhould like the torrent
When Ajaxftrives fome rock's vaftweight to throw,
The line too labours, and the words move flow:
Not fo, when fwift Camilla fcours the plain,
Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and ikims along the
main.
Hear how Timotheus' varied lays furprife
And bid alternate paffions fall and rife!
While, at each change, the fon of Libyan Jove
Now burns with glory, and then melts with love:
Now his fierce eyes with fparkling fury glow,
Now fighs fteal out, and tears begin to flow:
Perfians and Grecks like turns of nature found,'
And the world's victor ftood fubdued by found!
The pow'r of mufic all our hearts allow;
And what Timotheus was, is Dryden now.
Avoid extremes, and thun the fault of fuch
Who ftill are pleas'd too little or too much.
That always fhews great pride, or little fenfe:
At ev'ry trifle fcorn to take offence;
Thofe heads, as ftomachs, are not fure the best,
Which naufeate all, and nothing can digeft.
Yet let not each gay turn thy rapture move;
For fools admire, but men of fenfe approve:
As things feem large which we thro' mists descry;
Dulnefs is ever apt to magnify.
Some foreign writers, fome our own, defpife;
The ancients only, or the moderns, prize.
Thus wit, like faith, by each man is applied
To one fmall feet, and all are damn'd befide.
Meanly they feek the blefling to confine,
And force that fun but on a part to fhin e,
Which not alone the fouthern wit fublimes,
But ripens fpirits in cold northern climes ;'
Which from the firft has thone on ages paft,
Enlights the prefent, and fhall warm the lait;
Tho' cach may feel increafes and decays,
And fee now clearer and now darker days.
Regard not then if wit be old or new,
But blame the falfe, and value ftill the true.
Some ne'er advance a judgment of their own,'
But catch the fpreading notion of the town;
They reafon and conclude by precedent,
And own ftale nonfenfe which they ne'erinvent.
Some judge of authors names, not works; nd then
Nor praife nor blame the writings, but the men.
Of all this fervile herd, the worst is he
That in proud dulnefs joins with quality:
A contant critic at the great man's board,
To fetch and carry nonienfe for my lord:
What woful ftuff this madrigal would be,
In fome ftarv'd hackney fonnetteer, or me!
But let a lord once own the happy lines,
How the wit brightens! how the style refines!
Before his facred name flies ev'ry fault,
And each exalted stanza teems with thought!
The vulgar thus thro' imitation err;
As oft the learn'd, by being fingular:
So much they fcorn the crowd, that if the throng
By chance go right, they purpofely go wrong:
So fchifmatics the plain believers quit,
And are but damn'd for having too much wit.
Some praise at morning what they blame at night;
But always think the laft opinion right.
A Mufe by thefe is like a mistress us'd;
This hour the's idoliz'd, the next abus'd;
While their weak heads, like towns unfortified,
'Twixt fenfe and nonfenfe daily change their fide.
Afk them the caufe; they're wifer still, they say ;
And ftill to-morrow's wifer than to-day.
We think our fathers fools, fo wife we grow;
Our wifer fons, no doubt, will think us fo.
..Once school-divines this zealous ifle o'erfpread;
Who knew moft fentences was deepest read:
Faith, Gofpel, all feem'd made to be difputed,
And none had sense enough to be confuted:
Scotifts and Thomifts now in peace remain
Amidft their kindred cobwebs in Duck-lane.
If faith itself has diff'rent dreffes worn,
What wonder modes in wit fhould take their turn!
Oft, leaving what is natural and fit,
The current folly proves the ready wit;
And authors think the reputation fafe,
Which lives as long as fools are pleas'd to laugh.
Some valuing those of their own fide or mind,
Still make themselves the measure of mankind!
Fondly we think we honour merit then,
When we but praife ourselves in other men.
Parties in wit attend on those of state,
And public faction doubles private hate.
Pride, malice, folly, againft Dryden rofe,
In various fhapes of parfons, critics, beaux:
But fenfe furviv'd when merry jefts were paft,
For rifing merit will buoy up at laft.
Might he return, and blefs once more our eyes,
New Blackmores and new Milbourns muft arife:
Nay, fhould great Homer lift his awful head,
Zoilus again would ftart up from the dead.
Envy will merit, as its fhade, purfue;
But, like a fhadow, proves the fubftance true:
For envied wit, like fol eclips'd, makes known
Th' oppofing body's groffnefs, not its own.
When first that fun too pow'rful beams difplays, It draws up vapours which obfcure its rays; But ev'n thofe clouds at last adorn its way, Reflect new glories, and augment the day.
Be thou the first true merit to befriend; His praife is loft who ftays 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 furviv'd a thousand years: Now length of fame (our fecond life) is left, And bare threefcore is all e'en that can boaft; Our fons their fathers failing language see, And such as Chaucer is shall Dryden be. So when the faithful pencil has defign'd Some bright idea of the mafter's mind, Where a new world leaps out at his command, And ready Nature waits upon his hand; When the ripe colours foften and unite, And fweetly melt into just fhade and light; When mellowing years their full perfection give, And each bold figure juft begins to live; The treach'rous colours the fair art betray, And all the bright creation fades away!
Unhappy wit, like moft miftaken things, Atones not for that envy which it brings. In youth alone its empty praife we boaft; But foon the fhort-liv'd vanity is loft: Like fome fair flow'r the early spring supplies, That gaily blooms, but ev'n in blooming dies. What is this wit, which muft our cares employ? The owner's wife, that other men enjoy: Then moft our trouble ftill when moft admir'd, And ftill the more we give, the more requir'd; Whofefame with painsweguard, but lofe with eafe, Sure fome to vex, but never all to please: 'Tis what the vicious fear, the virtuous fhun; By fools 'tis hated, and by knaves undone !
If wit fo much from ign'rance undergo,
Ah let not learning too commence its foe!
Of old, thofe met rewards who could excel,
And fuch were prais'd who but endeavour'd well :
Tho' triumphs were to gen'rals only due,
Crowns were referv'd to grace the foldiers too.
Now, they who reach Parnaffus' lofty crown,
Employ their pains to fpurn fome others down;
And while felf-love each jealous writer rules,
Contending wits become the sport of fools:
But ftill the worft with most regret commend,
For each ill author is as bad a friend.
To what bafe ends, and by what abject ways,
Are mortals urg'd thro' facred luft of praife!
Ah! ne'er fo dire a thirst of glory boast,
Nor in the critic let the man be loft.
Good-nature and good fenfe muft ever join:
To err is human, to forgive, divine.
The rhyming clowns that gladded Shakespear's age Now all are banish'd to th' Hibernian fhore!
No more with crambo entertain the ftage.
Who now in anagrams their patron praife,
O, fing their mistress in acrostic lays;
Ev'n pulpits pleas'd with merry puns of yore
Thus leaving what was natural and fit,
The current folly prov'd their ready wit:
And authors thought their reputation fafe,
Which liv'd as long as fools were pleas'd to laugh.
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