One man, one hardy man alone, Ufurp'd the critic's vacant throne,
And thence with neither tafte or wit, By powerful catcall from the pit,
Knock'd farce, and play, and actor down. Who pass'd the sentence then? — the Town. So now each upftart puny elf
Talks of the world, and means himself.
Yet in the circle there are those
Who hurt e'en more than open foes : Whose friendship ferves the talking turn, Just simmers to a kind concern, And with a wond'rous foft expreffion Expatiates upon indiscretion;
Flies from the Poems to the Man,
And gratifies the favourite plan To pull down other's reputation,
And build their own on that foundation.
The Scholar grave, of taste discerning, Who lives on credit for his learning,
And has no better claim to wit
Than carping at what others writ, With pitying kindness, friendly fear, Whispers conjectures in your ear.
"I'm forry - and he's much to blame- "He might have publish'd—but his name! "The thing might please a few, no doubt, "As handed privately about—
"It might amuse a friend or two, "Some partial friend, like me or you; "But when it comes to press and print "You'll find, I fear, but little in't. "He ftands upon a dangerous brink "Who totters o'er the fea of ink, "Where reputation runs aground, "The author caft away, and drown'd,
"And then-'twas wilful and abfurd, (So well approv'd, so well preferr'd,) Abruptly thus a place to quit,
"A place which most his genius hit, "The theatre for Latin wit!
"With critics round him chaste and terse, "To give a plaudit to his verse !"
Latin, I grant, shews college breeding, And some school-common-place of reading. But has in Moderns fmall pretenfion To real wit or ftrong invention. The excellence you critics praise
Hangs on a curious choice of phrase; Which pick'd and chofen here and there, From profe or verse, no matter where, Jumbled together in a dish,
Like Spanish olio, fowl, flefh, fifh, You fet the claffic hodge-podge on For pedant wits to feed upon.
Your wou'd-be Genii vainly feek
Fame from their Latin verfe, or Greek; Who would for that be most admir'd
Which blockheads may, and have acquir'd,
A mere mechanical connection
Of favourite words,
-a bare collection
where the labour'd cento
Prefents with a dull memento,
How Virgil, Horace, Ovid join, And club together half a line. These only ftrain their motley wits
In gathering patches, fhreds, and bits, To wrap their barren fancies in, And make a claffic Harlequin.
Were I at once impower'd to fhew My utmost vengeance on my foe, To punish with extremeft rigour, I could inflict no pennance bigger Than using him as learning's tool, To make him Ufher of a school. For, not to dwell upon the toil Of working on a barren soil, And lab'ring with inceffant pains To cultivate a blockhead's brains, The duties there but ill befit
The love of letters, arts, or wit. For whofoe'er, tho' flightly, fips Their grateful flavour with his lips, Will find it leave a fmatch behind, Shall fink so deeply in the mind,
It never thence can be eras'd
But, rifing up, you call it Taste.
"Twere foolish for a drudge to chuse A gufto, which he cannot use. Better discard the idle whim,
What's He to Tafte? or Tafte to Him? For me, it hurts me to the foul
To brook confinement or controul
Still to be pinion'd down to teach The fyntax, and the parts of speech; Or, what perhaps is drudging worse, The links, and joints, and rules of verse; To deal out authors by retail,
Like penny pots of Oxford ale; Oh! 'tis a fervice irksome more Than tugging at the flavish oar.
Yet fuch his task, a dismal truth, Who watches o'er the bent of youth; And while, a paltry ftipend earning, He fows the richest feeds of learning,
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