Our rural ancestors, with little blest, Patient of labour when the end was rest, Indulged the day that housed their annual grain, With feasts, and offerings, and a thankful strain: The joy their wives, their sons, and servants share, Ease of their toil, and partners of their care: The laugh, the jest, attendants on the bowl, Smooth'd every brow, and open'd every soul: With growing years the pleasing license grew, And taunts alternate innocently flew. 250 But times corrupt, and nature, ill-inclined, Produced the point that left a sting behind; Till friend with friend, and families at strife, Triumphant malice raged through private life. Who felt the wrong, or fear'd it, took the alarm, Appeal'd to law, and justice lent her arm. At length, by wholesome dread of statutes bound, The poets learn'd to please, and not to wound: Most warp'd to flattery's side; but some, more nice, Preserved the freedom, and forbore the vice. 260 Hence satire rose, that just the medium hit, And heals with morals what it hurts with wit. We conquer'd France, but felt our captive's charms; Her arts victorious triumph'd o'er our arms; Britain to soft refinements less a foe, Wit grew polite, and numbers learn'd to flow. Waller was smooth; but Dryden taught to join The varying verse, the full-resounding line, The long majestic march, and energy divine: Though still some traces of our rustic vein 270 And splayfoot verse remain'd, and will remain. Late, very late, correctness grew our care, When the tired nation breathed from civil war. Exact Racine, and Corneille's noble fire, Show'd us that France had something to admire. Not but the tragic spirit was our own, And full in Shakspeare, fair in Otway shone: But Otway fail'd to polish or refine, And fluent Shakspeare scarce effaced a line. Even copious Dryden wanted, or forgot, 280 The last and greatest art, the art to blot. Some doubt, if equal pains, or equal fire The humbler muse of Comedy require. But in known images of life, I guess The labour greater, as the indulgence less. Observe how seldom even the best succeed: Tell me if Congreve's fools are fools indeed? What pert, low dialogue has Farquhar writ! How Van[151] wants grace, who never wanted wit! The stage how loosely does Astraea[152] tread, 290 Who fairly puts all characters to bed: And idle Cibber, how he breaks the laws, To make poor Pinky eat with vast applause! But fill their purse, our poets' work is done, Alike to them, by pathos or by pun. O you! whom Vanity's light bark conveys On Fame's mad voyage by the wind of praise, With what a shifting gale your course you ply, For ever sunk too low, or borne too high! Who pants for glory finds but short repose, 300 A breath revives him, or a breath o'erthrows. Farewell the stage! if just as thrives the play, The silly bard grows fat, or falls away.