Here swells the shelf with Ogilby the great;[265] There, stamp'd with arms, Newcastle shines complete:[266] Here all his suffering brotherhood retire, And 'scape the martyrdom of Jakes and fire: A Gothic library! of Greece and Rome Well purged, and worthy Settle, Banks, and Broome.[267] But, high above, more solid learning shone, The classics of an age that heard of none; There Caxton[268] slept, with Wynkyn at his side, One clasp'd in wood, and one in strong cow-hide; 150 There, saved by spice, like mummies, many a year, Dry bodies of divinity appear: De Lyra[269] there a dreadful front extends, And here the groaning shelves Philemon[270] bends. Of these, twelve volumes, twelve of amplest size, Redeem'd from tapers and defrauded pies, Inspired he seizes: these an altar raise: An hecatomb of pure, unsullied lays That altar crowns: a folio common-place Founds the whole pile, of all his works the base: 160 Quartos, octavos, shape the lessening pyre: A twisted birth-day ode completes the spire. Then he: Great tamer of all human art! First in my care, and ever at my heart; Dulness! whose good old cause I yet defend, With whom my Muse began, with whom shall end, E'er since Sir Fopling's periwig[271] was praise, To the last honours of the butt and bays: O thou! of business the directing soul; To this our head, like bias to the bowl, 170 Which, as more ponderous, made its aim more true, Obliquely waddling to the mark in view; Oh, ever gracious to perplexed mankind, Still spread a healing mist before the mind; And, lest we err by wit's wild dancing light, Secure us kindly in our native night. Or, if to wit a coxcomb make pretence, Guard the sure barrier between that and sense; Or quite unravel all the reasoning thread, And hang some curious cobweb in its stead! 180 As, forced from wind-guns, lead itself can fly, And ponderous slugs cut swiftly through the sky; As clocks to weight their nimble motion owe, The wheels above urged by the load below: Me Emptiness and Dulness could inspire, And were my elasticity and fire. Some demon stole my pen (forgive the offence) And once betrayed me into common sense: Else all my prose and verse were much the same; This, prose on stilts; that, poetry fallen lame. 190 Did on the stage my fops appear confined? My life gave ampler lessons to mankind. Did the dead letter unsuccessful prove? The brisk example never fail'd to move. Yet sure, had Heaven decreed to save the state, Heaven had decreed these works a longer date. Could Troy be saved by any single hand, This gray-goose weapon must have made her stand. What can I now my Fletcher cast aside, Take up the Bible, once my better guide? 200 Or tread the path by venturous heroes trod, This box my thunder, this right hand my god? Or chair'd at White's amidst the doctors sit, Teach oaths to gamesters, and to nobles wit? Or bidst thou rather party to embrace? (A friend to party thou, and all her race;