The Works of Mr. John Oldham :: :: University of Virginia Library

Should some ill Painter in a wild design
To a mans Head an Horses shoulders joyn,
Or Fishes Tail to a fair Womans Was
Or draw the Limbs of many a different Beast,
Ill match'd, and with as motly Feathers drest;
If you by chance were to pass by his Shop;
Could you forbear from laughing at the Fop,
And not believe him whimsical, or mad?
Credit me, Sir; that Book is quite as bad,

As worthy laughter, which throughout is fill'd
With monstrous inconsistencies, more vain, and wild
Than sick mens Dreams, whose neither head, nor tail,
Nor any parts in due proportion fall.
But 'twill be said, None ever did deny
Painters and Poets their free liberty
Of feigning any thing: We grant it true,
And the same privilege crave and allow:
But to mix natures clearly opposite,
To make the Serpent and the Dove unite,
Or Lambs from savage Tygers seek defence,
Shocks Reason, and the Rules of common Sense.

Some, who would have us think they meant to treat
At first on Arguments of greatest weight,
Are pleas'd, when here and there a glittering line
Does through the mass of their coarse rubbish shine:
In gay digressions they delight to rove,
Describing here a Temple, there a Grove,
A Vale enamel'd o're with pleasant streams,
A painted Rainbow, or the gliding Thames.

But how does this relate to their design?
Though good elsewhere, 'tis here but foisted in.
A common Dawber may perhaps have skill
To paint a Tavern Sign, or Landskip well:
But what is this to drawing of a Fight,
A Wrack, a Storm, or the last Judgment right?
When the fair Model, and Foundation shews,
That you some great Escurial would produce,
How comes it dwindled to a Cottage thus?
In fine, whatever work you mean to frame,
Be uniform, and every where the same.

Most Poets, Sir, ('tis easie to observe)
Into the worst of faults are apt to swerve
Through a false hope of reaching excellence:
Avoiding length, we often cramp our Sense,
And make't obscure; oft, when we'd have our stile
Easie, and flowing, lose its force the while:
Some, striving to surmount the common flight,
Soar up in airy Bombast out of sight.
Others, who fear to a bold pitch to trust
Themselves, flag low, and humbly sweep the dust:

And many fond of seeming marvellous,
While they too carelesly transgress the Laws
Of likelihood, most odd Chimeras feign,
Dolphins in Woods, and Boars upon the Main.
Thus they, who would take aim, but want the skill,
Miss always, and shoot wide, or narrow still.

One of the meanest Workmen in the Town
Can imitate the Nails, or Hair in Stone,
And to the life enough perhaps, who yet
Wants mastery to make the Work complete:
Troth, Sir, if 'twere my fancy to compose,
Rather than be this bungling wretch, I'd choose
To wear a crooked and unsightly Nose
'Mongst other handsom features of a Face
Which only would set off my ugliness.

Be sure all you that undertake to write,
To chuse a Subject for your Genius fit:
Try long and often what your Talents are;
What is the burthen, which your parts will bear,
And where they'l fail: he that discerns with skill
To cull his Argument, and matter well,

Will never be to seek for Eloquence
To dress, or method to dispose his Sense.
They the chief Art, and Grace in order show
(If I may claim any pretence to know)
Who time discreetly what's to be discours'd.
What should be said at last, and what at first:
Some passages at present may be heard,
Others till afterward are best deferr'd:
Verse, which disdains the Laws of History,
Speaks things not as they are, but ought to be:
Whoever will in Poetry excel,
Must learn, and use this hidden secret well.

