Ancients, then what Progress the_ French Criticks _have further made,
and also what remains as yet untouch'd, and uncompleat_.]

In this, said he, I like your Temper, Cubbin. By those few Pieces we
have seen of your's, and those I hear you have in Manuscript, you seem
determin'd to engage in those Kinds of Poetry and those Subjects in
Criticism, which the Ancients have left us most imperfect. Here, if you
fail, you may be still some help to him who shall Attempt it next; and
if all decline it, apprehensive of no fair success, how should it ever
attain Perfection.

Then Cubbin told the _Critick_, that the reason of his entering upon
Pastoral, where the Labour was excessive and the Honour gain'd minute,
was this; He had unhappily reflected on that thing, we call a Name, so
thoroughly, and weigh'd so closely what like Happiness it would afford,
that he could now receive no pleasure from the Thoughts of growing
famous; nor would write one Hour in any little kind of Poetry, which was
not able to take up and possess his Mind with Pleasure, tho' it would
procure him the most glaring Character in Christendom. This Temper was
especially conspicuous while he tarried at the Fountain where he imbibed
the little Knowledge he possesses. He seem'd as out of humour with
Applause, and dafted aside the Wreath if ever any seem'd dispos'd to
offer it.

I' faith, said _Cubbin_, I am nothing careful whether any Pastorals be
cry'd up or not. Were I dispos'd to write for a Name, no whit would I
engage in either the Sublime or Soft in Writing: For as the middle Way,
made up of both, is vastly easiest to attain; so is it pleasant to the
most Imaginations, and acquires the widest Character.