What nets to fpread, where subtle baits to lay; And with an early hand they form the temper'd clay.

Marry'd, their leffons fhe improves
By practice of adulterous loves;
And fcorns the common, mean defign,
To take advantage of her husband's wine;'
Or fnatch, in fome dark place,
A hafty illegitimate embrace.

No! the brib'd husband knows of all,
And bids her rife when lovers call;
Hither a merchant from the ftraits,
Grown wealthy by forbidden freights,
Or city cannibal, repairs,

Who feeds upon the flesh of heirs ; Convenient brutes, whofe tributary flame Pays the full price of luft, and gilds the flighted fhame.

Time fenfibly all things impairs;

Our fathers have been worfe than theirs,
And we than ours; next age will fee
A race more profligate than we

I

HORACE'S ART OF POETRY §.

"Scribendi rectè, fapere eft & principium & fons."

HAVE feldom known a trick fucceed, and will put none upon the reader; but tell him plainly, that I think it could never be more feasonable than now to lay down fuch rules, as, if they be obferved, will make men write more correctly, and judge more difcreetly: but Horace must be read feriously, or not at all; for elfe the reader won't be the better for him, and I fhall have loft my labour. I have kept as clofe as I could, both to the meaning and the words of the author, and done nothing but what I believe he would forgive if he were alive; and I have often afked myself that question. I know this is a field,

"Per quem magnus equos Aurunca flexit Alumnus."

But with all the refpect due to the name of Ben Jonfon, to which no man pays more veneration than I, it cannot be denied, that the constraint of rhyme, and a literal translation (to which Horace in this book declares himself an enemy), has made him want a comment in many places.

My chief care has been to write intelligibly; and where the Latin was obfcure, I have added a line or two to explain it.

I am below the envy of the critics: but, if I durft, I would beg them to remember, that Horace owed his favour and his fortune to the character given of him by Virgil and Varius; that Fundanius and Pollio are ftill valued by what Horace fays of them; and that, in their golden age, there was a good understanding among the ingenious, and thofe who were the most efteemed were the best natured.

to be.

A handfome woman with a fish's tail,

Or a man's head upon a horse's neck,
Or limbs of beafts of the moft different kinds

Cover'd with feathers of all forts of birds,
Would you not laugh, and think the painter

mad!

Trust me, that book is as ridiculous,

Whofe incoherent style (like fick men's dreams)
Varies all shapes, and mixes all extremes.
Painters and poets have been ftill allow'd
Their pencils, and their fancies unconfin'd.
This privilege we freely give and take;
But Nature, and the common laws of fenfe,
Forbid to reconcile antipathies,
Or make a snake engender with a dove,
And hungry tigers court the tender lambs.

Printed from Dr. Rawlinfon's copy, correded by the Earl of Rofcommon's own hand.

Some, that at firft have promis'd mighty things, Applaud themfelves, when a few florid lines Shine through th' infipid dulnefs of the reft. Here they defcribe a temple, or a wood, Or freams that through delightful meadows run; And there the rainbow, or the rapid Rhine: But they misplace them all, and crowd them in, And are as much to feek in other things, As he that only can defign a tree, Would be to draw a fhipwreck or a storm. When you begin with fo much pomp and show, Why is the end fo little and fo low? Be what you will, fo you be fill the fame. Moft poets fall into the groffeft faults, Deluded by a feeming excellence :

By thriving to be short, they grow obscure;
And when they would write fmoothly, they want
ftrength,

Their fpirits fink; while others, that affect
A lofty ftyle, fwell to a tympany.
Some timorous wretches ftart at every blast,
And, fearing tempefts, dare not leave the shore;
Others, in love with wild variety,

Draw boars in waves, and dolphins in a wood:
Thus fear of erring, join'd with want of skill,
Is a moft certain way of erring still.

The meancft workman in th' Æmilian square,
May grave the nails, or imitate the hair,
But cannot finish what he hath begun:
What can be more ridiculous than he?
For one or two good features in a face,
Where all the reft are fcandaloufly ill,
Make it but more remarkably deform'd.

Let poets match their fubject to their strength, And often try what weight they can support, And what their fhoulders are too weak to bear. After a ferious and judicious choice, Method and eloquence will never fail.

As well the force as ornament of verfe
Confifts in choofing a fit time for things,
And knowing when a Mufe may be indulg'd
In her full flight, and when the fhould be curb'd.
Words must be chofen, and be plac'd with skill:
You gain your point, when, by the noble art
Of good connexion, an unusual word
Is made at first familiar to our ear:
But if you write of things abftrufe or new,
Some of your own inventing may be us'd,
So it be feldom and discreetly done:

But he that hopes to have new words allow'd,
Muft fo derive them from the Grecian fpring,
As they may feem to flow without constraint.
Can an impartial reader discommend
In Varius, or in Virgil, what he likes
In Plautus or Cæcilius? Why should I
Be envy'd for the little I invent,
When Ennius and Cato's copious style
Have fo enrich'd and fo adorn'd our tongue?
Men ever had, and ever will have, leave
To coin new words well fuited to the age.
Words are like leaves; fome wither every year;
And every year a younger race fucceeds.
Death is a tribute all things owe to fate.
The Lucrine mole (Cæfar's ftupendous work)
Protects our navics from the raging north;

| And (fince Cethegus drain'd the Pontine lake)
We plow and reap where former ages row'd.
See how the Tiber (whofe licentious waves
So often overflow'd the neighbouring fields)
Now runs a fmooth and inoffenfive course,
Confin'd by our great Emperor's command.
Yet this, and they, and all, will be forgot.
Why then should words challenge eternity,
When greatest men and greatest actions die?
Ufe may revive the obfoleteft words,
And banish thofe that now are most in vogue:
Ufe is the judge, the law, and rule of speech.

Homer first taught the world in epic verse To write of great commanders and of kings. Elegies were at first design'd for grief, Though now we use them to exprefs our joy; But to whofe Muse we owe that fort of Verk, Is undecided by the men of skill.

Rage with lambics arm'd Archilochus, Numbers for dialogue and action fit, And favourites of the Dramatic Mufe. Fierce, lofty, rapid, whofe commanding found Awes the tumultuous noifes of the pit, And whofe peculiar province is the stage.

Gods, heroes, conquerors, Olympic crowns, Love's pleafing cares, and the free joys of wine, Are proper fubjects for the Lyric fong.

Why is he honour'd with a poet's name, Who neither knows nor would observe a rule; And chooses to be ignorant and proud, Rather than own his ignorance, and learn? Let every thing have its due place and time.

A comic fubject loves an humble verse : Thyeftes fcorns a low and comic style : Yet Comedy fometimes may raise her voice, And Chremes be allow'd to foam and rail: Tragedians too lay by their state to grieve; Peleus and Telephus, exil'd and poor, Forget their fwelling and gigantic words. He that would have fpectators fhare his grief, Muft write not only well, but movingly, And raise men's paffions to what height he wi We weep and laugh, as we fee others do : He only makes me fad who fhews the way, And first is fad himself; then, Telephus, I feel the weight of your calamities, And fancy all your miferies my own: But if you act them ill, I fleep or laugh: Your looks muft alter, as your fubje& does, From kind to fierce, from wanton to fevere; For nature forms, and foftens us within, And writes our fortune's changes in our face. Pleasure inchants, impetuous rage transports, And grief dejects and wrings the tortur & foul; And these are all interpreted by speech: But he whose words and fortumes disagree, Abjur'd, unpity'd, grows a public jest. Obferve the characters of thofe that speak, Whether an honeft fervant, or a cheat, Or one whofe blood boils in his youthful veins Or a grave matron, or a bufy nurse, Extorting merchants, careful husbandmen, Argives or Thebans, Afians or Greeks.

Follow report, or feign coherent things; Deferibe Achilles, as Achilles was,

Impatient, rafh, inexorable, proud,
Scorning all judges, and all law but arms;
Medea must be all revenge and blood,
Ino all tears, Ixion all deceit,

1 muft wander, and Oreftes mourn.

If your bold Muse dare tread unbeaten paths,
And bring new characters upon the flage,
Be fure you keep them up to their first height.
New fubjects are not eafily explain'd,
And you had better choose a well-known theme
Than trust to an invention of your own:
For what originally others writ,

May be fo well disguis'd, and fo improv'd,
That with fome juftice it may pals for yours;
But then you must not copy trivial things,
Nor word for word too faithfully tranflate,
Nor (as fome fervile imitators do)
Preferibe at firft fuch strict uneafy rules,
As you muft ever flavifaly obferve,
Or all the laws of decency renounce.

Begin not as th' old poctafter did,
"Troy's famous war, and Priam's fate, I fing."
In what will all this oftentation end? [moufe:
The labouring mountain fearce brings forth a
How far is this from the Mæonian file? [Troy,
« Muse, speak the man, who, fince the fiege of
"So many towns, fuch change of manners faw."
One with a flash begins, and ends in smoke,
The other out of fimoke brings glorious light.
And (without railing expectation high)
Surprifes us with daring miracles,
The bloody Leftrygons, Charybdis' gulph,
And frighted Greeks, who near the Mina shore,
Hear Scylla bark, and Polyphemus roar
He doth not trouble us with Leda's eggs,
When he begins to write the Trojan war;
Nor, writing the return of Diomed,
Go back as far as Meleager's death:
Nothing is idle, each judicious line
Infenfibly acquaints us with the plot;
He chooses only what he can improve,
And truth and fiction are fo aptly mix'd
That all feems uniform, and of a piece.

