TRAGEDY.

THERE's not a monster bred beneath the sky
But, well difpos'd by art, may please the eye:
A curious workman, by his skill divine,
From an ill object makes a good defign.
Thus, to delight us, Tragedy, in tears
For Oedipus, provokes our hopes and fears:
For parricide Oreftes asks relief;

And to increase our pleasure causes grief.
You then that in this noble art would rife,
Come; and in lofty verfe difpute the prize.
Would you upon the stage acquire renown,
And for your judges fummon all the town?
Would you your words for ever fhould remain,
And after ages past be sought again?
in all you write, obferve with care and art
To move the paffions, and incline the heart.
If in a labour'd act, the pleasing rage
Cannot our hopes and fears by turns engage,
Nor in our mind a feeling pity raise;
In vain with learned fcenes you fill your plays,
Your cold difcourfe can never move the mind
Of a ftern critic, naturally unkind;
Who, juffly tir'd with your pedantic flight,
Or falls afleep, or cenfures all you write.
The fecret is, attention first to gain;
To move our minds, and then to entertain:
That, from the very opening of the scenes,
The first may fhew us what the author means.
I'm tir'd to fee an actor on the stage,

That knows not whether he's to laugh or rage;
Who, an intrigue unraveling in vain,
Inftead of pleasing keeps my mind in pain.

I'd rather much the naufeous dance fhould fay
Downright, My name is Hector in the play;
Than with a mass of miracles ill-join'd,
Confound my ears, and not inftruct my mind.
The fubject's never foon enough expreft;
Your place of action must be fix'd, and reft.
A Spanish poet may with good event,
In one day's fpace whole ages represent ;
There oft the hero of a wandering stage
Begins a child, and ends the play of age:
But we that are by reafon's rules confin'd,
Will, that with art the poem be design'd.
That unity of action, time, and place,
Keep the ftage full, and all our labours grace.
Write not what cannot be with ease conceiv'd;
Some truths may be too strong to be believ'd.
A foolish wonder cannot entertain:
My mind's not mov'd if your difcourse be vain.
You may relate what would offend the eye:
Seeing, indeed, would better fatisfy;
But there are objects that a curious art
Hides from the eyes, yet offers to the heart.
The mind is moft agreeably furpris'd,
When a well-woven fubject, long difguis'd,
You on a fudden artfully unfold,

And give the whole another face and mould.
At first the tragedy was void of art;

A fong; where each man danc'd and fung his part.
And of god Bacchus roaring out the praise,
Sought a good vintage for their jolly days:
Then wine and joy were feen in each man's eyes,
And a fat goat was the best finger's prize.
Thefpis was firft, who, all befmear'd with lee,
Began this pleafure for posterity:

And with his carted actors, and a fong,
Amus'd the people as he pass'd along
Next Afchylus the different perfons plac'd,
And with a better mask his players grac`d:
Upon a theatre his verfe exprefs'd,
And fhow'd his hero with a bufkin drefs'd.
Then Sophocles, the genius of his age,
Increas'd the pomp and beauty of the stage,
Engag'd the chorus fong in every part,
And polish'd rugged verfe by rules of art:
He in the Greek did thofe perfections gain,
Which the weak Latin never could attain,
Our pious fathers, in their prieft-rid age,
As impious and prophane, abhor'd the stage:
A troop of filly pilgrims, as 'tis faid,
Foolishly zealous, fcandaloufly play'd,
Instead of heroes, and of love's complaints,
The angels, God, the virgin, and the faints.
At laft, right reafon did his laws reveal,
And fhew'd the folly of their ill-plac'd zeal,
Silenc'd thofe nonconformifts of the age,
And raifs'd the lawful heroes of the stage:
Only th' Athenian mask was laid aside,
And chorus by the mufic was fupply'd.
Ingenious love, inventive in new arts,
Mingled in plays, and quickly touch'd our hearts:
This paffion never could refiftance find,
But knows the fhorteft paffage to the mind.
Paint then, I'm pleas'd my hero be in love;
But let him not like a tame fhepherd move;
Let not Achilles be like Thyrfis feen,
Or for a Cyrus fhew an Artaben;
That ftruggling oft his paflions we may find,
The frailty, not the virtue of his mind.
Of romance heroes fhun the low defign;
Yet to great hearts fome human frailties join:
Achilles muft with Homer's heart engage;
For an affront I 'm pleas'd to fee him rage.
Thofe little failings in your hero's heart,
Shew that of man and nature he has part:
To leave known rules you cannot be allow'd;
Make Agamemnon covetous and proud,
neas in religious rights auftere,
Keep to each man his proper character.
Of countries and of times the humours know;
From different climates different cuftoms grow:
And strive to fhun their fault who vainly dreis
An autique hero like fome modern afs;
Who make old Romans like our English move,
Shew Cato fparkish, or make Brutus love.
In a romance thofe errors are excus'd:
There 'tis enough that, reading, we 're amus'd:
Rules too fevere would there be nfelefs found;
But the ftrict fcene must have a jufter bound:
Exact decorum we must always find.
If then you form fome hero in your mind,
Be fure your image with itself agree;
For what he first appears, he ftiil must be.
Affected wits will naturally incline

