Thus, to delight us, Tragedy in tears
For Oedipus, provokes our hopes and fears:
For parricide Óreftes asks relief:

And to encrease our pleasure caufes grief.
You then that in this noble art would rife,
Come; and in lofty verse dispute the prize.
Would you upon the stage acquire renown,
And for your judges fummon all the town?
Would

you your works for ever fhould remain,
And after ages paft be fought again?
In all you write, obferve with care and art
To move the paffions, and incline the heart.
If in a labor'd act, the pleasing rage
Carnot our hopes and fears by turns engage,
Nor in our mind a feeling pity raife:
In vain with learned fcenes you fill your plays:
Your cold difcourfe can never move the mind
Of a ftern critic, naturally unkind;
Who, juftly tir'd with your pedantic flight,
Or fails afleep, or cenfures all you write.
The fecret is, attention first to gain ;
To move our minds and then to entertain:
That, from the very opening of the fcenes,
The first may fhew us what the author means.
I'm tir'd to fee an actor on the stage,
That knows not whether he's to laugh or rage;
Who, an intrigue unraveling in vain,
Inftead of pleafing keeps my mind in pain.
I'd rather much the naufeous dunce should say
Downright, My name is Hector in the play;
Than with a mafs of miracles, ill-join'd,
Confound my ears, and not inftruct my mind.
The fubject's never foon enough expreft;
Your place of action must be fix'd, and rest.
A Spanish poet may with good event,
In one day's fpace whole ages reprefent;
There oft the hero of a wandering stage
Fegins a child, and ends the play of age:
But we that are by reafon's rules confin'd,
Will, that with art the poem be defign'd,
That unity of action, time, and place,
Keep the stage full, and all our labours grace,
Write not what cannot be with ease conceiv'd;
Some truths may be too strong to be believ'd.
A foolish wonder cannot entertain:
My mind's not mov'd if your discourse be vain.
You may relate what would offend the eye:
Seeing, indeed, would better fatisfy;
But there are objects that a curious art
Hides from the eyes, yet offers to the heart.
The mind is moft agreeably furpriz'd,
When a well-woven fubject, long difguis'd,
You on a fudden artfully unfold,

And give the whole another face and mould.
At first the Tragedy was void of art;

A fong, where each man danc'd and fung
part,

And of God Bacchus roaring out the praise,
Sought a good vintage for their jolly days:
Then wine and joy were feen in each man's eyes,
And a fat goat was the best finger's prize.
Thefpis was first, who all befmear'd with lee,
Began this pleasure for pofterity:
And with his carted actors, and a fong,
Amus'd the people as he pass'd along.
Next Æfchylus the different perfons plac'd,
And with a better mask his players grac'd :

Upon a theatre his verse express'd,

And show'd his hero with a buskin dress'd,
Then Sophocles, the genius of his age,
Increas'd the pomp and beauty of the stage,
Engag'd the chorus fong in every part,
And polish'd rugged verfe by rules of art:
He in the Greek did those perfections gain,
Which the weak Latin never could attain.
Our pious fathers, in their priest-rid age,
As impious and prophane, abhorr'd the stage:
A troop of filly pilgrims, as 'tis faid,
Foolishly zealous, fcandaloufly play'd,
Instead of heroes, and of love's complaints,
The angels, God, the virgin, and the faints.
At laft, right reason did his laws reveal,
And how'd the folly of their ill-plac'd zeal,
Silenc'd thofe ron-conformists of the age,
And rais'd the lawful heroes of the stage:
Only th' Athenian mask was laid afide,
And chorus by the mufic was fupply'd.
Ingenious love, inventive in new arts,
Mingled in plays, and quickly touch'd our hearts:
This paffion never could resistance find,
But knows the shortest paffage to the mind.
Paint then, I'm pleas'd my hero be in love;
But let him not like a tame thepherd move;
Let not Achillis be like Thyrfis feen,
Or for a Cyrus fhow an Artaben;
That struggling oft his paffions we may find,
The frailty rot the virtue of his mind.
Of romance heroes fhun the low defign;
Yet to great hearts fome human frailties join:
Achilles muft with Homer's heat engage;
For an affront I'm pleas'd to fee him rage.
Thofe little failings in your hero's heart
Show that of man and nature he has part;
To leave krown rules you cannot be allow'd
Make Agamemnon covetous and proud,
Æneas in religious rites auftere,
Keep to each man his proper character.
Of countries and of times the humours know,
From different climates different customs grow:
And ftrive to fhun their fault who vainly drefs
An antique hero like some modern afs;
Who make old Romans like our English move,
Show Cato fparkith, or make Brutus love.
In a romance thofe errors are excus'd:
There 'tis enough that, reading, we 're amus'd:
Rules too fevere would there be useless found;
But the ftrict fcene must have a jufter bound:
Exact decorum we must always find.

