This god on earth turns devil in hell: 
And lo! his ministers of state,
Transform’d to imps, his levee wait;
Where in the scenes of endless woe,
They ply their former arts below;
And as they sail in Charon’s boat,
Contrive to bribe the judge’s vote;
To Cerberus they give a sop,
His triple barking mouth to stop;
Or, in the ivory gate of dreams,[8]
Project excise and South-Sea[9] schemes;
Or hire their party pamphleteers
To set Elysium by the ears. 
  Then, poet, if you mean to thrive,
Employ your muse on kings alive;
With prudence gathering up a cluster
Of all the virtues you can muster,
Which, form’d into a garland sweet,
Lay humbly at your monarch’s feet: 
Who, as the odours reach his throne,
Will smile, and think them all his own;
For law and gospel both determine
All virtues lodge in royal ermine: 
I mean the oracles of both,
Who shall depose it upon oath. 
Your garland, in the following reign,
Change but the names, will do again. 
  But, if you think this trade too base,
(Which seldom is the dunce’s case)
Put on the critic’s brow, and sit
At Will’s, the puny judge of wit. 
A nod, a shrug, a scornful smile,
With caution used, may serve a while. 
Proceed no further in your part,
Before you learn the terms of art;
For you can never be too far gone
In all our modern critics’ jargon: 
Then talk with more authentic face
Of unities, in time and place: 
Get scraps of Horace from your friends,
And have them at your fingers’ ends;
Learn Aristotle’s rules by rote,
And at all hazards boldly quote;
Judicious Rymer[10] oft review,
Wise Dennis,[11] and profound Bossu.[12]
Read all the prefaces of Dryden,
For these our critics much confide in;
Though merely writ at first for filling,
To raise the volume’s price a shilling. 
  A forward critic often dupes us
With sham quotations peri hupsous: 
And if we have not read Longinus,
Will magisterially outshine us. 
Then, lest with Greek he overrun ye,
Procure the book for love or money,
Translated from Boileau’s translation,[13]
And quote quotation on quotation. 
  At Will’s you hear a poem read,
Where Battus[14] from the table head,
Reclining on his elbow-chair,
Gives judgment with decisive air;
To whom the tribe of circling wits
As to an oracle submits. 
He gives directions to the town,
To cry it up, or run it down;
Like courtiers, when they send a note,
Instructing members how to vote. 
He sets the stamp of bad and good,
Though not a word be understood. 
Your lesson learn’d, you’ll be secure
To get the name of connoisseur: 
And, when your merits once are known,
Procure disciples of your own. 
For poets (you can never want ’em)
Spread through Augusta Trinobantum,[15]
Computing by their pecks of coals,
Amount to just nine thousand souls: