Blot out, correct, insert, refine, Enlarge, diminish, interline; Be mindful, when invention fails, To scratch your head, and bite your nails. Your poem finish'd, next your care Is needful to transcribe it fair. In modern wit all printed trash is Set off with numerous breaks and dashes. To statesmen would you give a wipe, You print it in _Italic_ type. When letters are in vulgar shapes, 'Tis ten to one the wit escapes: But, when in capitals express'd, The dullest reader smokes the jest: Or else perhaps he may invent A better than the poet meant; As learned commentators view In Homer more than Homer knew. Your poem in its modish dress, Correctly fitted for the press, Convey by penny-post to Lintot,[4] But let no friend alive look into't. If Lintot thinks 'twill quit the cost, You need not fear your labour lost: And how agreeably surprised Are you to see it advertised! The hawker shows you one in print, As fresh as farthings from the mint: The product of your toil and sweating; A bastard of your own begetting. Be sure at Will's,[5] the following day, Lie snug, and hear what critics say; And, if you find the general vogue Pronounces you a stupid rogue, Damns all your thoughts as low and little, Sit still, and swallow down your spittle; Be silent as a politician, For talking may beget suspicion; Or praise the judgment of the town, And help yourself to run it down. Give up your fond paternal pride, Nor argue on the weaker side: For, poems read without a name We justly praise, or justly blame; And critics have no partial views, Except they know whom they abuse: And since you ne'er provoke their spite, Depend upon't their judgment's right. But if you blab, you are undone: Consider what a risk you run: You lose your credit all at once; The town will mark you for a dunce; The vilest dogg'rel Grub Street sends, Will pass for yours with foes and friends; And you must bear the whole disgrace, Till some fresh blockhead takes your place. Your secret kept, your poem sunk, And sent in quires to line a trunk, If still you be disposed to rhyme, Go try your hand a second time. Again you fail: yet Safe's the word; Take courage and attempt a third. But first with care employ your thoughts Where critics mark'd your former faults; The trivial turns, the borrow'd wit, The similes that nothing fit; The cant which every fool repeats, Town jests and coffeehouse conceits, Descriptions tedious, flat, and dry, And introduced the Lord knows why: Or where we find your fury set Against the harmless alphabet; On A's and B's your malice vent, While readers wonder whom you meant: A public or a private robber, A statesman, or a South Sea jobber; A prelate, who no God believes; A parliament, or den of thieves; A pickpurse at the bar or bench, A duchess, or a suburb wench: Or oft, when epithets you link, In gaping lines to fill a chink; Like stepping-stones, to save a stride, In streets where kennels are too wide; Or like a heel-piece, to support