Epistles 2.1 (Creech): Cum Tot Sustineas

WHen you alone sustain the weighty Cares
Of all the World, and manage Peace and Wars,
The Roman State by Vertue's Rules amend,
Adorn with Manners, and with Arms defend,
To write a long Discourse, to wast your time,
Would hinder publick good, and turn a Crime:
The Ancient Heroes, though blest aboads
Receiv'd when dead, exalted into Gods;
Yet whilst they liv'd with Men, and whilst bestow'd
The greatest Cares, and did the greatest Good,
Built Towns, made Laws, and brought delightful ease,
And civiliz'd the Rational Savages;
Complain'd that They ingrateful Masters serv'd,
And met far less rewards than They deserv'd:
He that kill'd Hydra, He design'd by Fate
To quell the Monsters rais'd by Juno's hate;
Tho He, the mighty He, had all ways try'd,
Found Envy could be vanquisht only when He dy'd:
For those are hated that excell the rest,
Altho when dead they are belov'd, and blest;
The vigorous Ray torments the feeble sight,
Yet when the Sun is set, They praise the light:
To Thee, great Caesar, now we Altars give,
We vow and swear by Thee e'en whilst alive:
For never yet the Gods kind hands bestow'd,
Nor ever will a Prince so great, so good:
That she prefers, that she esteems Thee more
Than all the Heroes she enjoy'd before,
Than all that she hath bred, or Greece can boast,
In this, 'tis true, thy Rome is Wise and Just:
But not in other things; the Ancient Plays,
And Foreign Poets only she can praise;
The Present or Contempt, or Hate receive,
'Tis Crime enough that they are yet alive:
Thus Old-Loves do admire the Ancient Laws,
The Sabines Leagues have their deserv'd applause;
On musty Leaves at awful distance look,
Age makes it Reverend, and exalts the Book:
Give him the Bards old Songs, Oh Rare! Divine!
I swear 'tis good, a Muse sang every Line:
But if because the oldest are the best
Amongst the Greeks, the same unequal Test
Must try the Latines too; in short, No doubt
Plumes have nought hard within, nor Nuts without:
We sit on Fortune's Top, We sing, We write,
And Wrestle better than the Greeks can Fight.
If length of Time will better Verse like Wine,
Give it a brisker Tast, and make it fine;
Come tell me then, I would be gladly show'd,
How many years will make a Poem good:
One Poet writ an Hundred years ago,
What is He Old, and therefore Fam'd or no?
Or is He New, and therefore Bald appears?
Let's fix upon a certain term of Years.
He's good that liv'd an Hundred Years ago,
Another wants but One, is He so too?
Or is He New, and Damn'd for that Alone?
Well, He's Good too, and Old that wants but One.
And thus I'le argue on, and bate no more,
And so by one and one wast all the store:
And so confute him, who esteems by Years,
A Poem's goodness from the date it bears.
Who nor admires, nor yet approves a Line
But what is Old, and Death hath made Divine.
Ennius, the lofty Ennius, and the Wise,
That second Homer, in our Criticks Eyes,
Is loose in's Poems, and correct in few,
Nor takes he care to prove his Dreams were true,
He shows so little of great Homer's Soul.
"Naevius is learn'd by heart, and dearly sold,
"So Sacred is his Book, because 'tis Old.
When Accius and Pacuvius are compar'd,
Both are esteem'd, both meet with great reward;
Pacuvius all the Criticks Voices gains
For Learning, Accius for his lofty strains.
Afranius shows us soft Menander's Flame,
And Plautus rivals Epicharmus Fame:
Cecilius grave, and Terence full of Art,
These Rome admires, and these she learns by heart.
These are the Worthies of her Theater,
These she applauds with heat, and crowds to hear:
These she esteems the Glories of the Stage,
And counts from Livy's to our present Age.