'Tis next to be observ'd, that care is due,
And sparingness in framing words anew:
You shew your mast'ry, if you have the knack
So to make use of what known word you take,
To give't a newer sense: if there be need
For some uncommon matter to be said;
Pow'r of inventing terms may be allow'd,
Which Chaucer and his Age ne're understood:

Provided always, as 'twas said before,
We seldom, and discreetly use that pow'r.
Words new and forein may be best brought in,
If borrow'd from a Language near akin:
Why should the peevish Criticks now forbid
To Lee, and Dryden, what was not deny'd
To Shakespear, Ben, and Fletcher heretofore,
For which they praise, and commendation bore?
If Spencer's Muse be justly so ador'd
For that rich copiousness, wherewith he stor'd
Our Native Tongue; for Gods sake why should I
Straight be thought arrogant; if modestly
I claim and use the self-same liberty?
This the just Right of Poets ever was,
And will be still, to coin what words they please,
Well fitted to the present Age, and Place,

Words with the Leaves of Trees a semblance hold
In this respect, where every year the old
Fall off, and new ones in their places grow:
Death is the Fate of all things here below:

Nature her self by Art has changes felt,
The Tangier Mole (by our great Monarch built)
Like a vast Bulwark in the Ocean set,
From Pyrates and from Storms defends our Fleet:
Fens every day are drain'd, and Men now Plow,
And Sow, and Reap, where they before might Row,
And Rivers have been taught by Middleton
From their old course within new Banks to run,
And pay their useful Tribute to the Town.
If Mans and Natures works submit to Fate,
Much less must words expect a lasting date:
Many which we approve for currant now,
In the next Age out of request shall grow:
And others which are now thrown out of doors,
Shall be reviv'd, and come again in force,
If custom please: from whence their vogue they draw,
Which of our Speech is the sole Judg, and Law.

Homer first shew'd us in Heroick strains
To write of Wars, of Battles and Campaigns,
Kings and great Leaders, mighty in Renown,
And him we still for our chief Pattern own,

Soft Elegy, design'd for grief, and tears,
Was first devis'd to grace some mournful Herse:
Since to a brisker note 'tis taught to move,
And cloaths our gayest Passions, Joy, and Love.
But, who was first Inventer of the kind,
Criticks have sought, but never yet could find.
Gods, Heroes, Warriors, and the lofty praise
Of peaceful Conquerors in Pisa's Race,
The Mirth and Joys, which Love and Wine produce,
With other wanton sallies of a Muse,
The stately Ode does for its Subjects choose.

Archilochus to vent his Gall and spite,
In keen Iambicks first was known to write:
Dramatick Authors us'd this sort of Verse
On all the Greek and Roman Theaters,
As for Discourse and Conversation fit,
And apt'st to drown the noises of the Pit,

If I discern not the true stile and air,
Nor how to give the proper Character

To every kind of work; how dare I claim,
And challenge to my self a Poets Name?
And why had I with awkard modesty,
Rather than learn, always unskilful be?
Volpone and Morose will not admit
Of Catiline's high strains, nor is it fit
To make Sejanus on the Stage appear
In the low dress, which Comick persons wear.
What e're the Subject be, on which you write,
Give each thing its due place, and time aright:

Yet Comedy sometimes may raise her stile,
And angry Chremes is allow'd to swell,
And Tragedy alike sometimes has leave
To throw off Majesty, when 'tis to grieve:
Peleus and Telephus in misery,
Lay their big words, and blust'ring language by,
If they expect to make their Audience cry.
'Tis not enough to have your Plays succeed;
That they be elegant: they must not need

Those warm and moving touches which impart
A kind concernment to each Hearers heart,
And ravish it which way they please with art.
Where Joy and Sorrow put on good disguise,
Ours with the persons looks straight sympathize:
Would'st have me weep? thy self must first begin:
Then, Telephus, to pity I incline,
And think thy case, and all thy suff'rings mine;
But if thou'rt made to act thy part amiss,
I can't forbear to sleep, or laugh, or hiss,
Let words express the looks, which speakers wear;
Sad, fit a mournful, and dejected air;
The passionate must huff, and storm, and rave;
The gay be pleasant, and the serious grave.
For Nature works, and moulds our Frame within,
To take all manner of Impressions in.
Now makes us hot, and ready to take fire,
Now hope, now joy, now sorrow does inspire,
And all these passions in our face appear,
Of which the Tongue is sole interpreter:

But he whose words, and Fortunes do not suit,
By Pit and Gall'ry both, is hooted out.