To paint their figures by their own defign:
Your bully pocts, bully heroes write :
Chapman in Buffy d'Ambois took delight,
And thought perfection was to huff and fight,
Wife nature by variety does please;
Clothe differing paflions in a differing dress:

Bold anger, in rough haughty words appears;
Sorrow is humble, and diffolves in tears.
Make not your Hecuba with fury rage,
And fhew a ranting grief upon the stage;
Or tell in vain how the rough Tanais bore
His fevenfold waters to the Euxine fhore;
Thefe fwoln expreffions, this affected noise,
Shews like fome pedant that declaims to boys.
In forrow you muft fofter methods keep;
And, to excite our tears, yourself must weep.
Thofe noify words with which ill plays abound,
Come not from hearts that are in sadness drown'd.
The theatre for a young poet's rhymes
Is a bold venture in our knowing times:
An author cannot easily purchase fame;
Critics are always apt to hifs and blame :
You may be judg'd by every afs in town,
The privilege is bought for half a crown.
To pleafe, you must a hundred changes try;
Sometimes be humble, then must foar on high:
In noble thoughts muft every where abound,
Be eafy, pleafant, folid, and profound:
To thefe you must surprising touches join,
And fhew us a new wonder in each line :
That all, in a juft method well-defign'd,
May leave a strong impreffion in the mind.
These are the arts that tragedy maintain :

THE EPIC.

But the Heroic claims a loftier strain.
In the narration of fome great defign,
Invention, art, and fable, all must join:
Here fiction must employ its utmost grace;
All must affume a body, mind, and face:
Each virtue a divinity is feen;

Prudence is Pallas, beauty Paphos' queen.
'Tis not a cloud from whence fwift lightnings fy;
But Jupiter, that thunders from the sky:
Nor a rough form that gives the failor pain;
But angry Neptune plowing up the main :
Echo's no more an empty airy found;

But a fair nymph that weeps her lover drown'd.
Thus in the endless treasure of his mind,
The poet does a thoufand figures find,
Around the work his ornaments he pours,
And ftrews with lavish hand his opening flowers,
'Tis not a wonder if a tempest bore
The Trojan fleet against the Libyan fhore;
From faithlefs fortune this is no furprize,
For every day 'tis common to our yes;
But angry Jeno, that the might destroy,
And overwhelm the reft of ruin'd Troy :
That olas with the fierce goddefs join'd,
Open'd the hollow prifons of the wind;
Till angry Neptune looking o'er the main,
Rebukes the tempeft, calms the waves again,
Their veffels from the dangerous quickfands fteers:
Thefe are the fprings that move our hopes and

fears;

Without these ornaments before our eyes,
Th' unfinew'd poem languifhes and dies:
Your poet in his art will always fail,
And tell you but a dull infipid tale