Now hear what every auditor expects; If you intend that he should stay to hear The epilogue, and fee the curtain fall; Mind how our tempers alter in our years, And by that rule form all your characters. One that hath newly learn'd to speak and go, Loves childish plays, is foon provok'd and pleas'd, And changes every hour his wavering mind. A youth that first cafts off his tutor's yoke, Loves horses, hourds, and sports, and exercife, Prone to all vice, impatient of reproof, Proud, carelefs, fond, inconftant, and profufe. Gain and ambition rule our riper years, And make us flaves to intereft and power. Old men are only walking hofpitals, Where all defects and all difeafes crowd With reftlefs pain, and more tormenting fear, Lazy, morofe, full of delays and hopes, Opprefs'd with riches which they dare not ufe; natur'd cenfors of the prefent age, And fond of all the follies of the past. Thus all the treasure of our flowing years,

Our ebb of life for ever takes away.
Boys must not have th' ambitious care of men,
Nor men the weak anxieties of age.

Some things are acted, others only told;
But what we hear moves less than what we fie;
Spectators only have their eyes to trust,
But auditors must trust their cars and you;
Yet there are things improper for a scene,
Which men of judgment only will relate.
Medea muft not draw her murdering knife,
And fpill her children's blood upon the stage,
Nor Atreus there his horrid feait prepare.
Cadmus and Progné's metamorphofis,
(She to a fwallow turn'd, he to a snake)
And whatfoever contradicts my sense,
I hate to fee, and never can believe.
Five acts are the just measure of a play.
Never prefume to make a God appear,
But for a business worthy of a God;

And in one scene no more than three should speak.
A chorus fhould fupply what action wants,
And hath a generous and marly part;
Bridles wild rage, loves rigid honesty,
And ftri&t obfervance of impartial laws,
Sobriety, fecurity, and peace,

[wheel,
And begs the Gods who guide blind fortune's
To raise the wretched, and pull down the proud,
But nothing must be fung between the acts,
But what fome way conduces to the plot.

Firft the thrill found of a small rural pipe (Not loud like trumpets, nor adorn'd as now) Was entertainment for the infant stage, And pleas'd the thin and bafhful audience Of our well meaning, frugal ancestors. But when our wails and limits were enlarg'd, And men (grown wanton by profperity) Study'd new arts of luxury and cafe, The verle, the mufic, and the feene's improv'd; For how fhould ignorance be judge of wit, Or men of fenfe applaud the jeft of fools? Then came rich clothes and graceful action in, Then inftruments were taught more moving notes, And eloquence with all her pomp and charms Foretold us ufeful and fententious truths, As thole deliver'd by the Delphic God.

The first tragedians found that ferious ftyle
Too grave for their uncultivated age,
And fo brought wild and naked fatyrs in.
Whofe motion, words, and fhape, were all a farce,
(As oft as decency would give them leave),
Because the mad ungovernable rout,

Full of confufion, and the fumes of wine,
Lov'd fuch variety and antic tricks.

But then they did not wrong themfelves fo much
To make a god, a hero, or a king,

(Stript of his golden crown and purple robe)
Defcend to a mechanic dialect,

Nor (to avoid fuch meannefs) foaring high
With

empty found and airy notions fly; For tragedy fhould blush as much to stoop To the law mimic follies of a farce,

As a grave matron would to dance with girls:
You must not think that a fatiric style
Allows of fcandalous and brutish words,
Or the confounding of your characters.

Begin with Truth, then give Invention scope,
And if your style be natural and smooth,
All men will try, and hope to write as well;
And (not without much pains) be undeceiv'd.
So much good method and connexion may
Improve the common and the plaineft things.
A fatyr that comes ftaring from the woods,
Muft not at firft fpeak like an orator:
But, though his language should not be refin'd,
It must not be obfcene and impudent;
The better fort abhors fcurrility,

And often cenfures what the rabble likes.
Unpolish'd verfes pafs with many men,.
And Rome is too indulgent in that point;
But then to write at a loofe rambling rate,
In hope the world will wink at all our faults,
Is fuch a rafh ill-grounded confidence,
As men may pardon, but will never praise.
Be perfect in the Greek originals,

Read them by day, and think of them by night.
But Plautus was admir'd in former time
With too much patience (not to call it worse):
His harsh, unequal verfe was music then,
And rudeness had the privilege of wit.

