As thinking makes the Soul, low things exprest In high-rais'd terms, define a _Dunciad_ best. _Books and the Man_ demands as much, or more, Than _He_ who _wander'd to the Latian Shore_: For here (eternal Grief to _Duns_'s soul, And _B_----'s thin Ghost!) the _Part_ contains the _Whole_: Since in Mock-Epic none succeeds, but he Who tastes the Whole of Epic Poesy. The _Moral_ must be clear and understood; But finer still, if negatively good: Blaspheming _Capaneus_ obliquely shows T' adore those Gods _Æneas_ fears and knows. A _Fool's_ the _Heroe_; but the _Poet's_ end Is, to be _candid_, _modest_, and a _Friend_. Let _Classic Learning_ sanctify each Part, Not only show your Reading, but your Art. The charms of _Parody_, like those of Wit, If well _contrasted_, never fail to hit; One half in light, and one in darkness drest, (For contraries oppos'd still shine the best.) When a cold Page half breaks the Writer's heart, By this it warms, and brightens into Art. When Rhet'ric glitters with too pompous pride, By this, like _Circe_, 'tis un-deify'd. So _Berecynthia_, while her off-spring vye In homage to the Mother of the sky, (Deck'd in rich robes, of trees, and plants, and flow'rs, And crown'd illustrious with an hundred tow'rs) O'er all _Parnassus_ casts her eyes at once, And sees an hundred Sons--_and each a Dunce_. The _Language_ next: from hence new pleasure springs; For _Styles_ are dignify'd, as well as _Things_. Tho' Sense subsists, distinct from phrase or sound, Yet _Gravity_ conveys a surer wound. The chymic secret which your pains wou'd find, Breaks out, unsought for, in _Cervantes'_ mind; And _Quixot_'s wildness, like that King's of old, Turns all he touches, into _Pomp_ and _Gold_. Yet in this Pomp discretion must be had; Tho' _grave_, not _stiff_; tho' _whimsical_, not _mad_: In Works like these if _Fustian_ might appear, Mock-Epics, _Blackmore_, would not cost thee dear. We grant, that _Butler_ ravishes the Heart, As _Shakespear_ soar'd beyond the reach of Art; (For Nature form'd those Poets without Rules, To fill the world with _imitating Fools_.) What _Burlesque_ could, was by that Genius done; Yet faults it has, impossible to shun: Th' unchanging strain for want of grandeur cloys, And gives too oft the horse-laugh mirth of Boys: The short-legg'd verse, and double-gingling Sound, So quick surprize us, that our heads run round: Yet in this Work peculiar Life presides, And _Wit_, for all the world to glean besides. Here pause, my Muse, too daring and too young! Nor rashly aim at Precepts yet unsung. Can Man the Master of the _Dunciad_ teach? And these new Bays what other hopes to reach? 'Twere better judg'd, to study and explain Each ancient Grace he copies not in vain; To trace thee, Satire, to thy utmost Spring, Thy Form, thy Changes, and thy Authors sing.