large/10022/essayoncriticism_1505_librivox_64kb_mp3/essayoncriticism_03_pope_64kb_21
large/10022/essayoncriticism_1505_librivox_64kb_mp3/essayoncriticism_03_pope_64kb
English
10022
No place so sacred from such fops is barred, Nor is Paul's Church more safe than Paul's Churchyard: [623] Nay, fly to altars; there they'll talk you dead, For fools rush in where angels fear to tread Distrustful sense with modest caution speaks, It still looks home, and short excursions makes; But rattling nonsense in full volleys breaks, And, never shocked, and never turned aside. SO PLAY SO SACRED FROM SUCH FOBS IS BURIED NOR IS PAUL'S CHURCH MORE SAFE THAN PAUL'S CHURCHYARD NAY FLY TO ALTARS THERE THEY'LL TALK YOU DEAD FOR FOOLS WATCHING WHERE ANGELS FEAR TO TREAD DISTRUSTING SENSE WITH MODEST CAUTION SPEAK IT STILL LOOKS HOME AND SHORT EXCURSION MAKES BUT RATTLING NONSENSE IN FULL VOLLEY BREAKS AND NEVER SHOT AND NEVER TURNED ASIDE
ey can write? Still humming on, their drowsy course they keep, And lashed so long like tops are lashed asleep. False steps but help them to renew the race, As after stumbling, jades will mend their pace. What crowds of these, impenitently bold, In sounds and jingling syllables grown old, Still run on poets in a raging vein, Even to the dregs and squeezing of the brain; Strain out the last dull droppings of their sense, And rhyme with all the rage of impotence! Such shameless bards we have, and yet, 'tis true, There are as mad abandoned critics, too The bookful blockhead ignorantly read, With loads of learned lumber in his head, With his own tongue still edifies his ears, And always listening to himself appears All books he reads and all he reads assails From Dryden's Fables down to Durfey's Tales [617] With him most authors steal their works or buy; Garth did not write his own Dispensary [619] Name a new play, and he's the poets friend Nay, showed his faults--but when would poets mend? ETTER THAN YOUR SPITE FOR WHO CAN RAIL SO LONG AS THEY CAN WRITE STILL HUMMING ON THEIR DROWSY CALLS THEY KEEP AND LASHED SO LONG LIKE TOPS AT LAST TO SLEEP FALSE STEPS THAT HELP THEM TO RENEW THE RAYS AS AFTER STUMBLING JADES WILL MEND THEIR PACE WHAT CROWDS OF THESE IMPERTINENT BOLD SOUNDS AND JIGGLING SYLLABLES GROWN OLD STILL RUN ON POETS IN A RAGING VEIN EVEN TO THE DREGS AND SQUEEZING OF THE BRAIN STRAIN OUT THE LAST DULL DROPPINGS OF THEIR SENSE AND RHYME WITH ALL THE RAGE OF IMPOTENCE BUT SHAMELESS BARDS WE HAVE AND YET TIS TRUE THERE ARE AS MAD ABANDONED CRITICS TOO THE BOOKFUL BLOCKHEAD IGNORANT READ WITH LOADS OF LEARNED LUMBER IN HIS HEAD WITH HIS OWN TONGUE STILL EDIFIES HIS EARS AND ALWAYS LISTENING TO HIMSELF APPEARS ALL BOOKS HE READS AND ALL HE READS SELES FROM DRYDEN'S FABLES DOWN TO DOFF HIS TALES WITH HIM WAS AUTHOR'S STILL THEIR WORKS OR BY GOD DID NOT WRITE HIS OWN DISPENSARY NAME A NEW PLAY AND HE IS THE POET'S FRIEND NAY SHOW HIS FAULTS BUT WHEN WOULD POETS MEND
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