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Did some more sober Critics come abroad? 155
If wrong, I smil'd; if right, I kiss'd the rod.
Pains, reading, study, are their just Pretence,
And all they want is spirit, taste, and sense.
Comma's and points they set exactly right,
And 'twere a Sin to rob them of their Mite. 160
Yet ne'er one Sprig of Laurel grac'd these Ribbalds,
From Flashing Bently down to pidling Tibbalds.
The Wight who reads not, and but scans and spells,
The Word-catcher that lives on Syllables,
Such piece-meal Critics some regard may claim, 165
Preserv'd in Milton's or in Shakespear's Name.
Pretty! in Amber to observe the Forms
Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms;
The Things, we know, are neither rich nor rare,
But wonder how the Devil they got there. 170
If wrong, I smil'd; if right, I kiss'd the rod.
Pains, reading, study, are their just Pretence,
And all they want is spirit, taste, and sense.
Comma's and points they set exactly right,
And 'twere a Sin to rob them of their Mite. 160
Yet ne'er one Sprig of Laurel grac'd these Ribbalds,
From Flashing Bently down to pidling Tibbalds.
The Wight who reads not, and but scans and spells,
The Word-catcher that lives on Syllables,
Such piece-meal Critics some regard may claim, 165
Preserv'd in Milton's or in Shakespear's Name.
Pretty! in Amber to observe the Forms
Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms;
The Things, we know, are neither rich nor rare,
But wonder how the Devil they got there. 170
Were others angry? I excus'd them too;
Well might they rage; I gave them but their due:
A Man's true Merit 'tis not hard to find,
But each Man's secret Standard in his Mind,
That casting weight Pride adds to Emptiness, 175
This who can gratify? for who can guess?
Well might they rage; I gave them but their due:
A Man's true Merit 'tis not hard to find,
But each Man's secret Standard in his Mind,
That casting weight Pride adds to Emptiness, 175
This who can gratify? for who can guess?
The
