Thofe tedious authors are esteem'd by none
Who tire us, humming the fame heavy tone.
Happy who in his verfe can gently steer,
From grave to light, from pleasant to fevere;
His works will he admir'd wherever found,
And oft with buyers will be compast round.
In all you write, be neither low nor vile :
The meanest theme may have a proper ftile.
The dull burlefque appear'd with impudence,
And pleas'd by novelty in fpite of fenfe.
All, except trivial points, grew out of date;
Parnaffus fpoke the cant of Billingsgate :
Boundless and mad, disorder'd rhyme was feen :
Difguis'd Apollo chang'd to Harlequin.
This plague, which first in country towns began,
Cities and kingdoms quickly over-ran:
The dulleft fcribblers fome admirers found,
And the Mock Tempeft was a while renown'd:
But this low ftuff the town at laft defpis'd,
And fcorn'd the folly that they once had priz'¿;
Diftinguish'd dull from natural and plain,
And left the villages to Fleckno's reign.
Let not fo mean a ftile your Muse debase;
But learn from Butler the buffooning grace;
And let burlefque in ballads be employ'd;
Yet noify bombaft carefully avoid,
Nor think to raise, though on Pharfaliah's plain,
"Millions of mourning mountains of the flain :"
Nor with Dubartas bridle up the floods,
And periwig with wool the baldpate woods.
Choose a juft ftile, be grave without constraint,
Great without pride, and lovely without paint:
Write what your reader may be pleas'd to hear;
And for the measure have a careful ear.
On eafy numbers fix your happy choice:
Of jarring founds avoid the odious noife:
The fulleft verfe and the moft labour'd fenfe,
Difpleafe us, if the ear once take offence.
Our ancient verfe, as homely as the times,
Was rude, unmeafur'd, only tagg'd with rhymes;
Number and cadence that have fince been fhewn,
To thofe unpolifh'd writers were unknown.
Fairfax was he, who, in that darker age,
By his just rules restrain'd poetic rage;
Spenfer did next in paftorals excel,
And taught the nobler art of writing well;
To ftricter rules the ftanza did restrain,
And found for poetry a richer vein.
Then Davenant came, who, with new-found art,
Chang'd all, spoil'd all, and had his way apart;
His haughty Mufe all others did despise,
And thought in triumph to bear off the prize,
Till the fharp-fighted critics of the times
In their Mock-Gondibert expos'd his rhymes;
The laurels he pretended did refuse,
And dash'd the hopes of his afpiring Mufe.
This headstrong writer falling from on high,
Made following authors take lefs liberty.
Waller came laft, but was the first whose art,
Juft weight and measure did to verse impart ;
That of a well-plac'd word could teach the force,
And fhew'd for poetry a nobler course :
His happy genius did our tongue refine,
And eafy words with pleafing numbers join:
His verses to good method did apply,
And chang'd hard difcord to foft harmony.
All own'd his laws; which, long approv'd and
try'd,
To prefent authors now may be a guide.
Tread boldly in his fteps, fccure from fear,
And be, like him, in your expreffions clear.
If in your verse you drag, and fenfe delay,
My patience tires, my fancy goes aftray;
And from your vain difcourfe I turn my mind,
Nor fearch an author troublefome to find.
There is a kind of writer pleas'd with found,
Whose fuftian head with clouds is compafs'd
round,
No reafon can difperfe them with its light,
Learn then to think e'er you pretend to write.
As your idea 's clear, or elfe obfcure,
Th' expreflion follows perfect or impure:
What we conceive with eafe we can exprefs;
Words to the notions flow with readiness.
Obferve the language well in all you write,
And swerve not from it in your loftieft flight.
The smootheft verfe and the exacteft fenfe
Difpleafe us, if ill English give offence;
A barbarous phrafe no reader can approve;
Nor bombaft, noife, or affectation love.
In fhort, without pure language, what you write
Can never yield us profit nor delight..
Take time for thinking; never work in hafte;
And value not yourself for writing fast.
A rapid poem, with fuch fury writ,
Shews want of judgment, not abounding wit.
More pleas'd we are to fee a river lead
His gentle ftreams along a flowery mead,
Than from high banks to hear loud torrents roar,
With foamy waters on a muddy shore.
Gently make hafte, of labour not afraid :
A hundred times confider what you 've faid:
Polish, repolish, every colour lay,
And fometimes add, but oftener take away.
'Tis not enough when swarming faults are writ,
That here and there are fcatter'd fparks of wit;
Each object must be fix'd in the due place,
And differiug parts have correfponding grace:
Till, by a curious art difpos'd, we find
One perfect whole, of all the pieces join'd.
Keep to your fubject close in all you say;
Nor for a founding fentence ever tray.
The public cenfure for your writings fear,
And to yourself be critic moft severe.
Fantastic wits their darling follies love;
But find you faithful friends that will approve,
That on your works may look with careful eyes,
And of your faults be zealous enemies:
Lay by an author's pride and vanity,
And from a friend a flatterer defcry,
Who feems to like, but means not what he fays:
Embrace true counfel, but fufpect falfe praife.
