[Sidenote:  Learning.] And by what Balance Just and Right are try’d:  How Kindred-Things with Things are closely join’d; } How Bodies act, and by what Laws confin’d, } Supported, mov’d and rul’d by th’ Universal Mind. } When the moist Kids or burning Sirius rise; } Through what ambiguous Ways Hyperion flies, } And marks our Upper or the Nether Skies. } He knows those Strings to touch with artful Hand 110 Which rule Mankind, and all the World command:  What moves the Soul, and every secret Cell Where Pity, Love, and all the Passions dwell.  The Music of his Verse can Anger raise, Which with a softer Stroak he smooths and lays:  Can Emulation, Terror, all excite, Compress the Soul with Grief, or swell with vast Delight.  If this you can, your Care you’ll well bestow, And some new Milton or a Spencer grow; If not, a Poet ne’er expect to be, 120 Content to Rime, like D——­y or like me.  But here perhaps you’ll stop me, and complain, To such Impracticable Heights I strain A Poet’s Notion, that if This be He, There ne’er was one, nor e’er is like to be.  —­But soft, my Friend! may we not copy well Tho far th’ Original our Art excel? Divine Perfection we our Pattern make Th’ Idea thence of Goodness justly take; But they who copy nearest, still must fall 130 Immensely short of their Original; [Sidenote:  Converse.] But Wit and Genius, Sense and Learning join’d, Will all come short if crude and unrefin’d; ’Tis CONVERSE only melts the stubborn Ore And polishes the Gold, too rough before:  So fierce the Natural Taste, ‘twill ne’er b’ endur’d, The Wine is strong, but never rightly cur’d. [Sidenote:  Style.] STYLE is the Dress of Thought; a modest Dress, Neat, but not gaudy, will true Critics please:  Not Fleckno’s Drugget, nor a worse Extream 140 All daub’d with Point and Gold at every Seam:  Who only Antique Words affects, appears Like old King Harry’s Court, all Face and Ears; Nor in a Load of Wig thy Visage shrowd, Like Hairy Meteors glimm’ring through a Cloud:  Happy are those who here the Medium know, We hate alike a Sloven and a Beau.  I would not follow Fashion to the height Close at the Heels, not yet be out of Sight:  Words alter, like our Garments, every day, 150 Now thrive and bloom, now wither and decay.