The Muse should be sprightly; Yet not handling lightly Things grave: as much loath Things that be slight, to cloathe Curiously. To retain The Comeliness in mean Is true Knowledge and Wit. Nor me forced rage doth fit, That I thereto should lack Tobacco, or need Sack; Which to the colder brain Is the true Hippocrene. Nor did I ever care For Great Fools, nor them spare. Virtue, though neglected, Is not so dejected As vilely to descend To low baseness, their end: Neither each rhyming slave Deserves the name to have Of Poet. So, the rabble Of Fools, for the table, That have their jests by heart, As an Actor his part, Might assume them chairs Amongst the Muses' heirs. Parnassus is not clomb By every such Mome: Up whose steep side who swerves, It behoves t'have strong nerves. My resolution such How _well_, and not how _much_, To write. Thus do I fare Like some few good, that care (The evil sort among) How _well_ to live, and not how _long_. ODE 10. [_His Defence against the idle Critic._] [Illustration] The Ryme nor mars, nor makes; Nor addeth it, nor takes, From that which we propose: Things imaginary Do so strangely vary That quickly we them lose. And what's quickly begot, As soon again is not; This do I truly know. Yea, and what's born with pain; That, Sense doth long'st retain, Gone with a greater flow. Yet this Critic so stern, (But whom, none must discern Nor perfectly have seeing) Strangely lays about him, As nothing without him Were worthy of being, That I myself betray To that most public way; Where the World's old bawd Custom, that doth humour, And by idle rumour, Her dotages applaud. That whilst she still prefers Those that be wholly hers, Madness and Ignorance; I creep behind the Time, From spertling with their crime; And glad too with my chance. O wretched World the while, When the evil most vile Beareth the fairest face; And inconstant lightness, With a scornful slightness, The best things doth disgrace! Whilst this strange knowing beast, Man; of himself the least, His envy declaring, Makes Virtue to descend, Her title to defend Against him; much preparing. Yet these me not delude, Nor from my place extrude, By their resolvèd hate; Their vileness that do know: Which to myself I show, To keep above my fate. ODE 11. _To the Virginian Voyage._ [Illustration] You brave heroic minds, Worthy your country's name, That Honour still pursue; Go and subdue! Whilst loitering hinds Lurk here at home with shame.