Long may he swill, this patriarch of the dull,
  The drowsy Mum—­But touc not Maro’s skull! 
  His holy barbarous dotage sought to doom,
  Good heaven! th’ immortal classics to the tomb!—­
  Those sacred lights shall bid new genius rise 45
  When all Rome’s saints have rotted from the skies. 
  Be these your guides, if at the ivy crown
  You aim; each country’s classics, and your own. 
  But chiefly with the ancients pass your prime, 50
  And drink Castalia at the fountain’s brim. 
  The man to genuine Burgundy bred up,
  Soon starts the dam of Methuen in his cup.

[Footnote A:  Alluding to the Gothic heaven, Woden’s hall; where the happy are for ever employed in drinking beer, mum, and other comfortable liquors out of the skulls of those whom they had slain in battle.]

[Footnote B:  Pope Gregory the VIth, distinguished by the name of St. Gregory; whose pious zeal, in the cause of barbarous ignorance and priestly tyranny, exerted itself in demolishing, to the utmost of his power, all the remains of heathen genius.]

    Those sovereign masters of the Muses skill
  Are the true patterns of good writing still, 55
  Their ore was rich and seven times purg’d of lead;
  Their art seem’d nature, ’twas so finely hid. 
  Tho’ born with all the powers of writing well,
  What pains it cost they did not blush to tell. 
  Their ease (my Lords!) ne’er lowng’d for want of fire,
  Nor did their rage thro’ affectation tire. 61
  Free from all tawdry and imposing glare
  They trusted to their native grace of air. 
  Rapt’rous and wild the trembling soul they seize, }
  Or sly coy beauties steal it by degrees; } 65
  The more you view them still the more they please. }

    Yet there are thousands of scholastic merit
  Who worm their sense out but ne’er taste their spirit. 
  Witness each pedant under Bentley bred;
  Each commentator that e’er commented. 70
  (You scarce can seize a spot of classic ground,
  With leagues of Dutch morass so floated round.)
  Witness—­but, Sir, I hold a cautious pen,
  Lest I should wrong some honourable men. 
  They grow enthusiasts too—­’Tis true! ’tis pity! 75
  But ’tis not every lunatic that’s witty. 
  Some have run Maro—­and some Milton—­mad,
  Ashley once turn’d a solid barber’s head: 
  Hear all that’s said or printed if you can,
  Ashley has turn’d more solid heads than one. 80

    Let such admire each great or specious name;
  For right or wrong the joy to them’s the same. 
  “Right!” Yes a thousand times.—­Each fool has heard
  That Homer was a wonder of a bard. 
  Despise them civilly with all my heart—­ 85
  But to convince them is a desperate part,