ABSTRACT
Which Æschylus his warmth design’d, Euripides his taste refin’d, And Sophocles his last direction, Stamp’d with the signet of perfection.’
Perfection! ’tis a word ideal, That bears about it nothing real: For excellence was never hit In the first essays of man’s wit. Shall ancient worth, or ancient fame Preclude the Moderns from their claim? Must they be blockheads, dolts, and fools, Who write not up to Grecian rules? Who tread in buskins or in socks. Must they be damn’d as Heterodox, Nor merit of good works prevail, Except within the classic pale? ’Tis stuff that bears the name of knowledge Not current half a mile from college; Where half their lectures yield no more (Be sure I speak of times of yore) Than just a niggard light, to mark How much we all are in the dark. As rushlights in a spacious room, Just burn enough to form a gloom.
