Yet whate'er false conveyances they made,
The lawyer still was certain to be paid.
In those dark times they learn'd their knack so well,
That by long use they grew infallible:
At last a knowing age began t' inquire
If they the book, or that did them inspire:
And, making narrower search, they found, though
late,

That what they thought the priest's, was their estate:
Taught by the will produc'd, the written word,
How long they had been cheated on record.
Then every man who saw the title fair,
Claim'd a child's part, and put in for a share:
Consulted soberly his private good;
And sav'd himself as cheap as e'er he could.

'Tis true, my friend, and far be flattery hence,
This good had full as bad a consequence:
The book thus put in every vulgar hand,
Which each presum'd he best could understand,
The common rule was made the common prey;
And at the mercy of the rabble lay.

The tender page with horny fists was gall'd;
And he was gifted most that loudest bawl'd:
The spirit gave the doctoral degree:
And every member of a company
Was of his trade, and of the Bible free.
Plain truths enough for needful use they found;
But men would still be itching to expound :
Each was ambitious of th' obscurest place,
No measure ta'en from knowledge, all from grace.
Study and pains were now no more their care;
Texts were explain'd by fasting and by prayer:
This was the fruit the private spirit brought;
Occasion'd by great zeal and little thought.
While crowds unlearn'd, with rude devotion warm,
About the sacred viands buz and swarm.
The fly blown text creates a crawling brood;
And turns to maggots what was meant for food.
A thousand daily sects rise up and die;
A thousand more the perish'd race supply:
So all we make of Heaven's discover'd will,
Is, not to have it, or to use it ill.

The danger's much the same; on several shelves
If others wreck us, or we wreck ourselves.

What then remains, but, waving each extreme, The tides of ignorance and pride to stem? Neither so rich a treasure to forego; Nor proudly seek beyond our power to know: Faith is not built on disquisitions vain; The things we must believe are few and plain:✔ But, since men will believe more than they need And every man will make himself a creed, In doubtful questions 'tis the safest way To learn what unsuspected ancients say: For 'tis not likely we should higher soar

need

In search of Heaven, than all the church before:
Nor can we be deceiv'd, unless we see
The scripture and the fathers disagree.
If after all they stand suspected still,
For no man's faith depends upon his will;
'Tis some relief, that points not clearly known
Without much hazard may be let alone :
And, after hearing what our church can say,
If still our reason runs another way,
That private reason 'tis more just to curb,
Than by disputes the public peace disturb,
For points obscure are of small use to learn:
But common quiet is mankind's concern.

Thus have I made my own opinions clear:
Yet neither praise expect, nor censure fear:

THIS translation of monsieur Boileau's Art of Poetry was made in the year 1680, by sir William Soame, of Suffolk, baronet; who being very intimately acquainted with Mr. Dryden, desired his revisal of it. I saw the manuscript lie in Mr. Dryden's hands for above six months, who made very considerable alterations in it, particularly the beginning of the fourth Canto: and it being his opinion, that it would be better to apply the poem to English writers, than keep to the French names, as it was first translated, sir William desired he would take the pains to make that alteration; and accordingly that was entirely done by Mr. Dryden.

The poem was first published in the year 1683; sir William was after sent ambassador to Constantinople, in the reign of king James, but died in the voyage.

F

CANTO I.

J. TONSON.

RASH author, 'tis a vain presumptucus crime,
To undertake the sacred art of rhyme;
If at thy birth the stars that rul'd thy sense
Shone not with a poetic influence,

In thy strait genius thou wilt still be bound,
Find Phoebus deaf, and Pegasus unsound.

You then, that burn with the desire to try
The dangerous course of charming poetry,
Forbear in fruitless verse to lose your time,
Or take for genius the desire of rhyme:
Fear the allurements of a specious bait,
And well consider your own force and weight..
Nature abounds in wits of every kind,

And for each author can a talent find:
One may in verse describe an amorous flame,
Another sharpen a short epigram:

Waller a hero's mighty acts extol,
Spenser sing Rosalind in pastoral:

But authors that themselves too much esteem,
Lose their own genius, and mistake their theme;
Thus in times past Dubartas vainly writ,
Allaying sacred truth with trifling wit,
Impertinently, and without delight,
Describ'd the Israelites triumphant flight,
And, following Moses o'er the sandy plain,
Perish'd with Pharaoh in th' Arabian main.

