a poor pretense to it, or an ill sort of wit, which has nothing more to support it than barefac'd ribaldry; which is both unmannerly in itself, and fulsome to the reader. But neither of these will reach my case: for in the first place, I am only the translator, not the inventor; so that the heaviest part of the censure falls upon Lucretius, before it reaches me; in the next place, neither he nor I have us'd the grossest words, but the cleanliest metaphors we could find, to palliate the broadness of the meaning; and, to conclude, have carried the poetical part no farther than the philosophical exacted. There is one mistake of mine which I will not lay to the printer's charge, who has enough to answer for in false pointings. 'Tis in the word viper; I would have the verse run thus: The scorpion, love, must on the wound be bruis'd. There are a sort of blundering half-witted people, who make a great deal of noise about a verbal slip; tho' Horace would instruct them better in true criticism: Non ego paucis Offendor maculis quas aut incuria fudit, True judgment in poetry, like that in painting, takes a view of the whole together, whether it be good or not; and where the beauties are more than the faults, concludes for the poet against the little judge. 'Tis a sign that malice is hard driven, when 't is fore'd to lay hold on a word or syllable: to arraign a man is one thing, and to cavil at him is another. In the midst of an ill-natur'd generation of scribblers, there is always justice enough left in mankind to protect good writers; and they too are oblig'd, both by humanity and interest, to espouse each other's cause against false critics, who are the common enemies. The This last consideration puts me in mind of what I owe to the ingenious and learned translator of Lucretius. I have not here design'd to rob him of any part of that commendation which he has so justly acquir'd by the whole author, whose fragments only fall to my portion. What I have now perform'd, is no more than I intended above twenty years ago. ways of our translation are very different; he follows him more closely than I have done, which became an interpreter of the whole poem: I take more liberty, because it best suited with my design, which was to make him as pleasing as I could. He had been too voluminous, had he us'd my method in so long a work; and I had certainly taken his, had I made it my business to translate the whole. The preference then is justly his; and I join with Mr. Evelyn in the confession of it, with this additional advantage to him, that his reputation is already establish'd in this poet, mine is to make its fortune in the world. If I have been anywhere obscure, in following our common author, or if Lucretius himself is to be condemn'd, I refer myself to his excellent annotations, which I have often read, and always with some new pleasure. My preface begins already to swell upon me, and looks as if I were afraid of my reader, by so tedious a bespeaking of him: and yet I have Horace and Theocritus upon my hands; but the Greek gentleman shall quickly be dispatch'd, because I have more business with the Roman. That which distinguishes Theocritus from all other poets, both Greek and Latin, and which raises him even above Virgil in his Eclogues, is the inimitable tenderness of his passions, and the natural expression of them in words so becoming of a pastoral. A simplicity shines thro' all he writes; he shows his art and learning by disguising both. His shepherds never rise above their country education in their complaints of love. There is the same difference betwixt him and Virgil, as there is betwixt Tasso's Aminta and the Pastor Fido of Guarini. Virgil's shepherds are too well-read in the philosophy of Epicurus and of Plato, and Guarini's seem to have been bred in courts; but Theocritus and Tasso have taken theirs from cottages and plains. It was said of Tasso, in relation to his similitudes, mai esce del bosco; that he never departed from the woods, that is, all his comparisons were taken from the country. The same may be said of our Theocritus. He is softer than Ovid; he touches the passions more delicately and performs all this out of his own fond, without diving into the arts and sciences for a supply. Even his Doric dialect has an incomparable sweetness in its clownishness, like a fair shepherdess in her country russet, talking in a Yorkshire tone. This was impossible for Virgil to imitate, because the severity of the Roman language denied him that advantage. Spenser has endeavor'd it in his Shepherds' Calendar; but neither will it succeed in English; for which reason I forbore to attempt it. For Theocritus writ to Sicilians, who spoke that dialect; and I direct this part of my translations to our ladies, who neither understand