Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 17.djvu/424

418 Commas and points they set exactly right; And 'twere a sin to rob them of their mite: Yet ne'er one sprig of laurel grac'd those ribalds, From slashing Bentley down to piddling Tibalds, Who thinks he reads when he but scans and spells; A word-catcher that lives on syllables. Yet e'en this creature may some notice claim, Wrapt round and sanctified with Shakspeare's name. Pretty! in amber to observe the forms Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms! The thing, we know, is neither rich nor rare; And wonder how the devil it got there. Are others angry? I excuse them too: Well may they rage; I gave them but their due. Each man's true merit 'tis not hard to find; But each man's secret standard in his mind, That casting-weight pride adds to emptiness, This who can gratify? for who can guess? The wretch, whom pilfer'd pastorals renown, Who turns a Persian tale for half a crown, Just writes to make his barrenness appear, And strains from hardbound brains six lines a year; In sense still wanting, tho' he lives on theft, Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left. Johnson, who now to sense, now nonsense leaning, Means not, but blunders round about a meaning: And he, whose fustian's so sublimely bad, It is not poetry but prose run mad : Should modest Satire bid all these translate, And own that nine such poets make a Tate; How