10
Thy spiteful and malicious foes,
Who on thy happiest talent fix a lie,
And call that slowness, which was care and industry.
Let me (with pride so to he guilty thought)
Share all thy wished reproach, and share thy shame,
If diligence be deemed a fault,
If to be faultless must deserve their blame:
Judge of thyself alone (for none there were,
Could be so just, or could be so severe)
Thou thy own works didst strictly try
By known and uncontested rules of poetry,
And gavest thy sentence still impartially:
With rigour thou arraignedst each guilty line,
And sparedst no criminal sense, because 'twas thine:
Unbribed with labour, love, or self-conceit,
(For never, or too seldom we,
Objects too near us, our own blemishes can see)
Thou didst no small delinquencies acquit,
But saw'st them to correction all submit,
Saw'st execution done on all convicted crimes of wit.
11
(For they with poets in that title share)
When he would undertake a glorious frame
Of lasting worth, and fadeless as his fame,
Long he contrives, and weighs the bold design,
Long holds his doubting hand e'er he begin,
And justly, then, proportions every stroke and line,
And oft he brings it to review,
And oft he does deface, and dashes oft anew,
And mixes oils to make the flitting colours dure,
To keep 'em from the tarnish of injurious time secure;
Finished, at length, in all that care and skill can do,
The matchless piece is set to public view,
