Ars Poetica (Creech): Humano Capiti

SUppose a Painter should a Canvas spread,
To draw a Piece, and paint a Womans head,
Then a Mares neck; and then from different things,
Take different Parts, and cover all with Wings:
Then a Fish tail; pursue his senseless thought,
And mix the whole Creation in a draught,
And all these Parts in strange proportion joyn,
Would you not laugh to see this wild Design?
Believe me, Sirs, that Book is like this Piece,
Where every Part so strangely disagrees,
Like sick Mens Dreams, there's neither head nor tail,
But strange Confusion, shapeless Monsters all:
Poets and Painters equally may dare,
In bold Attempts, they claim an equal share,
And may do any thing: All this we know,
This freedom too, we mutually allow;
And yet this leave can give no just pretence,
To fight the steddy Rules of Common Sense,
And joyn quite Opposites, the Wild and Tame;
The Snake and Dove, the Lion and the Lamb.
Next great Beginnings, and in high Designs,
Some scatter here and there few gawdy lines,
Which glister finely, when a Grove's their Theme,
A pleasant wood, or else a purling Stream:
How with the Flood, their Fancies smoothly flow!
How variously they paint the Heavenly Bow!
But now perhaps none of these Themes agree,
Perhaps thou hast some skill to paint a Tree,
But what of that? what will this Art perform?
Wert thou to draw a Shipwrack, or a Storm,
Describe a Mariner, how with panting breath,
He blows the Floods, and keeps out entring Death;
Whilst with one hand despairing Life he saves,
The other grasps his Riches on the Waves?
When you a mighty Butt resolv'd to cast,
Why doth it dwindle to a Pint at last?
In short, in all you write let Art controul,
And keep the same just Tenor thro the whole.
But Sirs, most Poets now are finely caught,
By show of right deluded to a fault:
By striving to be short, obscure they grow;
And when they would be smooth, they sink too low;
Their Spirits fail: and some that would be high,
Streight swell; and when they should but walk, they fly:
Whilst some too cautious fear the Winds will roar,
And waters toss; nor dare to leave the Shore.
Another Staring fancy wildly roves,
And placeth Bores in Floods, and Trouts in Groves:
Thus, if it wants just Art, a cautious Fear
Of Erring is a certain way to Err.
That Graver yonder in th' Emilian Square,
Can hit the Nails, or imitate the hair,
But he's a Sot, unhappy in his Art;
Because he cannot fashion every part,
And make the whole compleat; should I compose,
I'de rather freely choose an ugly nose
With two black Eyes, black hair exactly trim,
To make me more deform'd, than be like him.
You Writers try the vigor of your Muse,
And what her strength will bear, and what refuse,
And after that an equal Subject choose.
For he that doth this well, and chuses right,
His Method will be clear, his Words be fit.
In this, or I mistake, consists the grace,
And force of Method, to assign a place,
For what must now, what by and by be said,
What for the present time must be delaid;
What Thoughts they must improve, what Notions slight,
If they will aim at praise in all they write.
Be cautious in your Words, invent but few,
We're puzled rather, than we're pleas'd with new:
Yet 'twill be Art, and 'twill procure thee praise,
If well apply'd, and in a handsome Phrase,
You make new Words seem easy, plain, and known:
We all will clap, and cry 'twas bravely done.
But if you would unheard of things express;
And cloath new Notions in a Modern dress;
Invent new Words, we can indulge a Muse,
Until the Licence rise to an Abuse:
And those are best, that do but gently fall,
Just vary'd from the Greek Original:
For why should Varius, why should Virgil be deny'd,
What Plautus and Cecilius wisely did?
And for what reason should the Fops resent,
If I but few, and modestly invent.
When Cato's Stile and Ennius lofty Song,
With various store enrich't our Mother Tongue,
'Twas still allow'd, and 'twill be still allow'd,
To make new Words, plain to be understood:
As Leaves on Trees do with the turning Year,
The former fall, and others will appear;
Just so it is in Words, one Word will rise,
Look green, and flourish, when another dyes.
All We, and Ours, are in a changing State,
Just Nature's Debt and must be paid to Fate:
Great Caesar's Mole, that braves the furious Tides,
Where now secure from Storms, his Navy rides:
E'en that drain'd Lake, where former Ages row'd,
A great unfruitful Wast, tho now 'tis plough'd,
Bears Corn, and sends the neighbouring Citys food:
Those new Canales, that bound fierce Tiber's force,
That teach the Streams to take a better Course,
And spare the Plough-man's hopes: e'en these must waste,
Then how can feeble Words pretend to last?