Whate'er you write of pleasant or sublime,
Always let sense accompany your rhyme:
Falsely they seem each other to oppose;
Rhyme must be made with Reason's laws to close
And when to conquer her you bend your force,
The mind will triumph in the noble course;
To Reason's yoke she quickly will inc ine,
Which, far from hurting, renders her divine:
But if neglected will as easily stray,
And master Reason which she should obey.

run,

Love Reason then; and let whate'er you write Borrow from her its beauty, force, and light. Most writers, mounted on a resty Muse,' Extravagant and senseless objects choose; They think they err, if in their verse they fall On any thought that 's plain or natural: Fly this excess; and let Italians be Vain authors of false glittering poetry. All ought to aim at sense; but most in vain Strive the hard pass and slippery path to gain : You drown, if to the right or left you stray; Reason to go has often but one way. Sometimes an author, fond of his own thought, Pursues its object till it 's over-wrought: If he describes a house, he shows the face, And after walks you round from place to place; Here is a vista, there the doors unfold, Balconies here are ballustred with gold; Then counts the rounds and ovals in the halls, "The festoons, friezes, and the astragals:" Tir'd with his tedious pomp, away And skip o'er twenty pages to be gone. Of such descriptions the vain folly see, And shun their barren superfluity. All that is needless carefully avoid; The mind once satisfy'd is quickly cloy'd: He cannot write who knows not to give o'er; To mend one fault, he makes a hundred more: A verse was weak; you turn it, much too strong, And grow obscure for fear you should be long. Some are not gaudy, but are flat and dry; Not to be low, another soars too high. Would you of every one deserve the praise? In writing, vary your discourse and phrase; A frozen style, that neither ebbs nor flows, Instead of pleasing, makes us gape and doze. Those tedious authors are esteem'd by none Who tire us, humming the same heavy tone. Happy who in his verse can gently steer, From grave to light; from pleasant to severe; His works will be admir'd wherever found, And oft with buyers will be compass'd round. In all you write, be neither low nor vile: The meanest theme may have a proper style. The dull burlesque appear'd with impudence, And pleas'd by novelty in spite of sense. All, except trivial points, grew out of date; Parnassus spoke the cant of Billingsgate : Boundless and mad, disorder'd rhyme was seen : Disguis'd Apollo chang'd to Harlequin. This plague, which first in country towns began, Cities and kingdoms quickly over-ran: The dullest scribblers some admirers found, And the Mock Tempest was a while renown'd: But this low stuff the town at last despis'd, And scorn'd the folly that they once had priz'd; Distinguish'd dull from natural and plain, And left the villages to Fleckno's reign. Let not so mean a style your Muse debase; But learn from Butler the buffooning grace: And let burlesque in ballads be employ'd; Yet noisy bombast carefully avoid, Nor think to raise, though on Pharsalia's plain, "Millions of mourning mountains of the slain:" Nor with Dubartas bridle up the floods, And perriwig with wool the baldpate woods. Choose a just style; 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 easy numbers fix your happy choice:
Of jarring sounds avoid the odious noise:
The fullest verse, and the most labour'd sense,
Displease us, if the ear once take offence.
Our ancient verse, as homely as the times,
Was rude, unmeasur'd, only tagg'd with rhymes;
Number and cadence that have since been shown,
To those unpolish'd writers were unknown,
Fairfax was he, who, in that darker age,
By his just rules restrain'd poetic rage;
Spenser did next in pastorals excel,
And taught the nobler art of writing well:
To stricter rules the stanza did restrain,
And found for poetry a richer vein.

