The art of poetry written in French by the Sieur de Boileau ; made English. Art poétique. English Boileau Despréaux, Nicolas, 1636-1711. 1683 Approx. 60 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 35 1-bit group-IV TIFF page images. Text Creation Partnership, Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) : 2003-01 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1). A28571 Wing B3464 ESTC R3959 11791811 ocm 11791811 49232 This keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above is co-owned by the institutions providing financial support to the Early English Books Online Text Creation Partnership. This Phase I text is available for reuse, according to the terms of Creative Commons 0 1.0 Universal . The text can be copied, modified, distributed and performed, even for commercial purposes, all without asking permission. Early English books online. (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A28571) Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 49232) Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 15:2) The art of poetry written in French by the Sieur de Boileau ; made English. Art poétique. English Boileau Despréaux, Nicolas, 1636-1711. Soames, William, Sir. Dryden, John, 1631-1700. [2], 67 p. Printed by R. Bentley, and S. Magnes ..., London : 1683. In verse. Translation of: Art poétique. Translated by Sir William Soames, revised by Dryden. Errata: p. 67. Reproduction of original in Cambridge University Library. Created by converting TCP files to TEI P5 using tcp2tei.xsl, TEI @ Oxford. Re-processed by University of Nebraska-Lincoln and Northwestern, with changes to facilitate morpho-syntactic tagging. Gap elements of known extent have been transformed into placeholder characters or elements to simplify the filling in of gaps by user contributors. 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Copies of the texts have been issued variously as SGML (TCP schema; ASCII text with mnemonic sdata character entities); displayable XML (TCP schema; characters represented either as UTF-8 Unicode or text strings within braces); or lossless XML (TEI P5, characters represented either as UTF-8 Unicode or TEI g elements). Keying and markup guidelines are available at the Text Creation Partnership web site . eng Poetry. 2002-07 TCP Assigned for keying and markup 2002-09 Aptara Keyed and coded from ProQuest page images 2002-10 Judith Siefring Sampled and proofread 2002-10 Judith Siefring Text and markup reviewed and edited 2002-12 pfs Batch review (QC) and XML conversion THE ART OF POETRY , Written in French by The SIEUR de Boileau , Made English. LONDON , Printed for R. Bentley , and S. Magnes , in Russel-street in Covent-Garden , 1683. Canto I. RAsh Author , 't is a vain presumptuous Crime To undertake the Sacred Art of Rhyme ; If at thy Birth the Stars that rul'd thy Sence Shone not with a Poetic Influence : In thy strait Genius thou wilt still be bound , Find Phoebus deaf , and Pegasus unsound . You then , that burn with the desire to try The dangerous Course of charming Poetry ; Forbear in fruitless Verse to lose your time , Or take for Genius the desire of Rhyme : Fear the allurements of a specious Bait , And well consider your own Force and Weight . Nature abounds in Wits of every kind , And for each Author can a Talent find : One may in Verse describe an Amorous Flame , Another sharpen a short Epigram : Waller a Hero's mighty Acts extol ; Spencer Sing Rosalind in Pastoral : But Authors that themselves too much esteem , Lose their own Genius , and mistake their Theme ; Thus in times past * Dubartas vainly Writ , Allaying Sacred Truth with trifling Wit , Impertinently , and without delight , Describ'd the Israelites Triumphant Flight , And following Moses o're the Sandy Plain , Perish'd with Pharaoh in th' Arabian Main . What-e're you write of Pleasant or Sublime , Always let sen●e accompany your Rhyme : Falsely they seem each other to oppose ; Rhyme must be made with Reason's Laws to close And when to conquer her you bend your force , The Mind will Triumph in the Noble Course ; To Reason's yoke she quickly will incline , Which , far from hurting , renders her Divine : But , if neglected , will as easily stray , And master Reason , which she should obey . Love Reason then : and let what e're you Write Borrow from her its Beauty , Force , and Light. Most Writers , mounted on a resty Muse , Extravagant , and Senceless Objects chuse ; They Think they erre , if in their Verse they fall On any thought that 's Plain , or Natural : Fly this excess ▪ and let Italians be Vain Authors of false glitt'ring Poetry . All ought to aim at Sence ; but most in vain Strive the hard Pass , and slipp'ry Path to gain : You drown , if to the right or left you stray ; Reason to go has often but one way . Sometimes an Author , fond of his own Thought , Pursues his Object till it 's over-wrought : If he describes a House , he shews the Face , And after walks you round from place to place ; Here is a Vista , there the Doors unfold , Balcone's here are Ballustred with Gold ; Then counts the Rounds and Ovals in the Halls , * The Festoons , Freezes , and the Astragals : Tir'd with his tedious Pomp , away I run , And skip o're twenty Pages to be gon . Of such Descriptions the vain Folly see , And shun their barren Superfluity . All that is needless carefully avoid , The Mind once satisfi'd , is quickly cloy'd : He cannot Write , who knows not to give o're ; To mend one Fault , he makes a hundred more : A Verse was weak , you turn it much too strong , And grow Obscure , for fear you should be Long. Some are not Gaudy , but are Flat and Dry ; Not to be low , another soars too high . Would you of every one deserve the Praise ? In Writing , vary your Discourse , and Phrase ; A frozen Stile , that neither Ebs or Flows , Instead of pleasing , makes us gape and doze . Those tedious Authors are esteem'd by none Who tire us , Humming the same heavy Tone . Happy , who in his Verse can gently steer , 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 nor Vile : The meanest Theme may have a proper Stile . The dull Burlesque appear'd with impudence , And pleas'd by Novelty , in Spite of Sence . All , except trivial points , grew out of date ; Parnassus