Some words that have, or else will feel decay,
Shall be restor'd, and come again in play,
And words now fam'd, shall not be fancy'd long,
They shall not please the Ear, or move the Tongue:
As Use shall these approve, and those condemn,
Use the sole Rule of Speech, and Judg supreme.
How we should write of Battles, Wars and Kings,
And suit with mighty Numbers, mighty Things,
First Homer show'd, and by Example taught,
He wrote as nobly, as his Heroes fought:
In Verses long and short, Grief first appear'd,
In those they mourn'd past Ills, and future fear'd:
But soon these lines with Mirth and Joy were fill'd,
And told when Fortune, or a Mistriss smil'd:
But who these Measures was the first that wrote,
The Criticks doubt, and cannot end the doubt:
Archilochus was arm'd, by injur'd Rage,
With keen Iambicks, He did first engage
With that sharp foot, and left it to the Stage;
For 'tis a sounding Foot, and full of force,
And fit, as made on purpose, for discourse:
In Lyrick numbers Gods, and Heroe's sound,
The swiftest Horse is prais'd or Wrestler crown'd:
Feasts, Wine, and open Mirth, or Myrtle Shades,
The Cares of Love, or Tears of sighing Maids.
Unless all Matters I exactly hit,
What just Pretence have I to be a Wit?
What claim have I to the Poetick Name?
What fair Pretensions to put in for Fame?
Or why should I conceal my want of Skill,
Absurdly modest, and be foolish still,
Rather than show my Want, demand Supplies,
From richer Parts, and so at last be Wise?
A Conick Story hates a Tragick Stile,
Bombast spoyls humer, and distorts a Smile:
And Tragical Thyestes barbarous Feast,
Scorns Mean and Common words, and hates a Jest;
Let every Subject have what fits it best:
Yet Comedy may be allow'd to rise,
And rattle in a Passion or Surprize;
And Tragedy in humble words must weep,
The Stile must suppliant seem, and seem to creep:
Peleus and Telephus exil'd and poor,
Must leave their Flights, and give their Bombast o're;
If they would keep their well-pleas'd Audience long,
And raise their just Resentments for their wrong:
'Tis not enough, that Plays are neatly wrought,
Exactly form'd, and of an even Plot,
They must be taking too, Surprise, and Seize,
And force our Souls which way the Writers please.
We laugh or weep, as we see others do,
Our Souls agree, and take their Passions too:
My grief with others just proportion bears,
To make me weep, you must be first in Tears:
Then Telephus I can believe thy moan,
And think thy Miseries are all my own:
But if thy part be ill, or acted ill,
Unheeding thy Complaint, I sleep or smile:
Sad words suit well with Grief, with Joy the loose,
Grave the Severe, and Merry the Jocose:
'Tis Nature still that doth the Change begin,
She fashions, and she forms our Souls within,
To all the Changes, and the Turns of Fate;
Now screws our Minds to an unusual height,
And swells us into rage; or bending low,
She cramps our Souls with dull contracting Woe;
She makes us stoop beneath a weighty wrong,
Then tells the various Passions with the Tongue:
Now if his Speech doth not his Fortune fit,
He will be hist by Gallery, Box, and Pit.
You must take care, and use quite different words,
When Servants speak, or their commanding Lords,
When grave old Men, or head-strong Youths discourse,
When stately Matrons, or a busy Nurse;
A cheating Tradesman, or a labouring Clown,
A Greek or Asian, bred at Court or Town:
Keep to old Tales, or if you must have new,
Feign things coherent, that may look like true:
If you would draw Achilles in disgrace,
Then draw Achilles, as Achilles was;
Impatient, fierce, inexorable, proud,
His Sword his Law, his own right hand his God:
Medea must be furious, she must rave:
Crafty Ixion a designing Knave;
Io a wandring Cow, and Ino sad:
And poor Orestes melancholy mad:
But if you'l leave those Paths where most have gone,
And dare to make a Person of your own,
Take care you still the same proportions strike,
Let all the Parts agree, and be alike:
Unusual Subjects, Sir 'tis hard to hit,
It asks no common Pains, nor common Wit,
Rather on Subjects known your Mind employ,
And take from Homer some old tales of Troy,
And bring those usual things again in view,
Than venture on a Subject wholly new:
Yet you may make these common Themes your own,
Unless you treat of things too fully known;
Show the same humors, and that usual State,
Or word for word too faithfully translate;
Or else your Pattern so confin'dly choose,
That you are still condemn'd to follow close,
Or break all decent measures to be loose:
First strain no higher, than your voice will hold,
Nor as that Cyclick writer did of old,
Begin my mighty Muse, and boldly dare,
I'le sing great Priam's Fate, and noble War.
