the Contempt of another's. This blind Idolatry of_ Self _is the
Mother of Errour; and this begets a secret Vanity in our_ Modern
Censurers, _who, when they please to_ think a Meaning _for an Author,
would thereby insinuate how much his Judgment is inferiour to their
inlighten'd Sagacity. When, perhaps, the Failings they expose are a
plain Evidence of their own Blindness._

For to display our Candour and our Sence,
Is to discover some deep _Excellence_.
The Critick's faulty, while the Poet's free;
They raise the _Mole hill, who want Eyes to see_.

_Excrescences are easily perceiv'd by an ordinary Eye; but it requires
the Penetration of a_ Lynceus _to discern the Depth of a good Poem; the
secret Artfulness and Contrivance of it being conceal'd from a Vulgar
Apprehension._

_I remember somewhere an Observation of St._ Evremont _(an Author whom
you us'd to praise, and whom therefore I admire) that some Persons, who
would be Poets, which they cannot be, become Criticks which they can be.
The censorious Grin, and the loud Laugh, are common and easy things,
according to_ Juvenal; _and according to_ Scripture, _the Marks of a_
Fool. _These Men are certainly in a deplorable Condition, who cannot be
witty, but at another's Expence, and who take an unnatural kind of
Pleasure in being uneasy at their Own._

Rules they can write, but, like the _College Tribe_,
Take not that Physick which their Rules prescribe.
I scorn to praise a plodding, formal Fool,
_Insipidly_ correct, and _dull_ by Rule:
_Homer_, with all his _Nodding_, I would chuse,
Before the more exact _Sicilian_ Muse.
Who'd not be _Dryden_; tho' his Faults are great,
Sooner than our Laborious _Laureat_?
Not but a decent Neatness, I confess,
In _Writing_ is requir'd, as well as _Dress_.
Yet still in both the _unaffected Air_
Will always please the _Witty_ and the _Fair_.

_I would not here be thought to be a Patron of slovenly Negligence; for
there is nothing which breeds a greater Aversion in Men of a_ Delicate
Taste. _Yet you know, Sir, that, after all our Care and Caution, the
Weakness of our Nature will eternally mix it self in every thing we
write; and an over curious Study of being correct, enervates the Vigour
of the Mind, slackens the Spirits, and cramps the Genius of a_ Free
Writer. _He who creeps by the Shore, may shelter himself from a Storm,
but likely to make very few Discoveries: And the cautious Writer, who is
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