Or Men and Manners prompt the easy Page To mark the flying Follies of the Age: Whatever Good ye boast, that Good impart; Inform the Head and rectify the Heart. Lo! all in Silence, all in Order stand, And mighty Folio’s first, a lordly Band; Then Quarto’s their well-order’d Ranks maintain, And light Octavo’s fill a spacious Plain; See yonder, rang’d in more frequented Rows, An humbler Band of Duodecimo’s; While undistinguish’d Trifles swell the Scene, The last new Play and fritter’d Magazine: Thus ’tis in Life, where first the Proud, the Great, In leagu’d Assembly keep their cumbrous State; Heavy and huge, they fill the World with dread, Are much admir’d and are but little read: The Commons next, a middle Rank are found; Professions fruitful pour their Offspring round; Reasoners and Wits are next their Place allow’d, And last, of vulgar Tribes, a countless Crowd. First let us view the Form, the Size, the Dress; For, these the Manners, nay the Mind express; That Weight of Wood, with leathern Coat o’erlaid, Those ample Clasps, of solid Metal made; The close-prest Leaves, unclos’d for many an Age, The dull red Edging of the well-fill’d Page; On the broad Back the stubborn Ridges roll’d, Where yet the Title stands in tarnish’d Gold: These all a sage and labour’d Work proclaim, A painful Candidate for lasting Fame: No idle Wit, no trifling Verse can lurk, In the deep Bosom of that weighty Work; No playful Thoughts degrade the solemn Style, Nor one light Sentence claims a transient Smile. Hence, in these Times, untouch’d the Pages lie, And slumber out their Immortality; They _had_ their Day, when, after all his Toil, His Morning Study, and his Midnight Oil, At length an Author’s ONE great Work appear’d, By patient Hope and Length of Days, endear’d; Expecting Nations hail’d it from the Press, Poëtic Friends prefix’d each kind Address; Princes and Kings receiv’d the pond’rous Gift, And Ladies read the Work, they could not lift. Fashion, though Folly’s Child, and Guide of Fools, Rules e’en the Wisest, and in Learning rules; From Crowds and Courts to Wisdom’s Seat she goes, And reigns triumphant o’er her Mother’s Foes. For lo! these Fav’rites of the ancient Mode Lie all neglected like the _Birth-day Ode_; Ah! needless now this weight of massy Chain[11]; Safe in themselves, the once-lov’d Works remain; No Readers now invade their still Retreat, None try to steal them from their Parent-seat; Like antient Beauties, they may now discard Chains, Bolts, and Locks, and lie without a Guard. Our patient Fathers, trifling Themes laid by, And roll’d, o’er labour’d Works, th’ attentive Eye; Page after Page, the much-enduring Men Explor’d, the Deeps and Shallows of the Pen;