_Compress_ the _Soul_ with _Grief_, or _swell_ with vast Delight.
If this you can, your _Care_ you'll well bestow,
And some new _Milton_ or a _Spencer_ grow;
If not, a _Poet_ ne'er expect to be, 120
Content to _Rime_, like _D----y_ or like me.
But here perhaps you'll stop me, and complain,
To such _Impracticable Heights_ I strain
A Poet's _Notion_, that if _This_ be _He_,
There ne'er was one, nor e'er is like to be.
--But soft, my Friend! may we not _copy_ well
Tho far th' _Original_ our _Art_ excel?
_Divine Perfection_ we our _Pattern_ make
Th' _Idea_ thence of _Goodness_ justly take;
But they who _copy_ nearest, still must fall 130
Immensely short of their _Original_;
[Sidenote: _Converse_.]
But _Wit_ and _Genius_, _Sense_ and _Learning_ join'd,
Will all come short if _crude_ and _unrefin'd_;
'Tis CONVERSE only melts the stubborn _Ore_
And _polishes_ the _Gold_, too rough before:
So _fierce_ the _Natural Taste_, 'twill ne'er b' endur'd,
The _Wine_ is _strong_, but never rightly _cur'd_.
[Sidenote: _Style_.]
STYLE is the _Dress_ of _Thought_; a _modest_ Dress,
_Neat_, but not _gaudy_, will true _Critics_ please:
Not _Fleckno's Drugget_, nor a worse Extream 140
All daub'd with _Point_ and _Gold_ at every Seam:
Who only _Antique Words_ affects, appears
Like old King _Harry's_ Court, all Face and Ears;
Nor in a _Load_ of _Wig_ thy Visage shrowd,