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Reason is that substantial, useful part,
Which gains the Head, while 'tother wins the Heart.
Here I should all the various sorts of Verse,
And the whole Art of Poetry rehearse,
But who that task can after Horace do?
The best of Masters and Examples too!
Ecchoes at best, all we can say is vain,
Dull the Design, and fruitless were the pain;
'Tis true, the Ancients we may rob with ease,
But who with that sad shift himself can please,
Without an Actors pride? A Player's Art
Is above his, who writes a borrowed part.
Yet modern Laws are made for later Faults,
And new Absurdities inspire new Thoughts;
What need has Satyr then to live on Theft
When so much fresh occasion still is left?
Fertile our Soil, and full of rankest Weeds,
And Monsters worse than ever Nilus breeds.
But hold, the Fools shall have no cause to fear,
'Tis Wit add Sense that is the subject here
Defects of witty Men deserve a Cure,
And those who are so, will ev'n this endure.
First then of Songs, that now so much abound,
Without his Song no Fop is to be found,Songs.
A most offensive Weapon which he draws
On all he meets, against Appollo's Laws:
Tho' nothing seems more easie, yet no part
Of Poetry requires a nicer Art;