spoke the Cant of Belinsgate : Boundless and Mad , disorder'd Rhyme was seen : Disguis'd Apollo chang'd to Harlequin . This Plague , which first in Country Towns began , Cities and Kingdoms quickly over-ran ; The dullest Scriblers some Admirers found , And the * Mock-Tempest was a while renown'd : But this low stuff the Town at last despis'd , And scorn'd the Folly that they once had pris'd ; Distinguish'd Dull , from Natural and Plain , And left the Villages to Fleckno's Reign . Let not so mean a Stile your Muse debase ; But learn from † Butler the Buffooning grace : And let Burlesque in Ballads be employ'd ; Yet noisy Bumbast carefully avoid , Nor think to raise ( tho' on Pharsalia's Plain ) † Millions of mourning Mountains of the Slain : * Nor , with Dubartas , bridle up the Floods , And Periwig with Wool the bald-pate Woods , Chuse a just Stile ; 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 easy Numbers fix your happy choice ; Of jarring Sounds avoid the odious noise : The fullest Verse and the most labor'd Sence , Displease us , if the Ear once take offence . Our ancient Verse , ( as homely as the Times , ) Was rude , unmeasur'd , only Tagg'd with Rhimes : Number and Cadence , that have Since been Shown , To those unpolish'd Writers were unknown . * Fairfax was He , who , in that Darker Age , By his just Rules restrain'd Poetic Rage : Spencer did next in Pastorals excel , And taught the Noble Art of Writing well : To stricter Rules the Stanza did restrain , And found for Poetry a richer Veine . Then D'Avenant came ; who , with a new found Art , Chang'd all , spoil'd all , and had his way apart : His haughty Muse all others did despise , And thought in Triumph to bear off the Prize , Till the Sharp-sighted Critics of the Times In their Mock - Gondibert expos'd his Rhimes ; The Lawrels he pretended did refuse , And dash'd the hopes of his aspiring Muse. This head-strong Writer , falling from on high , Made following Authors take less Liberty . Waller came last , but was the first whose Art Just Weight and Measure did to Verse impart ; That of a well-plac'd Word could teach the force , And shew'd for Poetry a nobler Course : His happy Genius did our Tongue Refine , And easie Words with pleasing Numbers joyn : His Verses to good method did apply , And chang'd harsh Discord to Soft Harmony . All own'd his Laws ; which , long approv'd and try'd , To present Authors now may be a Guide . Tread boldly in his Steps , secure from Fear , And be , like him , in your Expressions clear . If in your Verse you drag , and Sence delay , My Patience tires , my Fancy goes astray , And from your vain Discourse I turn my mind , Nor search an Author troublesom to find . There is a kind of Writer pleas'd with Sound , Whose Fustian head with clouds is compass'd round , No Reason can disperse 'em with its Light : Learn then to Think , e're you pretend to Write , As your Idea's clear , or else obscure , Th' Expression follows perfect , or impure : What we conceive , with ease we can express ; Words to the Notions flow with readiness . Observe the Language well in all you Write , And swerve not from it in your loftiest flight . The smoothest Verse , and ▪ the exactest Sence Displease us , if ill English give offence : A barb'rous Phrase no Reader can approve ; Nor Bombast , Noise , 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 hast ; And value not your self for writing fast . 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 flow'ry Mead , Than from high Banks to hear loud Torrents roar , With foamy Waters on a Muddy Shore . Gently make haste , of Labour not afraid ; A hundred times consider what you 've said : Polish , repolish , every Colour lay , And sometimes add ; but oft'ner take away . T is not enough , when swarming Faults are writ , That here and there are scattered Sparks of Wit ; Each Object must be fix'd in the due place , And diff'ring parts have Corresponding Grace : Till , by a curious Art dispos'd , we find One perfect whole , of all the pieces join'd . Keep to your Subject close , in all you say ; Nor for a sounding Sentence ever stray . The publick Censure for your Writings fear , And to your self be Critic most severe . Fantastic Wits their darling Follies love ; But find You faithful Friends that will reprove , 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 seems to like , but means not what he says : Embrace true Counsel , but suspect false Praise . A Sycophant will every thing admire ; Each Verse , each Sentence sets his Soul on Fire : All is Divine ! there 's not a Word amiss ! He shakes with Joy , and weeps with Tenderness He over-pow'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 heedless Errors blame : He cannot pardon a neglected Line , But Verse to Rule and Order will confine , Reproves of words the too affected sound ; Here the Sence flags and your expression's round , Your Fancy tires and your Discourse grows vain , Your Terms improper make them just and plain . Thus 't is a faithful Friend will freedom use ; But Authors , partial to their Darling Muse , Think to protect it they have just pretence , And at your Friendly Counsel take offence . Said you of this , that the Expression's flat ? Your Servant , Sir ; you must excuse me that , He answers you . This word has here no grace , Pray leave it out : That , Sir , 's the proper'st place . This Turn I like not : 'T is approv'd by all . Thus , resolute not from a fault to fall . If there 's a Syllable of which you doubt , 'T is a sure Reason not to blot it out . Yet still he says you may his Faults confute , And over him your pow'r is absolute : But of his feign'd Humility take heed ; 'T is a Bait lay'd , to make you hear him read : And when he leaves you , happy in his Muse , Restless he runs some other to abuse , And often finds ; for in our scribling times No Fool can want a Sot to praise his Rhymes : The flattest work has ever , in the Court , Met with some Zealous Ass for its support : And in all times a forward , Scribling Fop Has found some greater Fool to cry him up . End of the first Canto . Canto II. Pastoral . AS a fair Nymph , when Rising from her bed , With sparkling Diamonds dresses not her head ; But , without Gold , or Pearl , or costly Scents , Gathers from neighb'ring Fields her Ornaments : Such , lovely in its dress , but plain withal , Ought to appear a Perfect Pastoral : It s humble method nothing has of fierce , But hates the ratling of a lofty Verse : There , Native beauty pleases , and excites , And never with harsh Sounds the Ear affrights . But in this stile a Poet often spent , In rage throws by his * Rural Instrument , And vainly , when disorder'd thoughts abound , Amid'st the Eclogue makes the Trumpet Sound : Pan flyes , Alarm'd , into the neighb'ring Woods , And frighted Nymphs dive down into the Floods . Oppos'd to this another , low in stile , Makes Shepherds speak a Language base and vile : His Writings , flat and heavy , without Sound , Kissing the Earth , and creeping on the ground ; You 'd swear that Randal , in his Rustick Strains , Again was quav'ring to the Country Swains , And changing , without care of Sound or Dress , Strephon and Phyllis , into Tom and Bess. Twixt these extreams 'tis hard to keep the right ; For Guides take Virgil , and read Theocrite : Be their just Writings , by the Gods inspir'd , Your constant Pattern , practis'd and admir'd . By them alone you 'l easily comprehend How Poets , without shame , may condescend To sing of Gardens , Fields , of Flow'rs , and Fruit , To stir up Shepherds , and to tune the Flute , Of Love's rewards to tell the happy hour , Daphne a Tree , Narcissus made a Flower , And by what means the Eclogue yet has pow'r * To make the Woods worthy a Conqueror : This of their Writings is the grace and flight ; Their risings lofty , yet not out of Sight . Elegy . The Elegy , that loves a mournful stile , With unbound hair weeps at a Funeral Pile , It paints the Lovers Torments , and Delights , A Mistress Flatters , Threatens , and Invites : But well these Raptures if you 'l make us see , You must know Love , as well as Poetry . I hate those Lukewarm Authors , whose forc'd Fire In a cold stile describes a hot Desire , That sigh by Rule , and raging in cold blood Their sluggish Muse whip to an Amorous mood : Their feign'd Transports appear but flat and vain ; They always sigh , and alwayes hug their Chain , Adore their Prison , and their Suff'rings bless , Make Sence and Reason quarrel as they please . 'T was not of old in this affected Tone That Smooth Tibullus made his Amorous moan ; Nor Ovid , when , Instructed from above , By Nature's Rules he taught the Art of Love. The Heart in Elegies forms the Discourse . Ode . The Ode is bolder , and has greater force . Mounting to Heav'n in her Ambitious flight , Amongst the Gods and Heroes takes delight ; Of Pisa's Wrestlers tells the Sin'ewy force , And sings the dusty Conqueror's glorious Course : To Simois streams does fierce Achilles bring , And makes the Ganges bow to Britan's King. Somtimes she flies , like an Industrious Bee , And robs the Flow'rs by Nature's Chymistry , Describes the Shepherds Dances , Feasts , and Bliss , And boasts from Phyllis to surprise a Kiss , When gently she resists with feign'd remorse , That what she grants may seem to be by force : Her generous stile at random oft will part , And by a brave disorder shows her Art. Unlike those fearful Poets , whose cold Rhyme In all their Raptures keep exactest time , That sing th' Illustrious Hero's mighty praise ( Lean Writers ! ) by the terms of Weeks and Dayes ; And dare not from least Circumstances part , But take all Towns by strictest Rules of Art : Apollo drives those Fops from his abode ; And some have said , that once the humorous God Resolving all such Scriblers to confound For the short Sonnet order'd this strict bound : Set Rules for the just Measure , and the Time , The easy running , and alternate Rhyme ; But , above all , those Licences deny'd Which in these Writings the lame Sence Supply'd ; Forbad an useless Line should find a place , Or a repeated Word appear with grace . A faultless Sonnet , finish'd thus , would be Worth tedious Volumes of loose Poetry . A hundred Scribling Authors , without ground Believe they have this only Phoenix found : When yet th' exactest scarce have two or three Among whole Tomes , from Faults and Censure free . The rest , but little read , regarded less , Are shovel'd to the Pastry from the Press . Closing the Sence within the measur'd time , 'T is hard to fit the Reason to the Rhyme . Epigram . The Epigram , with little art compos'd , Is one good sentence in a Distich clos'd . These points , that by Italians first were priz'd , Our ancient Authors knew not , or despis'd : The Vulgar , dazled with their glaring Light , To their false pleasures quickly they invite ; But publick Favor so increas'd their pride , They overwhelm'd Parnassus with their Tide . The Madrigal at first was overcome , And the proud Sonnet fell by the same Doom ; With these grave Tragedy adorn'd her flights , And mournful Elegy her Funeral Rites : A Hero never fail'd 'em on the Stage , Without this point a Lover durst not rage ; The Amorous Shepherds took more care to prove True to their Point , than Faithful to their Love. Each word , like Ianus , had a double face : And Prose , as well as Verse allow'd it place : The Lawyer with Conceits adorn'd his Speech , The Parson without Quibling could not Preach , At last affronted Reason look'd about , And from all serious matters shut 'em out : Declar'd that none should use 'em without Shame , Except a scattering in the Epigram ; Provided that , by Art , and in due time They turn'd upon the Thought , and not the Rhime Thus in all parts disorders did abate ; Yet Quiblers in the Court had leave to prate : Insipid Jesters , and unpleasant Fools , A Corporation of dull Punning Drolls . 