Balbutius, muffled in his sable cloak,
  Like an old Druid from his hollow oak,
  As ravens solemn, and as boding, cries,
  “Ten thousand worlds for the three unities!”
  Ye doctors sage, who through Parnassus teach,
  Or quit the tub, or practise what you preach.

    One judges as the weather dictates; right
  The poem is at noon, and wrong at night: 
  Another judges by a surer gage,
  An author’s principles, or parentage;
  Since his great ancestors in Flanders fell,
  The poem doubtless must be written well. 
  Another judges by the writer’s look;
  Another judges, for he bought the book: 
  Some judge, their knack of judging wrong to keep;
  Some judge, because it is too soon to sleep. 
  Thus all will judge, and with one single aim,
  To gain themselves, not give the writer, fame. 
  The very best ambitiously advise,
  Half to serve you, and half to pass for wise.

    Critics on verse, as squibs on triumphs wait,
  Proclaim the glory, and augment the state;
  Hot, envious, noisy, proud, the scribbling fry
  Burn, hiss, and bounce, waste paper, stink, and die. 
  Rail on, my friends! what more my verse can crown
  Than Compton’s smile, and your obliging frown?

    Not all on books their criticism waste: 
  The genius of a dish some justly taste,
  And eat their way to fame; with anxious thought
  The salmon is refus’d, the turbot bought. 
  Impatient art rebukes the sun’s delay
  And bids December yield the fruits of May;
  Their various cares in one great point combine
  The business of their lives, that is—­to dine. 
  Half of their precious day they give the feast;
  And to a kind digestion spare the rest. 
  Apicius, here, the taster of the town,
  Feeds twice a week, to settle their renown.

    These worthies of the palate guard with care
  The sacred annals of their bills of fare;
  In those choice books their panegyrics read,
  And scorn the creatures that for hunger feed. 
  If man by feeding well commences great,
  Much more the worm to whom that man is meat.

    To glory some advance a lying claim,
  Thieves of renown, and pilferers of fame: 
  Their front supplies what their ambition lacks;
  They know a thousand lords, behind their backs. 
  Cottil is apt to wink upon a peer,
  When turn’d away, with a familiar leer;
  And Harvey’s eyes, unmercifully keen,
  Have murdered fops, by whom she ne’er was seen. 
  Niger adopts stray libels; wisely prone,
  To cover shame still greater than his own. 
  Bathyllus, in the winter of threescore,
  Belies his innocence, and keeps a ——. 
  Absence of mind Brabantio turns to fame,
  Learns to mistake, nor knows his brother’s name;
  Has words and thoughts in nice disorder set,
  And takes a memorandum to forget. 
  Thus vain, not knowing what adorns or blots
  Men forge the patents that create them sots.