gged in its course
The Verse but rolls with Vehemence and Force;
Or nicely pointed in th' _Horatian_ way
Wounds keen, like _Syrens_ mischievously gay.
Here, All has _Wit_, yet must that Wit be _strong_,
Beyond the Turns of _Epigram_, or _Song_.
The _Thought_ must rise exactly from the vice,
_Sudden_, yet _finish'd_, _clear_, and yet _concise_.
_One Harmony_ must _first_ with _last_ unite;
As all true Paintings have their _Place_ and _Light_.
_Transitions_ must be _quick_, and yet _design'd_,
Not made to fill, but just retain the mind:
And _Similies_, like meteors of the night,
Just give one flash of momentary Light.

As thinking makes the Soul, low things exprest
In high-rais'd terms, define a _Dunciad_ best.
_Books and the Man_ demands as much, or more,
Than _He_ who _wander'd to the Latian Shore_:
For here (eternal Grief to _Duns_'s soul,
And _B_----'s thin Ghost!) the _Part_ contains the _Whole_:
Since in Mock-Epic none succeeds, but he
Who tastes the Whole of Epic Poesy.

The _Moral_ must be clear and understood;
But finer still, if negatively good:
Blaspheming _Capaneus_ obliquely shows
T' adore those Gods _Aeneas_ fears and knows.
A _Fool's_ the _Heroe_; but the _Poet's_ end
Is, to be _candid_, _modest_, and a _Friend_.

Let _Classic Learning_ sanctify each Part,
Not only show your Reading, but your Art.

The charms of _Parody_, like those of Wit,
If well _contrasted_, never fail to hit;
One half in light, and one in darkness drest,
(For contraries oppos'd still shine the best.)
When a cold Page half breaks the Writer's heart,
By this it warms, and brightens into Art.
When Rhet'ric glitters with too pompous pride,
By this, like _Circe_, 'tis un-deify'd.
So _Berecynthia_, while her off-spring vye
In homage to the Mother of the sky,
(Deck'd in rich robes, of trees, and plants, and flow'rs,
And crown'd illustrious with an hundred tow'rs)
O'er all _Parnassus_ casts her eyes at once,
And sees an hundred Sons--_and each a Dunce_.

The _Language_ next: from hence new pleasure springs;
For _Styles_ are dignify'd, as well as _Things_.
Tho' Sense subsists, distinct from phrase or sound,
Yet _Gravity_ conveys a surer wound.
The chymic secret which your pains wou'd find,
Breaks out, unsought for, in _Cervantes'_ mind;
And _Quixot_'s wildness, like that King's of old,
Turns all he touches, into _Po