That sing th' illustrious hero's mighty praise
(Lean writers!) by the terms of weeks and days;
And dare not from least circumstances part,
But take all towns by strictest rules of art:
Apollo drives those fops from his abode;

And some have said, that once the humorous god,
Resolving all such scribblers to confound,
For the short Sonnet order'd this strict bound:
Set rules for the just nieasure, and the time,
The easy running and alternate rhyme;
But, above all, those licences deny'd
Which in these writings the lame sense supply'd;
Forbad an useless line should find a place,
Or a repeated word appear with grace.
A faultless sonnet, finish'd thus, would be
Worth tedious volumes of loose poetry.

A hundred scribbling authors, without ground,
Believe they have this only phenix found:
When yet th' exactest scarce have two or three,
Among whole tomes, from faults and censure free.
The rest but little read, regarded less,
Are shovel'd to the pastry from the press.
Closing the sense within the measur'd time,
"Tis hard to fit the reason to the rhyme.

EPIGRAM.

THE Epigram, with little art compos'd,
Is one good sentence in a distich clos'd.
These points, that by Italians first were priz'd,
Our ancient authors knew not, or despis'd:
The vulgar, dazzled with their glaring light,
To their false pleasures quickly they invite;
But public favour so increas'd their pride,
They overwhelm'd Parnassus with their tide.
The Madrigal at first was overcome,
And the proud Sonnet fell by the same doom;
With these grave Tragedy adorn'd her flights,
And mournful Elegy her funeral rites:
A hero never fail'd them on the stage,
Without his point a lover durst not rage;
The amorous shepherds took more care to prove
True to his point, than faithful to their love.
Each word, like Janus, had a double face:
And prose, as well as verse, allow'd it place:
The lawyer with conceits adorn'd his speech,
The parson without quibbling could not preach.
At last affronted Reason look'd about,

And from all serious matters shut them out:
Declar'd that none should use them without shame,
Except a scattering in the Epigram;
Provided that by art, and in due time,

They turn'd upon the thought, and not the rhyme.
Thus in all parts disorders did abate :
Yet quibblers in the court had leave to prate:
Insipid jesters, and unpleasant fools,

A corporation of dull punning drolls.

"Tis not, but that sometimes a dexterous Muse
May with advantage a turn'd sense abuse,
And on a word may trifle with address;
But above all avoid the fond excess;

And think not, when your verse and sense are lame,
With a dull point to tag your Epigram.

Each poem his perfection has apart;
The British Round in plainness shows his art.
The Ballad, though the pride of ancient time,
Has often nothing but his humorous rhyme;
The Madrigal may softer passions move,
And breathe the tender ecstasies of love.
Desire to show itself, and not to wrong,
Arm'd Virtue first with Satire in its tongue.

SATIRE.

LUCILIUS was the man who, bravely bold,
To Roman vices did this mirror hold,
Protected humble goodness from reproach,
Show'd worth on foot, and rascals in the coach.
Horace his pleasing wit to this did add,
And none uncensur'd could be fool or mad:
Unhappy was that wretch, whose name might be
Squar'd to the rules of their sharp poetry.
Persius obscure, but full of sense and wit,
Affected brevity in all he writ:

And Juvenal, learned as those times could be,
Too far did stretch his sharp hyperbole;
Though horrid truths through all his labours shine,
In what he writes there's something of divine,
Whether he blames the Caprean debauch,
Or of Seianus' fall tells the approach,
Or that he makes the trembling senate come
To the stern tyrant to receive their doom;
Or Roman vice in coarsest habits shews,
And paints an empress reeking from the stews:
In all he writes appears a noble fire;
To follow such a master then desire.
Chaucer alone, fix'd on this solid base,
In his old style conserves a modern grace:
Too happy, if the freedom of his rhymes
Offended not the method of our times.
The Latin writers decency neglect;
But modern authors challenge our respect,
And at immodest writings take offence,
If clean expression cover not the sense.
I love sharp Satire, from obsceneness free;
Not impudence that preaches modesty:
Our English, who in malice never fail,
Hence in lampoons and libels learn to rail;
Pleasant detraction, that by singing goes
From mouth to mouth, and as it marches grows:
Our freedom in our Poetry we see,
That child of joy begot by Liberty.
But, vain blasphemer, tremble when you choose
God for the subject of your impious Muse:
At last, those jests which libertines invent,
Bring the lewd author to just punishment.
Ev'n in a song there must be art and sense;
Yet sometimes we have seen that wine, or chance,
Have warm'd cold brains, and given dull writers

