And begs the gods who guide blind Fortune's wheel,
To raise the wretched, and pull down the proud.
But nothing must be sung between the acts,
But what some way conduces to the plot.

First the shrill sound of a small rural pipe
(Not loud like trumpets, nor adorn'd as now)
Was entertainment for the infant stage,
And pleas'd the thin and bashful audience
Of our well-meaning, frugal ancestors.
But when our walls and limits were enlarg'd,
And men (grown wanton by prosperity)
Study'd new arts of luxury and ease,

The verse, the music, and the scene, 's improv'd;
For how should ignorance be judge of wit,
Or men of sense applaud the jest of fools?
Then came rich clothes and graceful action in,
Then instruments were taught more moving notes,
And Eloquence with all her pomp and charms
Foretold as useful and sententious truths,
As those delivered by the Delphic god.

The first tragedians found that serious style
Too grave for their uncultivated age,
And so brought wild and naked satyrs in,

Whose motion, words, and shape, were all a farce,
(As oft as decency would give them leave)
Because the mad ungovernable rout,
Full of confusion, and the fumes of wine,
Lov'd such variety and antic tricks.

But then they did not wrong themselves so much
To make a god, a hero, or a king,
(Stript of his golden crown and purple robe)
Descend to a mechanic dialect,

Nor (to avoid such meanness) soaring high
With empty sound and airy notions fly;
For Tragedy should blush as much to stoop
To the low mimic follies of a farce,

As a grave matron would to dance with girls:
You must not think that a satiric style
Allows of scandalous and brutish words,
Or the confounding of your characters.
Begin with Truth, then give Invention scope,
And if your style.be natural and smooth,
All men will try, and hope to write as well;
And (not without much pains) be undeceiv'd.
So much good method and connection may
Improve the common and the plainest things.
A satyr, that comes staring from the woods,
Must not at first speak like an orator:
But, though his language should not be refin❜d,
It must not be obscene and impudent;
The better sort abhors scurrility,

And often censures what the rabble likes.
Unpolish'd verses pass with many men,
And Rome is too indulgent in that point;
But then to write at a loose rambling rate,
In hope the world will wink at all our faults,
Is such a rash ill-grounded confidence,
As men may pardon, but will never praise.
Be perfect in the Greek originals,

Read them by day, and think of them by night.
But Plautus was admir'd in former time
With too much patience: (not to call it worse)
His harsh, unequal verse was music then,
And rudeness had the privilege of wit.

When Thespis first expos'd the tragic Muse,
Rude were the actors, and a cart the scene,
Where ghastly faces, stain'd with lees of wine,
Frighted the children, and amus'd the crowd;
This Eschylus (with indignation) saw,
And built a stage, found out a decent dress,

| Brought visards in, (a civiler disguise)
And taught men how to speak and how to act.
Next Comedy appear'd with great applause,
Till her licentious and abusive tongue
Waken'd the magistrate's coercive power,
And forc'd it to suppress her insolence.

Our writers have attempted every way;
And they deserve our praise, whose daring Muse
Disdain'd to be beholden to the Greeks,
And found fit subjects for her verse at home.
Nor should we be less famous for our wit,
Than for the force of our victorious arms;
But that the time and care, that are requir'd
To overlook, and file, and polish well,
Fright poets from that necessary toil.

Democritus was so in love with wit,
And some' men's natural impulse to write,
That he despis'd the help of art and rules,
And thought none poets till their brains were crackt;
And this hath so intoxicated some,
That (to appear incorrigibly mad)
They cleanliness and company renounce
For lunacy beyond the cure of art,
With a long beard, and ten long dirty nails,
Pass current for Apollo's livery.

O my unhappy stars! if in the Spring
Some physic had not cur'd me of the spleen,
None would have writ with more success than I;
But I must rest contented as I am,
And only serve to whet that wit in you,
To which I willingly resign my claim.
Yet without writing I may teach to write,
Tell what the duty of a poet is;
Wherein his wealth and ornaments consist,
And how he may be form'd, and how improv'd,
What fit, what not, what excellent or ill.

