A REFLECTION ON OUR Modern POESY. AN ESSAY. — Fuit haec Sapientia quondam, Publica privatis secernere, sacra profanis: Concubitu prohibere vago; dare jura maritis; Oppida moliri; leges incidere ligno; Sic honour & nomen divinis Vatibus atque Carminibus venit.— Hor. de Art Poet. LONDON: Printed for W. Rogers in London; and F. Hicks in Cambridge. 1695. To my Honoured Friend and School-fellow Mr. A. OWEN. SIR, THE way of Dedicating now most in fashion, seems to me to stand in as great need of a Reformation, as does our Poetry. For, as we take nothing to be True and Genuine Poetry, but what is Light, Frothy, and has a wanton Air throughout it; so the generality seem to stand persuaded, That an Epistle Dedicatory loses its End quite, if not stuffed up with gross and open Flattery, sufficient to call a Blush into any modest Reader's Cheek. But here it is a hard matter to judge, Whether the Impudence of the Author, or the Vanity of the Patron (who believes all true that's said of him) does contribute most to carry on this notorious piece of Folly. Now (Sir) though our Early Friendship, and Intimate Acquaintance was the Reason that prevailed most upon me in presenting this small Essay to You; yet, to speak truth, there was another Motive too, which made me the more desirous of it, and that was merely upon the account of running counter to the generality of Dedicating Poets, to try if a particular Example might have any small Influence in correcting the Poetical Licence they take upon such like occasions: For here I was satisfied that I might come off without the least flattering Glance, with one who (though young) has Experience enough to understand, that Personal Respect is not to be estimated by the fine Compliments and Flourishes of a Fanciful Pen. And for my part, I think if our Poets go on at their old Rate but a little longer, we shall be apt to interpret Epistles of this sort as we do Dreams, by the Contrary. The great Scandal that Poetry has of late been subject to, together with the respect I always had for it, gave occasion for the following Reflection. For as I was considering how much this Art was esteemed amongst our Forefathers, and how Venerable, nay, almost Sacred, the Name of a Poet was then; Surely (thought I) the Former Honour, and the Present Disgrace the Muses lie under, could never depend on the different Capriccios of two divers Ages, but there must be some more reasonable Ground for this matter, which if once discovered, will give a very fair opportunity of restoring Verse to its Primitive Dignity. Some there are who suspect, That the want of Genius in our Age has given Poetry this deadly Wound: But they will soon find their Mistake, if (laying aside the blind Veneration we have for Antiquity) they compare the Ancients and Moderns in any sort of Poetry, excepting the Epic. So that we must seek out for some other Cause more probable than the former. And what others may spy, I know not; but I think the great Difference lies here, That Poetry is now no longer the Fountain of Wisdom, the School of Virtue; it is no longer a fit Trainer up of Youth, a Bridler of the Passions and exorbitant Desires: But on the contrary, he is reckoned the Ablest Poet, that is most dextrous at conjuring up these Evil Spirits, to disturb the Calm and Quiet of the Soul. And this (if I mistake not) is that which hath deformed so great a Beauty, and cast an Odium on that most Excellent Art, which was once the Pride of Conquerors, and Envy of Philosophers. What I have transiently remarked in the following Verses, will (I doubt not) be disliked by many of our Rhyming Sparks, for take but the Liberty of Writing Immodestly from 'em, and you have quite dismounted them off their Pegasus; they are quite Tongue-tied; 'tis with them, as Horace says it was in the Reign of the old Comedy, Chorusque, Turpiter, obticuit, sublato jure nocendi. What I have said against Love upon the Stage, I would not have apprehended so, as if I would have that Passion quite exploded; for I think it one of the fittest Passions for Poetry, and capable of very great Ornaments; but then I would have it very nicely and delicately handled; and what might give the least Offence to the severest Modesty always cast in Shades; for it is then only that this Passion is not to be allowed, when it goes beyond its bounds; and that is, when the Poet's Strokes are too bold, and his Colours too glaring. I was told (which I myself afterwards found to be true) that a great Part of my Design was already performed in the Preface to Prince Arthur. However, that did not trouble me in the least, for I was very glad to see so Eminent an Author of the same Opinion with me; since