When Critic Science first was known,
Somewhere upon the Muse’s ground
The PRUNING KNIFE OF WIT was thrown;
Not that which Aristarchus found:
That had a stout and longer blade,
Would at one stroke cut off a limb;
This knife was delicately made,
Not to dismember, but to trim.
With a short harmless edge a-top,
’Twas made like our prize-fighting swords;
Pages and Chapters ’twould not lop,
But cut off syllables and words.
Well did it wear; and might have worn
Full many an age, yet ne’er the worse;
Till Bentley’s hand its edge did turn
On Milton’s adamantine verse.
Warburton seized the blunted tool,
Scarce fit for Oyster-opening Drab:
For Critic use ’twas now too dull,
But tho’ it would not cut, ’twould stab;
Then Shakspeare bled, with every friend
That loved the Bard:—he threaten’d further;
And God knows what had been the end,
Had not Tom Edwards cried out “Murther!”
Confounded at the fearful word,
Awhile he hid the felon steel;
Now gives it Mason, lends it H—;
Ah! see what Gray and Cowley feel!