When what small knowledge was, in them did This was the fruit the private spirit brought

dwell;

And he a God who could but read and fpell;
Then mother-church did mightily prevail :
She parcel'd out the Bible by retail:

But ftill expounded what she fold or gave;
To keep it in her power to damn and save :
Scripture was fcarce, and, as the market went,
Poor laymen took salvation on content;
As needy men take money good or bad:

Occafion'd by great zeal and little thought.
While crouds unlearn'd, with rude devotion warm,
About the facred viands buz and fwarm.
The fly-blown text creates a crawling brood;
And turns to maggots what was meant for food;
A thoufand daily fects rife up and die;
A thousand more the perifh'd race supply:
So all we make of heaven's difcover'd will,
Is not to have it, or to use it ill.

God's word they had not, but the prieft's they had. The danger's much the fame; on several shelves Yet whate'er falfe conveyances they made,

The lawyer ftill was certain to be paid.

If others wreck us, or we wreck ourselves.
What then remains, but waving each extreme,

In thofe dark times they learn'd their knack fo well, The tides of ignorance and pride to stem ?

That by long use they grew infallible :
At laft a knowing age began t' enquire
If they the book, or that did them inspire:
And making narrower fearch they found,
late,

That what they thought the priest's, was
eftate :

though

Taught by the will produc'd, the written word,
How long they had been cheated on record.
Then every man who faw the title fair,
Claim'd a child's part, and put in for a share :
Confulted foberly his private good;
And fav'd himself as cheap as e'er he could.

Neither fo rich a treasure to forego;

Nor proudly feek beyond our power to know:
Faith is not built on difquifitions vain ;

The things we must believe are few and plain :
But, fince men will believe more than they need,
their And every man will make himfelf a creed,
In doubtful questions 'tis the safest way
To learn what unfufpected ancients say:
For 'tis not likely we fhould higher foar
In fearch of heaven, than all the church before:
Nor can we be deceiv'd, unless we see
The fcripture and the fathers difagree.
If after all they stand fufpected still,
For no man's faith depends upon his will;
'Tis fome relief, that points not clearly known
Without much hazard may be let alone :
And, after hearing what our church can say,
If ftill our reafon runs another way,
That private reason 'tis more just to curb,
Than by difputes the public peace disturb,
For points obfcure are of small ufe to learn:
But common quiet is mankind's concern.

'Tis true, my friend, and far be flattery hence,
This good had full as had a confequence:
The book thus put in every vulgar hand,
Which each prefum'd he best could understand,
The common rule was made the common prey ;
And at the mercy of the rabble lay.

The tender page with horny fifts was gall'd;
And he was gifted moft that loudest baul'd:
The fpirit gave the dooral degree:
And every member of a company
Was of his trade, and of the Bible free.

Plain truths enough for needful use they found;
But men would still be itching to expound :
Each was ambitious of th' obfcureft place,

No measure ta'en from knowledge, all from grace.
Study and pains were now no more their care;
Texts were explain'd by fasting and by prayer :

Thus have I made my own opinions clear:
Yet neither praife expect, nor cenfure fear :
And this unpolifh'd rugged verse I chose;
As fitteft for difcourfe, and nearest profe:
For while from facred truth I do not swerve,
Tom Sternhold's or Tom Shadwell's rhymes will
ferve.

THE ART OF POETRY.

ADVERTISEMENT.

HIS trandation of monfieur Boileau's Art of Poetry was made in the year 1680, by Sir William Soame of Suffolk, Baronet; who being very intimately acquainted with Mr. Dryden, defired his revifal of it. I faw the manufcript lying in Mr. Dryden's hands for above fix months, who made very confiderable alterations in it, particularly the beginning of the fourth Canto: and it being his opinion that it would be better to apply the poem to English writers, than keep to the French names, as it was first tranflated, Sir William defired he would take the pains to make that alteration; and accordingly that was entirely done by Mr. Dryden.

The poem was first published in the year 1683; Sir William was after sent ambassador to Conftantinople, in the reign of king James, but died in the voyage.

CANTO I.

RASH author, 'tis a vain prefumptuous crime, And when to conquer her you bend your force,

