To Mr. Delany,[1]

OCT. 10, 1718 NINE IN THE MORNING     To you whose virtues, I must own     With shame, I have too lately known;     To you, by art and nature taught     To be the man I long have sought,     Had not ill Fate, perverse and blind,     Placed you in life too far behind:     Or, what I should repine at more,     Placed me in life too far before:     To you the Muse this verse bestows,     Which might as well have been in prose;     No thought, no fancy, no sublime,     But simple topics told in rhyme.         Three gifts for conversation fit     Are humour, raillery, and wit:     The last, as boundless as the wind,     Is well conceived, though not defined;     For, sure by wit is only meant     Applying what we first invent.     What humour is, not all the tribe     Of logic-mongers can describe;     Here only nature acts her part,     Unhelp'd by practice, books, or art:     For wit and humour differ quite;     That gives surprise, and this delight,     Humour is odd, grotesque, and wild,     Only by affectation spoil'd;     'Tis never by invention got,     Men have it when they know it not.         Our conversation to refine,     True humour must with wit combine:     From both we learn to rally well,     Wherein French writers most excel;     [2]Voiture, in various lights, displays     That irony which turns to praise:     His genius first found out the rule     For an obliging ridicule:     He flatters with peculiar air     The brave, the witty, and the fair:     And fools would fancy he intends     A satire where he most commends.         But as a poor pretending beau,     Because he fain would make a show,     Nor can afford to buy gold lace,     Takes up with copper in the place:     So the pert dunces of mankind,     Whene'er they would be thought refined,     Because the diff'rence lies abstruse     'Twixt raillery and gross abuse,     To show their parts will scold and rail,     Like porters o'er a pot of ale.         Such is that clan of boisterous bears,     Always together by the ears;     Shrewd fellows and arch wags, a tribe     That meet for nothing but to gibe;     Who first run one another down,     And then fall foul on all the town;     Skill'd in the horse-laugh and dry rub,     And call'd by excellence The Club.     I mean your butler, Dawson, Car,     All special friends, and always jar.         The mettled and the vicious steed     Do not more differ in their breed,     Nay, Voiture is as like Tom Leigh,     As rudeness is to repartee.         If what you said I wish unspoke,     'Twill not suffice it was a joke:     Reproach not, though in jest, a friend     For those defects he cannot mend;     His lineage, calling, shape, or sense,     If named with scorn, gives just offence.         What use in life to make men fret,     Part in worse humour than they met?     Thus all society is lost,     Men laugh at one another's cost:     And half the company is teazed     That came together to be pleased:     For all buffoons have most in view     To please themselves by vexing you.         When jests are carried on too far,     And the loud laugh begins the war,     You keep your countenance for shame,     Yet still you think your friend to blame;     For though men cry they love a jest,     'Tis but when others stand the test;     And (would you have their meaning known)     They love a jest when 'tis their own.         You wonder now to see me write     So gravely where the subject's light;     Some part of what I here design     Regards a friend[3]    of yours and mine;     Who full of humour, fire, and wit,     Not always judges what is fit,     But loves to take prodigious rounds,     And sometimes walks beyond his bounds,     You must, although the point be nice,     Venture to give him some advice;     Few hints from you will set him right,     And teach him how to be polite.     Bid him like you, observe with care,     Whom to be hard on, whom to spare;     Nor indiscreetly to suppose     All subjects like Dan Jackson's[4] nose.     To study the obliging jest,     By reading those who teach it best;     For prose I recommend Voiture's,     For verse (I speak my judgment) yours.     He'll find the secret out from thence,     To rhyme all day without offence;     And I no more shall then accuse     The flirts of his ill-manner'd Muse.         If he be guilty, you must mend him;         If he be innocent, defend him.