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Crites affirms Claudero cannot write;
Crites has taſte, but has not Crites ſpite?
Yet what of him in nature's vernal lay?
Who, minds the owl's loud ſcream, or aſs's bray?
Knavery and folly muſt complain when bit,
But muſt I ſcorn the ſupercilious wit,
Let your Important ſelves, yourſelves engage,
Ye letter'd minions of a coxcomb age:
Inſence let him expect who inſence pays,
I neither fly your ſcorn, nor court your praiſe.
'Tis not for me to mingle in the game,
Nor raſhly dare the dangerous liſts of fame.
Whil'ſt round the goddeſs, in compacted band,
Hiſtorians, Sages, Poets, Critics, ſtand.
From unfledg'd witlings keep each area clear,
And drink reſounded praiſe from year, to year.
Hail, grave Divan! with rev'rence we admit,
Your fix'd deciſion as the teſt of wit:
Proceed, with true monopoliſing ſpirit,
Impreſs on works the ſignature of merit.
Omnipotent in literature and taſte,
Be branded whom you brand, and who you grace be grac'd.
'Till giddy with vertigo common ſenſe,
Calmly receds in ſcept cal ſuſpence;
And fancy'd drops, abſorb'd, in balmy reſt,
Her magick lanthron, and her varied veſt.
Huſh, huſh my friend, 'tis time for you and me,
To make a virtue of neceſſity;
Let us, in ſilence, happily obſcure,
The dullneſs, or caprice, of times endure:
As theſe revolve their everlaſting ronud,
A more auſpicious period may be found;
When thoſe, who now ſit high on fortune's wheel,
A dreadful, but a juſt reverſe may feel:
When fame to truth, at length, expands her eyes,
And genius to its diſtant ſphere may riſe.