mettle,

And furnish'd out a scene for Mr. Settle.
But for one lucky hit, that made thee please,
Let not thy folly grow to a disease,
Nor think thyself a wit; for in our age
If a warm fancy does some fop engage,
He neither eats nor sleeps till he has writ,
But plagues the world with his adulterate wit.
Nay 'tis a wonder, if, in his dire rage,
He prints not his dull follies for the stage;
And in the front of all his senseless plays,
Makes David Logan crown his head with bays.

CANTO III.

TRAGEDY.

THERE's not a monster bred beneath the sky
But, well-dispos'd by art, may please the eye:
A curious workman, by his skill divine,
From an ill object makes a good design.

Thus, to delight us, Tragedy, in tears
For Edipus, provokes our hopes and fears:
For parricide Orestes asks relief;
And to encrease our pleasure causes grief.
You then, that in this noble art would rise,
Come; and in lofty verse dispute the prize.
Would you upon the stage acquire renown,
And for your judges summon all the town?
Would you your works for ever should remain,
And after ages past be sought again?

In all you write, observe with care and art
To move the passions, and incline the heart.
If in a labour'd act, the pleasing rage
Cannot our hopes and fears by turns engage,
Nor in our mind a feeling pity raise;
In vain with learned scenes you fill your plays:
Your cold discourse can never move the mind
Of a stern critic, naturally unkind;
Who, justly tir'd with your pedantic flight,
Or falls asleep, or censures all you write.
The secret is, attention first to gain;
To move our minds, and then to entertain:
That, from the very opening of the scenes,
The first may show us what the author means.
I'm tir'd to see an actor on the stage,
That knows not whether he 's to laugh or rage;
Who, an intrigue unravelling in vain,
Instead of pleasing keeps my mind in pain.
I'd rather much the nauseous dunce should say
Downright, My name is Hector in the play;
Than with a mass of miracles, ill-join'd,
Confound my ears, and not instruct my mind.
The subject 's never soon enough exprest;
Your place of action must be fix'd, and rest.
A Spanish poet may with good event,
In one day's space whole ages represent;
There oft the hero of a wandering stage
Begins a child, and ends the play of age:
But we, that are by reason's rules confin'd,
Will, that with art the poem be design'd,
That unity of action, time, and place,

Keep the stage full, and all our labours grace.
Write not what cannot be with ease conceiv'd;
Some truths may be too strong to be believ'd.
A foolish wonder cannot entertain:

My mind 's not mov'd if your discourse be vain.
You may relate what would offend the eye:
Seeing, indeed, would better satisfy;
But there are objects that a curious art
Hides from the eyes, yet offers to the heart.
The mind is most agreeably surpris'd,
When a well-woven subject, long disguis'd,
You on a sudden artfully unfold,

And give the whole another face and mould.
At first the Tragedy was void of art;

A song; where each man danc'd and sung his part,
And, of god Bacchus roaring out the praise,
Sought a good vintage for their jolly days:
Then wine and joy were seen in each man's eyes,
And a fat goat was the best singer's prize.
Thespis was first, who, all besmear'd with lee,
Began this pleasure for posterity:
And with his carted actors, and a song,
Amus'd the people as he pass'd along.
Next Eschylus the different persons plac'd,
And with a better mask his players grac'd:
Upon a theatre h's verse express'd,
And show'd his hero with a buskin dress'd.
Then Sophocles, the genius of his age,
Increas'd the pomp and beauty of the stage,

Engag'd the chorus song in every part,
And polish'd rugged verse by rules of art:
He in the Greek did those perfections gain,
Which the weak Latin never could attain.
Our pions fathers, in their priest-rid age,
As impious and profane, abhorr'd the stage:
A troop of silly pilgrims, as 'tis said,
Foolishly zealous, scandalously play'd,
Instead of heroes, and of love's complaints, .
The angels, God, the virgin, and the saints.
At last, right reason did his laws reveal,
And show'd the folly of their ill-plac'd zca',
Silenc'd those nonconformists of the age,
And rais'd the lawful heroes of the stage:
Only th' Athenian mask was laid aside
And chorus by the music was supply'd.
Ingenious love, inventive in new arts,
Mingled in plays, and quickly touch'd our
hearts:

