There are originally, answer'd Sophy, no perfect and real Kinds of
Writing but them two. As for the Strong Lines, 'tis supplying the want
of the Sublime with the Courtly and Florid Stile; as what we usually
call the Fine and Agreeable is but bastard and degenerate from the truly
Tender. But yet it must be added that this suits the Populace the best.

Here Cubbin answer'd Sophy, that these were pretty ways of making
Verses, but his mind was of such a peculiar Turn, that it requir'd some
greater Design, and more laborious to occupy it, or else it would not
be sufficiently engag'd to be delighted. Twould not be taken off
from reflecting on what a stupid Dream is Life; and what trifling and
impertinent Creatures all Mankind. Unless, said He, I'm busy'd, and in a
hurry, I can't impose upon my self the Thought that I am a Being of some
little significance in the Creation; I can't help looking forward and
discovering how little better I shall be if I write well, or ill, or not
at all. I would fain perswade my self, continued he, that a _Shakespear_
and a _Milton_ see us now take their Works in hand with Pleasure and
read with Applause.

Tis certain, answer'd Sophy, that the less we know of Nature and our
Selves, the more is Life delightful. If we take all things as we see
'em, Life is a good simple kind of Dream enough, but if we awaken out
of the dull Lethargy, we are so unhappy as to discover, that tis all and
every thing Folly, and Nonsense and Stupidity.--But we walk in a vain
Shadow and disquiet our selves in vain.

Here Cubbin fell with his Face to the Ground, and said, I prethee now no
more of this; your Book you open'd but forgot to give me the Contents.

Sophy recollected him; and told the Swain, That Book contain'd some