To earn a stock of pence and praise,
Thy labours, grown the critic’s prey,
Are swallow’d o’er a dish of tea;
Gone to be never heard of more,
Gone where the chickens went before. 
How shall a new attempter learn
Of different spirits to discern,
And how distinguish which is which,
The poet’s vein, or scribbling itch? 
Then hear an old experienced sinner,
Instructing thus a young beginner. 
  Consult yourself; and if you find
A powerful impulse urge your mind,
Impartial judge within your breast
What subject you can manage best;
Whether your genius most inclines
To satire, praise, or humorous lines,
To elegies in mournful tone,
Or prologue sent from hand unknown. 
Then, rising with Aurora’s light,
The Muse invoked, sit down to write;
Blot out, correct, insert, refine,
Enlarge, diminish, interline;
Be mindful, when invention fails,
To scratch your head, and bite your nails. 
  Your poem finish’d, next your care
Is needful to transcribe it fair. 
In modern wit all printed trash is
Set off with numerous breaks and dashes. 
  To statesmen would you give a wipe,
You print it in Italic type. 
When letters are in vulgar shapes,
’Tis ten to one the wit escapes: 
But, when in capitals express’d,
The dullest reader smokes the jest: 
Or else perhaps he may invent
A better than the poet meant;
As learned commentators view
In Homer more than Homer knew. 
  Your poem in its modish dress,
Correctly fitted for the press,
Convey by penny-post to Lintot,[4]
But let no friend alive look into’t. 
If Lintot thinks ’twill quit the cost,
You need not fear your labour lost: 
And how agreeably surprised
Are you to see it advertised! 
The hawker shows you one in print,
As fresh as farthings from the mint: 
The product of your toil and sweating;
A bastard of your own begetting. 
  Be sure at Will’s,[5] the following day,
Lie snug, and hear what critics say;
And, if you find the general vogue
Pronounces you a stupid rogue,
Damns all your thoughts as low and little,
Sit still, and swallow down your spittle;
Be silent as a politician,
For talking may beget suspicion;
Or praise the judgment of the town,
And help yourself to run it down. 
Give up your fond paternal pride,
Nor argue on the weaker side: 
For, poems read without a name
We justly praise, or justly blame;
And critics have no partial views,
Except they know whom they abuse: 
And since you ne’er provoke their spite,
Depend upon’t their judgment’s right. 
But if you blab, you are undone: 
Consider what a risk you run: 
You lose your credit all at once;
The town will mark you for a dunce;
The vilest dogg’rel Grub Street sends,
Will pass for yours with foes and friends;
And you must bear the whole disgrace,
Till some fresh blockhead takes your place.