nor will take pleasure in such homely expressions. I proceed to Horace. Take him in parts, and he is chiefly to be consider'd in his three different talents, as he was a critic, a satirist, and a writer of odes. His morals are uniform, and run thro' all of them; for, let his Dutch commentators say what they will, his philosophy was Epicurean; and he made use of gods and providence only to serve a turn in poetry. But since neither his criticisms, which are the most instructive of any that are written in this art, nor his satires, which are incomparably beyond Juvenal's, if to laugh and rally is to be preferr'd to railing and declaiming, are any part of my present undertaking, I confine myself wholly to his odes. These are also of several sorts: some of them are panegyrical, others moral, the rest jovial, or (if I may so call them) Bacchanalian. As difficult as he makes it, and as indeed it is, to imitate Pindar, yet, in his most elevated flights, and in the sudden changes of his subject with almost imperceptible connections, that Theban poet is his master. But Horace is of the more bounded fancy, and confines himself strictly to one sort of verse, or stanza, in every ode. That which will distinguish his style from all other poets is the elegance of his words, and the numerousness of his verse: there is nothing so delicately turn'd in all the Roman language. There appears in every part of his diction, or (to speak English) in all his expressions, a kind of noble and bold purity. His words are chosen with as much exactness as Virgil's; but there seems to be a greater spirit in them. There is a secret happiness attends his choice, which in Petronius is called curiosa felicitas, and which I suppose he had from the feliciter audere of Horace himself. But the most distinguishing part of all his character seems to me to be his briskness, his jollity, and his good humor; and those I have chiefly endeavor'd to copy. His other excellencies, I confess, are above my imitation. One ode, which infinitely pleas'd me in the reading, I have attempted to translate in Pindaric verse: 't is that which is inscrib'd to the present Earl of Rochester, to whom I have particular obligations, which this small testimony of my gratitude can never pay. 'Tis his darling in the Latin, and I have taken some pains to make it my masterpiece in English; for which reason I took this kind of verse, which allows more latitude than any other. Everyone knows it was introduc'd into our language, in this age, by the happy genius of Mr. Cowley. The seeming easiness of it has made it spread; but it has not been consider'd enough, to be so well cultivated. It languishes in almost every hand but his, and some very few, whom, to keep the rest in countenance, I do not name. He, indeed, has brought it as near perfection as was possible in so short a time. But if I may be allow'd to speak my mind modestly, and without injury to his sacred ashes, somewhat of the purity of English, somewhat of more equal thoughts, somewhat of sweetness in the numbers, in one word, somewhat of a finer turn, and more lyrical verse, is yet wanting. As for the soul of it, which consists in the warmth and vigor of fancy, the masterly figures, and the copiousness of imagination, he has excell'd all others in this kind. Yet, if the kind itself be capable of more perfection, tho' rather in the ornamental parts of it, than the essential, what rules of morality or respect have I broken, in naming the defects, that they may hereafter be amended? Imitation is a nice point, and there are few poets who deserve to be models in all they write. Milton's Paradise Lost is admirable; but am I therefore bound to maintain that there are no flats amongst his elevations, when 't is evident he creeps along sometimes, for above an hundred lines together? Cannot I admire the height of his invention, and the strength of his expression, without defeuding his antiquated words, and the perpetual harshness of their sound? 'Tis as much commendation as a man can bear, to own him excellent; all beyond it is idolatry. Since Pindar was the prince of lyric poets, let me have leave to say that, in imitating him, our numbers should, for the most part, be lyrical. For variety, or rather where the majesty of the thought requires it, they may be stretch'd to the English heroic of five feet, and to the French Alexandrine of six. But the ear must preside, and direct the judgment to the choice of numbers. Without the nicety of this, the harmony of Pindaric verse can never be complete the cadency of one line must be a rule to that of the next; and the sound of the former must slide gently into that which follows, without leaping from one extreme into another. It must be done like the shadowings of a picture, which fall by