Like _Hairy Meteors glimm'ring through a Cloud_:
Happy are those who here the _Medium_ know,
We hate alike a _Sloven_ and a _Beau_.
I would not follow _Fashion_ to the height
Close at the _Heels_, not yet be _out of Sight_:
_Words_ alter, like our _Garments_, every day, 150
Now _thrive_ and _bloom_, now _wither_ and _decay_.
Let those of greater _Genius_ new _invent_,
Be you with those in _Common Use_ content.
A different _Style's_ for _Prose_ and _Verse_ requir'd,
_Strong figures_ here, _Neat Plainness_ there desir'd:
A different _Set of Words_ to both belong;
What _shines_ in _Prose_, is, _flat_ and _mean_ in _Song_.
The _Turn_, the _Numbers_ must be vary'd here,
And all things in a _different Dress_ appear.
This every _School Boy_ lash'd at _Eaton_ knows, } 160
Yet _Men of Sense_ forget when they _compose_, }
And Father DRYDEN's Lines are sometimes _Prose_. }
A _vary'd Stile_ do various Works require,
This _soft_ as _Air_, and _tow'ring_ that as _Fire_.
None than th' _Epistle_ goes more _humbly_ drest,
Tho _neat_ 'twou'd be, and _decent_ as the _best_.
Such as th' ingenious _Censor_ may invite }
Oft to return with eager _Appetite_; }
So HORACE wrote, and so I'd _wish_ to write. }
Nor _creeps_ it always, but can _mount_ and _rise_, 170
And with _bold Pinions_ sail along the Skies.
The self-same Work of _different Style_ admits,
Now _soft_, now _loud_, as best the _Matter_ fits:
So Father THAMES from unexhausted _Veins_,