'T is not , but that sometimes a dextrous Muse May with advantage a turn'd Sence abuse , And , on a word , may trifle with address ; But above all avoid the fond excess , And think not , when your Verse and Sence are lame , With a dull Point to Tag your Epigram . Each Poem his Perfection has apart ; The Brittish Round in plainness shows his Art ; The Ballad , tho the pride of Ancient time , Has often nothing but his humorous Rhyme ; The † Madrigal may softer Passions move , And breath the tender Ecstasies of Love : Desire to show it self , and not to wrong Arm'd Virtue first with Satyr in its Tongue . Satyr . Lucilius was the man who bravely bold , To Roman Vices did this Mirror hold , Protected humble Goodness from reproach , Show'd Worth on foot and Rascals in the Coach : Horace his pleasing Wit to this did add , And none uncensur'd could be Fool , or mad ; Unhappy was that Wretch , whose name might be Squar'd to the Rules of their Sharp Poetry . Persius , obscure , but full of Sence and Wit , Affected brevity in all he writ ! And Iuvenal , Learn'd as those times could be , Too far did stretch his sharp Hyperbole ; Tho horrid Truths through all his labors shine , In what he writes there 's something of Divine : Whether he blames the Caprean Debauch , Or of Sejanus Fall tells the approach , Or that he makes the trembling Senate come To the stern Tyrant , to receive their Doom ; Or Roman Vice in coursest Habits shews , And paints an Empress reeking from the Stews : In all he Writes appears a noble Fire ; To follow such a Master then desire ▪ Chaucer alone fix'd on this solid Base ; In his old Stile , conserves a modern grace : Too happy , if the freedom of his Rhymes Offended not the method of our Times . The Latin Writers , Decency neglect ; But modern Readers challenge our respect , And at immodest Writings take offence , If clean Expression cover not the Sence . I love sharp Satyr , from obsceneness free ; Not Impudence , that Preaches Modesty : Our English , who in Malice never fail , Hence , in Lampoons and Libels , learnt to Rail ; Pleasant Detraction , that by Singing goes From mouth to mouth , and as it marches grows ! Our freedom in our Poetry we see , That Child of Joy , begot by Liberty . But , vain Blasphemer , tremble , when you chuse God for the Subject of your Impious Muse : At last , those Jeasts which Libertines invent Bring the lewd Author to just punishment , Ev'n in a Song there must be Art , and Sence ; Yet sometimes we have seen , that Wine , or Chance Have warm'd cold Brains , and given dull Writers Mettle , And furnish'd out a Scene for Mr. S — : But for one lucky Hit , that made thee please , Let not thy Folly grow to a Disease , Nor think thy self a Wit ; for in our Age If a warm Fancy does some Fop ingage ; He neither eats or sleeps , till he has Writ , But plagues the World with his Adulterate Wit. Nay , 't is a wonder , if , in his dire rage , He Prints not his dull Follies for the Stage ; And , in the Front of all his Senceless Plays , Makes * David Logan Crown his head with Bayes . End of the second Canto . Canto III. Tragedy . THere 's not a Monster bred beneath the Sky But , well dispos'd by Art , may please the Eye : A curious Workman , by his Skill Divine , From an ill Object makes a good Design . Thus , to Delight , as Tragedy , in Tears For * Oedipus , provokes our Hopes , and Fears : For Parricide Orestes asks relief ; And , to encrease our pleasure , causes grief . You then , that in this noble Art would rise , Come ; and in lofty Verse dispute the Prize . Would you upon the Stage acquire renown , And for your Judges summon all the Town ? Would you your Works for ever should remain , And , after Ages past , be sought again ? In all you Write , observe with Care and Art To move the Passions , and incline the Heart . If , in a labour'd Act , the pleasing Rage Cannot our Hopes and Fears by turns ingage , Nor in our mind a feeling Pity raise ; In vain with Learned Scenes you fill your Plays : Your cold Discourse can never move the mind Of a stern Critic , natu'rally unkind ; Who , justly tir'd with your Pedantic flight , Or falls asleep , or censures all you Write . The Secret is , Attention first to gain ; To move our minds , and then to entertain : That , from the very op'ning of the Scenes , The first may show us what the Author means . I 'm tir'd to see an Actor on the Stage That knows not whether he 's to Laugh , or Rage ; Who , an Intrigue unravelling in vain , Instead of pleasing , keeps my mind in pain : I 'de rather much the nauseous Dunce should say Downright , my name is Hector in the Play ; Than with a Mass of Miracles , ill joyn'd , Confound my Ears , and not instruct my Mind . The Subject's never soon enough exprest ; Your place of Action must be fix'd , and rest . A Spanish Poet may , with good event , In one day's space whole Ages represent ; There oft the Hero of a wandring Stage Begins a Child , and ends the Play of Age : But we , that are by Reason's Rules confin'd , Will , that with Art the Poem be design'd , That unity of Action , Time , and Place Keep the Stage full , and all our Labors grace . Write not what cannot be with ease conceiv'd ; Som 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 satisfy ; But there are objects , that a curious Art Hides from the Eyes , yet offers to the Heart . The mind is most agreably surpris'd , When a well-woven Subject , long disguis'd , You on a sudden artfully unfold , And give the whole another face , and mould . * At first the Tragedy was void of Art ; A Song ; where each man Danc'd , and Sung his Part , And of God Bacchus roaring out the praise Sought a good Vintage for their Jolly dayes : Then Wine , and Joy , were seen in each man's Eyes , And a fat Goat was the best Singer's prize . Thespis was first , who , all besmear'd with Lee , Began this pleasure for Posterity : And , with his Carted Actors , and a Song ▪ Amus'd the People as he pass'd along ▪ Next , Aeschylus the diff'rent Persons plac'd , And with a better Masque his Players grac'd : Upon a Theater 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 , Ingag'd the Chorus Song in every part , And polish'd rugged Verse 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 silly Pilgrims , as 't is said , Foolishly zealous , scandalously Play'd ( Instead of Heroes , and of Love's complaints ) The Angels , God , the Virgin , and the Saints . At last , right Reason did his Laws reveal , And show'd the Folly of their ill-plac'd Zeal , Silenc'd those Nonconformists of the Age , And rais'd the lawful Heroes of the Stage : Only th' Athenian Masque was lay'd aside , And Chorus by the Musick was supply'd . Ingenious Love , inventive in new Arts , Mingled in Playes , and quickly touch'd our Hearts : This Passion never could resistance find , But knows the shortest passage to the