degrees into a darker color. I shall be glad, if I have so explain'd myself as to be understood; but if I have not, quod nequeo dicere, et sentio tantum, must be my excuse. There remains much more to be said on this subject; but, to avoid envy, I will be silent. What I have said is the general opinion of the best judges, and in a manner has been fore'd from me, by seeing a noble sort of poetry so happily restor❜d by one man, and so grossly copied by almost all the rest. A musical ear, and a great genius, if another Mr. Cowley could arise, in another age may bring it to perfection. In the mean time: Fungar vice cotis, acutum I hope it will not be expected from me that I should say anything of my fellow-undertakers in this Miscellany. Some of them are too nearly related to me to be commended without suspicion of partiality: others, I am sure, need it not; and the rest I have not perus'd. To conclude, I am sensible that I have written this too hastily and too loosely: I fear I have been tedious, and, which is worse, it comes out from the first draught, and uncorrected. This, I grant, is no excuse; for it may be reasonably urg'd, why did he not write with more leisure, or, if he had it not, (which was certainly my case,) why did he attempt to write on so nice a subject? The objection is unanswerable; but in part of recompense, let me assure the reader, that, in hasty productions, he is sure to meet with an author's present sense, which cooler thoughts would possibly have disguis'd. There is undoubtedly more of spirit, tho' not of judgment, in these uncorrect essays, and consequently, tho' my hazard be the greater, yet the reader's pleasure is not the less. JOHN DRYDEN. LUCRETIUS THE BEGINNING OF THE FIRST BOOK DELIGHT of humankind, and gods above, Parent of Rome, propitious Queen of Love, Whose vital pow'r, air, earth, and sea supplies, And breeds whate'er is born beneath the -rolling skies: For every kind, by thy prolific might, Springs, and beholds the regions of the light. Thee, goddess, thee the clouds and tempests fear, And at thy pleasing presence disappear: For thee the land in fragrant flow'rs is dress'd; For thee the ocean smiles, and smooths her wavy breast; ΤΟ And heav'n itself with more serene and purer light is blest. For when the rising spring adorns the mead, And a new scene of nature stands display'd, When teeming buds and cheerful greens By birth, or pow'r, or fortune's wealthy store, 'Tis plain, these useless toys of every kind As little can relieve the lab'ring mind: Unless we could suppose the dreadful sight Of marshal'd legions moving to the fight, Could, with their sound and terrible array, Expel our fears, and drive the thoughts of death away. But, since the supposition vain appears, 50 Since clinging cares, and trains of inbred fears, Are not with sounds to be affrighted thence, Whose worth but in our want of reason lies? For life is all in wand'ring errors led; And just as children are surpris'd with dread, And tremble in the dark, so riper years 60 Ev'n in broad daylight are possess'd with fears, And shake at shadows fanciful and vain As those which in the breasts of children reign. These bugbears of the mind, this inward hell, No rays of outward sunshine can dispel; But nature and right reason must display Their beams abroad, and bring the darksome soul to day. LUCRETIUS THE LATTER PART OF THE THIRD BOOK AGAINST THE FEAR OF DEATH WHAT has this bugbear death to frighten man, If souls can die, as well as bodies can? For, as before our birth we felt no pain, When Punic arms infested land and main, From sense of grief and pain we shall be free; We shall not feel, because we shall not be. Tho' earth in seas, and seas in heav'n were lost, We should not move, we only should be toss'd. Nay, ev'n suppose when we have suffer'd fate, The soul could feel in her divided state, What's that to us? for we are only we While souls and bodies in one frame agree. Nay, tho' our atoms should revolve by chance, And matter leap into the former dance; 20 Tho' time our life and motion could restore, And make our bodies what they were before, What gain to us would all this bustle bring? The new-made man would be another thing. When once an interrupting pause is made, That individual being is decay'd. We, who are dead and gone, shall bear no part In all the pleasures, nor shall feel the Know, he's an unsincere, unthinking ass. Yet makes himself a part of life again, What wolf or vulture shall devour me dead? He wastes his days in idle grief, nor can 60 Then he repines that he was born to die, Or, drench'd in floods of honey, to be 70 soak'd; Imbalm'd, to be at once preserv'd and chok'd; Or on an airy mountain's top to lie, From thy chaste wife, and thy dear prattling boys, Whose little arms about thy legs are cast, |