In Florence dwelt a doctor of renown, The scourge of God, and terror of the town, Who all the cant of physic had by heart, And never murdered but by rules of art. The public mischief was his private gain: Children their slaughtered parents sought in vain; A brother here his poisoned brother wept; Some bloodless died, and some by opium slept; Colds, at his presence, would to phrenzies turn, And agues, like malignant fevers, burn. Hated, at last, his practice gives him o'er; One friend, unkilled by drugs, of all his store, In his new country-house affords him place; ('Twas a rich abbot, and a building ass.) Here first the doctor's talent came in play; He seems inspired, and talks like Wren or May; Of this new portico condemns the face, And turns the entrance to a better place; Designs the stair-case at the other end: His friend approves, does for his mason send. He comes; the doctor's arguments prevail; In short, to finish this our humorous tale, He Galen's dangerous science does reject, And from ill doctor turns good architect. In this example we may have our part; Rather be mason, ('tis a useful art,) Than a dull poet; for that trade accurst, Admits no mean betwixt the best and worst. In other sciences, without disgrace, A candidate may fill a second place; But poetry no medium can admit, No reader suffers an indifferent wit: The ruined stationers against him bawl, And Herringman[77] degrades him from his stall. Burlesque at least our laughter may excite; But a cold writer never can delight. The Counter-scuffle[78] has more wit and art, Than the stiff formal style of Gondibert. Be not affected with that empty praise Which your vain flatterers will sometimes raise; And when you read, with ecstasy will say, "The finished piece! the admirable play!" Which, when exposed to censure and to light, Cannot endure a critic's piercing sight. A hundred authors' fates have been foretold, And Shadwell's works are printed, but not sold. Hear all the world; consider every thought; A fool by chance may stumble on a fault: Yet, when Apollo does your muse inspire, Be not impatient to expose your fire; Nor imitate the Settles of our times, Those tuneful readers of their own dull rhymes, Who seize on all the acquaintance they can meet, And stop the passengers that walk the street: There is no sanctuary you can chuse For a defence from their pursuing muse. I've said before, be patient when they blame; To alter for the better is no shame. Yet yield not to a fool's impertinence; Sometimes conceited sceptics, void of sense, By their false taste condemn some finished part, And blame the noblest flights of wit and art. In vain their fond opinions you deride, With their loved follies they are satisfied;