In vain have our mistaken authors try'd
To lay thefe ancient ornaments afide,
Thinking our God, and prophets that he fent,,
Might act like those the poets did invent,
To fright poor readers in each line with hell,
And talk of Satan, Afhtaroth, and Bel;
The mysteries which Chriftians must believe,
Dildain fuch shifting pageants to receive:
The gospel offers nothing to our thoughts
But penitence, or punishment for faults;
And mingling falfehoods with those mysteries,
Would make our facred truths appear like lies.
Befides, what pleasure can it be to hear
The howlings of repining Lucifer,
Whole rage at your imagin'd hero flies,
And oft with God himfeif disputes the prize?
Taffo you'll say has done it with applause?
It is not here I mean to judge his cause :
Yet though our age has fo extoll'd his name,
His works had never gain'd immortal fame,
If holy Godfrey in his ecftafies

Had only conquer'd Satan on his knees;
If Tancred and Armida's pleasing form
Did not his melancholy theme adorn.

"Tis not, that Chriftian poems ought to be
Fili'd with the fictions of idolatry;

Ent in a common subject to reject
The gods, and heathen ornaments neglect;
To banish Tritons who the feas invade,
To take Pan's whistle, or the Fates degrade,
To hinder Charon in his leaky boat
To pass the shepherd with the man of note,
Is with vain fcruples to disturb your mind,
And fearch perfection you can never find:
As well they may forbid us to prefent
Prudence or Justice for an ornament,
To paint old Janus with his front of brafs,
And take from Time his fcythe, his wings and
glafs.

And every where, as 'twere idolatry,
Banish defcriptions from our poetry.
Leave them their pious follies to purfue;

But let our reafon fuch vain fears fubdue:
And let us not, amongst our vanities,
Of the true God create a God of lies.
In fable we a thousand pleasures see,
And the smooth names feem made for poetry;
As Hector, Alexander, Heleu, Phyllis,
Ulyffes, Agamemnon, and Achilles :
In fuch a crowd, the poet were to blame
To choose king Chilperic for his hero's name.
Sometimes the name being well or ill apply'd,
Will the whole fortune of your work decide.
Would you your reader never should be tir'd?
Choole fome great hero, fit to be admir'd;
In courage fignal, and in virtue bright,
Let e'en his very failings give delight;
Let his great actions our attention bind,
Like Cæfar, or like Scipio, frame his mind,
And not like Oedipus his perjur'd race;
A common conqueror is a theme too base.
Choose not your tale of accidents too full;
Too much variety may make it dull:
Achilles' rage alone, when wrought with skill,
Abundantly dues a whole Iliad fiil.

Be your narrations lively, fhort, and fmart;
In your descriptions fhew your noblest art:
There 'tis your poetry may be employ'd:
Yet you must trivial accidents avoid.
Nor imitate that fool, who, to describe
The wondrous marches of the chofen tribe,
Plac'd on the fides to fee their armies pass,
The fishes ftaring through the liquid glafs;
Defcrib'd a child, who, with his little hand,
Pick'd up the fhining pebbles from the faud.
Such objects are too mean to ftav our fight;
Allow your work a just and nobler flight.
Be your beginning plain; and take good heed
Too foon you mount not on the airy faced;
Nor tell your reader in a thundering verse,
"I fing the conqueror of the univerfe."
What can an author after this produce?
The labouring mountain muft bring forth a muufe.
Much better are we pleas'd with his address,
Who, without making fuch vaft promifes,
Says, in an easier ftyle aud plainer sense,
"Ifing the combats of that pious prince
"Who from the Phrygian coaft his armies bore,
"And landed firft on the Lavinian fhore."
His opening Mufe fets not the world on fire,
And yet performs more than we can require:
Quickly you'll hear him celebrate the fame
And future glory of the Roman name;
Of Styx and Acheron defcribe the floods,
And Cæfar's wandering in th' Elysian woods:
With figures numberlefs his ftory grace,
And every thing in beauteous colours trace.
At once you may be pleafing and fublime:
I hate a heavy melancholy rhyme:
I'd rather read Orlando's comic tale,
Than a dull auther always ftiff and stale,
Who thinks himself dishonour'd in his style,
If on his works the graces do but smile.
'Tis faid, that Homer, matchless in his art,
Stole Venus' girdle to engage the heart:
His works indeed vaft treasures do unfold,
And whatfoe'er he touches turns to gold:
All in his hands new beauty does acquire;
He always pleases, and can never tire.
A happy warmth he every where may boast;
Nor is he in too long digreffions loft:
His verfes without rule a method find,
And of themselves appear in order join'd:
All without trouble anfwers his intent;
Each fyllable is tending to th' event.
Let his example your endeavours raife:
To love his writings is a kind of praise.

