The public censure for your writings fear,
     And to yourself be critic most’ severe;
     Fantastic wits their darling follies love,
     But find you faithful friends that will reprove,
     That on your works may look with careful eyes,
     And of your faults be zealous enemies. 
     Lay by an author’s pride and vanity,
     And from a friend a flatterer descry,
     Who seems to like, but means not what he says;
     Embrace true counsel, but suspect false praise.

     A sycophant will everything admire;
     Each verse, each sentence, sets his soul on fire;
     All is divine! there’s not a word amiss! 
     He shakes with joy and weeps with tenderness;
     He overpowers you with his mighty praise.

     Truth never moves in those impetuous ways. 
     A faithful friend is careful of your fame,
     And freely will your heedless errors blame;
     He cannot pardon a neglected line,
     But verse to rule and order will confine,
     Reprove of words the too-affected sound,—­
     “Here the sense flags, and your expression’s bound,
     Your fancy tires, and your discourse grows vain;
     Your term’s improper;—­make it just and plain.” 
     Thus ’tis a faithful friend will freedom use. 
     But authors partial to their darling muse
     Think to protect it they have just pretense,
     And at your friendly counsel take offense. 
     “Said you of this, that the expression’s flat? 
     Your servant, sir, you must excuse me that,”
     He answers you.  “This word has here no grace,
     Pray leave it out.”—­“That, sir, ’s the properest place.”

     “This term I like not.”—­“’Tis approved by all.” 
     Thus, resolute not from one fault to fall,
     If there’s a symbol as to which you doubt,
     ’Tis a sure reason not to blot it out. 
     Yet still he says you may his faults confute,
     And over him your power is absolute. 
     But of his feigned humility take heed: 
     ’Tis a bait laid to make you hear him read;
     And when he leaves you, happy in his muse,
     Restless he runs some other to abuse.

     And often finds; for in our scribbling times
     No fool can lack a fool to praise his rhymes;
     The flattest work has here within the court
     Met with some zealous ass for its support;
     And in all times a forward scribbling fop
     Has found some greater fool to cry him up.

THE PASTORAL, THE ELEGY, THE ODE, AND THE EPIGRAM
From ‘The Art of Poetry’

     As A fair nymph, when rising from her bed,
     With sparkling diamonds dresses not her head,
     But without gold, or pearl, or costly scents,
     Gathers from neighboring fields her ornaments: 
     Such, lovely in its dress, but plain withal,
     Ought to appear a perfect Pastoral. 
     Its humble method nothing has of fierce,
     But hates the rattling of a lofty verse;
     There native beauty pleases and excites,
     And never with harsh sounds the ear affrights.