A fycophant will every thing admire :
Each verfe, each fentence, fets his foul on fire:
All is divine! there's not a word amifs!
He fhakes with joy, and weeps with tenderness,
He overpowers you with his mighty praise.
Truth never moves in thofe impetuous ways:
A faithful friend is careful of your fame,
And freely will your heedlefs errors blame;
He cannot pardon a neglected line,
But verfe to rule and order will confine.
Reprove of words the too affected found;
Here the sense flags, and your expreffion's round,
Your fancy tires, and your discourse grows vain,
Your terms improper, make them just and plain.
Thus 'tis a faithful friend will freedom use;
But authors, partial to their darling Muse,
Tak to protect it they have juft pretence,
And at your friendly counsel take offence.
Said you of this, that the expreffion's flat?
Your fervant, Sir, you must excuse me that,
He answers you. This word has here no grace,
Pray leave it out: That, Sir, 's the propereft place.
VOL. VI.
This turn I like not: "Tis a approv'd by all.
Thus, refolute not from one fault to fall,
If there's a fyllable of which you doubt,
'Tis a fure reafon not to blot it out,
Yet ftill he fays you may his faults confute,
And over him your power is abfolute :
But of his feign'd humility take heed;
'Tis a bait laid to make you hear him read.
And when he leaves you happy in his Muse,
Restless he runs fome other to abuse,
And often finds; for in our fcribbling times
No fool can want a fot to praise his rhymes;
The flatteft work has ever in the court
Met with fome zealous afs for its fupport:
And in all times a forward fcribbling fop
Has found fome greater fool to cry him up.
As a fair nymph, when rising from her bed,
With fparkling diamonds dreffes not her head,
But, without gold or pearl, or coftly scents,
Gathers from neighbouring fields her ornaments:
Such, lovely in its drefs, but plain withal,
Ought to appear a perfect paftoral:
Its humble method nothing has of fierce,
But hates the rattling of a lofty verfe :
There native beasty pleafes, and excites,
And never with harth founds the ear affrights.
But in this file a poet often spent,
In rage throws by his rural inftrument,
And vainly, when diforder'd thoughts abound,
Amidft the Eclogue makes the trumpet found:
Pan flies alarm'd into the neighbouring woods,
And frighted nymphs dive down into the floods.
Oppos'd to this another, low in ftyle,
Makes fhepherds fpeak a language base and vile:
His writings flat and heavy, without found,
Kifling the earth, and creeping on the ground;
You'd wear that Randal, in his ruftic trains.
Again was quavering to the country fwains,
And changing, without care of found or drefs,
Strephon and Phyllis, into Tom and Befs.
'Twixt thefe extremes 'tis hard to keep the right;
For guides take Virgil, and read Theocrite :
Be their juft writing, by the Gods infpir'd,
Your conftant pattern practis'd and admir'd.
By them alone you'll eafily comprehend
How poets, without fhame, may condefcend
To fing of gardens, fields, of flowers, and fruit,
To ftir up thepherds, and to tune the flute;
Of love's rewards to tell the happy hour,
Daphne a tree, Narciffus made a flower,
And by what means the Eclogue yet has power
To make the woods worthy a conqueror:
This of their writings is the grace and flight;
Their rifings lofty, yet not out of fight.
The Elegy, that loves a mournful flile,
With unbound hair weeps at a funeral pile;
It paints the lover's torments and delights,
A miftreis flatters, threatens, and invites:
But well these raptures, if you'll make us fee,
You must know love as well as poetry.
I hate those luke-warm authors, whofe forc'd fire
In a cold ftile defcribes a hot defire,
That figh by rule, and raging in cold blood
Their fluggish Mufe whip to an amorous mood:
Their tranfports feign'd appear but flat and vain
They always figh, and always hug their chain,
Adore their prifon, and their fufferings blefs,
Make fenfe and reafon quarrel as they please.
'Twas not of old in this affected tone,
That fmooth Tibullus made his amorous moan
Nor Ovid, when inftructed from above,
By nature's rules he taught the art of love.
The heart in Elegies forms the difcourfe.
The Ode is bolder, and has greater force,
Mounting to heaven in her ambitious flight,
Amongst the gods and heroes takes delight;
Of Pifa's wrestlers tells the finewy force,
And fings the dufty conqueror's glorious courfe :
To Simo's ftreams does fierce Achilles bring,
And makes the Ganges bow to Britain's king.
Sometimes the flies like an induftrious bee,
And robs the flowers by nature's chemistry,
Defcribes the shepherd's dances, feasts, and bless,
And boafts from Phyllis to furprize a kiss,
When gently the refifts with feign'd remorse,
That what the grants may feem to be by force.
Her generous tile at random oft will part,
And by a brave diforder fhews her art.
