'Twere well, might Criticks still this Freedom take;
But  reddens at each Word you speak,
And ! with a threatning Eye;
Like some  in !
Fear most to tax an  Fool,
Whose Right it is,  to be dull;
Such without  are Poets when they please,
As without  they can take
Leave dang'rous  to unsuccessful
And  to fulsome
Whom, when they  the World believes no more,
Than when they promise to give  o'er.
'Tis best sometimes your Censure to restrain,
And  let the  be
Your Silence there is better than your
For who can  so long as they can
Still humming on, their drowzy Course they keep,
And  so long, like  are lash'd
but help them to renew the Race,
As after  Jades will mend their Pace.
What Crouds of these, impenitently bold,
In  and jingling Syllables grown old,
Still run on Poets, in a raging Vein,
Ev'n to the Dregs and  of the ;
Strain out the last, dull droppings of their Sense,
And Rhyme with all the  of !