EPILOGUE

ΤΟ

MR. ROWE'S JANE SHORE.

(Designed for Mrs. Oldfield.)

PRODIGIOUS this! the frail one of our play
From her own sex should mercy find to-day!
You might have held the pretty head aside,
Peep'd in your fans, been serious, thus, and cried-
'The play may pass-but that strange creature,
Shore,

I can't-indeed now-I so hate a whore-'
Just as a blockhead rubs his thoughtless skull,
And thanks his stars he was not born a fool;
So from a sister sinner you shall hear,

'How strangely you expose yourself, my dear!'
But let me die, all raillery apart,

Our sex are still forgiving at their heart;
And, did not wicked custom so contrive,
We'd be the best good-natur'd things alive.

There are, 'tis true, who tell another tale,
That virtuous ladies envy while they rail;
Such rage without betrays the fire within;
In some close corner of the soul they sin;
Still hoarding up, most scandalously nice,
Amidst their virtues a reserve of vice.
The godly dame, who fleshly failings damns,
Scolds with her maid, or with her chaplain crams.
Would you enjoy soft nights, and solid dinners?
Faith, gallants! board with saints, and bed with sin-
Well, if our author in his wife offends,

He has a husband that will make amends:

[ners.

EPILOGUE TO MR. ROWE'S JANE SHORE. 193

He draws him gentle, tender, and forgiving;
And sure such kind good creatures may be living.
In days of old, they pardon'd breach of vows,
Stern Cato's self was no relentless spouse:
Plu-Plutarch, what's his name, that writes his life?
Tells us, that Cato dearly lov'd his wife :
Yet if a friend, a night or so, should need her,
He'd recommend her as a special breeder.
To lend a wife, few here would scruple make ;
But, pray, which of you all would take her back?
Though with the stoic chief our stage may ring,
The stoic husband was the glorious thing.
The man had courage, was a sage, 'tis true,
And lov'd his country-but what's that to you?
Those strange examples ne'er were made to fit ye,
But the kind cuckold might instruct the city:
There, many an honest man may copy Cato,
Who ne'er saw naked sword, or look'd in Plato.
If, after all, you think it a disgrace,
That Edward's miss thus perks it in your face;
To see a piece of failing flesh and blood,

In all the rest so impudently good;

Faith, let the modest matrons of the town

Come here in crowds, and stare the strumpet down.

AN

ESSAY ON CRITICISM.

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1709.

PART I.

Introduction. That it is as great a fault to judge ill as to write ill, and a more dangerous one to the public.―That a true taste is as rare to be found as a true genius.-That most men are born with some taste, but spoiled by false education.-The multitude of critics, and causes of them.-That we are to study our own taste, and know the limits of it.-Nature the best guide of judgment.-Improved by art and rules, which are but methodized Nature.-Rules derived from the practice of the ancient poets. -That therefore the ancients are necessary to be studied by a critic, particularly Homer and Virgil.-Of licences, and the use of them by the ancients.-Reverence due to the ancients, and praise of them.

'Tis hard to say if greater want of skill
Appear in writing or in judging ill;
But of the two, less dangerous is the' offence
To tire our patience than mislead our sense;
Some few in that, but numbers err in this,
Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss;
A fool might once himself alone expose,
Now one in verse makes many more in prose.
'Tis with cur judgments as our watches, none
Go just alike, yet each believes his own.

In poets as true genius is but rare,

True taste as seldom is the critic's share;

Both must alike from Heaven derive their light,
These born to judge, as well as those to write.
Let such teach others who themselves excel,
And censure freely who have written well.
Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true,
But are not critics to their judgment too?
Yet if we look more closely, we shall find
Most have the seeds of judgment in their mind:
Nature affords at least a glimmering light;
The lines, though touch'd but faintly, are drawn
right:

But as the slightest sketch, if justly trac’d,
Is by ill-colouring but the more disgrac❜d,
So by false learning is good sense defac'd:
Some are bewilder'd in the maze of schools,
And some made coxcombs Nature meant but fools:
In search of wit these lose their common sense,
And then turn critics in their own defence:
Each burns alike, who can or cannot write,
Or with a rival's or an eunuch's spite.
All fools have still an itching to deride,
And fain would be upon the laughing side.
If Mævius scribble in Apollo's spite,
There are who judge still worse than he can write.
Some have at first for wits, then poets, past;
Turn'd critics next, and prov'd plain fools at last.
Some neither can for wits nor critics pass,

As heavy mules are neither horse nor ass.
Those half-learn'd witlings, numerous in our isle,
As half-form'd insects on the banks of Nile;
Unfinish'd things, one knows not what to call,
Their generation's so equivocal;