What did He worth a Gape so large produce?
The travailing Mountain yields a silly Mouse.
Much better Homer, who doth all things well,
Muse tell the Man, for you can surely tell,
Who, Troy once fall'n, to many Countrys went,
And strictly view'd the Men, and Government.
As one that knows the Laws of writing right,
He makes Light follow Smoak, not Smoak the Light;
For streight, how fierce Charybdis rolls along!
How Scylla roars thro all his wondrous Song!
Nor doth He, that He might seem deeply read,
Begin the fam'd Return of Diomed,
From Meleager's death; nor dives as far,
As Leda's Eggs,
For the beginning of the Trojan War:
He always hastens on to the Events,
And still the middle of the Tale presents,
As 'twere the first, then draws the Reader on,
Till the whole Story is exactly known,
And what he can't improve he lets alone.
And so joyns Lyes and Truth, that every part agrees,
And seem no Fiction, but a real Piece:
But Sir, observe; (shame waits on the neglect,)
This I, and all, as well as I, expect,
If you would have a judging Audience stay,
Be pleas'd, and clap, and sit out all the Play:
Observe what Humor in each Age appears,
Then draw your fit, and lively Characters,
And suit their changing Minds, and Changing Years.
A Boy that just speaks plain, and goes alone,
Loves childish Play-mates, he is angry soon,
And pleas'd as soon: and both for nothing still,
Changing his Humor, various is his Will:
A Youth just loosned from his Tutor's care,
Leaves off his Books, and follows Hound and Hare;
The Horse is his delight, or Cards and Dice,
Rough to reproof, and easy bent to Vice:
Inconstant, eager, haughty, fierce and proud;
A very slow provider for his good,
And prodigal of his Coin, and of his Blood.
The full grown Man, doth aim at different ends,
He betters his Estate, and gets him Friends;
He courts gay Honor, and He fears to do,
What he must alter on a second view:
An Old man's Character is hit with ease,
For he is pettish, and all one Disease:
Still covetous, and still he gripes for more,
And yet he fears to use his present Store:
Slow, long in Hope, still eager to live on,
And fond of no mans Judgment but his own:
On Youths gay frolicks peevishly severe,
And oh when He was young, what Times they were!
The Flow of Life brings in a wealthy Store,
The Ebb draws back, what e're was brought before,
And leaves a barren Sand, and naked Shore.
And therefore when you represent a Youth,
Lest you draw lines, that fit a Man of growth;
Observe the just decorum of the Stage,
And show those Humors still that suit the Age:
For otherwise 'twill seem as fond and wild,
As 'tis to clap a beard upon a Child:
What e're a Play can comprehend, is shown
Upon the open Stage, or told alone;
Things only told, tho of the same degree,
Do raise our Passions less than what we see:
For the Spectator takes in every part,
The Ey's the faithfull'st Servant to the Heart:
Yet do not every Part too freely shew,
Some bear the telling, better than the view:
Things wild or cruel do displease the Eyes,
And yet when only told, the same surprise;
Medea must not draw her murdering Knife,
And on the Stage attempt her Childrens life:
Nor Progne fly transform'd into a Fowl,
Nor Hecuba turn'd Bitch begin to howl:
Nor Cadmus there his snaky folds advance,
I hate such wild improbable Romance:
The Play that you design should often please,
Must have five Acts, and neither more nor less;
No God appear to mend an ill-wrought Scene,
Unless some weighty Cause shall force him in:
To crowd the Stage, is odious and absurd,
Let no fourth Actor strive to speak a word.
