Win Render Book his vaft Defign, unfold,

Hen I beheld the Poet blind, yet bold,

Meffiah Crown'd, God's Reconcil'd Decree,
Rebelling Angels, the Forbidden Tree,

Heav'n Hell, Earth, Chaos, All; the Argument
Held me a while mifdoubting his Intent,
That he would ruin (for

him strong) The facred Truth's to Fable and old Song.

(So Sampfen groap'd the Temple's Pofts in pight) The World oerwhelming to revenge his fight,

Yet as I read, foon growing, lefs fevere,
I liked his Project, the Succefs did fear;

Through that wide Field how he his way fhould find,
O'er which lame Faith leads Understanding blind;
Left he perplex'd the things he would explains
And what was cafie he should render vain."

!",

Or if a Work fo infinite he fpann'd,
Jealous I was that fome lefs skilful hand
(Such as difquiet always what is well,
And by ill imitating would excell)

Might hence prefume the whole Creation's day
To change in Scenes, and show it in a Play.

Pardon me, mighty Poet, nor defpife
My causeless, yet not impious, furmife.
But I am now convinc'd, and none will dare
Within thy Labours to pretend a share.

Thou haft not mifs'd one thought that could be fit,
And all that was improper doft omit:

So that no room is here for Writers left,
But to detect their Ignorance or Theft.

That Majesty which through thy Work doth Reign Draws the Devout, deterring the Profane.

And things divine thou treat'ft of in fuch
As them preferves, and thee inviolate.
At once delight and horror on us feife,
Thou fing'ft with fo much gravity and ease;
And above humane flight doft fear aloft
With Plume fo ftrong, fo equal, and so foft.
The Bird nam'd from that Paradife you fing
So never flags, but always keeps on Wing.

ate

Where couldst thou words of fuch a compass find? Whence furnish fuch a vaft expence of mind? Juft Heav'n thee like Tirefias to requite Rewards with Prophefie thy loss of sight.

Well might'st thou fcorn thy Readers to allure With tinkling Rhime, of thy own Senfe fecure; While the Town-Bayes writes all the while and spells, And like a Pack-horfe tires without his Bells: Their Fancies like our Bushy-points appear, The Poets tag them, we for fafhion wear, I too tranfported by the Mode offend,

And while I meant to Praife thee muft Commend. Thy Verfe created like thy Theme fublime,

In Number, Weight and Measure, needs not Rhime.

Andrew Marvell.

THE

VERSE.

THE Measure is English Heroic Verfe without Rime, as that of Homer in Greek, and of Virgil in Latin; Rime being no neceffary Adjunct or true Ornament of Poem or good Verfe, in longer Works efpecially, but the Invention of a barbarous Age, to fet off wretched Matter and lame Meeter; grac'd indeed fince by the use of fome famous modern Poets, carried amay by Custom, but much to their own vexation, hindrance, and conftraint to express many things otherwife, and for the most part worse than elfe they would have expreft them. Not without caufe therefore fome, both Italian and Spanish Poets of prime note have rejected Rime both in longer and fhorter Works, as have also long fince our beft English Tragedies, as a thing of it felf, to all judicious ears, trivial and of no true mufical delight; which confifts only in apt Numbers, fit quantity of Syllables, and the Senfe variously drawn out from one Verfe into another, not in the jingling found of like

undings, a fault avoided by the learned Annients both in Poetry and all good Oratory. This neglect them of Rime fo little is to be taken for a defect, though it may seem so perhaps to vulgar Readers, that it rather is to be efteem'd an example fet, the first in Englifh, of antient liberty recover'd to Heroic Poem from the troublefom and modern bondage of Rimeing.

Para

The ARGUMENT.

This First Book proposes, first in brief, the whole Subject. Man's Difobedience, and the lofs thereupon of Paradife wherein he was plac'd. Then touches the prime Caufe of his Fall, the Serpent, or rather Satan in the Serpent; who revolting from God, and drawing to his fide many Legions of Angels, was by the Command of God driven out of Heaven with all his Crew into the great Deep. Which Action pafs'd over, the Poem hasts into the midst of Things, prefenting Satan with his Angels now fallen into Hell, defcrib'd here, not in the Center (for Heaven and Earth may be suppos'd as yet not made, certainly not yet accurs'd) but in a Place of utter Darkness, fitlieft call'd Chaos: Here Satan with his An

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