All that is needlefs carefully avoid :
The mind once fatisfy'd is quickly cloy'd:
He cannot write who knows not to give o'er;
To mend one fault, he makes a hundred more:
A verfe was weak, you turn it, much too ftrong,
And grow obscure for fear you should be long.
Some are not gaudy, but are flat and dry;
Not to be low, another foars too high.
Would you of every one deserve the praise ?
In writing, vary your discourse and phrase;
A frozen ftyle that neither ebbs nor flows,
Instead of pleasing, makes us gape and doze.
Thofe tedious authors are esteem'd by nore
Who tire us, humming the fame heavy tone.
Happy who in his verfe can gently itcer,
From grave to light; from pleasant to severe ;
His works will be admir'd where ever found,
And oft with buyers will be compass'd round.
In all you write, be neither low ror vile:
The meaneft theme may have a proper style.
The dull burlesque appear'd with impudence,
And pleas'd by novelty in spite of sense.
All, except trivial points, grew out of date;
Parnaffus fpoke the cant of Billingsgate :
Boundless and mad, diforder'd rhyme was feen:
Difguis'd Apollo chang'd to Harlequin.
This plague, which firft in country towns began,
Cities and kingdoms quickly over-ran:
The dulleft fcribblers fome admirers found,
And the Mock Tempest was a while renown'd:
But this low ftuff the town at last defpis'd,
And scorn'd the folly that they once had priz'd;
Diftinguish'd dull from natural and plain,
And left the villages to Fleckno's reign.
Let not fo mean a style your Mufe debafe;
But learn from Butler the buffooning grace:
And let burlefque in ballads be employ'd:
Yet noify bombaft carefully avoid,
Nor think to raife, though on Pharsalia's plain,
"Millions of mourning mountains of the flain :
Nor with Dubartas bridle up the foods,
And perriwig with wool the baldpate woods.
Chufe a juft ftyle; be grave without constraint,
Great without pride, and lovely without paint:
Write what your reader may be pleas'd to hear;
And for the measure have a careful ear.
On eafy numbers fix your happy choice:
Of jarring founds avoid the odious no fe:
The fulleft verfe and the most labour'd fenfe,
Difpleafe us, if the ear once take offence.
Our ancient verfe, as homely as the times,
Was rude, unmeafur'd, only tagg'd with rhymes;
Number and cadence that have fince been fhown,
To those unpolish'd writers were unknown.
Fairfax was he, who, in that darker age,
By his just rules reftrain'd poetic rage;
Spenfer did next in paftorals excel,
And taught the nobler art of writing well:
To ftricter rules the ftanza did restrain,
And found for poetry a richer vein.

Then Davenant came; who with a new-found art,
Chang'd all, fpoil'd all, and had his way apart;
His haughty Mufe all others did defpife,
And thought in triumph to bear off the prize,
Till the sharp-fighted critics of the times
In their Mock-Gondibert expos'd his rhymes;
The laurels he pretended did refuse,
And dafh'd the hopes of his aspiring Muse.

This headftrong writer falling from on high,
Made following authors take lefs liberty.
Waller came laft, but was the first whose art,
Juft weight and measure did to verse impart;
That of a well-plac'd word could teach the force,
And fhew'd for poetry a nobler course:
His happy genius did our tongue refine,
And easy words with pleafing numbers join:
His verfes to good method did apply,

And chang'd hard difcord to soft harmony.
All own'd his laws, which, long approv'd and
try'd,

To prefent authors now may be a guide.
Tread boldly in his fteps, fec re from fear,
And be I ke him in your expreffions clear.
1
If in your verfe you drag, and fense delay,
My patience tires, my fancy goes aftray ;
And from your vain difcourfe I turn my mind,
Nor fearch an author troublesome to find.
There is a kind of writer pleas'd with found,
Whofe fuftian head with clouds is compaf'd

round,

No reafon can disperse them with its light:
Learn then to think ere you pretend to white.
As your idea's clear, or elfe obfcure,
Th' expreffion follows perfect or impure:
What we conceive with eafe we can exprefs;
Words to the notions flow with readiness.

Obferve the language well in all you write,
And fwerve rot from it in your loftiest flight.
The fmootheft ve:fe and the exacteft fenfe
Difpleafe us, if ill English give offence:
A barbarous phrafe no reader can approve;
Nor Fombaft, noife, or affectation love.

In fhort, without pure language, what you write
Can never yield us profit or delight.

Take time for thinking, never work in hafte;
And value not yourself for writing faft.

A rapid poem with such fury writ,

Shews want of judgment, not abounding wit.
More pleas'd we are to see a river lead
His gentle streams along a flowery mead,
Than from high banks to hear loud torrents roar,
With foamy waters on a muddy fhore.
Gently make hafte, of labour not afraid :
A hundred times confider what you 've faid:
Polish, repolifh, every colour lay,

And fomerimes add but oftener take away.
'Tis not enough when swarming faults are writ,
That here and there are scatter'd sparks of wit ;
Each object must be fix'd in the due place,
And differing parts have corresponding grace a
Till, by a curious art difpos'd, we find
One perfect v-hole, of all the pieces join'd.
Keep to your fubje&t close in all you say ;
Nor for a founding sentence ever stray.
The public cenfure for your writings fear,
And to yourself be critic moft severe.
Fantaftic wits their darling follies love;
But find you faithful friends that will approve,
That on your works may look with careful eyes,
And of your faults be zealous enemies :
Lay by an author's pride and vanity,
And from a friend a flatterer descry,

Who feems to like, but means not what he says:
Embrace true counsel, but fufpect false praise.
A fycophant will every thing admire:
Each verfe, each fentence, fets his foul on fire:

You'd fwear that Randal, in his ruftic strains,
Again was quavering to the country (wains,
And changing, without care of found or drefs,
Strephon and Phyllis, into Tom and Bess.
'Twixt thefe extremes 'tis hard to keep the right;
For guides take Virgil, and read Theocrite:
Pe their juft writing, by the Gods infpir'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 thepherds, and to tune the Alute;
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 miftrefs flatters, threatens and invites:
Fut well these 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 ftyle defcri, 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 affected tore,
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.