mind . Paint then , I 'm pleas'd my Hero be in Love ; But let him not like a tame Shepherd move : Let not Achilles be like Thyrsis seen , Or for a Cyrus show an * Artamen ; That , strugling oft , his Passions we may find , The Frailty , not the Virtue of his mind . Of Romance Heroes shun the low Design ; Yet to great Hearts some Human frailties joyn : Achilles must with Homer's heat ingage ; For an affront I 'm pleas'd to see him rage . Those little Failings in your Hero's heart Show that of Man and Nature he has part : To leave known Rules you cannot be allow'd ; Make Agamemnon covetous , and proud , Aeneas in Religious Rites austere , Keep to each man his proper Character . Of Countryes and of Times the humors know ; From diff'rent Climates , diff'ring Customs grow : And strive to shun their fault , who vainly dress An Antique Hero like some modern Ass ; Who make old Romans like our English move , Show Cato Sparkish , or make Brutus Love. In a Romance those errors are excus'd : There 't is enough that , Reading , we 're amus'd : Rules too severe would then be useless found ; But the strict Scene must have a juster bound : Exact Decorum we must always find . If then you form some Hero in your mind , Be sure your Image with it self agree ; For what he first appears , he still must be . Affected Wits will nat'urally incline To paint their Figures by their own design : Your Bully Poets , Bully Heroes write ; Chapman , in Bussy D'Ambois took delight , And thought perfection was to Huff , and Fight . Wise Nature by variety does please ; Cloath diff'ring Passions in a diff'ring Dress : Bold Anger , in rough haughty words appears ; Sorrow is humble , and dissolves 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 bore His seven-fold Waters to the Euxine Shore : These swoln expressions , this affected noise Shows like some Pedant , that declaims to Boys . In sorrow , you must softer methods keep ; And , to excite our tears , your self must weep : Those noisy words with which ill Plays abound , Come not from hearts that are in sadness drown'd ▪ The Theatre for a young Poet's Rhymes Is a bold venture in our knowing times : An Author cannot eas'ly purchase Fame ; Critics are always apt to hiss , and blame : You may be Judg'd by every Ass in Town , The Priviledge is bought for half a Crown . To please , you must a hundred Changes try ; Sometimes be humble , then must soar on high : In noble thoughts must every where abound , Be easy , pleasant , solid , and profound : To these you must surprising Touches joyn , And show us a new wonder in each Line ; That all in a just method well design'd , May leave a strong Impression in the mind , These are the Arts that Tragedy maintain : The Epic. But the Heroic claims a Loftier Strain . In the Narration of some great Design , Invention , Art , and Fable all must joyn : Here Fiction must employ its utmost grace ; All must assume a Body , Mind , and Face : Each Virtue a Divinity is seen ; Prudence is Pallas , Beauty Paphos Queen . 'T is not a Cloud from whence swift Lightnings fly ; But Iupiter , that thunders from the Sky : Nor a rough Storm , that gives the Sailor pain ; But angry Neptune , plowing up the Main : Echo's no more an empty Airy Sound ; But a fair Nymph that weeps , her Lover drown'd . Thus in the endless Treasure of his mind , The Poet does a thousand Figures find , Around the work his Ornaments he pours , And strows with lavish hand his op'ning Flow'rs . 'T is not a wonder if a Tempest bore The Trojan Fleet against the Libyan Shore ; From faithless Fortune this is no surprise , For every day 't is common to our eyes ; But angry Iuno , that she might destroy , And overwhelm the rest of ruin'd Troy : That Aeolus with the fierce Goddess joyn'd , Op'ned the hollow Prisons of the Wind ; 'Till angry Neptune , looking o're the Main , Rebukes the Tempest , calms the Waves again , Their Vessels from the dang'rous quick-sands steers ; These are the Springs that move our hopes and fears Without these Ornaments before our Eyes , Th'unsinew'd Poem languishes , and dyes : Your Poet in his art will always fail , And tell you but a dull insipid Tale. In vain have our mistaken Authors try'd These ancient Ornaments to lay aside , 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 , Ashtaroth , and Bel ; The Mysteries which Christians must believe , Disdain such shifting Pageants to receive : The Gospel offers nothing to our thoughts But penitence , or punishment for faults ; And mingling falshoods with those Mysteries , Would make our Sacred Truths appear like Lyes ▪ Besides , what pleasure can it be to hear , The howlings of repining Lucifer , Whose rage at your imagin'd Hero flyes , And oft with God himself disputes the prize ? Tasso , you 'l say , has done it with applause ; It is not here I mean to Judge his Cause : Yet , tho our Age has so extoll'd his name , His Works had never gain'd immortal Fame , If holy Godfrey in his Ecstasies Had only Conquer'd Satan on his knees ; If Tancred , and Armida's pleasing form , Did not his melancholy Theme adorn . 'T is not , that Christian Poems ought to be Fill'd with the Fictions of Idolatry ; But in a common Subject to reject The Gods , and Heathen Ornaments neglect ; To banish Tritons who the Seas 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 Scruples to disturb your mind , And search Perfection you can never find : As well they may forbid us to present Prudence or Justice for an Ornament , To paint old Ianus with his front of Brass , And take from Time his Scythe , his Wings and Glass , And every where , as 't were Idolatry , Banish Descriptions from our Poetry . Leave 'em their pious Follys to pursue ; But let our Reason such vain fears subdue : And let us not , amongst our Vanities , Of the true God create a God of Lyes . In Fable we a thousand pleasures see , And the smooth names seem made for Poetry ; As Hector , Alexander , Helen , Phillis , Vlysses , Agamemnon , and Achilles : In such a Crowd , the Poet were to blame To chuse King Chilp'eric 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 ? Choose some great Hero , fit to be admir'd , In Courage signal , and in Virtue bright , Letev'n his very failings give delight ; Let his great Actions our attention