ave pen'd some Rules for your future Guidance.

_Cubbin_ was strangely taken with the mild Address and Sweetness of
Sophy. A thousand times he thanked him, as often smil'd upon him, and
spread his Coat for him to set more soft upon the Sands.

Sophy was a true-born _Britton_, and admir'd a forward _Spirit_. The
_French_ he little loved; Their Poets dare not (said he) think without
the Ancients, and their Criticks make use of their Eyes instead of their
Understandings. 'Twas his way to pardon, nay admire a Critick, who
for every fifty Errors would give him but one Remark of Use, or good
Discovery. But always read one Sheet, then burnt those dull insipid
Rogues, who thought that to write a good was to write a faultless Piece.
By which means their whole Work becomes one general Fault.

This Censure, I fear, would fall pretty heavy on the [A]_Criticks_ of
_France_; if this were a proper Place to persue the Argument in. But
Sophy thus resum'd his Talk.

[Footnote A: _In the Preface to the Second Part of our_ Pastorals,
_viz._ THE BASHFUL-SWAIN, _and_ BEAUTY AND SIMPLICITY, _we have shown
to what Perfection the whole Science of_ CRITICISM _was brought by the
Ancients, then what Progress the_ French Criticks _have further made,
and also what remains as yet untouch'd, and uncompleat_.]

In this, said he, I like your Temper, Cubbin. By those few Pieces we
have seen of your's, and those I hear you have in Manuscript, you seem
determin'd to engage in those Kinds of Poetry and those Subjects in
Criticism, which the Ancients have left us most imperfect. Here, if you
fail, you may be still some help to him who shall Attempt it next; and
if all decline it, apprehensive of no fair success, how should it ever
attain Perfection.

Then Cubbin told the _Critick_, that the reason of his entering upon
Pastoral, where the Labour was excessive and the Honour gain'd minute,
was this; He had unhappily reflected on that thing, we call a Name, so
thoroughly, and weigh'd so closely what like Happiness it would afford,
that he could now receive no pleasure from the Thoughts of growing
famous; nor would write one Hour in any little kind of Poetry, which was
not able to take up and possess his Mind with Pleasure, tho' it would
procure him the most glaring Character in Christendom. This Temper was
especially conspicuous while he tarried at the Fountain where he imbibed
the little Knowledge he possesses. He seem'd as out of humour with
Applause, a