Without these ornaments before our eyes,
Th' unfinew'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 afide,
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, Afhtaroth, and Bel;
The mysteries which Christians must believe,
Difdain fuch fhifting pageants to receive :
The gofpel offers nothing to our thoughts
But penitence, or punishment for faults;
And mingling falsehoods with those mysteries,
Would make our facred truths appear like lies.
Befides, 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?
Taffo you 'll fay has done it with applause?
It is not here I mean to judge his caufe:
Yet though our age has fo extoll'd his name,
His works had never gain'd immortal fame,
If holy Godfrey in his ecftafies.

Had only conquer'd Satan on his knees;
If Tancred and Armida's pleasing form
Did not his melancholy theme adorn.
'Tis not, that chriftian poems ought to be
Fill'd with the fictions of idolatry;

But

But in a common subject to reject

The gods, and heathen ornaments neglect ;
To banish Tritons who the feas 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 fcruples to disturb your mind,
And search perfection you can never find :
As well they may forbid us to present
Prudence or Juftice for an ornament,

To paint old Janus with his front of brass,
And take from Time his fcythe, his wings and glass.
And every where, as 'twere idolatry,
Banish defcriptions from our poetry.
Leave them their pious follies to pursue ;
But let our reafon fuch vain fears fubdue :
And let us not, amongst our vanities,
Of the true God create a God of lies.

In fable we a thousand pleasures fee,

And the smooth names feem made for poetry;
As Hector, Alexander, Helen, Phyllis,
Ulyffes, Agamemnon, and Achilles :
In fuch a crowd, the poet were to blame
To chufe 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 fhould be tir'd?
Chufe fome great hero, fit to be adınir'd;
In courage fignal, and in virtue bright,
Let e'en his very failings give delight i

Let

Let his great actions our attention bind,
Like Cæfar, or like Scipio, frame his mind,
And not like Oedipus his perjur'd race;
A common conqueror is a theme too base.
Chufe 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, fhort, and smart;
In your defcriptions how your nobleft 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 chofen tribe,
Plac'd on the fides to fee their armies pafs,
The fishes ftaring though the liquid glafs;
Defcrib'd a child, who, with his little hand,
Pick'd up the fhining pebbles from the fand.
Such objects are too mean to stay our fight;
Allow your work a juft and nobler flight.
Be your beginning plain; and take good heed
Too foon you mount not on the airy fteed;
Nor tell your reader in a thundering verfe,
"I fing the conqueror of the univerfe.”
What can an author after this produce?

The labouring mountain must bring forth a mcufe.
Much better are we pleas'd with his addrefs,
Who, without making fuch vaft promifes,
Says, in an easier ftyle and plainer sense,
"I fing the combats of that pious prince

"Who

"Who from the Phrygian coaft his armies bore,
"And landed firft on the Lavinian fhore."
His opening Muse sets 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 defcribe the floods,
And Cæfar's wandering in th' Elysian woods :
With figures numberless his story grace,
And every thing in beauteous colours trace.
At once you may be pleafing and sublime :
I hate a heavy melancholy rhyme :
I'd rather read Orlando's comic tale,
Than a dull author always ftiff and stale,
Who thinks himself dishonour'd in his style,
If on his works the Graces do but fmile.
'Tis faid, that Homer, matchlefs 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 pleafes, 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 anfwers his intent;
Each fyllable is tending to th' event.
Let his example your endeavours raise :
To love his writings is a kind of praise.

A poem,

A poem, where we all perfections find,
Is not the work of a fantastic mind:

There must be care, and time, and skill, and pains;
Not the first heat of unexperienc'd brains.
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 fustian Muse each accident confounds ;
Nor can fhe fly, but rise 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 rest,
Whilft we return from whence we first digrest.

The great fuccefs which tragic writers found,
In Athens first the comedy renown'd,
Th' abufive Grecian there by pleasing ways,
Dispers'd his natural malice in his plays;

Wisdom