"Who from the Phrygian coaft his armies bore,
"And landed firft on the Lavinian fhore."
His opening mule fets not the world on fire,
And yet performs more than we can require:
Quickly you'll hear him celebrate the fame,
And future glory of the Roman name;
Of Styx and Acheron describe the floods,
And Cæfar's wand'ring in th' Elyfian woods
With figures numberless his story grace,
And every thing in beautecus colours trace.
At once you may be pleafing and sublime;
I hate a heavy melancholy rhime:
I'd rather read Orlando's comick tale,
Than a dull author always ftiff and stale,
Who thinks himself dishonour'd in his ftyle,
If on his works the graces do but smile.
'Tis faid, that Homer, matchles in his art,
Stole Venus' girdle to engage the heart :
His works indeed vaft treasures do unfold,
And whatfoe'er he touches turns to gold:
All in his hands new beauty does acquire;
He always pleases, and can never tire.
A happy warmth he every where may boaft
Nor is he in too long digreffions loft :
His verfes without rule a method find,
And of themselves appear in order join'd;
All without trouble answers his intent;
Each fyllable is tending to th' event.
Let his example your endeavours raise :
To love his writings is a kind of praife.
A poem, where we all perfections find,
Is not the work of a fantastick mind:
There must be care, and time, and fkill, and pains; Not the first heat of unexperienc'd brains.
1 Orlando Furiofo, a celebrated poem written by Ariofto; and tranflated by Hartington,
Yet fometimes artlefs poets, when the rage
Of a warm fancy does their minds engage,
Puff'd with vain pride, presume they understand,
And boldly take the trumpet in their hand;
Their fuftian mufe each accident confounds;
Nor can she fly, but rife by leaps and bounds,
Till their small stock of learning quickly spent,
Their poem dies for want of nourishment.
In vain mankind the hot-brain'd fool decries,
No branding. cenfures can unveil his eyes;
With impudence the laurel they invade,
Refolv'd to like the monsters they have made.
Virgil, compar'd to them, is flat and dry;
And Homer understood not poetry :
Against their merit if this age rebel,
To future times for juftice they appeal.
But waiting till mankind shall do them right,
And bring their works triumphantly to light;
Neglected heaps we in bye-corners lay,
Where they become to worms and moths a prey,
Forgot, in duft and cobwebs let them reft,
Whilft we return from whence we first digreft.
The great fuccefs which tragic writers found,
In Athens first the comedy renown'd,
Th' abufive Grecian there, by pleafing ways,
Difpers'd his natural malice in his plays:
Wisdom and virtue, honour, wit, and fenfe,
Were fubject to buffooning infolence:
Poets were publickly approv'd, and fought,
That vice extoll'd, and virtue fet at nought;
A Socrates himfelf in that loofe age,
Was made the paftime of a fcoffing stage.
At laft the publick took in hand the caufe,
And cur'd this madness by the power of laws;
1 This great philofopher was publickly ridiculed by name on the ftage at Athens, by Ariftophanes, in his comedy of the clouds. VOL. I.
Forbade at any time, or any place,
To name the perfon, or describe the face.
The stage its ancient fury thus let fall,
And comedy diverted without gall:
By mild reproofs recover'd minds difeas'd,
And sparing perfons innocently pleas'd.
Each one was nicely fhewn in this new glafs,
And fmil'd to think he was not meant the afs:
A mifer oft would laugh at first, to find
A faithful draught of his own fordid mind;
And fops were with such care and cunning writ,
They lik'd the piece for which themselves did fit.
You then that would the comick laurels wear,
To study nature be your only care:
Whoe'er knows man, and by a curious art
Difcerns the hidden fecrets of the heart;
He who obferves, and naturally can paint
The jealous fool, the fawning fycophant,
A fober wit, an enterprifing afs,
A humorous Otter 2, or a Hudibras;
May safely in those noble lifts engage,
And make them act and speak upon the stage.
Strive to be natural in all you write,
And paint with colours that may please the fight,
Nature in various figures does abound;
And in each mind are diff'rent humours found:
A glance, a touch, discovers to the wife;
But every man has not difcerning eyes.
All-changing time does alfo change the mind;
And different ages different pleasures find:
Youth, hot and furious, cannot brook delay,
By flattering vice is eafily led away;
Vain in discourse, inconstant in defire,
In cenfure, rafh; in pleafures, all on fire.
2 A character in Ben Johnson's play of the Silent Woman.
The manly age does fteadier thoughts enjoy s
Power and ambition do his foul employ:
Against the turns of fate he fets his mind;
And by the past the future hopes to find.
Decrepid age ftill adding to his ftores,
For others heaps the treasure he adores,
In all his actions keeps a frozen pace;
Past times extols, the prefent to debase:
Incapable of pleasures youth abuse,
In others blames what age does him refuse.
Your actors muft by reason be control'd;
Let young men speak like young, old men like old :
Obferve the town, and ftudy well the court;
For thither various characters refort:
Thus 'twas great Johnson purchas'd his renown,
And in his art had borne away the crown;
If, lefs defirous of the people's praise,
He had not with low farce debas'd his plays ;
Mixing dull buffoonry with wit refin'd,
And Harlequin with noble Terence join'd.
When in the Fox I fee the tortois hift,
I lose the author of the Alchemist.
The comic wit, born with a smiling air,
Must tragic grief and pompous verfe forbear;
Yet may he not, as on a market-place,
With baudy jufts amufe the populace:
With well-bred converfation you must please,
And your intrigue unravell'd be with ease:
Your action ftill fhould reafon's rules obey,
Nor in an empty fcene may lofe its way.
Your humble style muft fometimes gently rife s
And your difcourfe fententious be, and wife:
The paffions must to nature be confin'd;
And scenes to scenes with artful weaving join'd.
Your wit must not unfeasonably play;
But follow bus'ness, never lead the way.
S 2
Obferve how Terence does this error fhun;
A careful father chides his amorous fon:
Then fee that fon, whom no advice can move,
Forget thofe orders, and pursue his love:
'Tis not a well-drawn picture we discover:
'Tis a true fon, 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 naufeous baudry fills his plays;
Let him be gone, and on two treffels raise
Some Smithfield stage, where he may act his pranks,
And make Jack-Puddings fpeak to mountebanks.
N Florence dwelt a doctor of renown,
The fcourge of God, and'terror of the town,
Who all the cant of phyfic had by heart,
And never murder'd but by rules of art.
The public mifchief was his private gain;
Children their flaughter'd parents fought in vain :
A brother here his poison'd brother wept ;
Some bloodless dy'd, and fome by opium flept.
Colds, at his presence, would to frenzies turn;
And agues, like malignant fevers, burn.
Hated, at laft, his practice gives him o'er;
One friend, unkill'd by drugs, of all his ftore,
In his new country-houfe affords him place;
'Twas a rich abbot, and a building ass:
Here firft the doctor's talent came in play,
He feems infpir'd, and talks like Wren or May 1:
1 Sir Chriftopher Wren, and Mr. May, were two of the King's architects; the former planned St. Paul's, St. Stephen Walbrook,
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