Sherry Chandler

But most by numbers judge a poet’s song:
And smooth or rough, with them, is right or wrong;
In the bright Muse tho’ thousand Charms conspire,
Her Voice is all these tuneful Fools admire,
Who haunt Parnassus but to please their Ear,
Not mend thier Minds, as some to church repair
Not for the Doctrine, but the music there…

And ten low words oft creep in one dull line
While they ring around the same unvary’d Chimes,
With sure Returns of still expected Rhymes.
Where’er you find the cooling Western breeze,
In the next Line, it whispers thro’ the trees;
If Chrystal Streams with pleasing murmurs creep,
The Reader’s threaten’d (not in vain) with Sleep.
A needless Alexandrine ends the Song,
That like a wounded Snake, drags its slow length along.
Leave such to tune thier own dull Rhimes…

True ease in writing comes from Art, not Chance,
As those move easiest who have learned to Dance.
‘Tis not enough no Harshness gives Offense,
The Sound must seem an Eccho to the Sense.
Soft is the Strain when Zephyr gently blows,
And the smooth Stream in smoother Numbers flows;
But when loud Surges lash the sounding Shore,
The hoarse, rough Verse shou’d like the torrent roar.
When Ajax strives, some Rocks’ vast Weight to throw,
The Line too labours, and the Words move slow…

— Alexander Pope, “Essay on Criticism”