This passion never could resistance find,
But knows the shortest passage to the mind.
Paint then, I'm pleas'd my hero be in love;
But let him not like a tame shepherd move;
Let not Achilles be like Thyrsis seen,
Or for a Cyrus show an Artaben;
That struggling oft his passions we may find,
The frailty, not the virtue of his mind.
Of romance heroes shun the low design;
Yet to great hearts some human frailties join:
Achilles must with Homer's heat engage;
For an affront I'm pleas'd to see him rage.
Those little failings in your hero's heart
Show, that of man and nature he has part:
To leave known rules you cannot be allow'd;
Make Agamemnon covetous and proud,
Eneas in religious rites austere,

Keep to each man his proper character.
Of countries and of times the humours know;
From different climates different customs grow:
And strive to shun their fault who vainly dress
An antique hero like some modern ass;
Who make old Romans like our English move,
Show Cato sparkish, or make Brutus love.
In a romance those errours are excus'd:
There 'tis enough that, reading, we 're amus'd:
Rules too severe would there be useless found;
But the strict scene must have a juster bound:
Exact decorum we must always find.
If then you form some hero in your mind,
Be sure your image with itself agree;
For what he first appears, he still must be.
Affected wits will naturally incline
To paint their figures by their own design:
Your bully poets, bully heroes write:
Chapman in Bussy d'Ambois took delight,
And thought perfection was to huff and fight.
Wise Nature by variety does please;
Clothe differing passions in a differing dress :
Bold anger, in rough haughty words appears;
Sorrow is humble, and dissolves in tears.
Make not your Hecuba with fury rage,
And show a ranting grief upon the stage;
Or tell in vain how the rough Tanais bore
His sevenfold waters to the Euxine shore:
These swoln expressions, this affected noise,
Shows like some pedant that declaims to boys.
In sorrow you must softer methods keep;
And, to excite our tears, yourself must weep.
Those noisy words with which ill plays abound,
Come not from hearts that are in sadness drown'd.

The theatre for a young poet's rhymes Is a bold venture in our knowing times: An author cannot easily purchase fame; Critics are always apt to hiss, and blame: You may be judg'd by every ass in town, The privilege is bought for half a crown. To please, you must a hundred changes try; Sometimes be humble, then must soar on high: In noble thoughts must every where abound, Be easy, pleasant, solid, and profound: To these you must surprising touches join, And show us a new wonder in each line: That all, in a just method well-design'd, May leave a strong impression in the mind. These are the arts that Tragedy maintain:

THE EPIC.

But the Heroic claims a loftier strain.
In the narration of some great design,
Invention, art, and fable, all must join:
Here fiction must employ its utmost grace;
All must assume a body, mind, and face:
Each virtue a divinity is seen;

Prudence is Pallas, Beauty Paphos' queen.
"Tis not a cland from whence swift lightnings fly;
But Jupiter, that thunders from the sky:
Nor a rough storm that gives the sailor pain;
But angry Neptune ploughing up the main:
Echo's no more an empty airy sound;

But a fair nymph that weeps her lover drown'd.
Thus in the endless treasure of his mind,
The poet does a thousand figures find,
Around the work his ornaments he pours,
And strows with lavish hand his opening flowers.
"Tis not a wonder if a tempest bore

The Trojan fleet against the Libyan shore;
From faithless Fortune this is no surprise,
For every day 'tis common to our eyes;
But angry Juno, that she might destroy,
And overwhelm the rest of ruin'd Troy:
That Eolus with the fierce goddess join'd,
Open'd the hollow prisons of the wind;
Till angry Neptune looking o'er the main,
Rebukes the tempest, calms the waves again,
Their vessels from the dangerous quicksands steers;
These are the springs that move our hopes and
fears:

