To reafon's yoke fhe quickly will incline,
Which, far from hurting, renders her divine :
But if neglected will as eafily ftray,
And master reason which she should obey.
Love reafon then; and let whate'er you write
Borrow from her its beauty, force, and light.
Moft writers mounted on a refty muse,
Extravagant and fenfelefs objects chufe;
They think they err, if in their verse they ́ fall
On any thought that's plain or natural :
Fly this excefs; and let Italians be
Vain authors of falfe glitt'ring poetry.
All ought to aim at sense; but most in vain
Strive the hard pass and slippery path to gain:
You drown, if to the right or left you ftray;
Reafon to go
has often but one way.
Sometimes an author fond of his own thought,
Purfues its object till it's over-wrought:
If he defcribes a houfe, he fhews the face,
And after walks you round from place to place;
Here is a vista, there the doors unfold,
Balconies here are balluftred with gold;
Then counts the rounds and ovals in the halls,
"The feftoons, freezes, and the astragals :"
Tir'd with his tedious pomp away I run,
And fkip o'er twenty pages to be gone.
Of fuch defcriptions the vain folly fee,
And fhun their barren fuperfluity.
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 obfcure 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 deferve the praise?
In writing vary your discourse and phrafe;
A frozen ftyle that neither ebbs nor flows,
Inftead of pleafing make us gape and doze.
Those tedious authors are esteem'd by none
Who tire us, humming the fame heavy tone.
Happy who in his verfe can gently steer,
From grave to light; from pleasant to fevere:
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 nor 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All, except trivial points, grew out of date;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, disorder'd rhyme was feen:
Difguis'd Apollo chang'd to Harlequin.
This plague which first in country towns began,
Cities and kingdoms quickly over-ran;
The dulleft fcribblers fome admirers found,
And the Mock Tempeft was a while renown'd:
But this low ftuff the town at laft defpis'd,
And scorn'd the folly that they once had priz❜d;
Distinguish'd dull from natural and plain,
And left the villages to Fleckno's reign.
Let not fo mean a ftyle your muse debase;
But learn from Butler the buffooning grace:
And let burlefque in ballads be employ'd ;
Yet noify bombaft carefully avoid,
Nor think to raise, tho' on Pharfalia's plain,
"Millions of mourning mountains of the flain :"
1 The Tempest being revived at the Duke's theatre in 1675, a farce called The Mock-Tempeft, or the Inchanted Caftle, was brought out at the theatre-royal. It was purpofely written in a burlesque file, and defigned to draw people from the reprefentation of the Tempeft, which was greatly followed.
Nor with Dubartas bridle up the floods,
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 noife:
The fullest verfe and the moft labour'd sense,
Difpleafe us, if the ear once take offence.
Our ancient verfe, as homely as the times,
Was rude, unmeafur'd, only tagg'd with rhimes;
Number and cadence that have fince been fhown,
To thofe unpolish'd writers were unknown.
Fairfax 2 was he, who, in that darker age,
By his juft rules reftrain'd poetick rage;
Spencer did next in Paftorals excel,
And taught the noble art of writing well :
To ftricter rules the ftanza did restrain,
And found for poetry a richer vein.
'Than D'Avenant came; who, with a new-found art, Chang'd all, fpoil'd all, and had his way a-part`:
His haughty, mufe all others did despise
And thought in triumph to bear off the prize,
'Till the tharp-fighted criticks of the times
In their Mock-Gondibert expos'd his rhimes;
The laurels he pretended did refufe,
And dash'd the hopes of his afpiring muse.
This headstrong writer falling from on high,
Made following authors take lefs liberty.
Waller came laft, but was the first whofe art
Juft weight and measure did to verfe impart;
That of a well-plac'd word could teach the force,
And fhew'd for poetry a nobler course:
2 Edmund Fairfax flourished in the time of Charles I. He tranf. lated Godfrey of Bulloign, from the Italian of Taifo, into alternate verfe and his tranflation is even at this time esteemed.
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 discord to foft 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, fecure from fear,
And be, like him, in your expreffions clear.
If in your verfe you drag, and fenfe delay,
My patience tires, my fancy goes aftray;
And from your vain discourse I turn my mind,
Nor fearch an author troublesome to find.
There is a kind of writer pleas'd with found,
Whose fuftian head with clouds is compass'd round,
No reafon can disperse them with its light:
Learn then to think ere you pretend to write.
As your idea's clear, or elfe obfcure,
The expreffion follows perfect or impure:
What we conceive with ease we can exprefs;
Words to the notions flow with readiness.
Obferve the language well in all you write,
And fwerve not from it in your loftieft flight.
The smootheft verfe and the exacteft fenfe
Difplease us, if ill English give offence:
A barbarous phrase no reader can approve;
Nor bombaft, noife, or affectation love.
In short, without pure language, what you write
Can never yield us profit or delight.
Take time for thinking; never work in haste;
And value not yourself for writing fast.
A rapid poem with fuch 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, repolish, every colour lay,
And fometimes add, but oftener take away.
"Tis not enough when fwarming 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 correfponding grace:
Till by a curious art difpos'd, we find
One perfect whole, of all the pieces join'd,
Keep to your fubject clofe in all you fay;
Nor for a founding sentence ever stray.
The publick cenfure for your writings fear,
And to yourself be critic moft fevere.
Fantaftick wits their darling follies love;
But find faithful friends that will reprove,
That on your works may look with careful
And of your faults be zealous enemies:
Lay by an author's pride and vanity,
And from a friend a flatterer defcry,
Who feems to like, but means not what he fays:
Embrace true counfel, but fufpect falfe praife.
A fycophant will every thing admire:
Each verfe, each fentence fets his foul on fire:
All is divine! there's not a word amifs!
He shakes with joy, and weeps with tenderness,
He overpow'rs you with his mighty praise.
Truth never moves in those impetuous ways:
A faithful friend is careful of your fame,
And freely will your heedlefs errors blame;
He cannot pardon a neglected line,
But verfe to rule and order will confine.
Reprove of words the too-affected found;
Here the fenfe flags, and your expreffion's round,
Your fancy tires, and your discourse grows vain,
Your terms improper make them juft and plain.
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