This turn I like not: 'Tis approv'd by all.
Thus, refolute not from one fault to fall,
If there's a fyllable of which you doubt,
'Tis a fure reafon not to blot it out.
Yet ftill he fays you may his faults confute,
And over him your power is abfolute :
But of his feign'd humility take heed;
'Tis a bait laid to make you hear him read.
And when he leaves you happy in his Muse,
Reflefs he runs fome other to abuse,
And often finds; for in our fcribbling times
No fool can want a fot to praife his rhymes:
The flatteft work has ever in the court
Met with fomne zealous afs for its fupport:
And in all times a forward fcribbling fop
Has found fome greater fool to cry him up.
Sa fair nymph, when rifing from her bed,
With fparkling diamonds dresses not her head,
But, without gold, or pearl, or coftly scents,
Gathers from neighbouring fields her ornaments :
Such, lovely in its drefs, but plain withal,
Ought to appear a perfect Pastoral:
Its humble method nothing has of fierce,
But, hates the rattling of a lofty verfe:
There native beauty pleases, and excites,
And never with harfh founds the ear affrights.
But in this ftyle a poet often spent,
In rage throws by his rural inftrument,
And vainly, when diforder'd thoughts abound,
Amidst the Eclogue makes the trumpet found:
Pan flies alarm'd into the neighbouring woods,
And frighted nymphs dive down into the floods.
Oppos'd to this another, low in ftyie,
Makes fhepherds speak a language base and vile:
His writings, flat and heavy, without found,
Kiffing the earth, and creeping on the ground;
You'd fwear that Randal, in his ruftic strains,
Again was quavering to the country swains,
And changing, without care of found or dress,
Strephon and Phyllis, into Tom and Befs.
'Twixt these extremes 'tis hard to keep the right;
For guides take Virgil, and read Theocrite:
Be their just writing, by the Gods inspir'd,
Your conftant pattern practis'd and admir'd.
By them alone you 'll eafily comprehend
How poets, without fhame, may condescend
To fing of gardens, fields, of flowers, and fruit,
To ftir up fhepherds, and to tune the flute;
Of love's rewards to tell the happy hour,
Daphne a tree, Narciffus made a flower,
And by what means the Eclogue yet has power
To make the woods worthy a conqueror :
This of their writings is the grace and flight;
Their rifings lofty, yet not out of fight.
The Elegy, that loves a mournful style,
With unbound hair weeps at a funeral pile;
It paints the lover's torments and delights,
A mistress flatters, threatens, and invites:
But well thefe raptures if you'll make us fee,
You must know love as well as poetry.
I hate thofe lukewarm authors, whofe forc'd fire
In a cold style defcribes a hot defire,
That figh by rule, and raging in cold blood
Their fluggish Mufe whip to an amorous mood:
Their tranfports feign'd appear but flat and vain;
They always figh, and always hug their chain,
Adore their prifon, and their fufferings blefs,
Make fenfe and reafon quarrel as they please.
"Twas not of old in this affe&ted tone,
That fmooth Tibullus made his amorous moan;
Nor Ovid, when, inftructed from above,
By nature's rules he taught the art of love.
The heart in Elegies forms the difcourfe.
The Ode is bolder, and has greater force. Mounting to heaven in her ambitious flight, Amongst the Gods and heroes takes delight; Of Pifa's wrestlers tells the finewy force, And fings the dufty conqueror's glorious course: To Simoïs ftreams does fierce Achilles bring, And makes the Ganges bow to Britain's king. Sometimes
Sometimes the flies like an induftrious bee,
And robs the flowers by nature's chemistry,
Defcribes the fhepherd's dances, feafts, and bliss,
And boasts from Phyllis to furprize a kiss,
When gently she refifts with feign'd remorse,
That what the grants may feem to be by force:
Her generous ftyle at random oft will part,
And by a brave diferder fhows her art.
Unlike those fearful poets, whofe cold rhyme
In all their raptures keeps exactest time,
That fing th' illuftrious 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 ftrictest rules of art:
Apollo drives thofe fops from his abode;
And fome have faid that once the humorous god
Refolving all fuch fcribblers to confound,
For the fhort Sonnet order'd this ftrict bound:
Set rules for the just measure, and the time,
The easy running and alternate rhyme;
But, above all, thofe licences deny'd
Which in these writings the lame fenfe fupply'd;
Forbad an useless line should find a place,
Or a repeated word appear with grace.
A faultlefs Sonnet, finifh'd thus, would be
Worth tedious volumes of loofe poetry.
A hundred fcribbling authors without ground,
Believe they have this only phoenix found :
When yet th' exactest scarce have two or three,
Among whole tomes from faults and cenfure free.
The reft but little read, regarded lefs,
Are fhovel'd to the paftry from the prefs.
Clofing the fenfe 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 fentence in a distich clos'd.
Thefe points, that by Italians first were priz'd,
Our ancient authors knew not, or defpis'd :
The vulgar, dazzled with their glaring light,
To their falfe pleatures quickly they invite;
But public favour fo increas'd their pride,
They overwhelm'd Parnaffus with their tide.
The Madrigal at first was overcome,
And the proud Sonnet fell by the fame doom;
With thefe 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 durft not rage;
The amorous fhepherds took more care to prove
True to his point, than faithful to their love.
Each word like Janus had a double face:
And profe, as well as verfe, allow'd it place :
The lawyer with conceits adorn'd his speech,
The parfon without quibbling could not preach.
At laft affronted reafon look'd about,
And from all ferious matters fhut them out:
Declar'd that none fhould use them without shame,
Except a fcattering in the Epigram;
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