Then Davenant came; who, with a new found art,
Chang'd all, spoil'd all, and had his way apart;
His haughty Muse all others did despise,
And thought in triumph to bear off the prize,
Till the sharp-sighted 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 aspiring Muse.
This headstrong writer, falling from on high,
Made following authors take less liberty.
Waller came last, but was the first whose art,
Just weight and measure did to verse impart;
That of a well-plac'd word could teach the force,
And show'd for poetry a nobler course:
His happy genius did our tongue refine,
And easy words with pleasing numbers join:
His verses to good method did apply,
And chang'd hard discord to soft harmony,
All own'd his laws; which, long approv'd and try'd,
To present authors now may be a guide.
Tread boldly in his steps, secure from fear,
And be, like him, in your expressions clear,
If in your verse you drag, and sense delay,
My patience tires, my fancy goes astray;
And from your vain discourse I turn my mind,
Nor search an author troublesome to find.
There is a kind of writer, pleas'd with sound,
Whose fustian head with clouds is compass'd round,
No reason can disperse them with its light:
Learn then to think ere you pretend to write.
As your idea 's clear, or else obscure,
Th' expression follows perfect or impure:
What we conceive with ease we can express;
Words to the notions flow with readiness.

Observe the language well in all you write,
And swerve not from it in your loftiest flight,
The smoothest verse and the exactest sense
Displease us, if ill English give offence:
A barbarous phrase no reader can approve;
Nor bombast, noise, or affectation love.
In short, without pure language, what you write
Can never vield us profit or delight.

Take time for thinking; never work in haste;
And value not yourself for writing fast.

A rapid poem, with such fury writ,
Shows want of judgment, not abounding wit.
More pleas'd we are to see a river lead
His gentle streams along a flowery mead,
Than from high banks to hear loud torrents roar,
With foamy waters on a muddy shore.
Gently make haste, of labour not afraid:
A hundred times consider what you 've said:
Polish, repolish, every colour lay,

And sometimes add, but oftener take away.
Tis not enough when swarming faults are writ,
That here and there are scatter'd sparks of wit;

Each object must be fix'd in the due place,
And differing parts have corresponding grace:
Till, by a curious art dispos'd, we find
One perfect whole, of all the pieces join'd.
Keep to your subject close in all you say;
Nor for a sounding sentence ever stray.
The public censure for your writings fear,
And to yourself be critic most 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 descry,

Who seems to like, but means not what he says:
Embrace true counsel, but suspect false praise.
A sycophant will every thing admire :
Each verse, each sentence, sets his soul on fire:
All is divine! there's not a word amiss!
He shakes with joy, and weeps with tenderness,
He overpowers you with his mighty praise.
Truth never moves in those impetuous ways;
A faithful friend is careful of your fame,
And freely will your heedless errours blame;
He cannot pardon a neglected line,
But verse to rule and order will confine.
Reprove of words the too-affected sound;
Here the sense flags, and your expression '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,
Think to protect it they have just pretence,
And at your friendly counsel take offence.
Said you of this, that the expression 's flat?
Your servant, sir, you must excuse me that,
He answers you. This word has here no grace,
Pray leave it out: that, sir, 's the properest place.
This turn I like not: 'tis approv'd by all.
Thus, resolute not from one fault to fall,
If there's a syllable of which you doubt,
'Tis a sure reason not to blot it out.
Yet still he says you may his faults confute,
And over him your power is absolute;
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 some other to abuse,
And often finds; for in our scribbling times
No fool can want a sot to praise his rhymes;
The flattest work has ever in the court
Met with some zealous ass for its support:
And in all times a forward scribbling fop
Has found some greater fool to cry him up.

CANTO II.

PASTORAL.