Observe what Characters your persons fit,
Whether the Master speak, or Todelet:
Whether a man, that's elderly in growth,
Or a brisk Hotspur in his boiling youth:
A roaring Bully, or a shirking Cheat,
A Court-bred Lady, or a tawdry Cit:
A prating Gossip, or a jilting Whore,
A travell'd Merchant, or an home spun Boor:
Spaniard, or French, Italian, Dutch, or Dane;
Native of Turky, India, or Japan.

Either from History your persons take,
Or let them nothing inconsistent speak:
If you bring great Achilles on the Stage,
Let him be fierce and brave, all heat and rage,
Inflexible, and head-strong to all Laws,
But those, which Arms and his own will impose.
Cruel Medea must no pity have,
Ixion must be treacherous, Ino grieve,
Io must wander, and Orestes rave,

But if you dare to tread in paths unknown,
And boldly start new persons of your own;
Be sure to make them in one strain agree,
And let the end like the beginning be.

'Tis difficult for Writers to succeed
On Arguments, which none before have tri'd:
The Iliad, or the Odyssee with ease
Will better furnish Subjects for your Plays,
Than that you should your own Invention trust,
And broach unheard of things your self the first.
In copying others works, to make them pass,
And seem your own, let these few Rules take place:
When you some of their Story represent,
Take care that you new Episodes invent:
Be not too nice the Authors words to trace,
But vary all with a fresh air, and grace;
Nor such strict rules of imitation choose,
Which you must still be tied to follow close,
Or forc'd to a retreat for want of room,
Give over, and ridiculous become:

Do not like that affected Fool begin,
King Priam's Fate, and Troy's fam'd War, I sing.
What will this mighty Promiser produce?
You look for Mountains, and out creeps a Mouse.
How short is this of Homer's fine Address,
And Art, who ne're says any thing amiss?
Muse, speak the man, Who since Troy's laying waste
Into such numerous Dangers has been cast,
So many Towns, and various People past:
He does not lavish at a blaze his Fire,
To glare a while, and in a Snuff expire:
But modesty at first conceals his light,
In dazling wonders, then breaks forth to sight;
Surprizes you with Miracles all o're,
Makes dreadful Scylla and Charybdis roar,
Cyclops, and bloudy Lestrygons devour:
Nor does he time in long Preambles spend,
Describing Meleager's rusul end,
When he's of Diomed's return to treat;
Nor when he would the Trojan War relate,
The Tale of brooding Leda's Eggs repeat.

But still to the design'd event hastes on,
And at first dash, as if before 'twere known,
Embarques you in the middle of the Plot,
And what is unimprovable leaves out,
And mixes Truth and Fiction skilfully,
That nothing in the whole may disagree.

Who e're you are, that set your selves to write,
If you expect to have your Audience sit
Till the fifth Act be done, and Curtain fall;
Mind what Instructions I shall further tell:
Our Guise, and Manners alter with our Age,
And such they must be brought upon the Stage.

A Child, who newly has to Speech attain'd,
And now can go without the Nurses hand,
To play with those of his own growth is pleas'd,
Suddenly angry, and as soon appeas'd,
Fond of new Trifles, and as quickly cloy'd,
And loaths next hour what he the last enjoy'd.

The beardless Youth from Pedagogue got loose,
Does Dogs and Horses for his pleasures choose;

Yielding, and soft to every print of vice,
Resty to those who would his faults chastise,
Careless of Profit, of expences vain,
Haughty, and eager his desires t'obtain.
And swift to quit the same desires again.

