That in proud dulness joins with quality,[193] 415 A constant critic at the great man's board, To fetch and carry nonsense for my lord. What woeful stuff this madrigal would be, In some starved hackney sonneteer, or me![194] But let a lord once own the happy lines, 420 How the wit brightens! how the style refines! Before his sacred name flies ev'ry fault, And each exalted stanza teems with thought! The vulgar thus through imitation err; As oft the learn'd by being singular; 425 So much they scorn the crowd, that if the throng By chance go right, they purposely go wrong: So schismatics the plain believers quit,[196] And are but damned for having too much wit. Some praise at morning what they blame at night; 430 But always think the last opinion right. A muse by these is like a mistress used, This hour she's idolised, the next abused; While their weak heads, like towns unfortified, 'Twixt sense and nonsense daily change their side.[197] 435 Ask them the cause; they're wiser still they say; And still to-morrow's wiser than to-day. We think our fathers fools, so wise we grow; Our wiser sons, no doubt, will think us so. Once school divines this zealous isle o'erspread; 440 Who knew most Sentences,[198] was deepest read; Faith, gospel, all, seemed made to be disputed, And none had sense enough to be confuted: Scotists and Thomists,[199] now, in peace remain, Amidst their kindred cobwebs[200] in Duck-lane.[201] 445 If faith itself has diff'rent dresses worn, What wonder modes in wit should take their turn?[202] Oft, leaving what is natural and fit, The current folly proves the ready wit; And authors think their reputation safe, 450 Which lives as long as fools are pleased to laugh. Some valuing those of their own side or mind, Still make themselves the measure of mankind: Fondly we think we honour merit then, When we but praise ourselves in other men. 455 Parties in wit attend on those of state, And public faction doubles private hate.[203] Pride, malice, folly, against Dryden rose, In various shapes of parsons, critics, beaus;[204] But sense survived when merry jests were past; 460 For rising merit will buoy up at last. Might he return, and bless once more our eyes,[205] New Blackmores and new Milbournes must arise:[206] Nay, should great Homer lift his awful head, Zoilus[207] again would start up from the dead. 465 Envy will merit, as its shade, pursue; But like a shadow, proves the substance true: For envied wit, like Sol eclipsed, makes known Th' opposing body's grossness, not its own.