As a fair nymph, when rising from her bed,
With sparkling diamonds dresses not her head,
But, without gold or pearl, or costly scents,
Gathers from neighbouring fields her ornaments:
Such, lovely in its dress, but plain withal,
Ought to appear a perfect Pastoral:
Its humble method nothing has of fierce,
But hates the rattling of a lofty verse:
There native beauty pleases, and excites,
And never with harsh sounds the ear affrights,

But in this style a poet often spent,
In rage throws by his rural instrument,
And vainly, when disorder'd thoughts abound,
Amidst the Eclogue makes the trumpet sound:
Pan flies alarm'd into the neighbouring woods,
And frighted nymphs dive down into the floods.
Oppos'd to this, another, low in style,
Makes shepherds speak a language base and viles
His writings, flat and heavy, without sound,
Kissing the earth, and creeping on the ground;
You'd swear that Randal, in his rustic strains,
Again was quavering to the country swains,
And changing, without care of sound or dress,
Strephon and Phyllis, into Tom and Bess.
"Twixt these extremes 'tis hard to keep the right;
For guides take Virgil, and read Theocrite:
Be their just writing, by the gods inspir'd,
Your constant pattern practis'd and admir'd.
By them alone you'll easily comprehend
How poets, without shame, may condescend
To sing of gardens, fields, of flowers, and fruit,
To stir up shepherds, and to tune the flute;
Of love's rewards to tell the happy hour,
Daphne a tree, Narcissus 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 risings lofty, yet not out of sight.

ELEGY.

THE Elegy, that loves a mournful style,
With unbound hair weeps at a funeral pile;
It paints the lover's torments and delights,
A mistress flatters, threatens, and invites:
But well these raptures if you 'll make us see,
You must know love as well as poetry.

I hate those lukewarm authors, whose forc'd fire
In a cold style describes a hot desire,
That sigh by rule, and, raging in cold blood,
Their sluggish Muse whip to an amorous mood:
Their transports feign'd appear but flat and vain;
They always sigh, and always hug their chain,
Adore their prison, and their sufferings bless,
Make sense and reason quarrel as they please.
"Twas not of old in this affected tone,
That smooth Tibullus made his amorous moan;
Nor Ovid, when, instructed from above,
By Nature's rules he taught the art of love,
The heart in elegies forms the discourse.

ODE.

THE Ode is bolder, and has greater forec.
Mounting to Heaven in her ambitious flight,
Amongst the gods and heroes takes delight;
Of Pisa's wrestlers tells the sinewy force,
And sings the dusty conqueror's glorious course:
To Simo's streams does fierce Achilles bring,
And makes the Ganges bow to Britain's king.
Sometimes she flies like an industrious bee,
And robs the flowers by Nature's chymistry,
Describes the shepherd's dances, feasts, and bliss,
And boasts from Phyllis to surprise a kiss,
When gently she resists with feign'd remorse,
That what she grants may seem to be by force:
Her generous style at random oft will part,
And by a brave disorder shows her art.
Unlike those fearful poets, whose cold rhyme
In all their raptures keeps exactest time,

That sing th' illustrious hero's mighty praise
(Lean writers!) by the terms of weeks and days;
And dare not from least circumstances part,
But take all towns by strictest rules of art:
Apollo drives those fops from his abode;

And some have said, that once the humorous god,
Resolving all such scribblers to confound,
For the short Sonnet order'd this strict bound:
Set rules for the just measure, and the time,
The easy running and alternate rhyme;
But, above all, those licences deny'd
Which in these writings the lame sense supply'd;
Forbad an useless line should find a place,
Or a repeated word appear with grace.
A faultless sonnet, finish'd thus, would be
Worth tedious volumes of loose poetry.

A hundred scribbling authors, without ground,
Believe they have this only phenix found:
When yet th' exactest scarce have two or three,
Among whole tomes, from faults and censure free.
The rest but little read, regarded less,
Are shovel'd to the pastry from the press.
Closing the sense within the measur'd time,
"Tis hard to fit the reason to the rhyme.

EPIGRAM.