If then you form some hero in your mind,
Re fure your image with itself agree;
For what he firft appears, he ftill must be,
Affected wits will naturally incline
his To paint their figures by their own defign:
Your bully poets, bully heroes write:
Chapman in Buffy d'Ambois took delight,
And thought perfection was to huff and fight.
Wife nature by variety does please;
Cloath differing paffions in a differing dress:
Bold anger, in rough haughty words appears;
Sorrow is humble, and diffolves in tears.
Make not your Hecuba with fury rage,
And show a ranting grief upon the stage;
Or tell in vain how the rough Tanais Fore
His fevenfold waters to the Euxine shore;

Thefe fwollen expreffions, this affected noise,
Shows like fome pedant that declaims to boys.
In forrow you must forer methods keep;
And, to excite our tears, yourself muft weep.
Thofe noify words with which ill plays abound,
Come not from hearts that are in fadnefs drown'd.
The theatre for a young poet's rhymes
Is a bold venture in our knowing times.
An author cannot eafily purchase fame;
Critics are always apt to hifs, and blame:
You may be judg'd by every afs in town,
The privilege is bought for half a crown.
To pleafe, you must a hundred changes try;
Sometimes be humble, then must foar on high:
In noble thoughts must every where abound,
Be easy, pleasant, folid, and profound:
To thefe you must surprising touches join,
And fhow us a new wonder in each line :
That all, in a just method well-defign'd,
May leave a strong impreffion in the mind.
Thefe are the arts that tragedy maintain:
But the Heroic claims a loftier ftrain.

THE EPIC.

In the narration of fome great defign,
Invention, art, and fable, all muft join;
Here fiction must employ its utmost grace;
All must affume a body, mind, and face:
Each virtue a divinity is feen;

Prodence is Pallas, beauty Paphos' queen.
'Tis not a cloud from whence fwift lightnings fly;
But Jupiter, that thunders from the sky:
Nor a rough ftorm that gives the failor pain;
But angry Neptune ploughing up the main:
Echo's no more an empty airy found;

But a fair nymph that weeps her lover drown'd.
Thus, in the endless treafure of his mind,
The poet does a thoufand figures and,
Around the work his ornaments he pours,
And ftrows with lavish hand his opening flowers,
'Tis not a wonder if a tempeft hore
The Trojan feet against the Lybian thore;
From faithlefs fortune this is no furprize,
For every day 'tis common to our eyes;
But angry Juno, that the might destroy,
And overwhelm the rest of ruin'd Troy:
That Eolus with the fierce goddess join'd,
Open'd the hollow prifons of the wind;
Till angry Neptune looking o'er the main,
Rebukes the tempett, calnis the waves again,
Their veffels from the dangerous quickfands fteers;
There are the fprings that move our hopes and tears;
Without thefe ornaments efore 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 thefe ancient ornaments aúde,
Thinking our God, and prophets that he fent,
Might act like thofe the poets did invent,
To fright poor readers in each line with hell,
And talk of Satan, Afhtaroth, and Eel;
The mysteries which Chriftians must believe,
Difdain fuch fhifting pageants to receive:
The gospel offers rothing to our thoughts
But penitence, or punishment for faults;

|And mingling falsehoods with those mysteries,
Would make our facred truths appear like lies:
Pefides, what pleasure can it be to hear
The howlings of repining Lucifer,
Whofe rage at your imagin'd here flies,
And oft with God himfelf difputes the prize?
Taffo you 'll fay has done it with applaufe?
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 Codfrey in his ecftafies

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

But in a common fubject to reject
The gods, and heathen ornaments neglect ;
To banish Tritons who the feas invace,
To take Pan's whistle, or the Fates degrade,
To hinder Charon in his leaky boat
To pafs the Shepherd with the man of note,
Is with vain fcruples to disturb your mind,
And fearch perfection you can never find :
As well they may forbid us to present
Prudence or Justice 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,
Ban.fh defcriptions from our poetry.

Leave them their pious follies to purfue;

But let our reafon such 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 should be tir'd?
Chufe fome great hero, fit to be admir'd;
In courage fignal, and in virtue bright,
Let e'en his very failings give delight;
Let his great actions our attention bind,
Like Cafar, or like Scipio, frame his mind,
And not like Oedipus his perjur'd race;
A common conqueror is a theme too base.
Chefe rot 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.

Fe your narrations lively, fhort, and smart;
In your descriptions show your robleft 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 chosen tribe,
Plac'd on the fides to fee their armies pafs,
The fishes ftaring through the liquid glass;
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 sight;
Allow your work a just and nobler flight.
Be your beginning plain; and take good head
Toc foon you mount not on the airy steed;

Nor tell your reader in a thundering verse,
"Ifing the conqueror of the universe."
What can an author after this produce?