When Thefpis first expos'd the Tragic Muse,
Rude were the actors, and a cart the fcene,
Where ghaftly faces ftain'd with lees of wine
Frighted the children, and amus'd the crowd;
This fchylus (with indignation) saw,
And built a stage, found out a decent dress,
Brought vizards in (a civiler disguise),
And taught men how to fpeak and how to act.
Next Comedy appear'd with great applause,
Till her licentious and abufive tongue
Waken'd the magistrates coercive power,
And forc'd it to fupprefs her infolence.

Our writers have attempted every way; And they deferve our praife, whofe daring Mufe Difdain'd to be beholden to the Greeks, And found fit fubjects for her verfe at home. Nor fhould we be lefs famous for our wit, 'Than for the force of our victorious arms; But that the time and care that are requir'd To overlook, and file, and polish well, Fright poets from that neceffary toil.

Democritus was fo in love with wit, And fome men's natural impulfe to write, That he defpis'd the help of art and rules,

And thought none poets till their brains were crackt;

And this hath fo intoxicated fome,
That (to appear incorrigibly mad)
They cleanliness and company renounce
For lunacy beyond the cure of art,

With a long beard, and ten long dirty nails,
Pafs current for Apollo's livery.

O my unhappy ftars! if in the Spring
Some phyfic had not cur'd me of the spleen,
None would have writ with more fuccefs than I;
But I must reft contented as I am,
And only ferve to whet that wit in you,
To which I willingly refign my claim.
Yet without writing I may teach to write,
Tell what the duty of a poet is;

Wherein his wealth and ornaments confift,

And how he may be form'd, and how improv'd, What fit, what not, what excellent or ill.

Sound judgment is the ground of writing well;
And when Philofophy directs your choice
To proper fubjects rightly understood,
Words from your pen will naturally flow;
He only gives the proper characters,
Who knows the duty of all ranks of men,
And what we owe our country, parents, friends,
How judges and how fenators should act,
And what becomes a general to do;
Those are the likeft copies, which are drawn
By the original of human life.

Sometimes in rough and un.digefted plays
We meet with fuch a lucky character,
As, being humour'd right, and well pursued,
Succeeds much better than the fhallow verfe
And chiming trifles of more ftudious pens.

Greece had a genius, Greece had eloquence,
For her ambition and her end was fame.
Our Roman youth is diligently taught
The deep mysterious art of growing rich,
And the first words that children learn to speak
Are of the value of the names of coin;
Can a penurious wretch, that with his milk
Hath fuck'd the bafeft dregs of ufury,
Pretend to generous and heroic thoughts?
Can ruft and avarice write laings lines?
But you, brave youth, wife Numa's worthy heir,
Remen.ber of what weight your judgment is,
And never venture to commend a book,
That has not pass'd all judges and all tests.

A poet should instruct, or pleafe, or both:
Let all your precepts be fuccinct and clear,
That ready wits may comprehend them foon,
And faithful mentories retain them long;
All fuperfluities are foon forgot.

Never be fo conceited of your parts,

To think you may perfuade us what you please,
Or venture to bring in a child alive,
That cannibals have murder'd and devour'd.
Old age explodes all but morality;
Aufterity offends afpiring youths;
But he that joins inftruction with delight,
Profit with pleasure, carries all the votes:
Thefe are the volumes that enrich the shops,
Thefe pafs with admiration through the world,
And bring their author to eternal fame.

Be not too rigidly cenforious,

A ftring may jar in the best master's hand,
And the most fkilful archer miss his aim;
But in a poem elegantly writ,

I would not quarrel with a flight mistake,
Such as our nature's frailty may excufe;
But he that hath been often told his fault,
And still perfifts, is as impertinent
As a musician that will alway play,
And yet is always out at the fame note:
When fuch a positive abandon'd fop
(Among his numerous abfurdities)
Stumbles upon fome tolerable line,
I fret to fee them in fuch company,
And wonder by what magic they came there.
But in long works fleep will fometimes furprife;
Homer himfelf hath been obferv'd to nod.

Poems, like pictures, are of different forts, Some better at a distance, others near, Some love the dark, fome choose the cleareft light, And boldly challenge the most piercing eye; Some please for once, fome will for ever please. But, Pifo, (though your knowledge of the world, Join'd with your father's precepts, make you wife) Remember this as an important truth: Some things admit of mediocrity, A counsellor, or pleader at the bar, May want Meffala's powerful eloquence, Or be lefs read than deep Cascellius; Yet this indifferent lawyer is esteem'd; But no authority of gods nor men Allow of any mean in pocsy.