The Chorus must supply an Actors place,
And take his Part, this gives a natural Grace;
Lest any thing between the Acts should seem,
Not fitly suited to the common Theme:
Let him commend the Good, and Friends and Ease,
Praise wholsome Justice, and love open Peace:
Tame Passion, all mens Thoughts to vertue win,
And cherish those that are afraid to sin:
Extenuate Faults, and pray to mighty God,
That Fate would raise the Poor, and sink the Proud:
The Pipe of old, was not as large as now,
Nor gather'd all the Breath a Man could blow:
It's hollow, small, and fill'd with feeble wind,
It cheer'd the Audience with the Chorus joyn'd;
Not made of Brass, nor like the Trumpet loud,
With pleasing Airs it fill'd the little Croud:
For then this new delight was known to few,
And you could number those that came to view.
No wanton Luxury did taint the Stage,
But that was mean, and modest as the Age.
But when strange Nations felt our Conquering hand,
When Rome enlarg'd the bounds of her Command,
When statelier Walls, she did begin to raise,
And Mirth, and Wine, & sport imploy'd our Days,
The modish Luxury spread o're the Plays:
For what could please so mixt, ill-matcht a Crowd,
Where Citt and Clown were mixt, the Learn'd and Rude,
As senseless as the Ox with which he plough'd?
Hence did our Musick, and our Songs increase,
Our Dance was artful, noble was our Dress:
Our Harps improv'd, and lofty Eloquence,
In high strong Lines convey'd unusual Sence:
And pithy Sentences short Truth fore-show'd,
As clear and useful as the Delphian God:
The Men that first did strive in Tragedies,
When a mean Goat was all the Conquerors prize;
Brought Satyrs naked in, or loosely drest,
And though still grave, would venture at a Jest:
This was the Bait to bribe the Crowd to stay,
When Drunk and Wanton, and sit out the Play.
Yet Satyrs should observe this decent Rule,
And so turn serious things to Ridicule;
As not to bring a God or Hero down,
Or make a Person grac'd with Robe and Crown,
Talk common Talk, and sink into a Clown:
Or whilst he doth affect a lofty hight,
Fly up in bombast, and soar out of sight:
For Tragedy too high to stoop to Jest,
(As Matrons dancing at a solemn Feast,
Keep decent Steps) it different will appear,
From wanton Satyrs, modestly severe:
Yet bitter Words, and domineering Phrase,
Is not the thing that I in Satyrs praise:
Nor would I have the Difference drawn too far,
And free the Satyrs from the Tragicks ear;
They must not make all Persons talk alike,
The Citty Vallet, and the Country Dick;
The Chamber-maid grown impudently bold,
When she has bob'd the Lecher of his Gold:
The down-right Farmer, and the dowdy Sot,
Or else the brisk Companion o're his Pot:
I'le take a Common Theme, and yet excell,
Tho any Man may hope to write as well;
Yet let him try, and He shall sweat in vain,
Idle his Labor, fruitless prove the Pain:
So great the force of Art and Method seems,
So much we may improve the Common Themes:
Be sure you never make a Satyr sport,
And talk, and dance, and jest, as bred at Court;
But let him speak, as if in Woods he spoke,
And lately taken from his Mother Oak:
Yet never make him wantonly absurd,
Nor let him slyly drop one bawdy Word:
For all our Nobles hate such filthy Wit,
They scorn to bear such Words, the choice delight
Of sottish Tradesmen, and the foolish Citt.
A foot, one long, one short, Iambus nam'd;
Of which those measures, those so justly fam'd,
Call'd Trimeter Iambick lines, are fram'd;
When just six Feet, and when thro all the Song,
The self same measure's kept, one short, one long:
This Foot to make the Cadence more severe,
And with a graver touch salute the Ear,
Receding somewhat from her natural right,
The graver Spondy kindly did admit,
Yet so as to forbid it to be put,
Or in the fourth, or in the second Foot:
Yet this is seldom seen in the sublime,
High Accius verse, or Ennius noble rhyme:
And yet in this some show their want of Skill,
And make their Verses scandalously ill:
And whilst their sounding Rhymes transgress this Rule,
The wretched Actor's hist, and thought a fool.
It is not every Judg knows what's amiss,
And Rome is too indulgent to her Sons in this:
What then? Shall I be loose? Neglect my Rules,
In hopes to find my Judges senseless fools?
To beg an Alms which they can choose to grant,
Shall I submit to voluntary want?
Or rather think, that all my Faults will spy,
And safe within mine own perfection ly,
Nor need that pardon which they can deny?
