A man must serve his time to every trade Save Censure--Critics all are ready made. Take hackneyed jokes from MILLER, [9] got by rote, With just enough of learning to misquote; A man well skilled to find, or forge a fault; A turn for punning--call it Attic salt; To JEFFREY go, be silent and discreet, His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet: 70 Fear not to lie,'twill seem a _sharper_ hit; [viii] Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill pass for wit; Care not for feeling--pass your proper jest, And stand a Critic, hated yet caress'd. And shall we own such judgment? no--as soon Seek roses in December--ice in June; Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff, Believe a woman or an epitaph, Or any other thing that's false, before You trust in Critics, who themselves are sore; 80 Or yield one single thought to be misled By JEFFREY'S heart, or LAMB'S Boeotian head. [10] To these young tyrants, by themselves misplaced, Combined usurpers on the Throne of Taste; To these, when Authors bend in humble awe, And hail their voice as Truth, their word as Law; While these are Censors, 'twould be sin to spare; [11] While such are Critics, why should I forbear? But yet, so near all modern worthies run, 'Tis doubtful whom to seek, or whom to shun; 90 Nor know we when to spare, or where to strike, Our Bards and Censors are so much alike. Then should you ask me, [12] why I venture o'er The path which POPE and GIFFORD [13] trod before; If not yet sickened, you can still proceed; Go on; my rhyme will tell you as you read. "But hold!" exclaims a friend,--"here's some neglect: This--that--and t'other line seem incorrect." What then? the self-same blunder Pope has got, And careless Dryden--"Aye, but Pye has not:"-- 100 Indeed!--'tis granted, faith!--but what care I? Better to err with POPE, than shine with PYE. [14]