Classic Poem

Good , and true Critics, like true Doctors, still
To their weak Friends, (when ask'd, and call'd in) will,
Give freely their Opinion, and advise;
The Bad, like Quacks, seek out Infirmities;
Not so much Good to their weak Friends to do,
As to themselves, and more in Vogue to grow,
But more their Art, than Charity to show.
Not so much to redress another's Ill,
As to make known, their Knowledge, or their Skill;
Which they less by their Strength of Reason show,
Than it, they from all others Weakness do:
Who, but more knowing Doctors wou'd appear;
But as they seem, to weak Men, most severe;
And more from Men of stronger Passions bear:
So we good Critics, like good Surgeons, find,
When most severe, to be most truly kind;
In probing each Man's Soft Place of his Scull,
To find, if 'tis of Matter void, or full;
Which, as it is more crack'd, or much less found,
Will be more tender, and the weaker found:
So Critics to their own, as Patients Pain,
Bring craz'd Men back to their right Wits again,
By lopping off Excrescencies of Wit,
Which like Wens, on the Head, but weaken it:
And searching Cracks i'th' Scull, which well we know,
If not well Prob'd, and quite laid open too,
One's Danger will, by t'other's Pity grow:
Whence, no Man ever of sound Sense, denies,
To have laid open his Infirmities,
Or Weakness, which proves the weak Patient found,
In's Head at least, which its own Weakness found.
Sound Doctors in their own Case, take Advice,
Whilst weak Quacks most their own Opinion prize,
The more they'r weakn'd with Infirmities;
As Doctors cruel are, from Tenderness;
Critics, who show most Pity, prove it less.
Severity, then turns to Charity,
When Men are spoil'd, by Friend's Indulgency,
Each Wit, in his Poetic Fury, is
A Mad-man, or is thought so, by the Wife;
Of Contradiction, more impatient too,
As most weak Men are, as they weaker grow;
Then Crack'd-brain'd Poets, in their Fury's Fits,
And talking to themselves, like Bedlamites,
By Critics, shou'd be lash'd, into their Wits;
Since they, like Mad-men, will half-naked go,
Nay, for their Nakedness, grow Prouder too;
Not fit to rule themselves, direct their Age,
Reform, instruct, the Sober, and the Sage,
Wou'd pass for good Sense, their Poetic Rage;
Whilst they, less capable of Counsel grow,
Will have Men say, and do still, as they do,
Humour their Nonsense, and their Rage allow;
When Madmen-like, but for their Want of Sense,
Reason against them, seems Impertinence,
Assistance, or Instruction's thought Offence;
Scorning Mankind, each other they deride,
For their own Follies, in themselves unspy'd,
In Rags, and Want, yet still maintain their Pride;
Love Shade, and Darkness, shun the World, and Men,
To be most heard of, when they least are seen;
Who, whether taken notice of, or no,
Will still on, with their senseless Fustian go,
With ghastly Looks, their hollow Jaws, and Eyes,
Talk to themselves, what others say, despire;
Till Madmen-like, for their Obscurity,
And for avoiding Carping Company,
They talk, live to themselves, more reas'nably;
From their Obscurity, Want, Starving, so,
Come sooner, their own selves again, to know;
Who did, but from their Want of Sense, esteem
All Fools, or Mad-men, who thought not, like them;
Nay, but for their own want of Sense before,
(And, as it grew less,) yet believ'd it more;
Till by the lashing Critic's Labour, Pain,
The Mad-man, who, more Friends by's Wit wou'd gain,
Was forc'd to see, his Labour was in vain;
The Name of Wit, for that of Fool, to quit,
Thinking, to gain more Friends, as more his Wit;
Tho' Men are fear'd, or envy'd, more for it;
Since there's no greater Folly, than to think,
They, whose Faults we find out, at ours will wink.