So (tho' too weak for fuch a weighty thing)
The mufe inspires a fharper note to fing.
And why should truth offend, when only told
To guide the ignorant, and warn the bold?
On then, my Muse, advent'rously engage
To give instructions that concern the Stage.

The unities of action, time, and place,"
Which, if obferv'd, give plays fo great a grace,
Are, tho' but little practis'd, too well known
To be taught here, where we pretend alone
From nicer faults to purge the present age,
Lefs obvious errors of the English stage.

First then, Soliloquies had need be few,
Extremely fhort, and spoke in paffion too.
Our lovers talking to themselves, for want
Of others, make the pit their confidant;
Nor is the matter mended yet, if thus
They trust a friend, only to tell it us :
Th' occafion should as naturally fall,
As when Bellario confeffes all.

Figures of fpeech, which poets think fo fine,
(Art's needlefs varnish to make nature shine)
Are all but paint upon a beauteous face,
And in defcriptions only claim a place:
But, to make rage declaim, and grief discourse,
From lovers in defpair fine things to force,

Muft needs fucceed: for who can choose but pity A dying hero, miferably witty?

But oh! the Dialogues, where jet and mock

Is held up like a reft at shittle-cock!

VOL. II.

I

Or

Or elfe, like bells eternally they chime,

They figh in Simile, and die in Rhime.

What things are these who would be poets thought,
By nature not infpir'd, nor learning taught?
Some wit they have, and therefore they deserve
A better course than this, by which they starve:
But to write plays! why, 'tis a bold pretence
To judgement, breeding, wit, and eloquence:
Nay more; for they must look within, to find
Those secret turns of nature in the mind:
Without this part, in vain would be the whole,
And but a body all, without a foul.

All this united, yet but makes a part

Of Dialogue, that great and pow'rful art,
Now almoft loft, which the old Grecians knew,
From whom the Romans fainter copies drew,
Scarce comprehended fince, but by a few.
Plato and Lucian are the best remains
Of all the wonders which this art contains ;
Yet to ourselves we justice must allow,
Shakespeare and Fletcher are the wonders now:
Confider them, and read them o'er and o'er; ·
Go fee them play'd; then read them as before;
For tho' in many things they grofsly fail,
Over our paffions ftill they fo prevail,

That our own grief by their's is rock'd asleep;
The dull are forc'd to feel, the wife to weep.
Their beauties imitate, avoid their faults;
First, on a plot employ thy careful thoughts;
Turn it, with time, a thousand several ways;
This oft, alone, has giv'n fuccefs to plays.

}

Reject that vulgar error (which appears
So fair) of making perfect characters;

There's no fuch thing in nature; and you'll draw
A faultless monfter which the world ne'er faw.
Some faults must be, that his misfortunes drew,
But fuch as may deserve compassion too.
Befides the main defign compos'd with art,
Each moving scene must be a plot apart;
Contrive each little turn, mark ev'ry place,
As painters firft chalk out the future face:
Yet be not fondly your own flave for this,
But change hereafter what appears amifs.
Think not fo much where fhining thoughts to place,
As what a man would say in such a case:
Neither in comedy will this fuffice,
The player too must be before your eyes ;
And, tho' 'tis drudgery to ftoop fo low,
To him you muft your fecret meaning fhow.
Expofe no fingle fop, but lay the load
More equally, and spread the folly broad;
Mere coxcombs are too obvious; oft we fee
A fool derided by as bad as he :.
Hawks fly at nobler game; in this low way,
A very owl may prove a bird of prey.
Small poets thus will one poor fop devour,
But to collect, like bees, from ev'ry flow'r,
Ingredients to compofe that precious juice,
Which ferves the world for pleasure and for use,
In spite of faction this would favour get;

But Falstaff itands inimitable yet.
I 2

Another

Another fault which often may befall,
Is, when the wit of fome great poet shall
So everflow, that is, be none at all;
That ev'n his fools speak sense, as if possest,
And each by inspiration breaks his jeft.
If once the juftnefs of each part be lost,
Well we may laugh, but at the poet's coft,
That filly thing men call sheer-wit avoid,
With which our age fo naufeoufly is cloy'd;
Humour is all; wit fhould be only brought
To turn agreeably fcme proper thought.

But fince the poets we of late have known,
Shine in no drefs fo much as in their own,
The better by example to convince,

Caft but a view on this wrong fide of sense.
First, a Soliloquy is calmly made,

Where ev'ry reason is exactly weigh'd;

}

Which once perform'd, most opportunely comes
Some hero frighted at the noise of drums;
For her sweet fake, whom at firft fight he loves,
And all in metaphor his paffion proves :
But fome fad accident, tho' yet unknown,
Parting this pair, to leave the swain alone;
He firait grows jealous, tho' we know not why;
Then, to oblige his rival, needs will die :
But first he makes a speech, wherein he tells
The abfent nymph how much his flame excels;
And yet bequeaths her generously now,

To that lov'd rival whom he does not know!
Who ftrait appears; but who can fate withstand ?
Too late, alas! to hold his hafty hand,

(

That just has giv'n himself the cruel stroke!
At which his very rival's heart is broke :
He, more to his new friend than mistress kind,
Moft fadly mourns at being left behind,

Of fuch a death prefers the pleasing charms

To love, and living in a lady's arms.

What shameful and what monftrous things are these ?
And then they rail at thofe they cannot please;
Conclude us only partial to the dead,

And grudge the fign of old Ben Johnson's head;
When the intrinfic value of the flage

Can fcarce be judg'd but by a following age:
For dances, flutes, Italian fongs, and rhime,
May keep up finking nonsense for a time;
But that must fail, which now fo much o'er-rules,
And fenfe no longer will fubmit to fools.

By painful fteps at latt we labour up
Parnaffus' hill, on whofe bright airy top,
The Epick poets fo divinely show,
And with just pride behold the reft below.
Heroic poems have a just pretence

To be the utmoft ftretch of human fenfe;

A work of fuch ineftimable worth,

There are but two the world has yet brought forth!
Homer and Virgil! with what facred awe,

Do thofe mere founds the world's attention draw!
Just as a changeling feems below the rest
Of men, or rather is a two-legg'd beast ;
So these gigantic fouls amaz'd we find
As much above the reft of human kind!