Part 37 (1/2)

Serious should be an author's final views; Who write for pure amus.e.m.e.nt, ne'er amuse.

An author! 'tis a venerable name!

How few deserve it, and what numbers claim!

Unblest with sense above their peers refin'd, Who shall stand up, dictators to mankind?

Nay, who dare s.h.i.+ne, if not in virtue's cause?

That sole proprietor of just applause.

Ye restless men, who pant for letter'd praise, With whom would you consult to gain the bays?- With those great authors whose fam'd works you read?

'Tis well: go, then, consult the laurell'd shade.

What answer will the laurell'd shade return?

Hear it, and tremble! he commands you burn The n.o.blest works his envied genius writ, That boast of nought more excellent than wit.

If this be true, as 'tis a truth most dread, Woe to the page which has not that to plead!

Fontaine and Chaucer, dying, wish'd unwrote, The sprightliest efforts of their wanton thought: Sidney and Waller, brightest sons of fame, Condemn the charm of ages to the flame: And in one point is all true wisdom cast, To think that early we must think at last.

Immortal wits, ev'n dead, break nature's laws, Injurious still to virtue's sacred cause; And their guilt growing, as their bodies rot, (Revers'd ambition!) pant to be forgot.

Thus ends your courted fame: does lucre then, The sacred thirst of gold, betray your pen?

In prose 'tis blameable, in verse 'tis worse, Provokes the muse, extorts Apollo's curse: His sacred influence never should be sold: 'Tis arrant simony to sing for gold: 'Tis immortality should fire your mind; Scorn a less paymaster than all mankind.

If bribes you seek, know this, ye writing tribe!

Who writes for virtue has the largest bribe: All's on the party of the virtuous man; The good will surely serve him, if they can; The bad, when interest, or ambition guide, And 'tis at once their interest and their pride: But should both fail to take him to their care, He boasts a greater friend, and both may spare.

Letters to man uncommon light dispense; And what is virtue, but superior sense?

In parts and learning you who place your pride, Your faults are crimes, your crimes are double dyed.

What is a scandal of the first renown, But letter'd knaves, and atheists in a gown?

'Tis harder far to please than give offence; The least misconduct d.a.m.ns the brightest sense; Each shallow pate, that cannot read your name, Can read your life, and will be proud to blame.

Flagitious manners make impressions deep On those, that o'er a page of Milton sleep: Nor in their dulness think to save your shame, True, these are fools; but wise men say the same.

Wits are a despicable race of men, If they confine their talents to the pen; When the man shocks us, while the writer s.h.i.+nes, Our scorn in life, our envy in his lines.

Yet, proud of parts, with prudence some dispense, And play the fool, because they're men of sense.

What instances bleed recent in each thought, Of men to ruin by their genius brought!

Against their wills what numbers ruin shun, Purely through want of wit to be undone!

Nature has shown, by making it so rare, That wit's a jewel which we need not wear.

Of plain sound sense life's current coin is made; With that we drive the most substantial trade.

Prudence protects and guides us; wit betrays; A splendid source of ill ten thousand ways; A certain snare to miseries immense; A gay prerogative from common sense; Unless strong judgment that wild thing can tame, And break to paths of virtue and of fame.

But grant your judgment equal to the best, Sense fills your head, and genius fires your breast; Yet still forbear: your wit (consider well) 'Tis great to show, but greater to conceal; As it is great to seize the golden prize Of place or power; but greater to despise.

If still you languish for an author's name, Think private merit less than public fame, And fancy not to write is not to live; Deserve, and take, the great prerogative.

But ponder what it is; how dear 'twill cost, To write one page which you may justly boast.

Sense may be good, yet not deserve the press; Who write, an awful character profess; The world as pupil of their wisdom claim, And for their stipend an immortal fame: Nothing but what is solid or refin'd, Should dare ask public audience of mankind.

Severely weigh your learning, and your wit: Keep down your pride by what is n.o.bly writ: No writer, fam'd in your own way, pa.s.s o'er; Much trust example, but reflection more: More had the ancients writ, they more had taught; Which shows some work is left for modern thought.

This weigh'd, perfection know; and known, adore; Toil, burn for that; but do not aim at more; Above, beneath it, the just limits fix; And zealously prefer four lines to six.

Write, and re-write, blot out, and write again, And for its swiftness ne'er applaud your pen.

Leave to the jockeys that Newmarket praise, Slow runs the Pegasus that wins the bays.

Much time for immortality to pay, Is just and wise; for less is thrown away.

Time only can mature the labouring brain; Time is the father, and the midwife pain: The same good sense that makes a man excel, Still makes him doubt he ne'er has written well.

Downright impossibilities they seek; What man can be immortal in a week?

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 l.u.s.tre 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; Men may too oft, though not too much, excel.