Nor no where else; howe'er the booby beau
Grows great with Pope, and Horace, and Boileau.

Good native Taste, tho' rude, is seldom wrong,
Be it in music, painting, or in song.
But this, as well as other faculties,
Improves with age and ripens by degrees.
I know, my dear; 'tis needless to deny 't, 30
You like Voiture, you think him wondrous bright;
But seven years hence, your relish more matur'd,
What now delights will hardly be endur'd.
The boy may live to taste Racine's fine charms,
Whom Lee's bald orb or Rowe's dry rapture warms:
But he, enfranchis'd from his tutor's care, 36
Who places Butler near Cervantes' chair;
Or with Erasmus can admit to vie
Brown of Squab-hall _of merry memory_;
Will die a Goth: and nod at [A]Woden's feast, 40
Th' eternal winter long, on [B]Gregory's breast.

Long may he swill, this patriarch of the dull,
The drowsy Mum--But touc not Maro's skull!
His holy barbarous dotage sought to doom,
Good heaven! th' immortal classics to the tomb!--
Those sacred lights shall bid new genius rise 45
When all Rome's saints have rotted from the skies.
Be these your guides, if at the ivy crown
You aim; each country's classics, and your own.
But chiefly with the ancients pass your prime, 50
And drink Castalia at the fountain's brim.