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, 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_, Moves _clean_ and _equable_ along the _Plains_; Yet still of different _Depth_ and _Breadth_ is found, And _humours_ still the _Nature_ of the _Ground_. [Sidenote: _Reading_.] READING will mend your Style and raise it higher, And _Matter_ find to feed th' _Immortal Fire_: But if you would the _Vulgar Herd_ excel, 180 And justly gain the _Palm_ of _Writing well_, Wast not your Lamp in scanning _Vulgar Lines_, Where _groveling_ all, or _One in twenty_ shines; With _Prudence_ first among the _Antients_ chuse, The _noblest_ only, and the _best_ peruse; Such HOMER is, such VIRGIL's sacred Page, Which _Death_ defie, nor yield to _Time_ or _Age_; New _Beauties_ still their _Vigorous Works_ display, Their _Fruit_ still _mellows_, but can ne'er _decay_. The _Modern Pens_ not altogether slight, 190 Be _Master_ of your _Language_ e'er you write! _Immortal_ TILLOTSON with Judgment scan, "That _Man of Praise, that something more than Man_!" Ev'n those who hate his _Ashes_ this advise, } As from black Shades resplendent Lightning flies, } _Unwilling Truths_ break through a _Cloud of Lies_. }