And quacking genius more discerning,
Scoffs at your regulars in learning.
-PEDANTS, indeed, are learning's curfe,
But IGNORANCE is fomething worse :
All are not bleft with reputation,
Built on the WANT of EDUCATION,
And fome, to letters duly bred,
Mayn't write the worse, because they've read.
Though books had better be unknown,
Than not one thought appear our own;
As fome can never speak themfelves,
But through the authors on their shelves,
Whose writing fmacks too much of reading,
As affectation spoils good breeding.
True; but that fault is feldom known,
Save in your bookish college drone,
Who, conftant (as I've heard them say)
Study their fourteen hours a-day,
And fquatting close, with dull attention,
Read themselves out of apprehenfion;
Who scarce can wash their hands or face,
For fear of lofing time, or place,
And give one hour to meat and drink,
But never half a one to THINK.
Who read, or feem to read, too much
So have I known, in that rare place,
Where Claffics always breed disgrace,
A wight, upon discoveries hot,
As whether flames have heat or not,
Study himself, poor fceptic dunce,
Into the very fire at once,
And clear the philofophic doubt,
By burning all ideas out.
With fuch, eternal books fucceffive
Lead to no fciences progreffive,
While each dull fit of ftudy paft,
Juft like a wedge drives out the last.
From thefe I ground no expectation Of genuine wit, or free tranflation; But you mistake me, friend. Suppof (Translations are but modern cloaths) I drefs my boy-(for inftance fake Maintain these children, which I mak I give him coat and breeches
But not a bib and apron too!
You would not let your child be feen,
But dreft confiftent, neat, and clean.
So would I cloath a free tranflation,
Or as POPE calls it, imitation;
Not pull down authors from my fhelf,
To spoil their wit, and plague myself,
My learning ftudious to display,
And lose their spirit by the way.
Your HORACE now-e'en borrow thence
His eafy wit, his manly sense,
But let the Moralift convey
Things in the manners of to-day,
Rather than that old garb assume,
Which only fuits a man at Rome.
Originals will always please,
And copies too, if done with cafe.
Would not old PLAUTUS wish to wear,
Turn'd English host, an English air,
If THORNTON, rich in native wit,
Would make the modes and diction fit?
Or, as I know you hate to roam,
To fetch an inftance nearer home;
Though in an idiom most unlike,
A fimilarity must strike,
Where both of fimple nature fond,
In art and genius correspond;
And naïve both (allow the phrafe
Which no one English word conveys)
Wrapt up their ftories neat and clean,
-The very man-not mere translation, But LA FONTAINE by transmigration.
Authors, as DRYDEN's maxim runs,
Have what he calls poetic fons.
Thus MILTON, more correctly wild,
Was richer SPENSER'S lawful child.
And CHURCHILL, got on all the nine,
IS DRYDEN's heir in ev'ry line.
Thus DENIS proyes his parents plain,
The child of EASE, and LA FONTAINE,
His mufe, indeed, the work fecures, And asks our praise as much as yours; For, if delighted, readers too
May pay their thanks, as well as you.
But You, my friend (fo folks complain)
For ever in this eafy vein,
This profe in verfe, this meafur'd talk,
This pace, that's neither trot nor walk,
Aim at no flights, nor ftrive to give
A real poem fit to live.
(To critics no offence, I hope) PRIOR fhall live as long as POPE,
Each in his manner fure to please,
While both have ftrength, and both have cafe;
Yet though their various beauties strike,
Their ease, their strength is not alike.
Both with confummate horfeman's fkill,
Ride as they lift, about the bill;
But take, peculiar in their mode,
Their favourite horfe, and favourite road.
For me, once fond of author-fame,
Now forc'd to bear its weight and fhame,
I have no time to run a race,
A traveller's my only pace.
They, whom their steeds unjaded bear
Around Hyde-park, to take the air,
May frifk and prance, and ride their fill,
And go all paces which they will;
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