I shall therefore conclude with a word of advice to those admirable
English authors who call themselves Pindaric writers, that they
would apply themselves to this kind of wit without loss of time, as
being provided better than any other poets with verses of all sizes
and dimensions.



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Operose nihil aguat.
SENECA.

Busy about nothing.

There is nothing more certain than that every man would be a wit if
he could; and notwithstanding pedants of pretended depth and
solidity are apt to decry the writings of a polite author, as flash
and froth, they all of them show, upon occasion, that they would
spare no pains to arrive at the character of those whom they seem to
despise. For this reason we often find them endeavouring at works
of fancy, which cost them infinite pangs in the production. The
truth of it is, a man had better be a galley-slave than a wit, were
one to gain that title by those elaborate trifles which have been
the inventions of such authors as were often masters of great
learning, but no genius.

In my last paper I mentioned some of these false wits among the