bind , Like Caesar , or like Scipio , frame his mind , And not like Oedipus his perjur'd Race ; A common Conqueror is a Theme too base . Chuse 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 , short , and smart ; In your Descriptions show your noblest Art : There 't is 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 sides , to see their Armyes pass , The Fishes staring through the liquid Glass ; Describ'd a Child , who with his little hand , Pick'd up the shining Pebbles from the sand . Such objects are too mean to stay our sight ; Allow your Work a just and nobler flight . Be your beginning plain ; and take good heed Too soon you mount not on the Airy Steed : Nor tell your Reader , in a Thund'ring Verse , † I sing the Conqueror of the Vniverse . What can an Author after this produce ? The lab'ring Mountain must bring forth a Mouse . Much better are we pleas'd with his * Address Who , without makingsuch vast promises , Sayes , in an easier Stile and plainer Sence , " I Sing the Combats of that pious Prince " Who from the Phrygian Coast his Armies bore , " And landed first on the Lavinian shore . His op'ning Muse sets not the World on fire , And yet performs more than we can require : Quickly you 'l hear him celebrate the fame , And future glory of the Roman Name ; Of Styx and Acheron describe the Floods , And Caesars wandring in ▪ th' Elysian Woods : With Figures numberless his Story grace , And every thing in beauteous Colours trace . At once you may be pleasing , and sublime ; I hate a heavy melancholy Rhyme : I 'de rather read Orlando's Comic Tale , Than a dull Author always stiff and stale , Who thinks himself dishonour'd in his stile , If on his Works the Graces do but smile . 'T is said , that Homer , Matchless in his Art , Stole Venus Girdle , to ingage the Heart : His Works indeed vast Treasures do unfold , And whatsoe're 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 boast ; Nor is he in too long Digressions lost : His Verses without Rule a method find , And of themselves appear in order joyn'd : All without trouble answers his intent ; Each Syllable is tending to th' Event . Let his example your indeavours raise : To love his Writings , is a kind of praise . A Poem , where we all perfections find , Is not the work of a Fantastick mind : There must be Care , and Time , and Skill , and Pains ; Not the first heat of unexperienc'd Brains . Yet sometimes Artless Poets , when the rage Of a warm Fancy does their minds ingage , Puff'd with vain pride , presume they understand , And boldly take the Trumpet in their hand ; Their Fustian Muse each Accident confounds ; Nor can she fly , but rise by leaps and bounds , Till their small stock of Learning quickly spent , Their Poem dyes for want of nourishment : In vain Mankind the hot-brain'd fools decryes , No branding Censures can unveil his eyes : With Impudence the Laurel they invade , Resolv'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 Justice they appeal . But waiting till Mankind shall do 'em right , And bring their Works Triumphantly to Light ; Neglected heaps we in by-corners lay , Where they become to Worms and Moths a prey ; Forgot , in Dust and Cobwebs let 'em rest , Whilst we return from whence we first digrest . The great Success which Tragic Writers found , In Athens first the Comedy renown'd , Th'abusive Grecian there , by pleasing wayes , Dispers'd his natu'ral malice in his Playes : Wisdom , and Virtue , Honor , Wit , and Sence , Were Subject to Buffooning insolence : Poets were publickly approv'd , and sought , That Vice extol'd , and Virtue set at naught ; And Socrates himself , in that loose Age , Was made the Pastime of a Scoffing Stage . At last the Public took in hand the Cause , And cur'd this Madness by the pow'r of Laws ; Forbad at any time , or any place , To name the Person , or describe the Face . The Stage its ancient Fury thus let fall , And Comedy diverted without Gall : By mild reproofs , recover'd minds diseas'd , And , sparing Persons , innocently pleas'd . Each one was nicely shown in this new Glass , And smil'd to think He was not meant the Ass : A Miser oft would laugh the first , to find A faithful Draught of his own sordid mind ; And Fops were with such care and cunning writ , They lik'd the Piece for which themselves did sit . You then , that would the Comic Lawrels wear , To study Nature be your only care : Who e're knows man , and by a curious art Discerns the hidden secrets of the heart ; He who observes , and naturally can Paint The Jealous Fool , the fawning Sycophant , A Sober Wit , an enterprising Ass , A humorous Otter , or a Hudibras ; May safely in these noble Lists ingage , And make 'em Act and Speak upon the Stage : Strive to be natural in all you Write , And paint with Colours that may please the Sight . Nature in various Figures does abound ; And in each mind are diff'rent Humors found ▪ A glance , a touch , discovers to the wise ; But every man has not discerning eyes . All-changing Time does also change the mind ; And diff'rent Ages , diff'rent pleasures find : Youth , hot and furious , cannot brook delay , By flattering Vice is eas'ly led away ; Vain in discourse , inconstant in desire , In Censure , rash ; in pleasures , all on fire . The Manly age does steadier thoughts enjoy ; Pow'r , and Ambition do his Soul employ : Against the turns of Fate he sets his mind ; And by the past the future hopes to find . Decrepit Age , still adding to his Stores , For others heaps the Treasure he adores . In all his actions keeps a frozen pace ; Past Times extols , the present to debase : Incapable of pleasures Youth abuse , In others blames , what age does him refuse . Your Actors must by Reason be control'd ; Let young men speak like young , old men like old : Observe the Town , and study well the Court ; For thither various Characters resort : Thus 't was great Iohnson purchas'd his renown , And in his Art had born away the Crown ; If less desirous of the Peoples praise , He had not with low Farce debas'd his Playes ; Mixing dull Buffoonry with Wit refin'd , And Harlequin with noble Terence joyn'd . When in the Fox I see the Tortois hist , I lose the Author of the Alchymist . The Comic Wit , born with a smiling Air , Must Tragic grief , and pompous Verse forbear ; Yet may he not , as on a Market-place , With Baudy jests amuse the Populace : With well-bred Conversation you must please , And your Intrigue unravel'd be with ease : Your Action still should Reason's Rules obey , Nor in an empty Scene may lose its way . Your humble Stile must sometimes gently rise ; And your Discourse Sententious be , and Wise : The Passions must to Nature be confin'd , And Scenes to Scenes with Artful weaving joyn'd ▪ Your Wit must not unseasonably play ; But follow Bus'ness , never lead the way . Observe how Terence does this error shun ; A careful Father chides his Am'orous Son : Then see that Son , whom no advice can move , Forget those Orders , and pursue his Love : 'T is not a well-drawn Picture we discover ; 'T is a true son , a Father , and a Lover . ● like an Author that Reforms the Age ; And keeps the right Decorum of the Stage , That alwayes pleases by just Reason's Rule : But for a tedious Droll , a Quibling Fool , Who with low nauseous Baudry fills his Plays ; Let him begon and on two Tressels raise Some Smithfield Stage , where he may act his Pranks , And make Iack Puddings speak to Mountebanks . End of the third Canto . Canto IV. IN Florence dwelt a Doctor of Renown , The Scourge of God , and Terror of the Town , Who all the Cant of Physick had by heart , And never Murder'd but by rules of Art. The Public mischief was his Private gain ; Children their slaughter'd Parents sought in vain : A Brother here his poyson'd Brother wept ; Some bloodlessdy'd , and some by Opium slept . Colds , at his presence , would to Frenzies turn ; And Agues , like Malignant Fevers , burn . Hated , at last , his Practice gives him o'er : One Friend , unkill'd by Drugs , of all his Store , In his new Country-house affords him place , 'T was a rich Abbot , and a Building Ass : Here first the Doctor 's Talent came in play , He seems Inspir'd , and talks like * Wren or May : Of this new Portico condemns the Face , And turns the Entrance to a better place ; Designs the Stair-case at the other end . His Friend approves , does for his Mason send , He comes ; the Doctor 's Arguments prevail . In short , to finish this our hum'rous Tale , He Gaien's dang'erous Science does reject , And from ill Doctor turn good Architect . In this Example we may have our part : Rather be Mason , ( 't is an useful Art ! ) Than a dull Poet ; for that Trade accurst , Admits no mean betwixt the Best and Worst . In other Sciences , without disgrace A Candidate may fill a second place ; But Poetry no Medium can admit , No Reader suffers an indiff'rent Wit : The ruin'd Stationers against him baul , And Herringman degrades him from his Stall . Burlesque , at least our Laughter may excite ; But a cold Writer never can delight . The Counter-Scuffle has more Wit and Art , Than the stiff Formal Stile of Gondibert . Be not affected with that empty praise Which your vain Flatterers will sometimes raise , And when you read , with Ecstasie will say , The finisd'd Piece ! The admirable Play ! Which , when expos'd to Censure and to Light , Cannot indure a Critic's piercing sight . A hundred Authors Fates have been foretold , And Sh-le's Works are Printed , but not Sold. Hear all the World ; consider every Thought ; A Fool by chance may stumble on a Fault : Yet , when Apollo does your Muse inspire , Be not impatient to expose your Fire ; Nor imitate the Settles of our Times , Those Tuneful Readers of their own dull Rhymes , Who seize on all th' Acquaintance they can meet , And stop the Passengers that walk the Street ; There is no Sanctuary you can chuse For a Defence from their pursuing Muse. I 've said before , Be patient when they blame ; To alter for the better is no shame . Yet yield not to a Fool 's Impertinence : Sometimes conceited Sceptics void of Sence , By their false taste condemn some finish'd part , And blame the noblest flights of Wit and Art. In vain their fond Opinions you deride , With their lov'd Follies they are satisfy'd ; And their weak Judgment , void of Sence and Light , Thinks nothing can escape their feeble sight : Their dang'rous Counsels do not cure , but wound ; To shun the Storm , they run your Verse aground , And thinking to escape a Rock , are drown'd . Chuse a sure Judge to Censure what you Write , Whose Reason leads , & Knowledge gives you light , Whose steady hand will prove your Faithful Guide , And touch the darling follies you would hide : He , in your doubts , will carefully advise , And clear the Mist before your feeble eyes . 'T is he will tell you , to what noble height A generous Muse may sometimes take her flight ; When , too much fetter'd with the Rules of Art , May from her stricter Bounds and Limits part : But such a perfect Judge is hard to see , And every Rhymer knows not Poetry ; Nay some there are , for Writing Verse extol'd , Who know not Lucan's Dross from Virgil's Gold. Would you in this great Art acquire Renown ? Authors , observe the Rules I here lay down . In prudent Lessons every where abound ; With pleasant , joyn the useful and the sound : A Sober Reader , a vain Tale will slight ; He seeks as well Instruction , as Delight . Let all your Thoughts to Virtue be confin'd , Still off'ring noble Figures to our Mind : I like not those loose Writers , who employ Their guilty Muse , good Manners to destroy : Who with false Colours still deceive our Eyes , And show us Vice dress'd in a fair Disguise . Yet do I not their sullen Muse approve Who from all modest Writings banish Love ; That strip the Play-house of its chief Intrigue , And make a Murderer of Roderigue : * The lightest Love , if decently exprest , Will raise no Vitious motions in our brest . Dido in vain may weep , and ask relief ; I blame her Folly , whil'st I share her Grief . A Virtuous Author , in his Charming Art , To please the Sense needs not corrupt the Heart ; His heat will never cause a guilty Fire : To follow Virtue then be your desire . In vain your Art and Vigor are exprest ; Th'obscene expression shows th' Infected breast . But above all , base Jealousies avoid , In which detracting Poets are employ'd : A noble Wit dares lib'rally commend ; And scorns to grudge at his deserving Friend . Base Rivals , who true Wit and Merit hate , Caballing still against it with the Great , Maliciously aspire to gain Renown By standing up , and pulling others down . Never debase your self by Treacherous ways , Nor by such abject methods seek for praise : Let not your only bus'ness be to Write ; Be Virtuous , Just , and in your Friends delight . 