[Footnote A: Sir William Petty, author of the Political Arithmetic.]
'Tis easy learnt the art to talk by rote:
At Nando's 'twill but cost you half a groat;
The Redford school at three-pence is not dear, Sir;
At White's—the stars instruct you for a tester. 21
But he, whom nature never meant to share
One spark of taste, will never catch it there:—
Nor no where else; howe'er the booby beau
Grows great with Pope, and Horace, and Boileau.
Good native Taste, tho' rude, is seldom wrong,
Be it in music, painting, or in song.
But this, as well as other faculties,
Improves with age and ripens by degrees.
I know, my dear; 'tis needless to deny 't, 30
You like Voiture, you think him wondrous bright;
But seven years hence, your relish more matur'd,
What now delights will hardly be endur'd.
The boy may live to taste Racine's fine charms,
Whom Lee's bald orb or Rowe's dry rapture warms:
But he, enfranchis'd from his tutor's care, 36
Who places Butler near Cervantes' chair;
Or with Erasmus can admit to vie
Brown of Squab-hall of merry memory;
Will die a Goth: and nod at [A]Woden's feast, 40
Th' eternal winter long, on [B]Gregory's breast.
Long may he swill, this patriarch of the dull,
The drowsy Mum—But touc not Maro's skull!
His holy barbarous dotage sought to doom,
Good heaven! th' immortal classics to the tomb!—
Those sacred lights shall bid new genius rise 45
When all Rome's saints have rotted from the skies.
Be these your guides, if at the ivy crown
You aim; each country's classics, and your own.
But chiefly with the ancients pass your prime, 50
And drink Castalia at the fountain's brim.
The man to genuine Burgundy bred up,
Soon starts the dam of Methuen in his cup.
[Footnote A: Alluding to the Gothic heaven, Woden's hall; where the
happy are for ever employed in drinking beer, mum, and other
comfortable liquors out of the skulls of those whom they had
slain in battle.]
[Footnote B: Pope Gregory the VIth, distinguished by the name of St.
Gregory; whose pious zeal, in the cause of barbarous ignorance
and priestly tyranny, exerted itself in demolishing, to the
utmost of his power, all the remains of heathen genius.]
Those sovereign masters of the Muses skill
Are the true patterns of good writing still, 55
Their ore was rich and seven times purg'd of lead;
Their art seem'd nature, 'twas so finely hid.
Tho' born with all the powers of writing well,
What pains it cost they did not blush to tell.
Their ease (my Lords!) ne'er lowng'd for want of fire,
Nor did their rage thro' affectation tire. 61
Free from all tawdry and imposing glare
They trusted to their native grace of air.
Rapt'rous and wild the trembling soul they seize, }
Or sly coy beauties steal it by degrees; } 65
The more you view them still the more they please. }
Yet there are thousands of scholastic merit
Who worm their sense out but ne'er taste their spirit.
Witness each pedant under Bentley bred;
Each commentator that e'er commented. 70
(You scarce can seize a spot of classic ground,
With leagues of Dutch morass so floated round.)
Witness—but, Sir, I hold a cautious pen,
Lest I should wrong some honourable men.
They grow enthusiasts too—'Tis true! 'tis pity! 75
But 'tis not every lunatic that's witty.
Some have run Maro—and some Milton—mad,
Ashley once turn'd a solid barber's head:
Hear all that's said or printed if you can,
Ashley has turn'd more solid heads than one. 80
Let such admire each great or specious name;
For right or wrong the joy to them's the same.
"Right!" Yes a thousand times.—Each fool has heard
That Homer was a wonder of a bard.
Despise them civilly with all my heart— 85
But to convince them is a desperate part,
Why should you teize one for what secret cause
One doats on Horace, or on Hudibras?
'Tis cruel, Sir, 'tis needless, to endeavour
To teach a sot of Taste he knows no flavour, 90
To disunite I neither wish nor hope
A stubborn blockhead from his fav'rite fop.
Yes—fop I say, were Maro's self before 'em:
For Maro's self grows dull as they pore o'er him.
But hear their raptures o'er some specious rhime
Dub'd by the musk'd and greasy mob sublime. 96
For spleen's dear sake hear how a coxcomb prates
As clam'rous o'er his joys as fifty cats;
"Music has charms to sooth a savage breast,
To soften rocks, and oaks"—and all the rest: 100
"I've heard"—Bless these long ears!—"Heav'ns what a strain!
Good God! What thunders burst in this Campaign!
Hark Waller warbles! Ah! how sweetly killing!
Then that inimitable Splendid Shilling!
Rowe breathes all Shakespear here!—That ode of Prior 105
Is Spencer quite! egad his very fire!—
As like"—Yes faith! as gum-flowers to the rose,
Or as to Claret flat Minorca's dose;
As like as (if I am not grosly wrong)
Erle Robert's Mice to aught e'er Chaucer sung. 110