The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar. When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw, 370 The line too labours, and the words move slow; Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain, Flies o'er the unbending corn, and skims along the main. Hear how Timotheus' varied lays surprise, And bid alternate passions fall and rise! While, at each change, the son of Libyan Jove Now burns with glory, and then melts with love; Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury glow, Now sighs steal out, and tears begin to flow: Persians and Greeks like turns of nature found, 380 And the world's victor stood subdued by sound! The power of music all our hearts allow, And what Timotheus[16] was, is Dryden now. Avoid extremes; and shun the fault of such Who still are pleased, too little or too much. At every trifle scorn to take offence: That always shows great pride or little sense; Those heads, as stomachs, are not sure the best Which nauseate all, and nothing can digest. Yet let not each gay turn thy rapture move, 390 For fools admire, but men of sense approve: As things seem large which we through mists descry, Dulness is ever apt to magnify. Some, foreign writers, some, our own despise; The ancients only, or the moderns prize. Thus wit, like faith, by each man is applied To one small sect, and all are damn'd beside. Meanly they seek the blessing to confine, And force that sun but on a part to shine, Which not alone the southern wit sublimes, 400 But ripens spirits in cold northern climes; Which from the first has shone on ages past, Enlights the present, and shall warm the last; Though each may feel increases and decays, And see now clearer and now darker days. Regard not then if wit be old or new, But blame the false, and value still the true. Some ne'er advance a judgment of their own, But catch the spreading notion of the town; They reason and conclude by precedent, 410 And own stale nonsense which they ne'er invent. Some judge of authors' names, not works, and then Nor praise nor blame the writings, but the men. Of all this servile herd, the worst is he That in proud dulness joins with quality; A constant critic at the great man's board, To fetch and carry nonsense for my lord. What woful stuff this madrigal would be, In some starved hackney sonnetteer, or me? But let a lord once own the happy lines 420 How the wit brightens! how the style refines! Before his sacred name flies every fault, And each exalted stanza teems with thought!