This, Sir, I offer as a Proof that I was seven
Years ago[49] the same cold Candidate for Fame which I would still be thought; you will not easily suppose I could have much Concern about it, while, to gratify the merry Pique of my Friends, I was capable of seeming to head the Poetical Cry then against me, and at the same Time of never letting the Publick know 'till this Hour that these Verses were written by myself: Nor do I give them you as an Entertainment, but merely to shew you this particular Cast of my Temper.
When I have said this, I would not have it thought Affectation in me when I grant that no Man worthy the Name of an Author is a more faulty Writer than myself; that I am not Master of my own Language[50] I too often feel when I am at a loss for Expression: I know too that I have too bold a Disregard for that Correctness which others set so just a Value upon: This I ought to be ashamed of, when I find that Persons, perhaps of colder Imaginations, are allowed to write better than myself. Whenever I speak of any thing that highly delights me, I find it very difficult to keep my Words within the Bounds of Common Sense: Even when I write too, the same Failing will sometimes get the better of me; of which I cannot give you a stronger Instance than in that wild Expression I made use of in the first Edition of my Preface to the Provok'd Husband; where, speaking of Mrs. Oldfield's excellent Performance in the Part of Lady Townly, my Words ran thus, viz. It is not enough to say, that here she outdid her usual Outdoing.[51]—A most vile Jingle, I grant it! You may well ask me, How could I possibly commit such a Wantonness to Paper? And I owe myself the Shame of confessing I have no Excuse for it but that, like a Lover in the Fulness of his Content, by endeavouring to be floridly grateful I talk'd Nonsense. Not but it makes me smile to remember how many flat Writers have made themselves brisk upon this single Expression; wherever the Verb, Outdo, could come in, the pleasant Accusative, Outdoing, was sure to follow it. The provident Wags knew that Decies repetita placeret:[52] so delicious a Morsel could not be serv'd up too often! After it had held them nine times told for a Jest, the Publick has been pester'd with a tenth Skull thick enough to repeat it. Nay, the very learned in the Law have at last facetiously laid hold of it! Ten Years after it first came from me it served to enliven the eloquence of an eloquent Pleader before a House of Parliament! What Author would not envy me so frolicksome a Fault that had such publick Honours paid to it?
After this Consciousness of my real Defects, you will easily judge, Sir, how little I presume that my Poetical Labours may outlive those of my mortal Cotemporaries.[53]
At the same time that I am so humble in my Pretensions to Fame, I would not be thought to undervalue it; Nature will not suffer us to despise it, but she may sometimes make us too fond of it. I have known more than one good Writer very near ridiculous from being in too much Heat about it. Whoever intrinsically deserves it will always have a proportionable Right to it. It can neither be resign'd nor taken from you by Violence. Truth, which is unalterable, must (however his Fame may be contested) give every Man his Due: What a Poem weighs it will be worth; nor is it in the Power of Human Eloquence, with Favour or Prejudice, to increase or diminish its Value. Prejudice, 'tis true, may a while discolour it; but it will always have its Appeal to the Equity of good Sense, which will never fail in the End to reverse all false Judgment against it. Therefore when I see an eminent Author hurt, and impatient at an impotent Attack upon his Labours, he disturbs my Inclination to admire him; I grow doubtful of the favourable Judgment I have made of him, and am quite uneasy to see him so tender in a Point he cannot but know he ought not himself to be judge of; his Concern indeed at another's Prejudice or Disapprobation may be natural; but to own it seems to me a natural Weakness. When a Work is apparently great it will go without Crutches; all your Art and Anxiety to heighten the Fame of it then becomes low and little.[54] He that will bear no Censure must be often robb'd of his due Praise. Fools have as good a Right to be Readers as Men of Sense have, and why not to give their Judgments too? Methinks it would be a sort of Tyranny in Wit for an Author to be publickly putting every Argument to death that appear'd against him; so absolute a Demand for Approbation puts us upon our Right to dispute it; Praise is as much the Reader's Property as Wit is the Author's; Applause is not a Tax paid to him as a Prince, but rather a Benevolence given to him as a Beggar; and we have naturally more Charity for the dumb Beggar than the sturdy one. The Merit of a Writer and a fine Woman's Face are never mended by their talking of them: How amiable is she that seems not to know she is handsome!
To conclude; all I have said upon this Subject is much better contained in six Lines of a Reverend Author, which will be an Answer to all critical Censure for ever.
Time is the Judge; Time has nor Friend nor Foe;
False Fame must wither, and the True will grow.
Arm'd with this Truth all Criticks I defy;
For, if I fall, by my own Pen I die;
While Snarlers strive with proud but fruitless Pain,