For make the best on't, I avoid the shame,
I am'nt discover'd, yet deserve no Fame:
Read o're the Greeks by day, digest at night,
For those are Standards, and just Rules of Wit:
'Tis true, as I have heard, the former times
Clapt Plautus wanton and uneven Rhymes;
With too much Patience both, (to say no more
And call it folly) those our Fathers bore:
Some think this harsh, but 'tis approv'd by you
Learn'd Sir, and I am sure the Censure's true,
If you and I know what is just and fit,
Are skill'd in Cadence, and distinguish right,
Between dull Bawdry, and facetious Wit:
Thespis the first, that did surprize the Age
With Tragedy, n'ere trod a decent Stage:
But in a Waggon drove his Plays about,
And show'd mean antick tricks to please the Rout;
His Songs uneven, rude in every Part,
His Actors smutted, and the Scene a Cart:
Next Aeschilus did greater Art express,
He built a Stage, and taught them how to dress;
In decent motions He his Parts convey'd,
And made them look as great, as those they play'd:
Next these Old Comedy did please the Age,
But soon their Liberty was turn'd to Rage;
Such Rage, as Civil Power was forc'd to tame,
And by good Laws secure Mens injur'd Fame:
Thus was the Chorus lost, Their railing Muse
Grew silent, when forbidden to abuse.
Our Latin Poets eager after Praise,
Have boldly ventur'd, and deserv'd the Bays:
They left those Paths, where all the Greeks have gone,
And dar'd to show some Actions of their own:
And vvould our Poets be inur'd to pain,
And vvhat they once have form'd, file o're again;
Let it lie by them, Cand revise vvith are,
Our Rome vvould be as fam'd, for Wit as War:
Sirs, damn those Rhymes that hasty Minds do give,
E're Time and Care have form'd them fit to live;
Let many a Day, and many a Blot confine,
And many a Nail be par'd o're every Line:
Because Democritus once fondly taught,
(Who ever heard He had one sober Thought)
That naked Nature with a frantick start,
Would Rhyme more luckyly than feeble Art;
And did allow none leave to tast a drop
Of Helicon, unless a crazy Fop:
The foppish humor now o're most prevails,
And few will shave their Beards or pair their Nails;
They shun Converse, and fly to Solitude,
Seem frantick Sots, and are design'dly rude:
For if they go but nasty, if they gain
The reputation of a crazy Brain,
Streight Poets too, they must be thought by all;
Oh Block-head I that purge at Spring and Fall!
For else perhaps I had been fam'd for Rhymes,
And been the greatest Poet of the Times:
But I had rather keep that Sense I have,
Than to be thought a Poet, Rhyme and Rave:
I'le play the Whet stone, useless and unfit
To cut my self, I'le sharpen others Wit,
Unwriting I will teach them how to write:
What gives them Matter, what exalts their Thoughts,
And what are Ornaments, and what are Faults?
Of writing well these are the chiefest Springs,
To know the Nature, and the use of Things:
Right judging Morals will the Subject show,
And when the Subject's found, Words freely flow:
He that can tell what Care our injur'd Fame,
And what our Mothers, what our Sisters claim;
With what degrees of Zeal we should defend,
Our Country, Fathers, Brothers, or a Friend,
What suits a Senator's, what a Judge's care,
What Soldier's, what a Leader's in the War:
Secure of Honor he may boldly write,
For he is sure to draw the Image right:
'Tis my advice, let every Painter place,
The Life before him that will hit the Face:
So let a Writer look o're Men, to see
What various Thoughts to various Kinds agree;
And thence the different Images derive,
And make the fit Expressions seem to live:
A Play exactly drawn, tho often rough,
Without the Dress of Art to set it off,
Takes People more, and more delight affords,
Than noisy Trifles, and meer empty Words.
The Muses lov'd the Greeks, and blest with Sense,
They freely gave them Wit, and Eloquence;
In those They did Heroick fancies raise,
For they were covetous of nought but Praise;
But as for Us, our Roman Youths are bred
To Trades, to cast Account, to Write and Read:
Come hither, Child, (suppose 'tis Albine's Son)
Hold up thy Head; take five from forty one,
And what remains? just thirty six: well done.
Add seven, what makes it then? just forty eight:
Ah thou must be a Man of an Estate!