Without these ornaments before our eyes,
Th' unsinew'd poem languishes and dies:
Your poet in his art will always fail,
And tell you but a dull insipid tale.
In vain have our mistaken authors try'd
To lay these ancient ornaments aside,
Thinking our God, and prophets that he sent,
Might act like those the poets did invent,
To fright poor readers in each line with Hell,
And talk of Satan, Ashtaroth, and Bel;
The mysteries which Christians must believe
Disdain such shifting pageants to receive:
The gospel offers nothing to our thoughts
But penitence, or punishment for faults;
And mingling falsehoods with those mysteries,
Would make our sacred truths appear like lies.
Besides, what pleasure can it be to hear
The howlings of repining Lucifer,
Whose rage at your imagin'd hero flies,
And oft with God himself disputes the prize?
Tasso you'll say has done it with applause.
It is not here I mean to judge his cause:

Yet, though our age has so extoll'd his name,
His works had never gain'd immortal fame,
If holy Godfrey in his ecstasies

Had only conquer'd Satan on his knees;
If Tancred and Armida's pleasing form
Did not his melancholy theme adorn.
"Tis not, that Christian poems ought to be
Fill'd with the fictions of idolatry;
But in a common subject to reject
The gods, and heathen ornaments neglect;
To banish Tritons who the seas invade,
To take Pan's whistle, or the Fates degrade,
To hinder Charon in his leaky boat
To pass the shepherd with the man of note,
Is with vain scruples to disturb your mind,
And search perfection you can never find:
As well they may forbid us to present
Prudence or Justice for an ornament,
To paint old Janus with his front of brass,
And take from Time his scythe, his wings and glass
And every where, as 'twere idolatry,

Banish descriptions from our poetry.
Leave them their pious follies to pursue;

But let our reason such vain fears subdue:
And let us not, amongst our vanities,

Of the true God create a God of lies.

In fable we a thousand pleasures see,

And the smooth names seem made for poetry;
As Hector, Alexander, Helen, Phyllis,
Ulysses, Agamemnon, and Achilles :

In such a crowd, the poet were to blame
To choose king Chilperic for his hero's name.
Sometimes the name being well or ill apply'd,
Will the whole fortune of your work decide.
Would you your reader never should be tir'd?
Choose some great hero, fit to be admir'd;
In courage signal, and in virtue bright,
Let e'en his very failings give delight;
Let his great actions our attention bind,
Like Cæsar, or like Scipio, frame his mind,
And not like Œdipus his perjur'd race;
A common conqueror is a theme too base.
Choose not your tale of accidents too full;
Too much variety may make it dull :
Achilles' rage alone, when wrought with skill,
Abundantly does a whole Iliad fill.
Be your narrations lively, short, and smart;
In your descriptions show your noblest art:
There 'tis your poetry may be employ'd:
Yet you must trivial accidents avoid.
Nor imitate that fool, who, to describe
The wondrous marches of the chosen tribe,
Plac'd on the sides, to see their armies pass,
The fishes, staring through the liquid glass;
Describ'd a child, who, with his little hand,
Pick'd up the shining pebbles from the sand.
Such objects are too mean to stay our sight;
Allow your work a just and nobler flight.
Be your beginning plain; and take good heed
Too soon you mount not on the airy steed;
Nor tell your reader in a thundering verse,
"I sing the conqueror of the universe.”
What can an author after this produce?

The labouring mountain must bring forth a mouse.
Much better are we pleas'd with his address,
Who, without making such vast promises,
Says, in an easier style and plainer sense,
"I sing the combats of that pious prince
Who from the Phrygian coast his armies bore,
And landed first on the Lavinian shore."

Then see that son, whom no advice can move,
Forget those orders, and pursue his love.
'Tis not a well-drawn picture we discover:
'Tis a true son, a father, and a lover.
I like an author that reforms the age,

And keeps the right decorum of the stage;
That always pleases by just reason's rule:
But for a tedious droll, a quibbling fool,
Who with low nauseous bawdry fills his plays;
Let him be gone, and on two tressels raise
Some Smithfield stage, where he may act his pranks;
And make Jack-Puddings speak to mountebanks.

CANTO IV.

IN Florence dwelt a doctor of renown,

The scourge of God, and terrour of the town,
Who all the cant of physic had by heart,
And never murder'd but by rules of art.
The public mischief was his private gain;
Children their slaughter'd parents sought in vain :
A brother here his poison'd brother wept;
Some bloodless dy'd, and some by opium slept.
Colds, at his presence, would to frenzies turn;
And agues, like malignant fevers, burn.
Hated, at last, his practice gives him o'er ;
One friend, unkill'd by drugs, of all his store,
In his new country-house affords him place;
'Twas a rich abbot, and a building ass:
Here first the doctor's talent came in play,
He seems inspir'd, and talks like Wren or May:
Of this new portico condemns the face,
And turns the entrance to a better place;
Designs the stair-case at the other end:
His friend approves, does for his mason send.
He comes; the doctor's arguments prevail.
In short, to finish this our humorous tale,
'He Galen's dangerous science does reject,
And from ill doctor turns good architect.