As an ill concert, and a coarse perfume,

Difgrace the delicacy of a feast,

Muft ufe himself to hunger, heat, and cold,
Take leave of wine and the foft joys of love;
And no musician dares pretend to skill,
Without a great expence of time and pains:
But every little busy scribbler now
Swells with the praises which he gives himself,
And, taking fanctuary in the crowd,
Brags of his impudence, and fcorns to mend.
A wealthy poet takes more pains to hire
A flattering audience, than poor tradesmen do
To perfuade cuftomers to buy their goods.
'Tis hard to find a man of great estate,
That can distinguish flatterers from friends.
Never delude yourself, nor read your book
Before a brib'd and fawning auditor;
For he'll commend and feign an extafy,
Grow pale or weep, do any thing to please.

So poefy, whofe end is to delight,

Admits of no degrees, but must be flill
Sublimely good, or despicably ill.

In other things men have some reason left,
And one that cannot dance, or fence, or run,
Defpairing of fuccefs, forbears to try;
But all (without confideration) write;
Some thinking that th' omnipotence of wealth
Can turn them into poets when they please.
But, Pifo, you are of too quick a fight
Not to difcern which way your talent lies,
Or vainly with your genius to contend;
Yet if it ever be your fate to write,
Let your productions pass the strictest hands,
Mine and your father's, and not fee the light
Till time and care have ripen'd every line.
What you keep by you, you may change and
mend;

But words once spoke can never be recall'd.

Orpheus, infpir'd by more than human power,
Did not, as poets feign, tame favage beasts,
But men as lawless and as wild as they,
And first diffuaded them from rage and blood.
Thus, when Amphion built the Theban wall,
They feign'd the ftones obey'd his magic lute:
Poets, the first instructors of mankind,
Brought all things to their proper, native use;
Some they appropriated to the Gods,

And fome to public, fome to private ends :
Promiscuous love by marriage was restrain'd,
Cities were built, and useful laws were made:
So great was the divinity of verse,
And fuch obfervance to a poet paid.
'Then Homer's and Tyrtæus' martial Mufe
Waken'd the world, and founded loud alarms.
To verfe we owe the facred oracles,
And our best precepts of morality:
Some have by verfe obtain'd the love of kings,
(Who, with the Mules, cafe their weary'd minds)
Then blush not, noble Pifo, to protect
What Gods infpire, and kings delight to hear.
Some think that poets may be form'd by art;
Others maintain that Nature makes them fo:
I neither fee what art without a vein,
Nor wit without the help of art can do;
But mutually they crave each other's aid.
He that intends to gain th' Olympic prize,

As men that truly grieve at funerals,
Are not fo loud as those that cry for hire,
Wife were the kings who never chose a friend,
Till with full cups they had unmask'd his foul,
And feen the bottom of his deepest thoughts.
You cannot arm yourself with too much care
Against the fmiles of a defigning knave.

Quintilius (if his advice were ask'd)
Would freely tell you what you should correct,
Or, if you could not, bid you blot it out,
And with more care supply the vacancy;
But if he found you fond and obftinate
(And apter to defend than mend your faults),
With filence leave you to admire yourself,
And without rival hug your darling book.
The prudent care of an impartial friend
Will give you notice of each idle dine,

Shew what founds harsh, and what wants ornament,

Or where it is too lavishly beftow'd;
Make you explain all that he finds obfcure,
And with a strict inquiry mark your faults;
Nor for thefe trifles fear to lofe your love.
Those things which now feem frivolous and flight,
Will be of a moft ferious confequence,
When they have made you once ridiculous.

A poetafter, in his raging fit,
(Follow'd and pointed at by fools and boys)
Is dreaded and profcrib'd by men of sense:
They make a lane for the polluted thing,
And fly as from th' infection of the plague,
Or from a man whom, for a just revenge,
Fanatic phrenzy sent by heaven pursues.
If (in the raving of a frantic Muse)
And minding more his verses than his way,
Any of these should drop into a well,
Though he might burft his lungs to call for help,
No creature would affift or pity him,
But feem to think he fell on purpose in.
Hear how an old Sicilian poet dy'd;
Empedocles, mad to be thought a god,
In a cold fit leap'd into Ætna's flames.
Give poets leave to make themselves away;
Why should it be a greater fin to kill,
Than to keep men alive againft their will?
Nor was this chance, but a deliberate choice;
For if Empedocles were now reviv'd,
Ee iiij