THE Epigram, with little art compos'd,
Is one good sentence in a distich clos'd.
These points, that by Italians first were priz'd,
Our ancient authors knew not, or despis'd:
The vulgar, dazzled with their glaring light,
To their false pleasures quickly they invite;
But public favour so increas'd their pride,
They overwhelm'd Parnassus with their tide.
The Madrigal at first was overcomé,
And the proud Sonnet fell by the same doom;
With these grave Tragedy adorn'd her flights,
And mournful Elegy her funeral rites:
A hero never fail'd them on the stage,
Without his point a lover durst not rage;
The amorous shepherds took more care to prove
True to his point, than faithful to their love.
Each word, like Janus, had a double face:
And prose, as well as verse, allow'd it place:
The lawyer with conceits adorn'd his speech,
The parson without quibbling could not preach.
At last affronted Reason look'd about,
And from all serious matters shut them out:
Declar'd that none should use them without shame,
Except a scattering in the Epigram;
Provided that by art, and in due time,

SATIRE.

LUCILIUS was the man who, bravely bold,
To Roman vices did this mirror hold,
Protected humble goodness from reproach,
Show'd worth on foot, and rascals in the coach.
Horace his pleasing wit to this did add,
And none uncensur'd could be fool or mad:
Unhappy was that wretch, whose name might be
Squard to the rules of their sharp poetry.
Persius obscure, but full of sense and wit,
Affected brevity in all he writ:

And Juvenal, learned as those times could be,
Too far did stretch his sharp hyperbole;
Though horrid truths through all his labours shine,
In what he writes there's something of divine,
Whether he blames the Caprean debauch,
Or of Sejanus' fall tells the approach,
Or that he makes the trembling senate come
To the stern tyrant to receive their doom;
Or Roman vice in coarsest habits shews,
And paints an empress reeking from the stews
In all he writes appears a noble fire;
To follow such a master then desire.
Chaucer alone, fix'd on this solid base,
In his old style conserves 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 respect,
And at immodest writings take offence,
If clean expression cover not the sense.
I love sharp Satire, from obsceneness 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 singing 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 blasphemer, tremble when you choose
God for the subject of your impious Muse:
At last, those jests which libertines invent,
Bring the lewd author to just punishment.
Ev'n in a song there must be art and sense;
Yet sometimes we have seen that wine, or chance,
Have warm'd cold brains, and given dull writers

mettle,

And furnish'd out a scene for Mr. Settle.
But for one lucky hit, that made thee please,
Let not thy folly grow to a disease,

Thus in all parts disorders did abate :

Yet quibbles in the court had leave to prate:
Insipid jesters, and unpleasant fools,

A corporation of dull punning drolls.

"Tis not, but that sometimes a dexterous Muse

May with advantage a turn'd sense abuse,
And on a word may trifle with address;
But above all avoid the fond excess;

And think not, when your verse and sense are lame,
With a dull point to tag your Epigram.

Each poem his perfection has apart;
The British Round in plainness shows his art.
The Ballad, though the pride of ancient time,
Has often nothing but his humorous rhyme;
The Madrigal may softer passions move,
And breathe the tender ecstasies of love.
Desire to show itself, and not to wrong,
Arm'd Virtue first with Satire in its tongue.

If a warm fancy does some fop engage,
He neither eats nor sleeps 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 senseless plays,
Makes David Logan crown his head with bays

CANTO III.

TRAGEDY.

THERE's not a monster bred beneath the sky
But, well-dispos'd by art, may please the eye:
A curious workman, by his skill divine,
From an ill object makes a good design.

Thus, to delight us, Tragedy, in tears
For Edipus, provokes our hopes and fears:
For parricide Orestes asks relief;
And to encrease our pleasure causes grief.
You then, that in this noble art would rise,
Come; and in lofty verse dispute the prize.
Would you upon the stage acquire renown,
And for your judges summon all the town?
Would you your works for ever should remain,
And after ages past be sought again?

