Mean in each Action, lewd in every Limb,
Manners themselves are mischievous in him.
A Glofs he gives to ev'ry foul Design,
And we must own his very Vices fhine.

But of this odd Ill-nature to Mankind

Himself alone the ill Effects will find:
So envious Hags in vain their Witchcraft try,
Yet for intended Mischief juftly die.

For what a BESSUS has he always liv'd,

And his own Kickings notably contriv'd?

For (there's the Folly that's ftill mix'd with Fear)
Cowards more Blows than any Heroes bear.
Of fighting Sparks Fame may her Pleasure say;
But 'tis a bolder thing to run away.

The World may well forgive him all his ill,
For ev'ry Fault does prove his Penance still.
Eafily he falls into fome dang'rous Noose,
And then as meanly labours to get loose :
A Life fo infamous is better quitting,
Spent in base injuring, and low submitting.

How

How weak, and yet how vain a thing is Man,
Mean what he will, endeavour what he can!

I, who defign'd to be fo wondrous wife,
Perceive at laft where the great Folly lies:
While others Weakness is so gravely shown,
Their Fame we ruin, but to raise our own;
That we may Angels feem, we paint them Elves,
And write but Satires, to set up our selves.
Tho' to my self this Task appear❜d so nice,
That ev'n the Ancients feem'd to want Advice;
With Strength unequal I have dar'd to climb
That lofty Height unreach'd in former Time.
No wonder in the bold Attempt I fall,
And this too late to my remembrance call;
"Learn to write well, or not to write at all.

AN

AN

ESSAY

ON

POETRY.