In strains of gratitude, be praises hung, The praises of so great and good a king: Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing? Thus far in sport--nor let our critics hence, Who sell out monthly trash, and call it sense, 480 Too lightly of our present labours deem, Or judge at random of so high a theme: High is our theme, and worthy are the men To feel the sharpest stroke of Satire's pen; But when kind Time a proper season brings, In serious mood to treat of serious things, Then shall they find, disdaining idle play, That I can be as grave and dull as they. Thus far in sport--nor let half patriots, those Who shrink from every blast of Power which blows, 490 Who, with tame cowardice familiar grown, Would hear my thoughts, but fear to speak their own; Who (lest bold truths, to do sage Prudence spite, Should burst the portals of their lips by night, Tremble to trust themselves one hour in sleep) Condemn our course, and hold our caution cheap; When brave Occasion bids, for some great end, When Honour calls the poet as a friend, Then shall they find that, e'en on Danger's brink, He dares to speak what they scarce dare to think. 500 BOOK II. How much mistaken are the men who think That all who will, without restraint may drink, May largely drink, e'en till their bowels burst, Pleading no right but merely that of thirst, At the pure waters of the living well, Beside whose streams the Muses love to dwell! Verse is with them a knack, an idle toy, A rattle gilded o'er, on which a boy May play untaught, whilst, without art or force, Make it but jingle, music comes of course. 10 Little do such men know the toil, the pains, The daily, nightly racking of the brains, To range the thoughts, the matter to digest, To cull fit phrases, and reject the rest; To know the times when Humour on the cheek Of Mirth may hold her sports; when Wit should speak, And when be silent; when to use the powers Of ornament, and how to place the flowers, So that they neither give a tawdry glare, 'Nor waste their sweetness in the desert air;' 20 To form, (which few can do, and scarcely one, One critic in an age, can find when done) To form a plan, to strike a grand outline, To fill it up, and make the picture shine A full and perfect piece; to make coy Rhyme Renounce her follies, and with Sense keep time; To make proud Sense against her nature bend, And wear the chains of Rhyme, yet call her friend. Some fops there are, amongst the scribbling tribe, Who make it all their business to describe, 30 No matter whether in or out of place; Studious of finery, and fond of lace, Alike they trim, as coxcomb Fancy brings, The rags of beggars, and the robes of kings. Let dull Propriety in state preside O'er her dull children, Nature is their guide; Wild Nature, who at random breaks the fence Of those tame drudges, Judgment, Taste, and Sense,