English Poets of the Eighteenth Century by Unknown
page 80 of 560 (14%)
page 80 of 560 (14%)
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These sparks with awkward vanity display
What the fine gentleman wore yesterday; And but so mimic ancient wits at best, As apes our grandsires, in their doublets dressed. In words, as fashions, the same rule will hold; Alike fantastic, if too new, or old: Be not the first by whom the new are tried, Nor yet the last to lay the old aside. But most by numbers judge a poet's song; And smooth or rough, with them, is right or wrong: In the bright Muse though thousand charms conspire, Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire; Who haunt Parnassus but to please their ear, Not mend their minds; as some to church repair, Not for the doctrine, but the music there. These equal syllables alone require, Though oft the ear the open vowels tire; While expletives their feeble aid do join, And ten low words oft creep in one dull line: While they ring round the same unvaried chimes, With sure returns of still expected rhymes; Where'er you find 'the cooling western breeze,' In the next line, it 'whispers through the trees;' If crystal streams 'with pleasing murmurs creep,' The reader's threatened (not in vain) with 'sleep': Then, at the last and only couplet fraught With some unmeaning thing they call a thought, A needless Alexandrine ends the song, That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along. |
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