A poem, where we all perfections find,
Is not the work of a fantastic mind:
There must be care, and time, and skill, and
pains;

Not the first heat of unexperienc'd brains.
Yet fometimes art lefs poets, when the rage
Of a warm fancy does their minds engage,
Puff'd with vain pride, prefume they understand,
And boldly take the trumpet in their hand;
Their fuftian Mufe each accident confounds;
Nor can fhe fly, but rife by leaps and bounds,
Till, their (mall flock of learning quickly spent,
Their poem dies for want of nourishment.

In vain mankind the hot-brain'd fool decries,
No branding cenfures can unveil his eyes;
With impudence the laurel they invade,
Refolv'd to like the monsters they have made,
Virgil, compar'd to them, is flat and dry;
And Homer understood not poetry:
Again their merit if this age rebel,
To future times for juftice they appeal.
But waiting till mankind fhall do them right,
And bring their works triumphantly to light;
Neglected heaps we in bye-corners lay,
Where they become to worms and moths a prey:
Forgot, in duit and cobwebs let them reft,
Whilft we return from whence we first digreft.
The great fuccefs which tragic writers found,
In Athens firft the comedy renown'd,
Th' abufivc Grecian there by pleafing ways,
Difpers'd his natural malice in his plays:
Wifdom and virtue, honour, wit, and sense,
Were fubject to buffooning infolence:
Poets were publicly approv'd, and fought,
That vice extoll'd, and virtue fet at nought!
A Socrates himself, in that loose age,
Was made the paftime of a fcoffing ftage,
At laft the public took in hand the caufe,
And cur'd this madnefs by the power of laws;
For bad at any time, or any place,

To name the perfon, or defcribe the face.
The ftage its ancient fury thus let fall,
And comedy diverted without gall:
By mild reproofs recover'd minds difeas'd,
And fparing perfons innocently pleas'd.
Each one was nicely fhewn in this new glass,
And fmil'd to think he was not meant the ass:
A mifer oft would laugh at first, to find
A faithful draught of his own fordid mind;
And fops were with fuch care and cunning writ,
They lik'd the piece for which themselves did fit.
You then that would the comic laurels wear,
To ftudy nature be your only care:
Who'er knows man, and by a curious art
Difcerns the hidden fecrets of the heart;
He who obferves, and naturally can paint
The jealous fool, the fawning fycophant,
A fober wit, an enterprifing afs,
A humorous Otter, or a Hudibras;
May fafely in thofe noble lifts

engage,
And make them act and fpeak upon the ftage.
Strive to be natural in all you write,

And paint with colours that may please the fight,
Nature in various figures does abound;
And in each mind are different honours found:
A glance, a touch, difcovers to the wife;
But every man has not difcerning eyes.
All-changing time does alfo change the mind;
And different ages different pleafures find:

Youth, hot and furious, cannot brook delay,
By flattering vice is easily led away;
Vain in discourse, inconstant in defire,
In cenfure rash, in pleasures all on fire.
The manly age does steadier thoughts enjoy;
Power and ambition do his foul employ:
Against the turns of fare he fets his mind;
And by the past the future hopes to find.
Decrepit age ftill adding to his ftores,
For other heaps the treasure he adores,
In all his actions keeps a frozen pace;
Paft times extols, the present to debase:
Incapable of pleasures youth abuse,

In others blames what age does him refuse.
Your actors must by reason be controul'd:
Let young men speak like young, old men like old:
Obferve the town, and study well the court:
For thither various characters refort:
Thus 'twas great Johnson purchas'd his renown,
And in his art had borne away the crown;
If, lefs defirous of the people's praise,
He had not with low farce debas'd his plays;
Mixing dull buffoonery with wit refin'd,
And Harlequin with noble Terence join'd.
When in the Fox I fee the tortoise hist,

