Milton manages here as elsewhere to sound a clarion note over the clash of seventeenth century partisanship:[13] “A taste for delicate satire cannot be general until refinement of manners is general likewise; till we are enlightened enough to comprehend that the legitimate object of satire is not to humble an individual, but to improve the species. * * * For a satire as it is born out of a tragedy so it ought to resemble its parentage, to strike high, to adventure dangerously at the most eminent vices among the greatest persons.” Defoe[14] echoes Dryden,[15] both speaking with reasonable consistency; and even Pope[16] tries to make out a case for himself. But the completest paean is from the pen of John Brown.[17] His poetic analysis begins at the beginning: “In every breast there burns an active flame, The love of glory, or the dread of shame: The passion one, though various it appear, As brighten’d into hope, or dimm’d by fear. Thus heav’n in pity wakes the friendly flame, To urge mankind on deeds that merit fame: But man, vain man, in folly only wise, Rejects the manna sent him from the skies:” The climax of this human error is perverted ambition and a snobbish idea of excellence: “The daemon _Shame_ paints strong the ridicule, And whispers close, ‘the world will call you fool!’ Hence Satire’s pow’r: ’tis her corrective part To calm the wild disorders of the heart. She points the arduous heights where glory lies, And teaches mad ambition to be wise: In the dark bosom wakes the fair desire, Draws good from ill, a brighter flame from fire; Strips black Oppression of her gay disguise, And bids the hag in native horror rise; Strikes tow’ring pride and lawless rapine dead, And plants the wreath on Virtue’s awful head. Nor boasts the Muse a vain imagin’d pow’r, Though oft she mourns those ills she cannot cure, The worthy court her, and the worthless fear; Who shun her piercing eye, that eye revere. Her awful voice the vain and vile obey, And every foe to wisdom feels her sway. Smarts, pedants, as she smiles, no more are vain; Desponding fops resign the _clouded cane_: Hush’d at her voice, pert Folly’s self is still, And Dulness wonders while she drops her quill.” The author’s optimism mounts even to the disparagement of Force, Policy, Religion, Mercy, and Justice, in comparison with this puissant and impeccable goddess, in whose presence the wicked never cease from trembling,--especially stricken when she draws “Her magic quill, that like Ithuriel’s spear Reveals the cloven hoof, or lengthen’d ear; Drags the vile whisperer from his dark abode, ’Till all the daemon starts up from the toad.” Feeling perhaps that after all his client’s status is a trifle dubious, her advocate continues with a caution and a climax: