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Greatly his foes he dreads, but more his friends;

       He hurts me most who lavishly commends. 20

       Look through the world—in every other trade

       The same employment's cause of kindness made,

       At least appearance of good will creates,

       And every fool puffs off the fool he hates:

       Cobblers with cobblers smoke away the night,

       And in the common cause e'en players unite;

       Authors alone, with more than savage rage,

       Unnatural war with brother authors wage.

       The pride of Nature would as soon admit

       Competitors in empire as in wit; 30

       Onward they rush, at Fame's imperious call,

       And, less than greatest, would not be at all.

       Smit with the love of honour—or the pence—

       O'errun with wit, and destitute of sense,

       Should any novice in the rhyming trade

       With lawless pen the realms of verse invade,

       Forth from the court, where sceptred sages sit,

       Abused with praise, and flatter'd into wit,

       Where in lethargic majesty they reign,

       And what they won by dulness, still maintain, 40

       Legions of factious authors throng at once,

       Fool beckons fool, and dunce awakens dunce.

       To 'Hamilton's[84] the ready lies repair—

       Ne'er was lie made which was not welcome there—

       Thence, on maturer judgment's anvil wrought,

       The polish'd falsehood's into public brought.

       Quick-circulating slanders mirth afford;

       And reputation bleeds in every word.

       A critic was of old a glorious name,

       Whose sanction handed merit up to fame; 50

       Beauties as well as faults he brought to view;

       His judgment great, and great his candour too;

       No servile rules drew sickly taste aside;

       Secure he walk'd, for Nature was his guide.

       But now—oh! strange reverse!—our critics bawl

       In praise of candour with a heart of gall;

       Conscious of guilt, and fearful of the light,

       They lurk enshrouded in the vale of night;

       Safe from detection, seize the unwary prey,

       And stab, like bravoes, all who come that way. 60

       When first my Muse, perhaps more bold than wise,

       Bade the rude trifle into light arise,

       Little she thought such tempests would ensue;

       Less, that those tempests would be raised by you.

       The thunder's fury rends the towering oak,

       Rosciads, like shrubs, might 'scape the fatal stroke.

       Vain thought! a critic's fury knows no bound;

       Drawcansir-like, he deals destruction round;

       Nor can we hope he will a stranger spare,

       Who gives no quarter to his friend Voltaire.[85] 70

       Unhappy Genius! placed by partial Fate

       With a free spirit in a slavish state;

       Where the reluctant Muse, oppress'd by kings,

       Or droops in silence, or in fetters sings!

       In vain thy dauntless fortitude hath borne

       The bigot's furious zeal, and tyrant's scorn.

       Why didst thou safe from home-bred dangers steer,

       Reserved to perish more ignobly here?

       Thus, when, the Julian tyrant's pride to swell,

       Rome with her Pompey at Pharsalia fell, 80

       The vanquish'd chief escaped from Caesar's hand,

       To die by ruffians in a foreign land.

       How could these self-elected monarchs raise

       So large an empire on so small a base?

       In what retreat, inglorious and unknown,

       Did Genius sleep when Dulness seized the throne?

       Whence, absolute now grown, and free from awe,

       She to the subject world dispenses law.

       Without her licence not a letter stirs,

       And all the captive criss-cross-row is hers. 90

       The Stagyrite, who rules from Nature drew,

       Opinions gave, but gave his reasons too.

       Our great Dictators take a shorter way—

       Who shall dispute what the Reviewers say?

       Their word's sufficient; and to ask a reason,

       In such a state as theirs, is downright treason.

       True judgment now with them alone can dwell;

       Like Church of Rome, they're grown infallible.

       Dull superstitious readers they deceive,

       Who pin their easy faith on critic's sleeve, 100

       And knowing nothing, everything believe!

       But why repine we that these puny elves

       Shoot into giants?—we may thank ourselves:

       Fools that we are, like Israel's fools of yore,

       The calf ourselves have fashion'd we adore.

       But let true Reason once resume her reign,

       This god shall dwindle to a calf again.

       Founded on arts which shun the face of day,

       By the same arts they still maintain their sway.

       Wrapp'd in mysterious secrecy they rise, 110

       And, as they are unknown, are safe and wise.

       At whomsoever aim'd, howe'er severe,

       The envenom'd slander flies, no names appear:

       Prudence forbids that step;—then all might know,

       And on more equal terms engage the foe.

       But now, what Quixote of the age would care

       To wage a war with dirt, and fight with air?

       By interest join'd, the expert confederates stand,

       And play the game into each other's hand:

       The vile abuse, in turn by all denied, 120

       Is bandied up and down, from side to side:

       It flies—hey!—presto!—like a juggler's ball,

       Till it belongs to nobody at all.

       All men and things they know, themselves unknown,

       And publish every name—except their own.

       Nor think this strange—secure from vulgar eyes,

       The nameless author passes in disguise;

       But veteran critics are not so deceived,

       If veteran critics are to be believed.

       Once seen, they know an author evermore, 130

       Nay, swear to hands they never saw before.

       Thus in 'The Rosciad,' beyond chance or doubt,

       They

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