believes himself a wit, that is, every man, will pretend at the same
time to a right of judging. But to press it yet further, there are
many witty men, but few poets; neither have all poets a taste of
tragedy. And this is the rock on which they are daily splitting.
Poetry, which is a picture of nature, must generally please; but it
is not to be understood that all parts of it must please every man;
therefore is not tragedy to be judged by a witty man, whose taste is
only confined to comedy. Nor is every man, who loves tragedy, a
sufficient judge of it; he must understand the excellences of it too,
or he will only prove a blind admirer, not a critic. From hence it
comes that so many satires on poets, and censures of their writings,
fly abroad. Men of pleasant conversation (at least esteemed so),
and endued with a trifling kind of fancy, perhaps helped out with
some smattering of Latin, are ambitious to distinguish themselves
from the herd of gentlemen, by their poetry--

Rarus enim ferme sensus communis in illa Fortuna.

And is not this a wretched affectation, not to be contented with what
fortune has done for them, and sit down quietly with their estates,
but they must call their wits in question, and needlessly expose
their nakedness to public view? Not considering that they are not to
expect the same approbation from sober men, which they have found
from their flatterers after the third bottle. If a little glittering
in discourse has passed them on us for witty men, where was the
necessity of undeceiving the world? Would a man who has an ill title
to an estate, but yet is in possession of it; would he bring it of
his own accord, to be tried at Westminster? We who write, if we want
the talent, yet have the excuse that we do it for a poor subsistence;
but what can be urged in their defence, who, not having the vocation