Sound judgment is the ground of writing well;
And when Philosophy directs your choice
To proper subjects rightly understood,
Words from your pen will naturally flow;
He only gives the proper characters,
Who knows the duty of all ranks of men,
And what we owe our country, parents, friends,
How judges and how senators should act,
And what becomes a general to do;
Those are the likest copies, which are drawn
By the original of human life.

Sometimes in rough and undigested plays
We meet with such a lucky character,
As, being humour'd right, and well pursued,
Succeeds much better than the shallow verse
And chiming trifles of more studious pens.

Greece had a genius, Greece had eloquence,
For her ambition and her end was fame.
Our Roman youth is diligently taught
The deep mysterious art of growing rich,
And the first words that children learn to speak
Are of the value of the names of coin:
Can a penurious wretch, that with his milk
Hath suck'd the basest dregs of usury,
Pretend to generous and heroic thoughts?
Can rust and avarice write lasting lines?
But you, brave youth, wise Numa's worthy heir,
Remember of what weight your judgment is,
And never venture to commend a book,
That has not pass'd all judges and all tests.

A poet should instruct, or please, or both:
Let all your precepts be succinct and clear,
That ready wits may comprehend them soon,
And faithful memories retain them long;

All superfluities are soon forgot.
Never be so conceited of your parts,

To think you may persuade us what you please,
Or venture to bring in a child alive,
That Canibals have murder'd and devour'd.
Old age explodes all but morality;
Austerity offends aspiring youths;

But he that joins instruction with delight,
Profit with pleasure, carries all the votes:
These are the volumes that enrich the shops,
These pass with admiration through the world,
And bring their author to eternal fame.

Be not too rigidly censorious,

A string may jar in the best master's hand,
And the most skilful archer miss his aim;
But in a poem elegantly writ,

I would not quarrel with a slight mistake,
Such as our nature's frailty may excuse;
But he that hath been often told his fault,
And still persists, is as impertinent
As a musician that will always play,
And yet is always out at the same note:
When such a positive abandon'd fop
(Among his numerous absurdities)
Stumbles upon some tolerable line,
I fret to see them in such company,

And wonder by what magic they came there.
But in long works sleep will sometimes surprise;
Homer himself hath been observ'd to nod.

Poems, like pictures, are of different sorts,
Some better at a distance, others near,

Some love the dark, some choose the clearest light,
And boldly challenge the most piercing eye;
Some please for once, some will for ever please.
But, Piso, (though your knowledge of the world,
Join'd with your father's precepts, make you wise)
Remember this as an important truth:
Some things admit of mediocrity,
A counsellor, or pleader at the bar,
May want Messala's powerful eloquence,
Or be less read than deep Cascellius;
Yet this indifferent lawyer is esteem'd;
But no authority of gods nor men
Allow of any mean in poesy.

As an ill concert, and a coarse perfume,

Disgrace the delicacy of a feast,

They feign'd the stones obey'd his magic lute:
Poets, the first instructors of mankind,
Brought all things to their proper native use;
Some they appropriated to the gods,

And some to public, some to private ends;
Promiscuous love by marriage was restrain'd,
Cities were built, and useful laws were made;
So great was the divinity of verse,
And such observance to a poet paid.
Then Homer's and Tyrtæus' martial Muse
Waken'd the world, and sounded loud alarms.

