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Moft poets fall into the groffeft faults,
Deluded by a feeming excellence :

By ftriving to be short, they grow obscure,

And when they would write fmoothly, they want
ftrength,

Their fpirits fink; while others, that affect
A lofty style, fwell to a tympany;

Some timorous wretches start at every blast,
And, fearing tempefts, dare not leave the fhore;
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 ftill.

The meanest workman in th' Emilian fquare,
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 fupport,
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 1
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 firft 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 difcreetly 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 difcommend
In Vatius, or in Virgil, what he likes
In Plautus or Cæcilius? Why fhould 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 (Cafar's ftupendous work)
Protects our navies 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
o often overflow'd the neighbouring fields)
Now runs a fmooth and inoffenfive courfe,
Confin'd by our great Emperor's command:
et this, and they, and all, will be forget;
Why then fhould words challenge eternity,
When greatest men and greatest actions die?
Je may revive the obfoleteit words,

And banish thofe that now are most in vogue;

fe is the judge, the law, and rule of fpeech.

VOL. II.

Homer first taught the world in epic verfe To write of great commanders and of kings. Elegies were at firit defign'd for grief, Though now we use them to exprefs our joy: But to whofe Mufe we owe that fort of verse, Is undecided by the men of fkill.

Rage with lambicks 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 itage.

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

Why is he honour'd with a poet's name,
Who neither knows nor would obferve 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,
Thyefles 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 Lis grief,
Muft write not only well, but movingly,
And raise men's paffions to what height he will.
We weep and laugh, as we fee others do:
He only makes me fad who fhews the way,
And first is fad himfelf; 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 must alter, as your subject 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'd foul,
And thefe are all interpreted by speech;
But he whose words and fortunes difagree,
Abfur'd, unpity'd, grows a public jeft.
Obferve the characters of thofe that fpeak,
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, carefu. hufbandmen,
Argives or Thebans, Afians or Greeks.

Follow report, or feign coherent things;
Defcribe Achilles, as Achilles was,
Impatient, rath, inexorable, proud,
Scorning all judges, and all law but arms;
Medea must be all revenge and blood,
Ino all tears, Ixion all deceit,

Io must wander, and Oreftes mourn.

If your bold Muse dare tread unbeaten paths, And bring new characters upon the stage, 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 truft to an invention of your own;

For what originally others writ,

May be fo well difguis'd, and fo improv'd,
That with fome justice it may pafs 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 first fuch friet uneafy rules,
As you must ever flavishly obferve,
Or all the laws of decency renounce.
Begin not as th' old poetafter did,

Troy's famous war, and Priam's fate, I fing." In what will all this oftentation end?

The labouring mountain fearce brings forth a moufe:

How far is this from the Mæonian file?
"Mufe, fpeak the man, who, fiuce the ficge of
" Troy,

"So many towns, fuch change of manners faw."
One with a flash begins, and ends in smoke,
The other out of fmoke brings glorious light.
And (without railing expectation high)
Surprizes us with daring miracles,
The bloody Leftrygons, Charybdis' gulph,
And frighted Grecks, who near the Ena fhore,
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 Melcager's death:
Nothing is idle, each judicious line
Infenfibly acquaints us with the plot;
He choofes only what he can improve,
And truth and fiction are so aptly mix'd
That all feems uniform, and of a piece.

Now hear what every auditor expects;
If you intend that he fhould 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 casts off his tutor's yoke,
Loves horses, hounds, and fports, and exercife,
Prone to all vice, impatient of reproof,
Proud, careless, fond, inconftant, and profufe.
Gain and ambition rule our riper years,
And make us flaves to interest 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 use;
Ill-natur'd cenfors of the prefent age,
And fond of all the follies of the past.
Thus all the treafure 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 lefs than what we fee;
Spectators only have their eyes to trust,
But auditors must trust their cars and you;
Yet there are things improper for a feene,
Which men of judgment only will relate.
Medea mul not draw her murdering knife,

And fpill her childrens blood upon the stage,
Nor Atreus there his horrid fealt prepare.
Cadmus and Progné's metamorphofis,
(She to a fwal ow turn'd, he to a fnake)
And whatfoever contradicts my fenfe,
I hate to fee, and never can believe.
Five acts are the juft measure of a play.
Never prefume to make a God appear,
But for a bulinefs worthy of a God;
And in one feene no more than three should speak.
A chorus fhould fupply what action wants,
And hath a generous and manly part;
Bridles wild rage, loves rigid honefty,
And ftrict obfervance of impartial laws,
Sobriety, fecurity, and poace,

Aud begs the Gods who guide blind fortu wheel,

To raife the wret hed, and pull down the prod But nothing must be fung between the ads, But what fome way conduces to the plat

First 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 bashful audience Of our well-meaning, frugal ancestors. But when our wails and limits were enlarg'd, And men (grown waeton by profperity) Study'd new arts of luxury and cafe, The verfe, the mufic, and the scene, 's improv For how fhould ignorance be judge of we, Or men of fenfe applaud the jeft of fool? Then came rich cloaths and graceful action in, Then inftruments were taught more

notes,

And eloquence with all her pomp and charms
Foretold us ufeful and fententious truths,
As thofe deliver'd by the Delphic God.

