Poets lose half the praise they should have got, Could it be known what they discreetly blot.

The chain that's fixed to the throne of Jove, On which the fabric of our world depends, One link dissolved, the whole creation ends.

But virtue too, as well as vice, is clad in flesh and blood.

Poets lose half the praise they should have got, Could it be known what they discreetly blot.

Vexed sailors cursed the rain, for which poor shepherds prayed in vain.

So must the writer, whose productions should Take with the vulgar, be of vulgar mould.

Ingenious to their ruin, every age improves the art and instruments of rage.