The Critic Mobile will be medling still,
Sometimes their Judgment's good, and sometimes ill:
Thus when they praise the Old, and when prefer,
Beyond compare to all the New, They Erre:
But when they grant the Ancients Books and Plays
Are often dull, and uncorrect in Phrase,
Their words unfits, or else their main design,
Their Judgment's rational, and jumps with mine:
I do not damn old Livy's Rhymes as dull,
For which I often smarted when at School;
But that he should be thought Correct, Sublime,
And far before the Poems of our Time;
That one poor Chance-good Line or two at most,
The only Thing that all his Books can boast,
Not only should attone for what's amiss,
But recommend the whole; I'me vext at this.
I hate a Fop should scorn a faultless Page,
Because 'tis New, nor yet approv'd by Age:
And then admiring all the Ancient Plays,
Not only pardon their defects, but Praise.
Should I but doubt if Atta's Plays are good.
Our Old-Loves straight would cry the Youngster's Proud;
He's impudent, nor thinks those Plays exact,
Which Roscius, and grave Aesop us'd to act:
Because they Judge by their own Appetites,
And think nought sweet, but what their tast delights;
Or to stoop to their Juniors Rules disdain,
Or else to think what once they learn't was vain,
And only fit to be forgot again;
Those that applaud the Songs of former Times,
The dotish Bards old Verse, or Monkish Rhimes;
Who would be thought to have a sharper Eye,
And in those Poems numerous Graces spy,
In which They see no more fine Things than I;
'Tis not to praise the Old, but scorn, abuse,
And hate New Books, and damn the Modern Muse.
Had Greece done thus, had she still scorn'd the New,
What had been Old, what worthy Publick View?
When Wars were done, and Greece dissolv'd in Peace,
When Fortune taught them how to live at Ease,
They wrestled, Painted, sung, these Arts they lov'd,
These They did much admire, and these improv'd;
In every Picture vulgar Eyes could find
The Face exact, and almost saw the Mind;
Then Racing Vaulting then, the Plays and Stage,
Each took their turn to please the wanton Age;
Like Boys at Nurse, they eagerly desir'd,
But straight were cloy'd, and left what they admir'd.
For what disgusts our fancies, what doth please,
But may be chang'd? these are the fruits of Ease,
This happy fortune bears, this springs from Peace.
'Twas heretofore a credit here at Rome,
To mind a Shop all day, and keep at home;
Attend Ones Client, and promote his Cause,
Inform his Ignorance, and teach the Laws;
To make good Debts, and drive a gainful Trade,
And know what Interest may be justly paid:
Instruct the Young, and hear the Old Debate,
What will increase, what ruine an Estate:
This Humor's chang'd, now Reigns a New delight,
All must be Authors now, and all must Write:
All strive to get the Bays, and all Rehearse,
They Dine, they Sup in Rhyme, and drink in Verse.
E'en I that swear I never try'd a Muse,
E'en I'me forsworn, my Deeds my Words accuse;
My Quill is scribling too; before 'tis light
I call for Paper, Pen, and Ink, and write.
He that's no Pilot is afraid to Sail,
Urge him to guide a Ship, you sha'nt prevail,
And only Doctors will pretend to heal.
By Smiths alone, are Locks and Staples made,
And none pretend but Artists in the Trade.
But now for Poetry we all are fit,
And skilful, or unskilful all must write;
And yet this Madness thousand Goods commend,
A thousand pleasures wait, and all attend;
A Poet's seldom Covetous, or Nice,
Safe and secure within himself he lyes.
He minds and loves his Rhymes, and those alone;
Tell him his Goods are burnt, his Slaves are gone,
Or his Fields lost; He laughs, nor strives to cheat
His Ward, or Friend, a stranger to deceit:
He's thrifty, feasts upon a dish of Pease,
And lives content with Houshold-Bread and Cheese:
Unfit for War, yet they are good in Peace.
(For great things by the help of small increase)
Instruct our looseness, and inform our Ease.
They teach our Boys to hate all words Obscene,
To follow generous Rules, and speak like Men.
And then slide gently down with Vertuous Rules
Into the tender Breast, and form their Souls;
Restrain their Envy, and correct their rage,
Tell them what's good, instruct their tender Age,
With fit Examples, and their griefs asswage.
How had our Sacred Songs and Hymns been made,
And how our Pray'rs as high as Heav'n convey'd;
Did not the Muses Poets sancies raise,
To teach us how to pray, and how to praise?