Those, who to manly years, and sense are grown,
Seek Wealth and Friendship, Honour and Renown:
And are discreet, and fearful how to act
What after they must alter and correct.

Diseases, Ills, and Troubles numberless
Attend old Men, and with their Age increase:
In painful toil they spend their wretched years,
Still heaping Wealth, and with that wealth new cares:
Fond to possess, and fearful to enjoy,
Slow, and suspicious in their managry,
Full of Delays, and Hopes, lovers of ease,
Greedy of life, morose, and hard to please,
Envious at Pleasures of the young and gay,
Where they themselves now want a stock to play;
Ill natur'd Censors of the present Age,
And what has past since they have quit the Stage:

But loud Admirers of Queen Besse's time,
And what was done when they were in their prime.

Thus, what our tide of flowing years brings in,
Still with our ebb of life goes out agen:
The humors of Fourscore will never hit
One of Fifteen, nor a Boy's part befit
A full-grown man: it shews no mean Address,
If you the tempers of each Age express.

Some things are best to act, others to tell;
Those by the ear convey'd, do not so well,
Nor half so movingly affect the mind,
As what we to our eyes presented find.
Yet there are many things, which should not come
In view, nor pass beyond the Tiring Room:
Which, after in expressive Language told,
Shall please the Audience more, than to behold:
Let not Medea shew her fatal rage,
And cut her Childrens Throats upon the Stage:
Nor Oedipus tear out his eye-balls there,
Nor bloudy Atreus his dire Feast prepare:

Cadmus, nor Progne their odd changes take,
This to a Bird, the other to a Snake:
Whatever so incredible you show,
Shocks my Belief, and straight does nauseous grow.

Five Acts, no more, nor less, your Play must have,
If you'l an handsom Third Days share receive.
Let not a God be summon'd to attend
On a slight errand, nor on Wire descend,
Unless th' importance of the Plot engage;
And let but Three at once speak on the Stage.

Be sure to make the Chorus still promote
The chief Intrigue and business of the Plot:
Betwixt the Acts there must be nothing Sung,
Which does not to the main Design belong:
The praises of the Good must here be told,
The Passions curb'd, and foes of Vice extoll'd:
Here Thrift and Temperance, and wholesome Laws,
Strict Justice, and the gentle calms of Peace
Must have their Commendations, and Applause:

And Prayers must be sent to Heaven to guide
Blind Fortunes blessings to the juster side,
To raise the Poor, and lower prosp'rous Pride.

At first the Musick of our Stage was rude,
Whilst in the Cock-Pit and Black Friers it stood:
And this might please enough in former Reigns,
A thrifty, thin, and bashful Audience:
When Bussy d' Ambois and his Fustian took,
And men were ravish'd with Queen Gordobuc.
But since our Monarch by kind Heaven sent,
Brought back the Arts with him from Banishment,
And by his gentle influence gave increase
To all the harmless Luxuries of peace:
Favour'd by him, our Stage has flourish'd too,
And every day in outward splendor grew:
In Musick, Song, and Dance of every kind,
And all the grace of Action 'tis tefin'd;
And since that Opera's at length came in,
Our Players have so well improv'd the Scene
With gallantry of Habit, and Machine,

As makes our Theater in Glory vie
With the best Ages of Antiquity:
And mighty Roscius were he living now,
Would envy both our Stage, and Acting too.

Those, who did first in Tragedy essay
(When a vile Goat was all the Poets day)
Us'd to allay their Subjects gravity
With enterludes of Mirth, and Raillery:
Here they brought rough, and naked Satyrs in,
Whose Farce-like Gesture, Motion, Speech, and Meen
Resemble those of modern Harlequin.
Because such antick Tricks, and odd grimace,
After their drunken Feasts on Holidays,
The giddy and hot-headed Rout would please:
As the wild Feats of Merry Andrews now
Divert the sensless Crowd at Bartholmew.

