How dull, and how insensible a beast Is man, who yet would lord it o'er the rest! Philosophers and poets vainly strove In every age the lumpish mass to move; But those were pedants, when compared with these, Who know, not only to instruct, but please. Poets alone found the delightful way, Mysterious morals gently to convey In charming numbers; so that as men grew Pleased with their poems, they grew wiser too. Satire has always shone among the rest; And is the boldest way, if not the best, To tell men freely of their foulest faults, To laugh at their vain deeds, and vainer thoughts.[31] In satire, too, the wise took different ways, To each deserving its peculiar praise. Some did all folly with just sharpness blame, Whilst others laughed and scorned them into shame. But of these two, the last succeeded best, As men aim rightest when they shoot in jest. Yet, if we may presume to blame our guides, And censure those, who censure all besides, In other things they justly are preferred; In this alone methinks the ancients erred: Against the grossest follies they declaim; Hard they pursue, but hunt ignoble game. Nothing is easier than such blots to hit, And 'tis the talent of each vulgar wit: Besides, 'tis labour lost; for, who would preach Morals to Armstrong,[32] or dull Aston[33] teach? 'Tis being devout at play, wise at a ball, Or bringing wit and friendship to Whitehall. But with sharp eyes those nicer faults to find, Which lie obscurely in the wisest mind, That little speck which all the rest does spoil,-- To wash off that would be a noble toil; Beyond the loose-writ libels of this age, Or the forced scenes of our declining stage; Above all censure too, each little wit Will be so glad to see the greater hit; Who judging better, though concerned the most, Of such correction will have cause to boast. In such a satire all would seek a share, And every fool will fancy he is there. Old story-tellers, too, must pine and die, To see their antiquated wit laid by; Like her, who missed her name in a lampoon, And grieved to find herself decayed so soon. No common coxcomb must be mentioned here; Not the dull train of dancing sparks appear; Nor fluttering officers, who never fight; Of such a wretched rabble, who would write? Much less half-wits; that's more against our rules; For they are fops, the other are but fools. Who would not be as silly as Dunbar?[34] As dull as Monmouth,[35] rather than Sir Carr?[36] The cunning courtier should be slighted too, Who with dull knavery makes so much ado; Till the shrewd fool, by thriving too too fast, Like Æsop's fox, becomes a prey at last. Nor shall the royal mistresses[37] be named, Too ugly, or too easy to be blamed; With whom each rhyming fool keeps such a pother,