I had laid a Rude Draught of my Reflection the last Summer, which I then showed several of my Acquaintance. However, the World may think this a Shame, and I am very willing to be thought indebted to so creditable a Person for what I have said. I shall make no Apology for the Tediousness of my Epistle, since you are too often guilty of the Contrary Vice in writing to your Real Friend, and very Humble Servant. A REFLECTION ON OUR Modern Poesy. IF Poets be (as they pretend) inspired With Heat Divine, and Sacred Fury fired, How comes it then, that each Poetic Piece Gives nowadays Encouragement to Vice? Each Line (or else we think it will not do) With wanton Love, and Flames unchaste must glow. That scribbling Fop that would a Poet be, First bids adieu to all his Modesty: Invokes not Phoebus, but the God of Wine; Crowns his hot Temples with th' inspiring Vine: The Glass (Dull Sot!) must make his Thoughts sublime, For in a Sober Mood what Bard can Rhyme? But sure Great Homer got not thus a Name; Nor Lofty Maro his Eternal Fame; Their Muses chaste as Vestal Virgins were; Stately, not Proud; Reserved, but not Severe. The Flame that through their Works so bright does shine, Was surely kindled by a Breath Divine, No Cupid's Puff, nor Frenzy caused by Wine. But that our Follies we at large may see, Let's closer view our Modern Poesy. What place so much debauched as is our Stage, Which next the Pulpit, should correct the Age? What anciently Devotion did begin, We have converted to the use of Sin; And on our Theatres we daily see Vice triumph o'er dejected Honesty. But happy Athens! whose more splendid Stage Was moralised by Sophocles wise Rage: Who e'er he did pretend to Poetry, Searched the grave Precepts of Philosophy; Hence 'twas he taught but what he learned before, And practised those sound Rules his Writings boar: He doubly charmed his Modest Audience, By good Example, and wise Eloquence. Philosophers far short in teaching came; Their Naked Virtues maimed were and lame. The Pearl they represented to the View Unpolished, as It naturally grew. But Poets put a Gloss on't, made it shine, Then 'twas embraced as somewhat more Divine. And what the People thought too Hard before, Sits Easy now, and is with Pleasure bore. And now what weak Excuse, what vain Pretence, Can Christian Poets bring in their Defence? Shall Heathens teach by Nature's Glow-worm Light, What they neglect when Faith directs their Sight? Or are our Palates vitiated, and we Can relish nought but Vice in Poetry? Must They indulge the Ill, and soothe our Fate, Or else prevent it e'er it be too late? If We are led away by strong Desire, Must They add Fuel to the raging Fire? Not so did Orpheus; but with tuneful Voice, Taught Savage Men that followed Nature's Choice, That wildly strayed in shrubby Brakes all day, And herded with the common Beasts of Prey; Even These he taught their Passions to subdue, Through Error's Maze to follow Reason's Clue, Their Mossy Caves and Grottoes to forsake, And fitter Dwellings for themselves to make; And that in Learning Greece did so aspire, Was wholly owing to his Sacred Lyre. Then let some Champion for the Muses rise, Who dares be obstinately Good, and Wise; Let him but turn the Stream of Helicon, And make It in its proper Channel run. He needs not fear his Bays shall withered lie; Or that We shall despise his Poetry; For Virtue, when well dressed in Comely Grace, Has surely Charms so lovely in her Face, We all should Vice forsake, and only Her embrace. But He must then take a peculiar care, No Wanton Scenes have in his Poem share: A Plot and Moral let him choose, that's free From all Allays of fulsome Ribaldry, Which in our Modern Plays too oft we see. Let not Immodest Love come in his Rhimes; Which to excuse, our Poets oftentimes Reply, They bring such Objects into view, To make us loathe those Passions we pursue. But this is False; They always move Desire, Fan by degrees in us Unlawful Fire: For here the Poet's Warm Expressions move Th' Unthinking Herd such Passions to approve. Then let 'em be with Care removed from sight; If we'll be free, we must forget 'em quite. The Wiser Ancients did this Fault decline, And made their Tragedies more Masculine. Each nervous Scene some Manlike Virtue taught, Untainted with the least Immodest Thought. Their Heroes were more Stern, and fit for Wars, Scorned whining Love, and Jealousies fond Jars: But Ours, more fit for Cupid's Childish Arms, Are women's Fools, and Captives to their Charms. The Stage, which Terror should with Pity move, With us is wholly taken up in Love. In this (as well as other Follies) we Too much affect the gallic Levity: Thence our Romantic Heroes first we