But he, that would in this Mock-way excel,
And exercise the Art of Railing well,
Had need with diligence observe this Rule
In turning serious things to ridicule:

If he an Hero, or a God bring in,
With Kingly Robes and Scepter lately seen,
Let them not speak, like Burlesque Characters,
The wit of Billingsgate and Temple-stairs:
Nor, while they of those meannesses beware,
In tearing lines of Bajazet appear.
Majestick Tragedy as much disdains
To condescend to low, and trivial strains:
As a Court-Lady thinks her self disgrac'd
To Dance with Dowdies at a May-pole-Feast.

If in this kind you will attempt to write,
You must no broad and clownish words admit:
Nor must you so confound your Characters,
As not to mind what person 'tis appears.
Take a known Subject, and invent it well,
And let your stile be smooth and natural:
Though others think it easie to attain,
They'l find it hard, and imitate in vain:
So much does method and connexion grace
The common'st things, the plainest matters raise.

In my opinion 'tis absurd and odd,
To make wild Satyrs, coming from the Wood,
Speak the fine Language of the Park and Mall,
As if they had their Training at Whitehall:
Yet, tho I would not have their Words too quaint,
Much less can I allow them impudent:
For men of Breeding, and of Quality
Must needs be shock'd with fulsom Ribaldry:
Which, though it pass the Footboy and the Cit,
Is always nauseous to the Box, and Pit.

There are but few, who have such skilful ears
To judg of artless, and ill-measured Verse.
This till of late was hardly understood,
And still, there's too much liberty allow'd.
But will you therefore be so much a fool
To write at random, and neglect a Rule?
Or, while your faults are set to general view,
Hope all men should be blind, or pardon you?
Who would not such fool-hardiness condemn,
Where, tho perchance you may escape from blame.
Yet praise you never can expect, or claim?

Therefore be sure your study to apply
To the great patterns of Antiquity:
Ne're lay the Greeks and Romans out of sight,
Ply them by day, and think on them by night.
Rough hobbling numbers were allow'd for Rhime,
And clench for deep conceit in former time:
With too much patience (not to call it worse)
Both were applauded in our Ancestors:
If you, or I have sense to judg aright
Betwixt a Quibble, and true sterling Wit:
Or ear enough to give the difference
Of sweet well-sounding Verse from doggrel strains.

Thespis ('tis said) did Tragedy devise,
Unknown before, and rude at its first rise:
In Carts the Gypsie Actors strowl'd about,
With faces smear'd with Lees of Wine and Soot,
And through the Towns amus'd the wondring rout
Till Æschylus appearing to the Age,
Contriv'd a Play-house, and convenient Stage.

Found out the use of Vizards, and a Dress
(An handsomer, and more gentile Disguise)
And taught the Actors with a stately Air,
And Meen to speak, and Tread, and whatsoe're
Gave Port, and grandeur to the Theater.

Next this succeeded ancient Comedy,
With good applause, till too much liberty
Usurp'd by Writers had debauch'd the Stage,
And made it grow the Grievance of the Age:
No merit was secure, no person free
From its licentious Buffoonery:
Till for redress the Magistrate was fain
By Law those Insolencies to restrain.

Our Authors in each kind their praise may claim,
Who leave no paths untrod, that lead to fame:
And well they merit it, who scorn'd to be
So much the Vassals of Antiquity,
As those, who know no better than to cloy
With the old musty Tales of Thebes and Troy:
But boldly the dull beaten track forsook,
And Subjects from our Country-story took.

Nor would our Nation less in Wit appear,
Than in its great performances of War;
Were there encouragements to bribe our care,
Would we to file, and finish spare the pains,
And add but justness to our manly sense.
But, Sir, let nothing tempt you to bely
Your skill, and judgment, by mean flattery:
Never pretend to like a piece of Wit,
But what, you're certain, is correctly writ:
But what has stood all Tests, and is allow'd
By all to be unquestionably good.