The labouring mountain must bring forth a mouse.
Much better are we pleas'd with his addrefs,
Who, without making fuch vaft promifes,
Says, in an easier ftyle and plainer fense,
1fing the combats of that pious prince
"Who from the Phrygian coaft his armies tore,
"And landed firft on the Lavinian fhore."
His opening Mufe fets not the world on fire,
And yet perform's 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 wandering in th' Ilysian woods:
With figures numberless his ftory grace,
And every thing in beauteous colours trace.
At once you may be pleating and fublime:
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 difhonour'd in his ftyle,
If on his works the graces do but smile.
'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 boảft ;
Nor is he in too long digreifions 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, where we all perfections find,

Is not the work of a fantastic mind:

1

Wisdom and virtue, honour, wit, and fenfe,
Were fubject to buffooning infolence:
Poets were publicly approv'd, and fought,
That vice extoll'd, and virtue fet at nought
A Socrates himself, in that loofe age,
Was made the pastime of a scoffing stage,
At laft the public took in hand the caufe,
And cur'd this madness by the power of laws;
Forbad at any time, or any place,

To name the person, or defcr.he the face.
The ftage its ancient fury thus let fall,
And comedy diverted without gall:
By mild reproofs, recover'd minds difeas'd,
And fparing perfons innocently pleas'd.
Each one was nicely own in this new glass,
And fmil'd to think he was not meant the ass:
A mifer oft would laugh at first, to find
A faithful draught of his own fordid mind;
And fops were with fuch care and cunning writ,
They lik'd the piece for which themselves did ft.
You then that would the comic 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 enterprising ass,
A humorous Otter, or a Hudibras;
May fately in thofe noble lifts engage,
And make them act and speak upon the stage.
Strive to be na ural in all you write,

And paint with colours that may pleafe the fight,
Nature in various figures does abound;
And in ea h mind are different humours found:
A clance, a touch, difcovers 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 easily led away;

There must be care, and time, and skill, and pains; Vain in difcourfe, inconftant in defire,

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, prefume they understand,
And boldly take the trumpet in their hand;
Their fuitian Mufe each accident confounds;
Nor can the 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 fhall 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 faccefs which tragic writers found,
In Athens first the comedy renown'd,
The abufive Grecian there by pleasing ways,
Difpers'd his natural malice in his plays:

In cenfure, rath; in pleasures, ali on fire.
The manly are does steadier thoughts enjoy;
Power and ambition do his foul employ:
Against the turns of fate he fets his mind;
And by the part the future hopes to find.
Decrepit age fill adding to his ftores,
For others heaps the treasure he adores,
In all his actions keeps a frozen pace;
Paft times extols, the prefent to debafe:
Incapable of pleasures youth abuse,

In others blames what age does him refuse.
Your actors must by reason be control'd;
Let young men fpeak like young, old men like old :
Obferve the town, and study well the court:
For thither various characters refort:
Thus twas great fonfon 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 tortoise hift,
I lofe the author of the Alchemift.
The comic wit, born with a smiling air,
Muft tragic grief and pompous verfe forbear;
Yet may he not, as on a market place,
With baudy jefts amufe the populace:

With well-bred conversation you must please,
And your intrigue unravel'd be with eafe :
Your action ftill should reafon's rules obey,
Nor in an empty scene may lofe its way.
Your humble ftyle muft fometimes gently rife;
And your difcourfe fententious be, and wife :
The paffions must to nature be contin'd;
And scenes to fcenes with artful weaving join'd.
Your wit muft not unseasonably play ;
But follow bus'nefs, never lead the way.
Obferve how Terence does this error thun;
A careful father chides his amorous fon :
Then fee that fon, whom no advice can move,
Forget those orders, and purfue his love:
'Tis not a well-drawn picture we difcover:
'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 bawdry fills his plays;
Let him begone, and on two treffels raife
Some Smithfield ftage, where he may act his pranks,
And make Jack-Puddings speak to mountebanks.

His heat will never caufe a guilty fire:
To follow virtue then be your defire.
In vain your art and vigour are expreft;

Th' obfcene expreffion fhows th' infected breaft.
But above all bafe jealoufies avoid,

In which detracting poets are employ❜d.
A noble wit dares Liberally contend;

And fcorns to grudge at his deferving friend.
Bafe rivals, who true wit and merit hate,
Caballing ftill against it with the great,
Mal.cioufly afpire to gain renown,
By ftanding up, and pulling others down.
Never debafe yourself by treacherous ways,
Nor by fuch abje&t methods feek for praife:
Let not your only bufinefs be to write;

