Than from high banks to hear loud torrents roar, With foamy waters on a muddy shore. Gently make haste,[67] of labour not afraid; A hundred times consider what you've said: Polish, repolish, every colour lay, And sometimes add, but oftener take away. 'Tis not enough, when swarming faults are writ, That here and there are scattered sparks of wit: Each object must be fixed in the due place, And differing parts have corresponding grace; Till, by a curious art disposed, we find One perfect whole, of all the pieces joined. Keep to your subject close in all you say; Nor for a sounding sentence ever stray. The public censure for your writings fear, And to yourself be critic most severe. Fantastic wits their darling follies love; But find you faithful friends that will reprove, That on your works may look with careful eyes, And of your faults be zealous enemies: Lay by an author's pride and vanity, And from a friend a flatterer descry, Who seems to like, but means not what he says: Embrace true counsel, but suspect false praise. A sycophant will every thing admire; Each verse, each sentence sets his soul on fire: All is divine! there's not a word amiss! He shakes with joy, and weeps with tenderness; He overpowers you with his mighty praise. Truth never moves in those impetuous ways; A faithful friend is careful of your fame, And freely will your heedless errors blame; He cannot pardon a neglected line, But verse to rule and order will confine; Reprove of words the too-affected sound;-- Here the sense flags, and your expression's round, Your fancy tires, and your discourse grows vain, Your terms improper; make it just and plain.-- Thus 'tis a faithful friend will freedom use; But authors, partial to their darling muse, Think to protect it they have just pretence, And at your friendly counsel take offence.-- Said you of this, that the expression's flat? Your servant, sir, you must excuse me that, He answers you.--This word has here no grace, Pray leave it out;--that, sir, 's the properest place.-- This turn I like not;--'tis approved by all. Thus, resolute not from one fault to fall, If there's a syllable of which you doubt, 'Tis a sure reason not to blot it out. Yet still he says you may his faults confute, And over him your power is absolute. But of his feigned humility take heed; 'Tis a bait laid to make you hear him read. And when he leaves you happy in his muse, Restless he runs some other to abuse, And often finds; for in our scribbling times No fool can want a sot to praise his rhymes. The flattest work has ever in the court Met with some zealous ass for its support; And in all times a forward scribbling fop Has found some greater fool to cry him up. CANTO II. PASTORAL.