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Much time for immortality to pay,
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.
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.
Nor frequent write, though you can do it well;
Do boldly what you do, and let your page
Let satire less engage you than applause ;
Is genius yours? be yours a glorious end,
spare the nian: 'Tis dull to be as witty as you can. Satire recoils whenever charg'd 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, or 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 buro;
To nurse with quick reflection be your strife,
Life, like their Bibles, coolly men turn o'er; Hence unexperienc'd 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;
Weighty the subject, cogent the discourse,
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. “ Who's this with nonsense, nonsense would re
Who's this (they cry) so vainly schools the vain?
Shall I with Bavius then my voice exalt,
At that tribunal stands the writing tribe,
Sore prest with danger, and in awful dread
As turns a flock of geese, and, on the green,
THOUGH strength of genius, by experience taught,
As when the rapid Rhone, o'er swelling tides,
So thou shalt, hence, absorb each feeble ray, Each dawn of meaning, in thy brighter day; Shalt like, or, where thou canst not like, excuse, Since no mean interest shall profane the muse, No malice, wrapt in truth's disguise, offend, Nor flattery taint the freedom of the friend. When first a generous
surveys And views the crowds that on their fortune wait; Pleas'd with the show (though little understood)