Thus needy wits a vile revenue made,
And verse became a necessary trade.
Debafe not with fo mean a vice thy art:
If gold must be the idol of thy heart,
Fly, fly th' unfruitful Heliconian strand,
Thofe ítreams are rot inrich'd with golden fand
Great wits, as weil as war ors, only gain
Laurels and honours for their toil and pain:
But what an author cannot live on fame,
Or pay a reckoning with a lofty name:
A post to whom fortune is unkind,
Who when he goes to bed has hardly din'd;
Takes little pleasure in Parnaffus' dreams,
Or relishes the Heliconian ftreams.
Horace had ease and plenty when he writ,
And free from cares for money or for meat,
Did not expect his dinner from his wit.
'Tis true; but verfe is cherish'd by the great,
And now none famish who deserve to eat :
What can we hear, when virtue, arts, and sense,
Receive the ftars propitious influence;
When a fharp-fighted prince, by early grants,
Rewards your merits, and prevents your wants?
Sing then his glory, celebrate his fame :
Your nobleft theme is his immortal name.
Let mighty Spenser raise his reverend head,
Cowley and Denham start up from the dead;
Waller his age renew, and offerings bring,
Our monarch's praife let bright-ey'd virgins fing
Let Dryden with new rules our ftage refine,
And his great models form by this defign:
But where 's a fecond Virgil to rehearse
Our hero's glories in his epic verfe?
What Orpheus fing his triumph's o'er the main,
And make the hills and forests move again;
Shew his bold fleet on the Batavian shore,
And Holland trembling as his canons roar ;
Paint Europe's balance in his steady hand,
Whilft the two worlds in expectation stand
Of peace or war that wait on his command?
be-Put as I fpeak new glories ftrike my eyes,

Be virtuous, juft, and in your friends delight.
'Tis not enough your poems be admir'd;
But ftrive your converfation be defir'd:
Write for immortal fame; nor ever chufe
Gold for the object of a generous Mufe.
I krow a roble wit may, without crime,
Receive a lawful tribute for his time:
Yet I abhor those writers, who defpife
Their honour; and alone their profits prize;
Who their Apollo bafely will degrade,
Ard of a noble fcience make a trade.
Before kind reafon did her light difplay,
And government taught mortals to obey,
Men, like wild beafts, did nature's laws pursue,
They fed on herbs, and drink from rivers drew;
Their brutal force, on luft and rapine bent,
Committed murder without punishment:
Reafon at last, by her all-conquering arts,
Reduc'd thefe favares, and turn'd their hearts;
Mankind from logs, and woods, and caverns,
cal's,

And towns and cities fortifics with walls:
Thus fear of juftice made proud rapine cease,
And shelter'd inrocence by laws and peace.
Thefe benefits from poets we receiv'd,
From whence are rais'd thofe fictions fince
liev'd.

That Orphees, by his foft harmonious strains,
Tam'd the fierce tigers of the Thracian plains;
Amphion's notes, by their melodious powers,
Drew rocks and woods, and rais'd the Theban

towers;

Thefe miracles from numbers did arife:
Since which, in verfe heaven taught his myfteries,
And by a brieft, poffefs'd with rape divine,
Apollo fpoke from his prophetic thrine.
Soon after Homer the old heroes prais'd,
And roble minds by great examples rais'd;
Then Herod did his Grecian fwains incline
To till the fields and prune the bounteous vine.
Thus ufeful rules were by the poets aid,
In eafy numbers to rude men convey'd,
And pleasingly their precepts did impart;
First charm'd the ear, and then engag'd the heart:
The Mufcs thus their reputation rais'd,
And with just gratitude in Greece were prais'd.
With pleasure mortals did their wonders fee,
And facrificed to their divinity;

But want, at laft, bafe flattery entertain'd,
And old Parnaffus with this vice was stain'd:
Defire of gain dazzling the poets eyes,
Their works were fill'd with fulfome flatteries.
VOL. III.

Glories, which heaven itself does give, and prize,
Bleffings of peace; that with their milder rays
Adorn his reign and bring Saturnian days:
Now let rebellion, difcord, vice and rage,
That have in patriots forms debauch'd our age,
Vanish with all the minifters of hell :
His rays their poiforous vapours. fhall difpel:
'Tis he alone our fafety did create,
His own firm foul fecur'd the nation's fate,
Oppos'd to all the Fout'feu's of the ftate,
Authors, for him your great endeavours raise
The loftieft numbers will but reach his praise.
For me, whofe verfe in fatire has been bred,
And never durft heroic measures tread ;
Yet you fhall fee me, in that famous field,
With eyes and voice, my beft affiftance yield:
Offer your leffons, that my infant Muse
Learnt, when the Horace for her guide did chuse:
Secord your zeal with wishes, heart, and eyes,
And afar hold up the glorious prize.
But pardon too, if, zealous for the right,
A ftrict obferver of each roble flight,
From the fine gold I feparate the allay,
And fhow how hafty writers fometimes stray:
Apter to blame, than knowing how to mend ;
A fharp, but yet a necessary friend.

M