In all you write, observe with care and art
To move the passions, 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 scenes you fill your plays:
Your cold discourse can never move the mind
Of a stern critic, naturally unkind;
Who, justly tir'd with your pedantic flight,
Or falls asleep, or censures all you write.
The secret is, attention first to gain;

To move our minds, and then to entertain:
That, from the very opening of the scenes,
The first may show us what the author means.
I'm tir'd to see an actor on the stage,

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

I'd rather much the nauseous dunce should say
Downright, My name is Hector in the play;
Than with a mass of miracles, ill-join'd,
Confound my ears, and not instruct my mind.
The subject 's never soon enough exprest;
Your place of action must be fix'd, and rest.
A Spanish poet may with good event,
In one day's space 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 reason's rules confin'd,
Will, that with art the poem be design'd,
That unity of action, time, and place,
Keep the stage 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 discourse be vain.
You may relate what would offend the eye:
Seeing, indeed, would better satisfy;
But there are objects that a curious art
Hides from the eyes, yet offers to the heart.
The mind is most agreeably surpris'd,
When a well-woven subject, long disguis'd,
You on a sudden artfully unfold,

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

A song; where each man danc'd and sung his part,
And, of god Bacchus roaring out the praise,
Sought a good vintage for their jolly days:
Then wine and joy were seen in each man's eyes,
And a fat goat was the best singer's prize.
Thespis was first, who, all besmear'd with lee,
Began this pleasure for posterity:
And with his carted actors, and a song,
Amus'd the people as he pass'd along.
Next Eschylus the different persons plac'd,
And with a better mask his players grac'd:
Upon a theatre his verse express'd,
And show'd his hero with a buskin dress'd.
Then Sophocles, the genius of his age,
Increas'd the pomp and beauty of the stage,

Engag'd the chorus song in every part,
And polish'd rugged verse by rules of art:
He in the Greek did those perfections gain,
Which the weak Latin never could attain.
Our pious fathers, in their priest-rid age,
As impious and profane, abhorr'd the stage:
A troop of silly pilgrims, as 'tis said,
Foolishly zealous, scandalously play'd,
Instead of heroes, and of love's complaints,
The angels, God, the virgin, and the saints.
At last, right reason did his laws reveal,
And show'd the folly of their ill-plac'd zeal,
Silenc'd those nonconformists of the age,
And rais'd the lawful heroes of the stage:
Only th' Athenian mask was laid aside
And chorus by the music was supply'd.
Ingenious love, inventive in new arts,
Mingled in plays, and quickly touch'd our

hearts:

This passion never could resistance find,
But knows the shortest passage to the mind.
Paint then, I'm pleas'd my hero be in love;
But let him not like a tame shepherd move;
Let not Achilles be like Thyrsis seen,
Or for a Cyrus show an Artaben;
That struggling oft his passions we may find,
The frailty, not the virtue of his mind.

Of romance heroes shun the low design;
Yet to great hearts some human frailties join:
Achilles must with Homer's heat engage;
For an affront I'm pleas'd to see him rage.
Those little failings in your hero's heart
Show, that of man and nature he has part:
To leave known rules you cannot be allow'd;
Make Agamemnon covetous and proud,
Eneas in religious rites austere,

Keep to each man his proper character.
Of countries and of times the humours know;
From different climates different customs grow :
And strive to shun their fault who vainly dress
An antique hero like some modern ass;
Who make old Romans like our English move,
Show Cato sparkish, or make Brutus love.
In a romance those errours are excus'd:
There 'tis enough that, reading, we 're amus'd:
Rules too severe would there be useless found;
But the strict scene must have a juster bound:"
Exact decorum we must always find.
If then you form some hero in your mind,
Be sure your image with itself agree;
For what be first appears, he still must be.
Affected wits will naturally incline
To paint their figures by their own design:
Your bully poets, bully heroes write:
Chapman in Bussy d'Ambois took delight,
And thought perfection was to huff and fight.
Wise Nature by variety does please;
Clothe differing passions in a differing dress:
Bold anger, in rough haughty words appears;
Sorrow is humble, and dissolves in tears.
Make not your Hecuba with fury rage,
And show a ranting grief upon the stage;
Or tell in vain how the rough Tanais bore
His sevenfold waters to the Euxine shore:
These swoln expressions, this affected noise,
Shows like some pedant that declaims to boys.
In sorrow you must softer methods keep;
And, to excite our tears, yourself must weep.
Those noisy words with which ill plays abound,
Come not from hearts that are in sadness drown'd.