To verse we owe the sacred oracles,
And our best precepts of morality;
Some have by verse obtain'd the love of kings,
(Who with the Muses ease their weary'd minds)
Then blush not, noble Piso, to protect

What gods inspire, and kings delight to hear.
Some think that poets may be form'd by Art,
Others maintain that Nature makes them so;
I neither see what Art without a vein,
Nor Wit without the help of Art can do,
But mutually they crave each other's aid.
He that intends to gain th' Olympic prize
Must use himself to hunger, heat, and cold,
Take leave of wine, and the soft joys of love;
And no musician dares pretend to skill,
Without a great expense of time and pains;
But every little busy scribbler now
Swells with the praises which he gives himself;
And, taking sanctuary in the crowd,
Brags of his impudence, and scorns to mend.
A wealthy poet takes more pains to hire
A flattering audience, than poor tradesmen do
To persuade customers to buy their goods.
'Tis hard to find a man of great estate,
That can distinguish flatterers from friends.
Never delude yourself, nor read your book
Before a brib'd and fawning auditor,

For he 'll commend and feign an ecstasy,
Grow pale or weep, do any thing to please:
True friends appear less mov'd than counterfeit,
As men that truly grieve at funerals,
Are not so loud as those that cry for bire.
Wise were the kings, who never chose a friend,
Till with full cups they had unmask'd his soul,
And seen the bottom of his deepest thoughts;

So poesy, whose end is to delight,

Admits of no degrees, but must be still
Sublimely good, or despicably ill.

In other things men have some reason left,
And one that cannot dance, or fence, or run,
Despairing of success, forbears to try;
But all (without consideration) write;
Some thinking, that th' omnipotence of wealth
Can turn them into poets when they please.
But, Piso, you are of too quick a sight
Not to discern which way your talent lies,
Or vainly with your genius to contend;
Yet if it ever be your fate to write,
Let your productions pass the strictest hands,
Mine and your father's, and not see the light
Till time and care have ripen'd every line.
What you keep by you, you may change and mend,
But words once spoke can never be recall'd.

Orpheus, inspir'd by more than human power,
Did not, as poets feign, tame savage beasts,
But men as lawless and as wild as they,
And first dissuaded them from rage and blood.
Thus, when Amphion built the Theban wall,

Against the smiles of a designing knave.

Quintilius (if his advice were ask'd)
Would freely tell you what you should correct,
Or, if you could not, bid you blot it out,
And with more care supply the vacancy;
But if he found you fond and obstinate,
(And apter to defend than mend your faults)
With silence leave you to admire yourself,
And without rival hug your darling book.
The prudent care of an impartial friend
Will give you notice of each idle line,

Show what sounds harsh, and what wants ornament,
Or where it is too lavishly bestow'd;
Make you explain all that he finds obsure,
And with a strict inquiry mark your faults;
Nor for these trifles fear to lose your love:
Those things which now seem frivolous and sligh',
Will be of a most serious consequence,
When they have made you once ridiculous.

A poetaster, in his raging fit,
(Follow'd and pointed at by fools and boys)
Is dreaded and proscrib'd by men of sense;
They make a lane for the polluted thing,

And fly as from th' infection of the plague,
Or from a man whom, for a just revenge,
Fanatic Phrenzy, sent by Heaven, pursues.
If (in the raving of a frantic Muse)

And minding more his verses than his way,
Any of these should drop into a well,

Though he might burst his lungs to call for help,
No creature would assist or pity him,
But seem to think he fell on purpose in.
Hear how an old Sicilian poet' dy'd;
Empedocles, mad to be thought a god,
In a cold fit leap'd into Etna's flames.
Give poets leave to make themselves away;
Why should it be a greater siu to kill,
Than to keep men alive against their will?

Nor was this chance, but a deliberate choice;
For if Empedocles were now reviv'd,
He would be at his frolic once again,
And his pretensions to divinity:

"Tis hard to say whether for sacrilege,
Or incest, or some more unheard-of crime,
The rhyming fiend is sent into these men;
But they are all most visibly possest,
And, like a baited bear when he breaks loose,
Without distinction seize on all they meet;
None ever scap'd that came within their reach,
Sticking like leeches, till they burst with blood,
Without remorse insatiably they read,

And never leave till they have read men dead.