'T is not enough your Poems be admir'd ; But strive your Conversation be desir'd : Write for immortal Fame ; nor ever chuse Gold for the object of a gen'erous Muse. I know a noble Wit may , without Crime , Receive a lawful Tribute for his time : Yet I abhor those Writers , who despise Their Honor ; and alone their Profit prize ; Who their Apollo basely will degrade , And of a noble Science , make a Trade . Before kind Reason did her Light display , And Government taught Mortals to obey , Men , like wild Beasts , did Nature's Laws pursue , They fed on Herbs , and drink from Rivers drew ; Their Brutal force , on Lust and Rapine bent , Committed Murders without Punishment : Reason at last , by her all-conquering Arts , Reduc'd these Savages , and Tun'd their hearts ; Mankind from Bogs , and Woods , and Caverns calls , And Towns and Cities fortifies with Walls : Thus fear of Justice made proud Rapine cease , And shelter'd Innocence by Laws and Peace . These benefits from Poets we receiv'd , From whence are rais'd those Fictions since believ'd , That Orpheus , by his soft Harmonious strains Tam'd the fierce Tigers of the Thracian Plains ; Amphion's Notes , by their melodious pow'rs , Drew Rocks & Woods , and rais'd the Theban Tow'rs : These Miracles from numbers did arise , Since which , in Verse Heav'n taught his Mysteries , And by a Priest , possess'd with rage Divine , Apollo spoke from his Prophetick Shrine . Soon after Homer the old Heroes prais'd , And noble minds by great Examples rais'd ; Then Hesiod did his Graecian Swains incline To till the Fields , and prune the bounteous Vine . Thus useful Rules were by the Poets aid , In easy numbers , to rude men convey'd , And pleasingly their Precepts did impart ; First Charm'd the Ear , and then ingag'd the Heart : The Muses thus their Reputation rais'd , And with just Gratitude in Greece were prais'd . With pleasure Mortals did their Wonders see , And Sacrific'd to their Divinity : But Want , at last base Flatt'ry entertain'd , And old Parnassus with this Vice was stain'd : Desire of gain dazling the Poets Eyes , 〈◊〉 VVorks were fill'd with fulsome flatteries . Thus needy Wits a vile revenue made , And Verse became a mercenary Trade . Debase not with so mean a Vice thy Art : If Gold must be the Idol of thy heart , Fly , fly th' unfruitful Heliconian strand , Those streams are not inrich'd with Golden Sand : Great Wits , as well as Warriors , only gain Laurels and Honors for their Toyl and Pain : But , what ? an Author cannot live on Fame , Or pay a Reck'ning with a lofty Name : A Poet to whom Fortune is unkind , Who when he goes to bed has hardly din'd ; Takes little pleasure in Parnassus Dreams , Or relishes the Heliconian streams . 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. 'T is true ; but Verse is cherish'd by the Great , And now none famish who deserve to eat : What can we fear , when Virtue , Arts , and Sence ▪ Receive the Stars propitious Influence ; When a sharp-sighted Prince , by early Grants Rewards your Merits , and prevents your Wants ? Sing then his Glory , Celebrate his Fame ; Your noblest Theme is his immortal Name . Let mighty Spencer raise his reverend head , Cowley and Denham start up from the dead ; Waller his age renew , and Off'rings bring , Our Monarch's praise let bright-ey'd Virgins sing ; Let Dryden with new Rules our Stage refine , And his great Models form by this Design : But where 's a Second Virgil , to Rehearse Our Hero's Glories in his Epic Verse ? What Orpheus sing his Triumphs o'er the Main , And make the Hills and Forests move again ; Show his bold Fleet on the Batavian shore , And Holland trembling as his Canons roar ; Paint Europe's Balance in his steady hand , Whilst the two Worlds in expectation stand Of Peace or War , that wait on his Command ? But , as I speak , new Glories strike my Eyes , Glories , which Heav'n it Self does give , and prize , Blessings of Peace ; that with their milder Rayes Adorn his Reign , and bring Saturnian Dayes : Now let Rebellion , Discord , Vice , and Rage , That have in Patriots Forms debauc h'd our Age , Vanish , with all the Ministers of Hell ; His Rayes their poys'nous Vapors shall dispel : 'T is He alone our safety did create , His own firm Soul. secur'd the Nation 's Fate , Oppos'd to all the boutfeaus of the State. Authors , for Him your great indeavours raise ; The loftiest Numbers will but reach his praise . For me , whose Verse in Satyr has been bred , And never durst Heroic Measures tread ; Yet you shall see me , in that famous Field With Eyes and Voice , my best assistance yield ; Offer you Lessons , that my Infant Muse Learnt , when the Horace for her Guide did chuse : Second your Zeal with Wishes , Heart , and Eyes , And afar off hold up the glorious Prize . But pardon too , if , Zealous for the Right , A strict observer of each Noble slight , From the fine Gold I separate th' Allay , And show how hasty Writers sometimes stray : Apter to blame , than knowing how to mend ; A sharp , but yet a necesary Friend . FINIS . ERRATA . PAge 2. line 13 for or read of . p. 22. l. 8. for their r. his . p. 29. l. 7. for as , r. us . p. 53. l. 7. for licke , r ▪ I like . Notes, typically marginal, from the original text Notes for div A28571-e130 * Dubartas Translated by Sylvester . * Verse of Scudery . * The Mock-Tempest , a Play , written by Mr. Duffet . † Hudebrass . † Verse of Brebeuf . * Verse of Dubartas . * Fairfax in his Translation of Godfrey of Bullen . Notes for div A28571-e2900 * Flute Pipe. * Virg. Eclog. 4. † An old way of Writing , which began and ended with the same Measure . * D. Logan a Graver . Notes for div A28571-e5440 * Writ by Mr. Dryden . * The beginning and progress of Tragedies . * Artamen , the name of Cyrus in Scuderies Romance . * Seneca Trag. * St. Amant . † The first line of Scuderies Alaric . * Virgils Eneids : Notes for div A28571-e10740 * The Kings Archetects . * The Cid . Translated into English.