A higher flight, and of a happier force, Are Odes, the Mufe's most unruly horse,
That bounds fo fierce, the rider has no rest,
Here foams at mouth, and moves like one possest.
The poet here must be indeed inspir'd,
With fury too as well as fancy fir'd.
Cowley might boaft to have perform'd this part,
Had he with nature join'd the rules of art;
But fometimes diction mean, or verfe ill-wrought,
Deadens or clouds his noble frame of thought.
Tho' all appear in heat and fury done,
The language ftill must soft and easy run.
Thefe laws may found a little too severe,
But judgment yields, and fancy governs here,
Which, tho' extravagant, this Mufe allows,
And makes the work much easier than it shows. 130
Of all the ways that wifeft men could find
'To mend the age and mortify mankind,
Satire well-writ has moft fuccefsful prov'd,
And cures, becaufe the remedy is lov'd.
"Tis hard to write on fuch a fubject more
Without repeating things said oft' before :
Some vulgar errors only we'll remove
That ftain a beauty which we fo much love.
Of chofen words fome take not care enough,
And think they fhould be, as the subject, rough. 140
This poem must be more exactly made,
And sharpeft thoughts in smootheft words convey'd
Some think if sharp enough they cannot fail,
As if their only bus'nefs was to rail;
But human frailty nicely to unfold,
Distinguishes a Satyr from a fcold.
Rage you must hide, and prejudice lay down;
A Satyr's fmile is sharper than his frown;
So while you seem to flight some rival youth,
Malice itself may pass fometimes for truth.
The Laureat here may justly claim our praise,
Crown'd by Mack-Fleckno + with immortal bays;
Yet once his Pegasus || has borne dead weight,
Rid by fome lumpish minister of state.
Here reft, my Mufe! fufpend thy cares awhile,
A more important task attends thy toil.
As fome young eagle, that defigns to fly
A long unwonted journey thro' the sky,
Weighs all the dang'rous enterprise before,
O'er what wide lands and feas fhe is to foar,
Doubts her own strength so far, and justly fears
The lofty road of airy travellers;
But yet incited by fome bold defign,
That does her hopes beyond her fears incline,
Prunes ev'ry feather, views herself with care,
At last, refolv'd, fhe cleaves the yielding air,
Away fhe flies, fo ftrong, fo high, fo fast,
She leffens to us, and is loft at last;
+ A famous fatirical poem of his
A poem called The Hind and Panther.
So (tho' too weak for fuch a weighty thing)
The Muse 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 Mufe! advent'roufly engage
To give inftructions that concern the Stage.
The unities of action, time, and place,
Which, if obferv'd, give Plays so 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 truft a friend only to tell it us.
Th' occafion fhould as naturally fall
As when Bellario * confeffes all.
Figures of speech, which poets think fo fine, (Art's needless varnish to make Nature shine) 190 All are 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,
*In Philaftet, a play of Beaumont and Fletcher.
Muft needs fucceed! for who can chufe but pity 195
A dying hero miferably witty!
But, oh! the Dialogues where jest and mock
Is held up like a reft at fhittle-cock,
Or elfe like bells eternally they chime,
They figh in Simile and die in Rhyme!
What things are these who would be poets thought,
By Nature not infpir'd, nor learning taught?
Some wit they have, and therefore may deferve
A better course than this, by which they starve.
But to write Plays! why, 't is a bold pretence 205
To judgment, breeding, wit, and eloquence:
Nay more; for they must look within to find
Thofe fecret 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 almost 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:
Consider 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 theirs 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 monster, which the world ne'er faw.
Some faults must be that his misfortunes drew,
But fuch as may deferve compaffion too.
Besides 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 amiss.
Think not fo much where fhining thoughts to place, As what a man would say in fuch a cafe. Neither in comedy will this fuffice, The player too must be before your cyes; And tho' 't is drudgery to ftoop fo low, To him you muft your fecret meaning show. Expofe no fingle fop, but lay the load More equally, and spread the folly broad.
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