drew, Unlike our Arthur, and our William too. In vain it is, that heavens Wise Providence Has by a Sea divided us from France, If still their Fopperies we Imitate, And their vain Customs to our Isle Translate. We want not Genius for the Buskin Muse, Would Britain but all Foreign Aids refuse; Nor of our Language need we to complain; 'Tis Pompous, Bold, and fits the Tragic Strain. Our Poets too that have wrote Comedy, Have Wit enough, but fail in Modesty; They still forget the End for which they write, And mind not Profit, so they can Delight. But he that wears the Sock, should carefully Purge all his Writings from Obscenity: And though the Age's Humour he expose, Yet no Unseemly things should he disclose. His Plays should be a Glass, where All might see How to correct their own Deformity. Terence in this might justly claim the Bays, Whose Lively Draughts succeeding Ages praise: By Him was taught upon the Roman Stage, The Duties proper to each State and Age. But here with us, in a whole Comedy One Virtuous Character you cannot see: Rather than want for Vice, we choose to draw Strange Monsters, contrary to Nature's Law. True Innocence the Poet ridicules, And Honesty reserves for none but Fools. His Gentleman he makes a Wondrous Sage, That's deeply read in Vices of the Age: His Mistress and his clothes employ his Care; Of all his Thoughts his Country claims no share. The Damsel too, e'er Fifteen Years expire, Is all o'er Love, and Wanton with Desire; Then straight all Filial Duty's laid aside, And nought will please her, but the Name of Bride: Which once obtained, does soon uneasy prove, And still she trafficks in Forbidden Love; Her Husband's Kisses lose their wont Taste, And stolen Pleasures always Relish best. These Characters with Wit and Language joined, Must needs Instruct a Youthful Reader's Mind! These Ills, tho' great, yet are but light to Crimes, Whose Horror shall amaze succeeding Times! See now the Poet's Bold in Mischief grown, And turns to Ridicule the Sacred Gown! The Grave Divine a Laughingstock he makes; And the firm Basis of Religion shakes: High heavens Ambassador within the Scene Lays by his awful and becoming Mien, And takes upon him there (O Monstrous sight!) To play the Pimp, or Canting Hypocrite. Happy the Heathens! whose Impiety Ne'er mounted yet to such a high degree. Due Reverence to their Priests was always shown, And Distance kept from the Mysterious Gown. Calchas was Feared and Honoured as a God, The Grecian Army still Obeyed his Nod. But hear, O hear! how mighty was the Hand Of Moses, and how powerful the Wand, That wrought such Wonders in Proud Pharaoh's Land! Revolve th' amazing History, and learn The Dignity of Priesthood to discern. satire, which was a wholesome Remedy, Prescribed to cure a People's Malady, When prudently applied doth Good produce; But as all Goods are subject to abuse, So this of Late no Public Cure intends, But only serves to black Malicious ends. We dip our Pens in Gall when e'er we Write, And all our Inspiration is but Spite. But Horace, free from Prejudice and Rage, With Honey did the smarting Sting assuage: His satire grinned not as it bit, but Smiled, Both Cured the Reader, and his Care beguiled. Had Dryden never Writ, than Britain still Had with Despair admired the Roman Skill: But now, by his Example taught, we know, That Finest satire in our Soil will grow. Our Songs and Little Poems, for most part, Have much degraded the Poetic Art. On Trifling Subjects all our Wit we drain; Which little Credit to the Writer gain. Turn over every Late Miscellany, You hardly can a Modest Copy see. Broad Words, and fulsome Thoughts we now admit, And praise the Nauseous Author for a Wit. But sure by Men of Sense and Quality, The Wretch is Pitied for his Ribaldry; And here the Petty Scribler's Blasted Bays Is propped but by the silly Vulgar's Praise. Were I designed by Kinder Destiny To Court a Muse, and follow Poetry, My early care should be to raise a Fence To guard All-Pure my Native Innocence; My Infant Genius should strict Virtue learn, And Modesty should be its great Concern: Nor Popular Applause, nor hopes of Gain, Th' unspotted Brightness of the Pearl should slain. For Reputation, if it once be lost, Can never be regained by any Cost; 'Tis Bright like Crystal,— but 'tis Brittle too, Easie to Crack, but hard for to Renew. Then closely would I watch my untainted Muse, That She no Meretricious Arts should use; No Unbecoming Words, nor Wanton sound, The Niceness of her Virgin Ear should wound. So should my Writings with the Eneid strive, And my Chaste Verse to endless Ages live: Whilst all my Readers say, Lo! This is He, That from long Bondage set the Muses Free. FINIS.