So pleas'd at first the tow'ring Alps we try, Mount o'er the vales, and seem to tread the sky! And the first clouds and mountains seem the last: 225 230 Survey the whole, nor seek slight faults to find 235 That shunning faults one quiet tenor keep, But the joint force and full result of all. 240 245 Thus when we view some well-proportion'd dome, (The world's just wonder, even thine, O Rome!) No single parts unequally surprise, All comes united to th' admiring eyes; 250 No monstrous height, or breadth, or length, appear, The whole at once is bold and regular. Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see, Since none can compass more than they intend; 255 260 265 270 Once on a time, La Mancha's Knight, they say, A certain bard encount'ring on the way, Discours'd in terms as just, with looks as sage, As e'er could Dennis of the Grecian stage, Concluding all were desp'rate sots and fools Who durst depart from Aristotle's rules. Our author, happy in a judge so nice, Produc'd his play, and begg'd the Knight's advice; Made him observe the subject and the plot, The mammers, passions, unities; what not? 275 All which exact to rule were brought about, "What! leave the combat out?" exclaims the Knight. "Yes, or we must renounce the Stagirite." 280 "Not so, by heav'n! (he answers in a rage;) "Knights, squires, and steeds, must enter on the stage." "So vast a throng the stage can ne'er contain." Thus critics of less judgment than caprice, 285 Some to conceit alone their taste confine, And glitt'ring thoughts struck out at ev'ry line; 290 Pleas'd with a work where nothing's just or fit, 295 One glaring chaos and wild heap of wit. 300 For works may have more wit than does them good, As bodies perish thro' excess of blood. 305 Others for language all their care express, And value books as women men, for dress: Their praise is still....the style is excellent; The sense they humbly take upon content. Words are like leaves, and where they most abound, Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found. False eloquence, like the prismatic glass, Its gaudy colours spreads on ev'ry place; The face of Nature we no more survey, All glares alike, without distinction gay; 310 320 But true expression, like th' unchanging sun, 315 326 Unlucky as Fungoso in the play, These sparks with awkward vanity display Be not the first by whom the new are try'd, 330 335 340 But most by numbers judge a poet's song, And smooth or rough with them is right or wrong: In the bright Muse tho' thousand charms conspire, Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire ; Who haunts Parnassus but to please their ear, Not mend their minds, as some to church repair, Not for the doctrine but the music there. These equal syllables alone require, 'Tho' oft the ear the open vowels tire, While expletives their feeble aid do join, 345 And ten low words oft creep in one dull line : |