Unlike thofe fearful poets, whofe cold rhyme
In all their raptures keeps exacteft time,
That fing th' illuftrious hero's mighty praise
(Lean writers!) by the terms of weeks and days;
And dare not from leaft circumftances part,
But take all towns by ftricteft rules of art:
Apallo drives thofe fops from his abode ;
And fome have faid that once the humorous god
Refolving all fuch fcribblers to confound,
For the fhort Sounet order'd this ftrict bound:
Set rules for the juft measure, and the time,
The eafy running and alternate rhyme;
But, above all, thofe licences deny'd
Which in these writings the lame fenfe fupply'd;
Forbad an ufelefs line should find a place,
Or a repeated word appear with grace,
A faultlefs Sonnet, finish'd thus, would be
Worth tedious volumes of loofe poetry.
A hundred fcribbling authors without ground,
Believe they have this only phoenix found:
When yet th' exacteft fcarce have two or three,
Among whole tomes from faults and cenfure free.
The reft but little read, regarded lefs,
Are shovel'd to the pastry from the prefs.
Clofing the fenfe within the meafur'd time,
Tis hard to fit the reafon to the rhyme.
The Epigram, with little art compos'd, Is one good fentence in a diftich clos'd. Thefe points, that by Italians first were priz'd, Our ancient authors knew not, or defpis'd: The vulgar, dazzled with the glaring light, To their falfe pleasures quickly they invite; But public favour fo increas'd their pride, They overwhelm'd Parnaffus with their tide. The Madrigal at firft was overcome,
And the proud Sonnet fell by the fame doom;
With thefe grave Tragedy adorn'd her flights,
And mournful Elegy her funeral rites:
A hero never fail'd them on the ftage,
Without his point a lover durft not rage;
The amorous fhepherds took more care to prove
True to his point, than faithful to their love.
Each word like Janus had a double face:
And profe, as well as verfe, allow'd it place:
The lawyer with conceits adorn'd his fpeech,
The parfon without quibbling could not preach.
At laft affronted reafon look'd about,
And from all ferious matters fhut them ont:
Declar'd that none fhould use them without fhame,
Except a fcattering in the Epigram;
Provided that by art, and in due time,
They turn'd upon the thought, and not the rhyme.
Thus in all parts diforders did abate:
Yet quibblers in the court had leave to prate :
Infipid jefters, and unpleasant fools,
A corporation of dull punning drolls,
'Tis not, but that fometimes a dexterous Mufe
May with advantage a turn'd sense abuse,
And on a word may trifle with address;
But above all, avoid the fund excels;
And think not, when your verfe and fenfe are lame,
With a dull point to tag your Epigram.
Each poem his perfection has apart;
The British round in plainness shews his art.
The Ballad, though the pride of ancient time,
Has often nothing but his humorous rhyme;
The Madrigal may fofter paffions move,
And breathe the tender ecftafies of love.
Defire to fhew itfelf, and not to wrong,
Arm'd Virtue firft, with Satire in its tongue.
Lucilus was the man who, bravely bold,
To Roman vices did this mirror hold,
Protected humble goodness from reproach,
Shew'd worth on foot, and rafcals in the coach,
Horace his pleafing wit to this did add,
And none uncenfur'd could be fool or mad:
Unhappy was that wretch, whofe name might bẹ
Squar'd to the rules of their fharp poetry.
Perfius obfcure, but full of fenfe and wit,
Affected brevity in all he writ:
And Juvenal, learned as thofe times could be,
Too far did ftretch his sharp hyperbole;
Though horrid truths through all his labours fhine,
In what he writes there's fomething of divine,
Whether he blames the Caprean debauch,
Or of Sejanus' fall tells the approach,
Or that he makes the trembling fenate come
To the stern tyrant to receive their doom;
Or Roman vice in coarfeft habits fhews,
And paints an emprefs reeking from the stews:
In all he writes appears a noble fire;
To follow fuch a master then defire.
Chaucer alone, fix'd on this folid base,
In his old ftyle conferves a modern grace;
Too happy, if the freedom of his rhymes
Offended not the method of our times,
The Latin writers decency neglect;
But modern authors challenge our refpect,
And at immodeft writings take offence,
If clean expreffion cover not the fenfe.
I love fharp Satire, from obfceneness free;
Not impudence that preaches modesty :
Our English, who in malice never fail,
Hence in lampoons and libels learn to rail;
Pleasant detraction, that by finging goes
From mouth to mouth, and as it marches grows:
Our freedom in our poetry we see,
That child of joy begot by liberty.
But, vain blafphemy, tremble when you choose
God for the subject of your impious Mufe:
At laft, thofe jefts which libertines invent,
Bring the lewd author to just punishment.
Ev'n in a fong there must be art and fense;
Yet fometimes we have seen, that wine, or chance,
Have warm'd cold brains, and given dull writers
mettle,
And furnish'd out a fcene for Mr. Settle.
But for one lucky hit, that made thee please,
I et not thy folly grow to a disease,
Nor think thyself a wit; for in our age
If a warm fancy does fome fop engage,
He neither eats nor fleeps till he has writ,
But plagues the world with his adulterate wit.
Nay 'tis a wonder, if in his dire rage,
He prints not his dull follies for the stage:
And in the front of all his fenfeless plays,
Makes David Logan crown his head with bayes,
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