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But see where artful DRYDEN next appears, Grown old in rhyme, but charming even in years! Great DRYDEN next! whose tuneful Muse affords The sweetest numbers and the fittest words.

Whether in comic sounds or tragic airs

She forms her voice, she moves our smiles or tears.

If satire or heroic strains she writes,

Her hero pleases, and her satire bites.

From her no harsh unartful numbers fall;

She wears all dresses, and she charms in all.

ADDISON.

EDINBURG:

AT THE Apollo Press, BY THE MARTINS

Anno 1778.

M

Leader Family
4-29-32

AN ESSAY UPON SATIRE.

BY MR. DRYDEN AND THE E. OF MULGRAVE.

How dull and how insensible a beast

Is man, who yet would lord it o'er the rest?
Philosophers and poets vainly strove,

In ev'ry age, the lumpish mass to move;

But those were pedants, when compar'd with these, Who know not only to instruct, but please.

Poets alone found the delightful way

Mysterious morals gently to convey

In charming numbers; so that as men grew
Pleas'd with their poems, they grew wiser too.
Satire has always shone among the rest,
And is the boldest way, if not the best,

To tell men freely of their foulest faults,

To laugh at their vain deeds, and vainer thoughts.
In satire, too, the wise took diff'rent ways,
To each deserving its peculiar praise.

Some did all folly with just sharpness blame,

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Whilst others laugh'd and scorn'd 'em into shame.
But of these two the last succeeded best,

As men aim rightest when they shoot in jest.
Yet, if we may presume to blame our guides,
And censure those who censure all besides,
In other things they justly are preferr'd;
In this alone, methinks, the Ancients err'd;
Volume III.

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Against the grossest follies they declaim;
Hard they pursue, but hunt ignoble game.
Nothing is easier than such blots to hit,

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And 'tis the talent of each vulgar wit:

Besides, 'tis labour lost; for who would preach
Morals to Armstrong, or dull Aston teach?

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'Tis being devout at play, wise at a ball,
Or bringing wit and friendship to Whitehall.
But with sharp eyes those nicer faults to find,
Which lie obscurely in the wisest mind;
That little speck, which all the rest does spoil,
To wash off that would be a noble toil!
Beyond the loose-writ libels of this age,
Or the forc'd scenes of our declining stage:
Above all censure, too, each little wit
Will be so glad to see the greater hit,
Who judging better, tho' concern'd the most,
Of such correction will have cause to boast.
In such a satire all would seek a share,
And ev'ry fool will fancy he is there.
Old story-tellers, too, must pine and die,
To see their antiquated wit laid by;
Like her who miss'd her name in a lampoon,
And griev'd to find herself decay'd so soon.
No common coxcomb must be mention'd here,
Nor the dull train of dancing sparks appear,
Nor flutt'ring officers who never fight;

Of such a wretched rabble who would write?

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Much less half wits: that's more against our rules;
For they are fops, the other are but fools.
Who would not be as silly as Dunbar,

As dull as Monmouth, rather than Sir Car?

The cunning courtier should be slighted too,
Who with dull knav'ry makes so much ado;
Till the shrewd fool, by thriving too, too fast,

Like Æsop's fox, becomes a prey at last.
Nor shall the royal mistresses be nam'd,
Too ugly, or too easy, to be blam'd;

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With whom each rhyming fool keep such a pother,
They are as common that way as the other:
Yet saunt'ring Charles, between his beastly brace,
Meets with dissembling still in either place,
Affected humour, or a painted face.

In loyal libels we have often told him
How one has jilted him, the other sold him;
How that affects to laugh, how this to weep;
But who can rail so long as he can sleep?
Was ever prince by two at once misled,
False, foolish, old, ill-natur'd, and ill-bred?
Earnely and Aylsbury, with all that race
Of busy blockheads, shall have here no place :
At council set, as foils on Dorset's score,
To make that great false jewel shine the more;
Who all that while was thought exceeding wise,
Only for taking pains and telling lies.

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