Ode XII. to an Antiquary

Ryght lernit Clerk, styl mought thy reverend lore To Fame's quaint house conducken thee aright; Ne fire ne worme invade thy Gothique store, Ne gleim of genie thy loved darkness light. Mought sons of future daies in plesaunt storie Thy high attempts relate and ceaseless glorie.

Styl in the pege of Skelton mought thou find New charms arising fro the smuttie tale: Styl in the pege of Sidney wit refined Of sense's weight and fancy's fair avail: With transport Drayton's wars and Albion scan, But scorn his deft epistles lovelie plan.

Mought Jonson's sillie scene thy search invite, To stamp his beauties with the critic note; Mought Dryden's sillier scene thy praise incite, But be the Ode of heavenly flame forgot. And when thy Muse, grave Nonsense, wakes thy lay, Mought Dulness round his uncouth capers play.

But never, never let a hapless line Of holy Shakespeare meet thy rugged fyle; For far, O far from every thought of thine The treasures ly of his celestial style. Thou meteor, can'st thou gild the day's bright flood Down to the dust! for thou art but of mud.

And to convince thee that not vain my song, Behold even mitred Dulness try and fall. How Taste did tremble as he marched along, By Rashness led, and drest in Folly's pall! Styl praising faults, and styl to beauties blind, Because those equal, these surpass his mind.

Ne let sweet Spenser move thy ruthless power: His feasts of fancy are no feasts for thee. Ne awful Milton fro his blissful bower Frown thy detested arrogance to see. Ah spare them! Spare thyself! I thee entreat: Soar not like Icarus to find thy fate.

Did not that man of every darksome spell, Stupendous Bentley, waste his work and oil Each blemish of his mighty strain to tell, While proud Derision leered a scornful smile? But Genius wept, wept every angry Muse, To see base Learning their chief care abuse.

Then be thou warned; thy little soul confine Within the narrow bounds that Nature gave. The frog that weened to match the lofty kine No other meed than shame and death could have. To few, how few! the poet's skill is given; To few, how few! his skill right to conceiven.