Upon RIDDLES

Have you not known a small machine Which brazen rings environ, In many a country cbimney seen, Y-clep'd a tarring-iroin?

Its puzzling nature to display Each idle clown may try, Sir, Tho', when he has acquir'd the way, He's not a jot the wiser.

'Tis thus with him, who fond of rhime In Wit's low species piddles; And tires his thoughts, and wastes his time In explicating riddles.

Shall idle bards, by fancy led, (With wrathful zeal I speak it) Write with design to plague my head, Who have no right to break it?

He writes the best, who, writing, can Both please and teach together: But 'tis the devil of a plan, That can accomplish neither.

Ye readers, hear! ye writers too! O spare your darkling labours! For, tho' they please, not profit, you, They plague and hurt your neighbours.

Go learn of POPE; then judge aright, Which way to Fame's the surer; To put the truth in fairest light, Or render it obscurer.