Page:An Essay on Criticism - Pope (1711).pdf/38

 Of old, those met Rewards who cou'd excel, And such were Prais'd who but endeavour'd well: Tho' Triumphs were to Gen'rals only due, Crowns were reserv'd to grace the Soldiers too. Now those that reach Parnassus' lofty Crown, Employ their Pains to spurn some others down; And while Self-Love each jealous Writer rules, Contending Wits becomes the Sport of Fools: But still the Worst with most Regret commend, For each Ill Author is as bad a Friend. To what base Ends, and by what abject Ways, Are Mortals urg'd by Sacred Lust of Praise? Ah ne'er so dire a Thirst of Glory boast, Nor in the Critick let the Man be lost! Good-Nature and Good-Sense must ever join; To err is Humane; to Forgive, Divine. But if in Noble Minds some Dregs remain, Not yet purg'd off, of Spleen and sow'r Disdain, Discharge that Rage on more Provoking Crimes, Nor fear a Dearth in these Flagitious Times. No