'Silence, ye wolves! while Ralph[361] to Cynthia howls, And makes night hideous--answer him, ye owls! 'Sense, speech, and measure, living tongues and dead, Let all give way--and Morris may be read. Flow, Welsted, flow! like thine inspirer, beer; Though stale, not ripe; though thin, yet never clear; 170 So sweetly mawkish, and so smoothly dull; Heady, not strong; o'erflowing, though not full. 'Ah Dennis! Gildon ah! what ill-starr'd rage Divides a friendship long confirm'd by age? Blockheads with reason wicked wits abhor, But fool with fool is barbarous civil war. Embrace, embrace, my sons! be foes no more! Nor glad vile poets with true critics' gore. 'Behold yon pair,[362] in strict embraces join'd; How like in manners, and how like in mind! 180 Equal in wit, and equally polite, Shall this a Pasquin, that a Grumbler write? Like are their merits, like rewards they share, That shines a consul, this commissioner. 'But who is he, in closet close y-pent, Of sober face, with learned dust besprent? Right well mine eyes arede the myster wight, On parchment scraps y-fed, and Wormius hight.[363] To future ages may thy dulness last, As thou preserv'st the dulness of the past! 190 'There, dim in clouds, the poring scholiasts mark, Wits, who, like owls, see only in the dark, A lumberhouse of books in every head, For ever reading, never to be read! 'But where each science lifts its modern type, History her pot, divinity her pipe, While proud philosophy repines to show, Dishonest sight! his breeches rent below; Embrown'd with native bronze, lo! Henley[364] stands, Tuning his voice, and balancing his hands. 200 How fluent nonsense trickles from his tongue! How sweet the periods, neither said nor sung! Still break the benches, Henley! with thy strain, While Sherlock, Hare, and Gibson[365] preach in vain. O great restorer of the good old stage, Preacher at once, and zany of thy age! O worthy thou of Egypt's wise abodes, A decent priest, where monkeys were the gods! But fate with butchers placed thy priestly stall, Meek modern faith to murder, hack, and maul; 210 And bade thee live to crown Britannia's praise, In Toland's, Tindal's, and in Woolston's days.[366] 'Yet O! my sons, a father's words attend (So may the fates preserve the ears you lend): 'Tis yours a Bacon or a Locke to blame, A Newton's genius, or a Milton's flame: But O! with One, immortal One dispense, The source of Newton's light, of Bacon's sense. Content, each emanation of his fires That beams on earth, each virtue he inspires, 220 Each art he prompts, each charm he can create, Whate'er he gives, are given for you to hate. Persist, by all divine in man unawed, But, "Learn, ye Dunces! not to scorn your God."'