those hanged who would take it away. It was this that made me write. The sense of my faults made me correct; besides that it was as pleasant to me to cor. rect as to write. At p. 50, 1. 25. In the first place, I own that I have used my best endeavours to the finishing these pieces; that I made what advantage I could of the judgment of authors dead and living; and that omitted no means in my power to be informed of errors by my friends and my enemies; and that al: pect no favour on account of my youth, business, w of health, or any such idle excuses. But the true r son they are not yet more correct, is owing to the c sideration how short a time they and I have to li A man that can expect but sixty years, may be ashamed to employ thirty in measuring syllables, and bringing sense and rhyme together. We spend our youth in pursuit of riches or fame, in hopes to enjoy them when we are old; and when we are old, we find it is too late to enjoy any thing. I therefore hope the wits will pardon me if I reserve some of my time to save my soul; and that some. wise men will be of my opinion, even if I should think a part of it better spent in the enjoyments of life than in pleasing the critics. 5 are ITH age decay'd, with courts and bus'ness tir'd, Ignorance honour'd, wit and worth defam'd, 10 15 And yet so wonderful, sublime a thing, 'Tis great delight to laugh at some men's way But a much greater to give merit praise. 20 TO MR. POPE, ON HIS PASTORALS. 5 IN these more dull, as more censorious days, When few dare give, and fewer merit praise, A Muse sincere, that never flatt'ry knew, Pays what to friendship and desert is due. Young, yet judicious, in your yerse are found Art strength'ning Nature, sense improv'd by sound; Unlike those wits, whose numbers glide along So smooth, no thought e'er interrupts the song: Laboriously enervate they appear, And write not to the head, but to the ear: 10 Our minds unmov'd and unconcern'd they lull, 20 15 25 Like some fair shepherdess, the sylvan muse Should, like his garb, be for the country fit: 30 35 T 'Till by men's envy to the world reveal'd; W. WYCHERLEY. 50 TO MR. POPE, ON HIS WINDSOR FOREST. HAIL! sacred bard! a muse unknown before Salutes thee from the bleak Atlantic shore. |