In this example we may have our part:
Rather be mason, 'tis a useful art!
Than a dull poet; for that trade accurst,
Admits no mean betwixt the best and worst.
In other sciences, without disgrace,
A candidate may fill a second place;
But poetry no medium can admit,
No reader suffers an indifferent wit:
The ruin'd stationers against him bawl,

And Herringham degrades him from his stall.
Burlesque, at least, our laughter may excite:
But a cold writer never can delight.
The Counter-Scuffle has more wit and art,
Than the stiff formal style of Gondibert.
Be not affected with that empty praise
Which your vain flatterers will sometimes raise,
And when you read, with ecstasy will say,
"The finish'd piece! the admirable play!"
Which, when expos'd to censure and to light,
Cannot endure a critic's piercing sight.
A hundred authors' fates have been foretold,
And Shadwell's works are printed, but not sold.
Hear all the world; consider every thought;
A fool by chance may stumble on a fault:
Yet, when Apollo does your Muse inspire,
Be not impatient to expose your fire;
Nor imitate the Settles of our times,
Those tuneful readers of their own dull rhymes.
Who seize on all th' acquaintance they can meet,
And stop the passengers that walk the street:

There is no sanctuary you can choose
For a defence from their pursuing Muse.
I've said before, be patient when they blame;
To alter for the better, is no shaine.
Yet yield not to a fool's impertinence:
Sometimes conceited sceptics, void of sense,
By their false taste condemn some finish'd part,
And blame the noblest flights of wit and art;
In vain their fond opinions you der de,
With their lov'd follies they are satisfy'd;
And their weak judgment, void of sense and light,
Thinks nothing can escape their feeble sight:
Their dangerous counsels do not cure, but wound;
To shun the storm, they run your verse aground,
And, thinking to escape a rock, are drown'd.
Choose a sure judge to censure what you write,
Whose reason leads, and knowledge gives you
light;

Whose steady hand will prove your faithful guide,
And touch the darling follies you would hide:
He, in your doubts, will carefully advise,
And clear the mist before your feeble eyes.
'Tis he will tell you to what noble height
A generous Muse may sometimes take her flight;
When too much fetter'd with the rules of art,
May from her stricter bounds and limits part:
But such a perfect judge is hard to see,
And every rhymer knows not poetry;
Nay some there are, for writing verse extoll'd,
Who know not Lucan's dross from Virgil's gold.

Would you in this great art acquire renown?
Authors, observe the rules I here lay down.
In prudent lessons every where abound:
With pleasant join the useful and the sound:
A sober reader a vain tale will slight;
He seeks as well instruction as delight.
Let all your thoughts to virtue be confin'd,
Still offering nobler figures to our mind:
I like not those loose writers who employ
Their guilty Muse, good manners to destroy;
Who with false colours still deceive our eyes,
And show us Vice dress'd in a fair disguise.
Yet do I not their sullen Muse approve,
Who from all modest writings banish love:
That strip the playhouse of its chief intrigue,
And make a murderer of Roderigue:
The lightest love, if decently exprest,
Wili raise no vicious motions in our breast.
Dido in vain may weep, and ask relief;

I blame her folly, whilst I share her grief.

A virtuous author, in his charming art,
To please the sense needs not corrupt the heart:
His heat will never cause a guilty fire:
To follow virtue then be your desire.
In vain your art and vigour are exprest;
Th' obscene expression shows th' infected breast.
But above all, base jealousies avoid,
In which detracting poets are employ'd.
A noble wit dares literally contend;
And scorns to grudge at his deserving friend.
Base rivals, who true wit and merit hate,
Caballing still against it with the great,
Maliciously aspire to gain renown,
By standing up, and pulling others down.
Never debase yourself by treacherous ways,
Nor by such abject methods seek for praise:
Let not your only business be to write;
Be virtuous, just, and in your friends delight.
'Tis not enough your poems be admir'd;
But strive your conversation be desir'd: