Fair nymphs and well-dress'd youths around her

shone,

But ev'ry eye was fix'd on her alone.

On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore,
Which Jews might kiss, and Infidels adore.
Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose,
Quick as her eyes, and as unfix'd as those:
Favours to none, to all she smiles extends;
Oft she rejects, but never once offends.
Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike,
And, like the sun, they shine on all alike.
Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride,
Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to hide:
If to her share some female errors fall,

Look on her face, and you'll forget 'em all.
This nymph, to the destruction of mankind,
Nourish'd two locks, which graceful hung behind
In equal curls, and well conspir'd to deck
With shining ringlets the smooth iv'ry neck.
Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains,
And mighty hearts are held in slender chains.
With hairy springes we the birds betray,
Slight lines of hair surprize the finny prey,
Fair tresses man's imperial race insnare,
And beauty draws us with a single hair.

РОРЕ.

Bliss.

Bliss.

See some fit passion ev'ry age supply,

Hope travels through, nor quits us when we die,
Behold the child, by Nature's kindly law,

Pleas'd with a rattle, tickled with a straw;
Some livelier play-thing gives his youth delight,
A little louder, but as empty quite:

Scarfs, garters, gold, amuse his riper stage,
And beads and pray'r-books are the toys of age;
Pleas'd with this bauble still, as that before;
Till tir'd he sleeps, and life's poor play is o'er.
Mean-while opinion gilds with varying rays
Those painted clouds that beautify our days;
Each want of happiness by hope supply'd,
And each vacuity of sense by pride:
These build as fast as knowledge can destroy;
In folly's cup still laughs the bubble, joy;
One prospect lost, another still we gain;
And not a vanity is giv'n in vain;

Ev'n mean self-love becomes, by force divine,
The scale to measure others' wants by thine.
See! and confess, one comfort still must rise;
"Tis this, tho' man's a fool, yet God is wise.

POPE.

Boldness

Boldness in Composition.

GREAT wits sometimes may gloriously offend,
And rise to faults true critics dare not mend;
From vulgar bounds with brave disorder part,
And snatch a grace beyond the reach of art.

POPE.

A Critic.

Be silent always, when you doubt your sense, And speak, tho' sure, with seeming diffidence: Some positive, persisting fops we know,

Who, if once wrong, will needs be always so;

But
you, with pleasure own your errors past,
And make each day a critique on the last.

"Tis not enough your counsel still be true; Blunt truths more mischief than nice falshoods do; Men must be taught as if you taught them not, And things unknown propos'd as things forgot. Without good-breeding, truth is disapprov'd; That only makes superior sense belov❜d.

Be niggards of advice on no pretence; For the worst avarice is that of sense.

With

With mean complacence ne'er betray your trust, Nor be so civil as to prove unjust.

Fear not the anger of the wise to raise;

Those best can bear reproof who merit praise.
'Tis best sometimes your censure to restrain,
And charitably let the dull be vain:
Your silence there is better than your spite,
For who can rail so long as they can write?
Still humming on their drowsy course they keep,
And lash'd so long, like tops are lash'd asleep.

False steps but help them to renew the race,
As, after stumbling, jades will mend their pace..
What crowds of these impenitently bold,
In sounds and jingling syllables grown old,
Still run on poets in a raging vein,

E'en to the dregs and squeezings of the brain;
Strain out the last dull dropping of their sense,
And rhyme with all the rage of impotence.

But where's the man, who counsel can bestow, Still pleas'd to teach, and yet not proud to know? Unbiass'd, or by favour or by spite;

Not dully prepossess'd, nor blindly right;
Tho' learn'd, well-bred, and tho' well-bred, sincere;
Modestly bold, and humanely severe:

Who to a friend his faults can freely show,
And gladly praise the merit of a foe?

Blest with a taste exact, yet unconfin'd,
A knowledge both of books and human kind;
Gen'rous converse; a soul exempt from pride;
And love to praise, with reason on his side?

POPE.

Criticism.

"Tis hard to say if greater want of skill
Appear in writing or in judging ill;
But, of the two, less dang'rous is th' offence
To tire our patience, than mislead our sense.
Some few in that, but numbers err in this,
Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss;
A fool might once himself alone expose,
Now one in verse makes many more in prose.
"Tis with our judgments as our watches, none
Go just alike, yet each believes his own.
In poets as true genius is but rare,

True taste as seldom is the critics' share,

Both must alike from heav'n derive their light, These born to judge, as well as those to write. Let such teach others who themselves excel, And censure freely who have written well.

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