Classic Poem

You were a Critic, e'er you were a Wit,
More for Ill Nature, than Good Sense, thought fit,
(Your easiest Way) to lay your Claim to it;
Since 'tis, (we know) less difficult, young Friend!
To find out others Faults, than ours to mend;
Thus false Wits, as false Braves, at Honour aim,
Not by their Merit, but another's Shame,
And get Praise only, by all others Blame;
So you, the Faults of all ill Scriblers show,
By worse of yours, as scornful Mimics, who,
Become themselves, but more Ridiculous,
That other Men, they may but more expose;
As Criminals, their Breth'rens Faults make known,
But to 'scape Condemnation, for their own;
And the worst Witnesses against 'em, are,
As in their Crime, they had the greater share,
And they themselves, just Condemnation fear;
Then, if you wou'd a good Example show,
To all ill Writers, prove your own Wit, you,
Shou'd write yet less, to make them do so too;
But you (perhaps,) with ill Examples seek,
Rather than good, your Breth'rens Faults to check;
Since ill Deeds, sham'd with worse, make Men refrain
From them, more than all good Instructions can;
Dull Reprehensions yet, (but often times)
Confirm Men rather in, than mend their Crimes;
And turn what they design another's Blame,
Into their own Disgrace, Confusion, Shame;
You more disgrac'd so, by your Satyr are,
By which you show, you'll no ill Writer spare,
For, had you e'er meant to spare any one,
Your self in Print sure, you had never shown.