And when this care for Gain all thoughts controuls,
When this base Rust hath crusted o're their Souls;
Ne're think that such will reach a noble hight,
These clogs must check, these weights retard their flight:
Poets would profit, or delight alone,
Or joyn both Profit and Delight in one:
Let all your Rules be short, laid plainly down;
That docil Minds may comprehend them soon,
And faithful Memories retain with ease,
Short Precepts profit much, as well as please:
For when we fill the narrow Mind too full,
It runs again out of the o're-charg'd Soul:
Besure what ever pleasant Tales you tell,
Be so like Truth, that they may serve as well:
And do not Lamias eating Children feign,
Then show them whole, and make them live again:
Our grave Men scorn the loose and meer jocose;
Our Youth despise the stiff and the morose:
But He's the Man, He with a Genius writes
That takes them Both, and profits and delights:
That in one Line instructs and pleases all;
That Book will easily be set to sale,
See distant Countrys, spread the Author's name,
And send him down a Theme to future Fame:
Yet there are Faults, and Men may sometimes Err;
And I'le forgive, I'le not be too severe.
An Artist allways can't command his Harp,
But when he strikes a Flat, He hears a Sharp:
The greatest Archers sometimes miss the Whites,
If numerous Graces shine in what he writes,
I'le not condemn tho some few Faults appear,
Which common frailty leaves, or want of Care:
But if tho warn'd He still repeats the same,
Who can endure, and who forbear to blame?
Just as that Fidler must be call'd a Sot,
That always errs upon the self same Note:
So He that makes a Book one copious fault,
As Cherilus, the greatest Dunce that ever wrote,
In whom if e're I see two lines of Wit,
I smile, and wonder at the lucky hit:
But fret to find the mighty Homer dream,
Forget himself a-while, and lose his Theme:
Yet if the work be long, sleep may surprize,
And a short Nod creep o're the watchfull'st Eyes:
Poems like Pictures, some when near delight,
At distance some, some ask the clearest light;
And some the shade; some Pictures please when new,
And some when old; some bear a transient view;
Some bid the Men of Skill severely pry,
Some please but once, some always please the Eye:
But you, dear Sir, tho you your self are wise,
Tho by your Father's care, and kind advice
Secure from Faults, yet pray believe me this:
In other things a Mean may be allow'd,
Not Best may still be tolerable good:
A Common Lawyer, though he cannot plead
Like smooth Messala, nor's so deeply read
As learn'd Casselius, yet the Man may please,
Yet He may be in vogue, and get his Fees:
But now the Laws of God and Man deny
A middle State, and Mean in Poetry,
For as at Treats, or as at noble Feasts,
Bad Perfumes, and bad Songs displease the Guests;
Because the Feast did not depend on these,
So Poetry, a thing design'd to please,
Compos'd for meer delight, must needs be still
Or very good, or scandalously ill:
He that's unskilful will not toss a Ball,
Nor run, nor wrestle for He fears the fall;
He justly fears to meet deserv'd disgrace,
And that the Ring will hiss the baffled Ass:
But every one can Rhyme, He's fit for that;
Why not? I'me sure he hath a good Estate,
And that may give him just pretence to write,
It makes a Poet, as it dubs a Knight:
But you, Sir, know your self, will wisely choose,
And still consult the Genius of your Muse;
And yet when e're you write, let every line
Pass thro your Fathers, Mecca's Ears or mine:
Keep it long by you, and improve it still,
For then you may correct what e're you will:
But nought can be recall'd when once 'tis gone,
It grows the Publick's, 'tis no more your own:
Fame says, Inspired Orpheus first began
To sing Gods Laws, and make them known to Man;
Their fierceness softned show'd them wholesom food,
And frighted all from lavvless Lust and Blood;
And therefore Fame hath told, his charming Lute
Could tame a Lion, and correct a Brute:
Amphion too, (as Story goes) could call
Obedient Stones to make the Theban Wall;
He led them as he pleas'd, the Rocks obey'd,
And danc't in order to the Tunes he play'd:
Tvvas then the vvork of Verse to make Men vvise,
To lead to Vertue, and to fright from Vice:
To make the Savage, Pious, Kind and Just;
To curb wild Rage, and bind unlavvful Lust;
To build Societys, and force confine,
This vvas the noble, this the first Design;
This vvas their Aim, for this they tun'd their Lute,
And hence the Poets got their first repute:
Next Homer and Tyrte did boldly dare,
To whet brave Minds and lead the stout to War:
In verse their Oracles the Gods did give,
In verse we were instructed how to live:
Verse recommends Us to the Ears of Kings,
And easeth Minds when clog'd with serious things;
And therefore, Sir, Verse may deserve your care,
Which Gods inspire, and Kings delight to hear.