I lofe the author of the Alchemist.
The comic wit, born with a fmiling air,
Muft tragic grief and pompous verse forbear;
Yet may he not, as on a market-place,
With baudy jefts amuse the populace:
With well-bred converfation you must please,
And your intrigue unravel'd be with ease:
Your action still should reafon's rules obey,
Nor in an empty scene may lofe its way.
Your humble style must fometimes gently rise;
And your difcourfe fententiou be, and wife :
The paflions must to nature be confin'd;
And scenes to scenes with artful weaving join'd
Your wit must not unfeafonably play;
But follow bus'nefs. never lead the way.
Obferve how Terence does this error thun;
A careful father chides his amorous fon :
Then fee that fon, whom no advice can move,
Forget thofe orders, and purfue his love:
'Tis not a well-drawn picture we discover:
'Tis a true fon, a father, and a lover.
I like an author that reforms the age,
And keeps the right decorum of the stage;
That always pleafes by just reafon's rule:
But for a tedious droll, a quibbling fool,
Who with low naufeous baudry fills his plays;
Let him be gone, and on two treffels raile
Some Smithfield stage, where he may act his
pranks,

And make Jack-Puddings fpeak to mountebanks.

THE ART

o IV.

Ix Florence dwelt a doctor of renown, The fcourge of God, and terror of the town, Who all the cant of phyfic had by heart, And never murder'd but by rules of art. The public mitchief was his private gain; Chidren their flaughter'd parents fought in vain; A brother here his pifon'd brother wept; Some bloodlefs dy'd, and fome by opium flept. Colds, at his prefence, would to frenzies turn; And agues, like malignant fevers, burn. Hated, at laft, his practice gives him o'er; One friend, unkill'd by drugs, of all his store, In his new country-houfe affords him place; Twas a rich abbot, and a building afs Here firft the doctor's talent came in play; He feems infpir'd, and talks like Wren or May: Of this new portico condemns the face, And turns the entrance to a bette place; Deigns the ftair-cafe at the other end, Hi friend approves, does for his mason fend. the doctor's arguments prevail. In hort, to finish this our humurous tale, He Galen's dangerous science does reject, And from ill doctor turns good architect. la this example we may have our part : her be maf n 'tis a useful art! Than a dull poet; for that trade accurst, Amits no mean betwixt the best and worst. In other sciences, without difgrace, A candidate may fill a feco. d place; But poetry no medium can admit, reader fuffers an indifferent wit: The ruin'd ftationers against him baul, And herringham degrades him from his tall. Barefque, at leaft, our laughter may excite : At a cold writer never can delight.

He

romes;

The Counter-Scuffle has more wit and art,
Than the tiff formal ftile of Gondibert.
Be not affected with that empty praise
Which your vain flatterers will fometimes raife,
And when you read, with ecstacy will fay,
"The finish'd piece! the admirable play!"
Which, when expos'd to cenfure and to light,
Cannot endure a critic's piercing fight.
A hundred authors fates have been foretold,
And Shadwell's works are printed, but not fold.
Hear all the world; confider every thought;
A fool by chance may ftumble on a fault :
Yet, when Apollo does your Muse inspire,
Be not impatient to expofe your fire;
Nor imitate the Settles of our times,
Those tuneful readers of their own dull rhymes.
Who feize on all th' acquaintance they can mect,
And ftop the paffengers that walk the street:
There is no fanctuary you can choose
For a defence for their purfuing Mufe.
I've faid before, be patient when they blame;
To alter for the better is ro fhame.
Yet yield not to a fool's impertinence:
Sometimes conceited fceptics, void of fenfe,
By their falfe tafte condemns fome finish'd part,
And blame the nobleft flights of wit and art,
In vain their fond opinions you deride,
With their lov'd follies they are fatisfy'd;
And their weak judgment, void of fenfe and
light,

hinks nothing can escape their feeble fight : Their dangerous counfels do not cure,but wound; Ifhun the ftorm, they run your verte aground, And, thinking to escape a rock, are drown'd. Choose a fure judge to cenfure what you write, Whole reafon leads, and knowledge gives you light,