Be thou the first true merit to befriend; His praise is lost, who stays, till all commend. 475 Short is the date, alas, of modern rhymes, And 'tis but just to let them live betimes. No longer now that golden age appears, When Patriarch-wits surviv'd a thousand years: Now length of Fame (our second life) is lost, 480 And bare threescore is all ev'n that can boast; Our sons their fathers' failing language see, And such as Chaucer is, shall Dryden be. So when the faithful pencil has design'd Some bright Idea of the master's mind, 485 Where a new world leaps out at his command, And ready Nature waits upon his hand; When the ripe colours soften and unite, And sweetly melt into just shade and light; When mellowing years their full perfection give, 490 And each bold figure just begins to live, The treach'rous colours the fair art betray, And all the bright creation fades away! Unhappy Wit, like most mistaken things, Atones not for that envy which it brings. 495 In youth alone its empty praise we boast, But soon the short-liv'd vanity is lost: Like some fair flow'r the early spring supplies. That gaily blooms, but ev'n in blooming dies. What is this Wit, which must our cares employ? 500 The owner's wife, that other men enjoy; Then most our trouble still when most admir'd, And still the more we give, the more requir'd; Whose fame with pains we guard, but lose with ease, Sure some to vex, but never all to please; 505 'Tis what the vicious fear, the virtuous shun, By fools't is hated, and by knaves undone! If Wit so much from Ign'rance undergo, Ah let not Learning too commence its foe! Of old, those met rewards who could excel, 510 And such were prais'd who but endeavour'd well: Tho' triumphs were to gen'rals only due, Crowns were reserv'd to grace the soldiers too, Now, they who reach Parnassus' lofty crown, Employ their pains to spurn some others down; 515 And while self-love each jealous writer rules, Contending wits become the sport of fools: But still the worst with most regret commend, For each ill Author is as bad a Friend. To what base ends, and by what abject ways, 520 Are mortals urg'd thro' sacred lust of praise! Ah ne'er so dire a thirst of glory boast, Nor in the Critic let the Man be lost. Good-nature and good-sense must ever join; To err is human, to forgive, divine. 525