Now some dispute to which the greatest part
A Poem owes, to Nature, or to Art;
But faith, to speak my thoughts, I hardly know,
What witless Art, or Artless Wit can do:
Each by it self is vain I'me sure, but joyn'd
Their force is strong; each proves the others friend:
The Man that is resolv'd the Prize to gain,
Doth often run, and take a world of pain;
Bear Heat and Cold, his growing strength improve,
Nor tast the Joys of Wine, nor Sweets of Love:
The good Musician too that's fam'd for Song,
Hath con'd his Tune, and fear'd his Master long:
But amongst Poets 'tis enough to say,
Faith I can write an admirable Play,
Pox take the hindmost, I am foremost still,
And tho 'tis great, conceal his want of skill:
As Tradesmen call in Folks to buy their Ware,
Good Penny-worths, the best in all the Fair;
So wealthy Poets when they read their Plays,
Get Flatterers in, for they are paid for Praise:
And faith a Man that has a good Estate,
That can oblige a Friend, and nobly Treat,
Be Surety for the Poor, his Cause defend,
Shall never know a Flatterer from a Friend:
If you have been, or promis'd to be kind
To any one, whilst joy perverts his Mind
Ask not his Judgment, for He'l streight consent,
And cry tis good, 'tis rare, 'tis Excellent;
Grow pale, and weep, and stamp, at every line,
Oh Lord! 'tis more than Man, 'tis all Divine!
As Hired Mourners at the Grave will howl,
Much more than those that grieve with all their Soul,
Thus Friends appear less mov'd than Counterfeits,
And Flatterers out-do, and show their Cheats:
Kings (thus says Story) that of old design'd,
To raise a Favourite to a Bosome Friend;
Did ply him hard with wine, unmaskt his thoughts,
And saw him Naked, and with all his Faults:
So when you write, take heed what Friend you have,
And fear the Smiles of a designing Knave:
Let good Quintilius all your lines revise,
And he will freely say, mend this and this;
Sir I have often try'd, and try'd again,
I'me sure I can't do better, 'tis in vain:
Then blot out every word, or try once more,
And file these ill turn'd Verses o're and o're:
But if you seem in love with your own Thought,
More eager to defend than mend your Fault,
He says no more, but lets the Fop go on,
And Rival-sree admire his lovely own:
An honest Judg will blame each idle line,
And tell you, you must make the Cloudy shine;
Show you what Words are harsh, blot out the rough,
And cut the useless gawdy painting off:
Look thro your Faults with an impartial Eye,
And tell you what you must correct, and why:
Critique indeed, nor say, shall I displease
My honest Friend for such small Toys as these?
These Toys will once to serious mischiefs fall,
When He is laught at, when He's jeer'd by all:
For more than Mad or Poxt Men hate the Dull,
And swiftly fly the senseless rhyming Fool:
And fear to touch him, Men of Sense retire,
The Boys abuse, and only Fools admire:
Suppose he fir'd with his Poetick flame,
Just as a Fowler eager on his Game,
Doth fall into a Pit, and bawls aloud,
And calls for pitty to the laughing Crowd;
He may bawl on, for all will stand and flout,
And not one lend an hand to help him out;
But yet if any should; what? was't design,
Or else meer Chance, pray Sir, that threw him in?
I'le tell my Reasons, and in short relate,
A poor Sicilian Poet's wretched Fate:
Empedocles must needs be thought a God,
And therefore in a melancholly Mood,
Leapt into Aetna's Flames: let Poets have
The Priviledg to hang, and None to save;
For 'tis no greater cruelty to kill,
Than 'tis to save a Man against his Will:
Nor was it Chance the heedless Fool betray'd,
Nor the strange efforts of a crazy head;
For draw him out, restore his life again,
He would not be content to be a Man,
He would be eager to be thought divine,
And gladly burn in Hopes to gain a Shrine:
Now 'tis not known for what notorious Crime,
These brainless Fellows are condemn'd to Rhyme;
Whether they piss'd upon their Fathers Grave,
Or rob'd a Shrine; 'tis certain that they rave;
And like wild Bears if once they break their Den,
And can get loose, worry all sorts of Men;
Their killing Rhymes they barbarously obtrude,
And make all fly, the Learn'd, as well as Rude:
But then to those they seize, They still reherse,
And murder the poor Wretches with their Verse;
They Rhyme and Kill, a cursed murd'ring Brood,
Like Leeches, sucking still, till full of Blood.