Satires 1.10 (Creech): Nempe Incomposito

WEll, Sir, I grant I said Lucilius Muse
Is uncorrect, his way of Writing loose,
"And who admires him so, what Friend of his
"So blindly doats as to deny me This?
"And yet in the same Page I freely own,
"His Wit as sharp as ever lash't the Town;
But This one sort of Excellence allow'd,
Doth not infer that all the rest is good:
"For on the same Account I might admit
"Labenius Farce for Poems and for Wit.

Well then 'tis not enough to please the Crowd,
And make them laugh to prove the Poem good:
Yet this I grant a sort of Excellence:
He must be short, nor must He clog his sense
With useless words, or make his Periods long,
They must be smooth, and so glide o're the Tongue:
And sometimes He must use a graver stile,
And then jocose, and He must laugh a while.
Now like an Orator, a Poet now;
Their different Vertues, and their Graces show,
Now like a Gentleman whose fine discourse
Design'dly easie is, and free from force,
Instructive Mirth, and where a waggish sneer
Doth nick the great Ones more then a severe:
"This was the drift of all our Ancient Plays,
"In this They may be follow'd, and with Praise
But these Hermogenes (those blundring heads)
Scarce knows; and t'other Ape-face never reads:
Poor thick-skull'd Sots that sing a Catch or two
From Calvus, and that's all that they can do.
Ay, but He's excellent; for many times
He mixes Greek with Latine in his Rhimes.
Dull Sots to think that Poetry and Wit,
Which e'en the Rhodian poor Pitholeon writ.
Ay, but the Speech thus mixt is neat and fine,
'Tis sweet like Latine mixt with Greekish Wine.
But you Sir, that can't think this Censure true,
But do[...] on Lucill, I appeal to you,
Only in Verse, or when you treat of Laws,
Or plead suppose, Petillus desp'rate Cause;
Whilst Pode and Corvin eagerly accuse,
Would you this mix't, this Mungrel Language use:
As 'twere forget your own, and Greek confound
With Latine, like the Apulians double sound?
When I, a Latin, once design'd to write
Greek Verses, Romulus appear'd at night;
'Twas after Twelve, the time when dreams are true,
And said; Why Horace, what do'st mean to do?
'Tis full as mad the Greeks vast heaps t'encrease,
As 'tis to carry Water to the Seas.
Whilst swelling Alpin in his lofty way,
Murders poor Memnon in his Barbarous Play;
Or awkerdly describes the head of Rhine;
This pleasant way of writing Satyr's mine.
'Tis not for glory, nor to please the Age,
Nor get the Bays, nor often tread the Stage.
True Comedy Fondanus only writes,
Pollio the Acts of Kings, and Noble Fights,
Strong Epic-Poems Varius best can raise,
And Virgil's happy Muse in Eclogues plays,
Facetious, soft, and justly wins the Bays.
In Satyrs I, which Varro try'd in vain,
And others too, may have a happy strain:
Yet than Lucillius less I freely own,
I would not strive to blast his just renown,
He wears and best deserves to wear the Crown.
Ay, but I said his fancy muddy flow'd,
And faulty Lines did oft exceed the good.
Well Sir, and is e'en Homer all correct?
Is He, Sir Critic, free from all defect?
Doth not Lucillius Accius Rhimes accuse?
And blame our Ennius's correcter Muse?
For too much lightness oft his Rhimes deride,
And when He talks of his own Verse, for Pride?
Then what's the Reason that his friend repines,
That when I read Lucilius looser lines,
I try if 'tis his Subject won't permit,
More even Verse, or if 'tis want of Wit?
But now if any is content to chime,
And just put naked Words in Feet and Rhime,
And write two hundred Lines in two hours time.
As Cassius did, that full o're-flowing Tide
Of Wit, and who was burnt, (or fame hath ly'd)
With Piles of his own Papers when he dy'd.
Well then suppose Lucilius was a Wit,
His Vertue's more than Faults in what He writ.
Correcter than the Older Writers own,
And that we Satyr owe to him alone,
Satyr a Poem to the Greeks unknown.
Yet did He now again new life Commence,
He would correct, he would retrench his Sense,
And pare off all that was not Excellence;
Take pains, and often when he Verses made,
Would bite his Nails toth quick, and scratch his Head.
When you design a lasting Piece, be wise,
Amend, Correct, again, again Revise:
Ne're seek the Crowd's unthinking praise, delight

'That few, and Judges, read the Verse you write.
Is't thy Ambition mean unthinking Fool,
To be a Classick thumb'd in every School?
That's not my wish, for 'tis enough for me,
As hist Arbuscula was wont to say,
Well well hiss on, for since I please the best,
And those approve me well, I scorn the rest.
Why should I vex to hear Pontitius blame
My Poems, or Demetrius carp my Fame?
Or hungry Fannius at Tigellius Treat,
Disgrace my Verse to get a little Meat?
Let Plotius, Varius, and Mecoenas love,
Let Caesar, Virgil, Valgius all approve
What I compose; to these would I could joyn
The Visci, and Messala's Learned Line,
And Pollio, and some other Friends of mine,
Whom I for modesty forbear to name,
My good acquaintance all, and Men of Fame,
Commend my Lines, and I should grieve to know
They do not please Them, as I hope they do.
I scorn Tigellius, and Demetrius noise,
Dull Block-heads, let them Pipe among their Boys,
And mind their Schools: Go Roger quickly run,
Put this into my Book, and I have done.