Because some wild Enthusiasts there be
Who bar the Rules of Art in Poetry.
Would have it rapture all, and scarce admit
A man of sober sense to be a Wit;
Others by this conceit have been misled
So much, that they're grown statutably mad:
The Sots affect to be retir'd alone,
Court Solitude and Conversation shun,
In dirty Cloaths, and a wild Garb appear,
And scarce are brought to cut their Nails and Hair,

And hope to purchace credit and esteem,
When they, like Cromwel's Porter, frantick seem,
Strange! that the very height of Lunacy,
Beyond the cure of Allen, e're should be
A mark of the Elect in Poetry.
How much an Ass am I that us'd to Bleed,
And take a Purge each Spring to clear my Head?
None otherwise would be so good as I,
At lofty strains, and rants of Poetry:
But, faith, I am not yet so fond of Fame,
To lose my Reason for a Poets name.
Tho I my self am not dispos'd to write;
In others I may serve to sharpen Wit:
Acquaint them what a Poet's duty is,
And how he shall perform it with success:
Whence the materials for his work are sought,
And how with skilful Art they must be wrought:
And shew what is and is not decency,
And where his faults and excellencies lie.

Good sense must be the certain standard still
To all that will pretend to writing well:

If you'l arrive at that, you needs must be
Well vers'd and grounded in Philosophy:
Then choose a Subject, which you throughly know,
And words unsought thereon will easie flow.
Whoe're will write, must diligently mind
The several sorts and ranks of humane kind:
He that has learnt, what to his Country's due,
What we to Parents, Friends, and Kindred owe,
What charge a Statesman, or a Judg does bear,
And what the parts of a Commander are;
Will never be at loss (he may be sure)
To give each person their due portraiture.
Take humane life for your original,
Keep but your Draughts to that, you'l never fail.
Sometimes in Plays, though else but badly writ
With nought of Force, or Grace, of Art, or Wit,
Some one well humour'd Character we meet,
That takes us more than all the empty Scenes,
And jingling toys of more elaborate Pens.

Greece had command of Language, Wit and Sense,
For cultivating which she spar'd no pains:

Glory her sole design, and all her aim
Was how to gain here self immortal Fame:
Our English Youth another way are bred,
They're fitted for a Prentiship, and Trade,
And Wingate's all the Authors, which they've read.
The Boy has been a year at Writing-School,
Has learnt Division, and the Golden Rule;
Scholar enough! cries the old doting Fool,
I'll hold a Piece, he'l prove an Alderman,
And come to sit at Church with's Furs and Chain.
This is the top design, the only praise,
And sole ambition of the booby Race:
While this base spirit in the Age does reign,
And men might nought but Wealth and sordid gain,
Can we expect or hope it should bring forth
A work in Poetry of any worth,
Fit for the learned Bodley to admit
Among its Sacred Monuments of Wit?

A Poet should inform us, or divert,
But joyning both he shews his chiefest Art:

Whatever Precepts you pretend to give,
Be sure to lay them down both clear and brief:
By that they're easier far to apprehend,
By this more faithfully preserv'd in mind:
All things superfluous are apt to cloy
The Judgment, and surcharge the Memory.

Let whatsoe'r of Fiction you bring in,
Be so like Truth, to seem at least akin:
Do not improbabilities conceive,
And hope to ram them into my belief:
Ne're make a Witch upon the Stage appear,
Riding enchanted Broomstick through the Air:
Nor Canibal a living Infant spew,
Which he had murther'd, and devour'd but now.
The graver sort dislike all Poetry,
Which does not (as they call it) edifie:
And youthful sparks as much that Wit dispise,
Which is not strew'd with pleasant Gaieties.
But he, that has the knack of mingling well
What is of use with what's agreeable,

That knows at once how to instruct and please,
Is justly crown'd by all mens suffrages:
These are the works, which valued every where,
Enrich Paul's Church-yard and the Stationer:
These admiration through all Nations claim,
And through all Ages spread their Author's Fame.