The first tragedians found that serious flyk
Too grave for their uncultivated age,
And fo brought wild and naked fatyrs in,
Whofe motion, words, and fhape, were all
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 themselves fo mud
To make a god, a hero, or a king,
(Stript of his golden crown and purple robe)
Defcend to a mechanic dialed,
Nor (to avoid fuch meannefs) foaring high
With empty found and airy notions fly;
For tragedy fhould blush as much to stoop
To the low mimic follies of a farce,
As a grave matron would to dance with girls:
You must not think that a fatiric tyle
Allows of fcandalous and brutish words,
Or the confounding of your characters.
Begin with Truth, then give Invention scope,
And if your ftyle be natural and fimooth,
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,
Must not at firft fpeak like an orator:

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But, though his language should not be refin'd,
It must not be obfeene and impudent;
The better fort abhors fcurrility,

And often cenfures what the rabble likes.
Unpolifa'd verfes pafs with many men,
And Rome is too indulgent in that point;
But then to write at a loose 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 harfh, unequal verfe was mufic then,
And rudeness had the privilege of wit.

When Thefpis firft expos'd the Tragic Mufe,
Rude were the actors, and a cart the scene,
Where ghaftly faces ftain'd with lees of wine
Frighted the children, and amus'd the crowd;
This Efchylus (with indignation) faw,
And built a stage, found out a decent dress,
Brought vizards in (a civiler disguise),
And taught men how to speak and how to act.
Next Comedy appear'd with great applause,
Till her licentious and abufive tongue
Waken'd the magiftrates 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,
Then 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 necessary 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 what we owe our country, parents, friends,
How judges and how fenators fhould act,
And what becomes a general to do;
Thofe are the likeft copies, which are drawn
By the original of human life.

Sometimes in rough and undigested plays
We meet with fuch a lucky character,
As, being humour'd right, and will purfued,
Succeeds much better than the fhallow verse
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 myfterious art of growing rich,
And the firft 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 usury,
Pretend to generous and heroic thoughts?
Can ruft and avarice write lafting lines?
But you, brave youth, wife Numa's worthy
heir,
Remember of what weight your judgment is,
And never venture to commend a book,
That has not pafs'd all judges and all tests.

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

And this hath fo intoxicated fome, That (to appear incorrigibly mad) They cleanlinefs 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 serve 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; Efe only gives the proper characters, Who knows the duty of all ranks of men,

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 Canibals have murder'd and devour'd.
Old age explodes all but morality;
Aufterity offends afpiring uths;
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 firing may jar in the best master's hand,
And the most skilful 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 same note:
When fuch a pofitive abandon'd fop
(Among his numerous abfurdities)
Stumbles upon fome tolerable line,-
I fret to fee them in such company,

And wonder by what magic they came there,
But in long works fleep wiii fometimes fur-
prize;

Homer himself hath been obferv'd to nod.

Poems, like pictures, are of different forts, Some better at a diftauce, others near,

Some love the dark, fome choose the clearest

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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 less read than deep Cafcellius;
Yet this indifferent lawyer is efteem'd;
But no authority of gods nor men
Allow of any mean in poesy.

As an ill concert, and a coarfe perfume,

Difgrace the delicacy of a feaft,

Without a great expence of time and pains;
But every little bufy fcribbler now
Swells with the praises which he gives himsell;
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 diftinguish 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,

And might with more difcretion have been Grow pale or weep, do any thing to please:

fpar'd;

So pocfy, whofe end is to delight,

Admits of no degrees, but must be ftill
Sublimely good, or defpicably ill.

In other things men have fome 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 the e nipotence 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 pafs 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 beafls, But men as lawlefs 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 inftructors of mankind, Brought all things to their proper, native use ; Some they appropriated to the gods, And fome to public, fome to private ends: Promifcuous love by marriage was restrain'd, Cities were built, and useful laws were made; So great was the divinity of verfe, And fuch obfervance to a poet paid. Then Homer's and Tyrtæus' martial Muse Waken'd the world, and founded loud alarms. To verfe we owe the facred oracles, And our best precepts of morality; Some have by verse obtain'd the love of kings, (Who, with the Mufes, eafe their weary'd minds) Theu 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 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,

True friends appear lefs mov'd than counterfeit;

As men that truly grieve at funerals,
Are not fo loud as thofe that cry for hire,
Wife were the kings, who never chose a friend,
Till with full cups they had unmafk'd his foul,
And feen the bottom of his deepeft 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 fupply 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 line,
Shew what founds harsh, and what wants of
ment,

Or where it is too lavishly bestow'd;
Make you explain all that he finds obfcure,
And with a ftrict enquiry mark your faults;
Nor for thefe trifles fear to lose your love:
Those things which now feem frivolous an
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 juft 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 thefe fhould drop into a well,
Though he might burst 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 against their will?
Nor was this chance, but a deliberate choice;
For if Empedocles were now reviv'd,
He would be at his frolic once again,

2

And his pretenfions to divinity:

'Tis hard to fay whether for facrilege,

Or inceft, or fome more unheard-of crime,
The rhyming fiend is fent into these men;
But they are all most visibly poffeft,

And, like a baited bear when he breaks loose,

Without diftinction feize on all they meet; None ever scap'd that came within their reach, Sticking like leeches, till they burst with blood, Without remorse insatiably they read,

And never leave till they have read men dead.

Lord RoscoMMON's verfes on the "Religio Laici" are printed in this Collection,

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