In Verse the fawning Quire her Plagues bewails,
And begs a speedy comfort, and prevails;
Good Weather, happy years, and much encrease;
Their Pray'rs are streightway heard, all smile in Peace.
The Year is rich, the Fields with Plenty flow,
Verse softens Gods above, and Gods below.
The Ancient Swains, those temperate happy Swains,
Contented Sovereigns of their little Plains.
When all their Corn was hous'd would make a Feast,
Unbend their Minds, and lay them down to rest;
Their Cares dissolv'd into a happy Thought,
And Minds enjoy'd, the rest their labour sought.
A Pig on Tellus's Altars left his Blood,
And Milk from large brown Bowls to Sylvan flow'd:
Their Wife, their Neighbours, and their pratling Boys
Were call'd, all tasted of the Country Joys:
They Drank, they Danc't, they Sang, made wanton Sport,
Enjoy'd their selves, for life they knew was short.
Hence grew the Liberty of the looser Muse,
Hence they grew Scurrilous, and would abuse;
Hence those loose Dialogues at Marriage Feasts,
Yet still they were but Mirth, and Country Jests.
At last they shew'd their Teeth, and sharply bit,
And Railery usurp't the Place of Wit.
Good Persons were abus'd, and suffer'd wrong,
They loudly talk't, no Law to curb their Tongue:
The wounded griev'd, the smart provok't their Hate,
And all untoucht bewail'd the Common Fate.
Till Laws commanded to regard Mens Fame,
Severely lash the Vice, but spare the Name.
Fear made them civil, and design to write
With modesty; speak well, and to delight:
Greece conquer'd did the Conqueror o'recome,
Polish't the rude, and sent her Arts to Rome:
The former roughness flow'd in smoother Rhymes,
And good facetious Humor pleas'd the Times:
Yet they continu'd long, and still we find,
Some little marks of the old Rustick mind,
Some of the Scurrilous Humor left behind.
'Twas long before Rome read the Graecian Plays,
For Cares took up her Nights, and Wars her Days:
Till Carthage ruin'd she grew soft in Peace,
And then inquir'd what weighty Sophocless,
What Eschylus, what Thespis taught the Age,
What good, what profit did commend the Stage.
And then they turn'd their Plays, their thoughts were high,
By Nature great, and fit for Tragedy.
But to review, to blot what once was writ,
Oh that was mean, it was a shame to Wit:
The Comic then was thought the easier way,
Because 'tis common Humor makes the Play;
Yet 'tis the hardest, for the faults appear
So Monstrous, and the Criticks so severe,
That e'en their greatest Mercy cannot spare.
Plautus, 'tis true, observes the Rules of Art,
His well drawn Figures suit with every part;
He Paints an Amorous Fop, a Jilting Jade,
A careful Father, or designing Bawd:
But Dorsen rudely draws his Parasites,
How loose his Lines, how uncorrect he writes!
He writes for Gold, and if his Pocket's cram'd,
He cares not, let the Play be Clap't or Damn'd:
But He that Writes to have applause for Wit,
If unconcern'd the grave Spectator sit,
He dyes; but if attentive, then He's proud,
They like my Fancy, and my Plays are good:
So small, and so contemn'd a thing will raise,
Or damp Mens eager Thoughts that write for Praise:
I like not this, and I forswear the Stage,
If clap't I must be proud, if damn'd must rage.
And who would be so bold to write, that knew
The Judging Men of Honor are but few?
The Vulgar Thousands, who might hiss the Play,
And if our Nobles should dislike their way,
Would huff, and swear, and quarrel straight and fight;
Or leave the Stage to see a Puppet-sight;
Or to the Bears, for that's the Crowds delight.
But now our Nobles too are Fops and Vain,
Neglect the Sense, but love the Painted Scene;
Four hours are spent in Show to please the sight,
A tedious Battle, and at last a Flight;
Then Kings in Chains, and to reward their Toil,
Corinthian Statues, and a world of Spoil.
Would not Democritus if now alive,
Split here, would He these Fooleries forgive?
And if the Vulgar with a wild amaze,
Neglect the Actors, and forsake the Plays,
And on an Elephant or a Panther gaze:
Sure He would look, and in the gaping Crowd,
Find better Humor than the Actor show'd.
