Words are like leaves; and where they most abound, Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found: 310 False eloquence, like the prismatic glass, Its gaudy colours spreads on ev'ry place; The face of nature we no more survey, All glares alike, without distinction gay; But true expression, like th' unchanging sun, } 315 Clears and improves whate'er it shines upon, } It gilds all objects, but it alters none.[157] } Expression is the dress of thought, and still Appears more decent,[158] as more suitable:[159] A vile conceit in pompous words expressed 320 Is like a clown in regal purple dressed: For diff'rent styles with diff'rent subjects sort, As sev'ral garbs with country, town, and court. Some by old words to fame have made pretence,[160] Ancients in phrase, mere moderns in their sense; 325 Such laboured nothings, in so strange a style, Amaze th' unlearn'd, and make the learned smile. Unlucky, as Fungoso in the play,[161] } These sparks with awkward vanity display } What the fine gentleman wore yesterday; } 330 And but so mimic ancient wits at best, As apes our grandsires, in their doublets drest. In words, as fashions, the same rule will hold; Alike fantastic, if too new, or old: Be not the first by whom the new are tried,[162] 335 Nor yet the last to lay the old aside. But most by numbers judge a poet's song, And smooth or rough, with them, is right or wrong:[163] In the bright muse, though thousand charms conspire, Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire; 340 Who haunt Parnassus but to please their ear, } Not mend their minds; as some to church repair, } Not for the doctrine, but the music there.[164] } These equal syllables alone require, Tho' oft the ear the open vowels tire;[165] 345 While expletives their feeble aid do join;[166] And ten low words[167] oft creep in one dull line:[168] While they ring round the same unvaried chimes, With sure returns of still expected rhymes;[169] Where'er you find "the cooling western breeze," 350 In the next line, it "whispers through the trees:" If crystal streams "with pleasing murmurs creep," The reader's threatened, not in vain, with "sleep:"[170] Then, at the last and only couplet fraught With some unmeaning thing they call a thought, 355 A needless Alexandrine ends the song, That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.[171] Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes,[172] and know What's roundly smooth, or languishingly slow; And praise[173] the easy vigour of a line, 360 Where Denham's strength, and Waller's sweetness join.[174]