Besides, He needs must think they write in vain,
And teach deaf Asses, prodigal of their pain:
For who can judge, or who can hear the Wit,
When Noise and strange Confusion fills the Pit?
As when the Winds dash Waves against the Shore,
Or lash the Woods, and all the Monsters Roar;
So great the shout when rich and strangely drest,
The Player comes, they clap his gawdy Vest.
Well hath the Actor spoken? Not a Line:
Why then d'ye clap? Oh, Sir, his Cloaths are fine.
But lest you think that I that write no Plays,
Or envy their Design, or poorly Praise;
I fairly grant those Poets Wit that Rule
My Passions as they please, disturb my Soul;
And then by a short turn my thoughts relieve,
Whose lively Fiction makes me laugh or grieve.
Whose well wrought Scenes natural and just appear;
I see the place, and fancy I am there.
But those that hate and fly the censuring Stage,
Yet Write to please the Readers of the Age.
Make them, Great Caesar, to improve their vein,
Review their Poems o're and o're again.
If you would have them live, be great in praise,
And by just Study strive to win the Bays.
We Poets often damn our selves that dare,
(As I have done) when you are full of Care,
To offer Verse; or when we ost repine,
If a good friend finds but one faulty Line.
Or when rehearsing we with sighs complain,
My fancy's not perceiv'd, I write in vain;
And then unask't repeat it o're again.
Or when we think, when once our Fame is known,
We straightway shall be sent for up to Town;
Enjoy a Pension, or a piece of Land,
And write new Poems at the King's Command.
And yet, Great Sir, 'tis worth your while to know,
What, Caesar, future times must think of you.
And who must be disposer of your Fame,
Who tell to distant Worlds your glorious Name:
By whom your Life; by whom your Wars be Writ,
Actions too Sacred for a Common Wit.
Cherillus the Pelloean Youth approv'd,
Him He rewarded well, and him He lov'd.
His dull uneven Verse, by great good Fate,
Got him his favour, and a fair Estate.
Tho just as Ink when touch't still leaves a stain,
Dull Rhymes besmear, and noble Acts prophane:
Yet He the same that bought dull Rhimes so dear,
In meaner things he took a greater care,
Let none but learn'd Apelles paint my Face,
Lysippus only must Design't in Brass.
Thus spake his Laws, in this I grant he show'd
His Skill sufficient, and his Judgment good.
But when for Verse, he chose so mean a Thing,
How poor his Judgment? How below a King?
But Virgil, Varius, and the learned few,
That are applauded, and belov'd by You;
Declare your Skill is great, your Judgment true.
The Honors you bestow do raise your Fame,
They gratefully reflect upon your Name,
And kindly praise the Author whence they came:
Nor can Ones Face be with more Art design'd
In Brass, than in a Poem thoughts and mind:
E'en I desire to leave the humble Plain,
I would be high, and write a lofty strain.
I wish I could describe your Wars, and show
How Barbarous Nations fear, and how they bow.
How you have raz'd their Towns, their Ocean stain'd
With Blood, and with strong Towers bound up their Land.
How War's Exil'd, and Peace and Plenty reign,
And Janus Temple now is shut again:
How mean, and how submissive Parthians come,
How under Thee they fear and honor Rome:
All this I would, but Oh I want the Wit
Your Deeds must be by some high Genius Writ.
Whose lofty Soul, his tow'ring thoughts can raise,
As high as You have done, and take the Bays,
'Tis Treason, Sir, to give you meaner Praise.
I know my weakness, and I must refuse,
A task too weighty for my tender Muse,
A sordid Commendation hurts our Friend,
And those that meanly praise, do discommend:
For what's derided by the Censuring Crowd,
Is thought on more than what is just and Good:
I hate those obligations that disgrace:
I am not fond to have an ugly Face
Design'd for me expos'd to public View:
Nor Praise in dull Verse, tho the Praise be true.
I would not ly at every Grocer's door,
To wrap Tobacco, or do something more.
I would not have a Verse that bears my Name
Lye under Pies; 'tis an ill way to Fame.