Yet there are faults wherewith we ought to bear;
An Instrument may sometimes chance to jar
In the best hand, in spight of all its care:
Nor have I known that skilful Marks-man yet
So fortunate, who never mist the White.
But where I many excellencies find,
I'm not so nicely critical to mind
Each slight mistake an Author may produce,
Which humane frailty justly may excuse.
Yet he, who having oft been taught to mend
A Fault, will still pursue it to the end,
Is like that scraping Fool, who the same Note
Is ever playing, and is ever out,

And silly as that bubble every whit,
Who at the self-same blot is always hit.
When such a lewd incorrigible sot
Lucks by meer chance upon some happy thought;
Among such filthy trash, I vex to see't,
And wonder how (the Devil!) he came by't.
In works of bulk and length we now and then
May grant an Author to be overseen:
Homer himself, how sacred e're he is,
Yet claims not a pretence to Faultlesness.

Poems with Pictures a resemblance bear;
Some (best at distance) shun a view too near:
Others are bolder, and stand off to sight;
These love the shade, those choose the clearest light,
And dare the survey of the skilfull'st eyes:
Some once, and some ten thousand times will please.

Sir, though your self so much of knowledg own
In these affairs, that you can learn of none,
Yet mind this certain truth which I lay down:
Most Callings else do difference allow,
Where ordinary Parts, and Skill may do:

I've known Physicians, who respect might claim,
Tho they ne're rose to Willis his great fame:
And there are Preachers who have great renown.
Yet ne're come up to Sprat, or Tillotson:
And Counsellors, or Pleaders in the Hall
May have esteem, and practice, tho they fall
Far short of smooth-tongu'd Finch in Eloquence,
Tho they want Selden's Learning, Vaughan's sense,
But Verse alone does of no mean admit,
Who e're will please, must please us to the height:
He must a Cowley or a Fleckno be,
For there's no second Rate in Poetry:
A dull insipid Writer none can bear,
In every place he is the publick jeer,
And Lumber of the Shops and Stationer.

No man that understands to make a Feast,
With a coarse Dessert will offend his Guest,
Or bring ill Musick in to grate the ear,
Because 'tis what the entertain might spare:
'Tis the same case with those that deal in Wit,
Whose main design and end should be delight:

They must by this same sentence stand, or fall,
Be highly excellent, or not at all.

In all things else, save only Poetry,
Men shew some signs of common modesty:
You'l hardly find a Fencer so unwise,
Who at Bear-garden e're will fight a Prize,
Not having learnt before: nor at a Wake
One, that wants skill and strength, the Girdle take,
Or be so vain the pond'rous Weight to fling,
For fear they should be hiss'd out of the Ring.
Yet every Coxcomb will pretend to Verse,
And write in spight of nature, and his Stars:
All sorts of Subjects challenge at this time
The Liberty, and Property of Rhime.
The Sot of honour, fond of being great
By something else than Title, and Estate,
As if a Patent gave him claim to sense,
Or 'twere entail'd with an Inheritance,
Believes a cast of Foot-boys, and a set
Of Flanders must advance him to a Wit.

But you who have the judgment to descry
Where you excel, which way your Talents lie,
I'm sure, will never be induc'd to strain
Your Genius, or attempt against your vein.
Yet (this let me advise) if e're you write,
Let none of your composures see the light,
Till they've been throughly weigh'd, and past the Test
Of all those Judges who are thought the best:
While in your Desk they're lock'd up from the Press,
You've power to correct them as you please:
But when they once come forth to view of all,
Your Faults are Chronicled, and past recall.

Orpheus the first of the inspired Train,
By force of powerful numbers did restrain
Mankind from rage, and bloudy cruelty,
And taught the barbarous world civility,
Hence rose the Fiction, which the Poets fram'd,
That Lions were by's tuneful Magick tam'd,

And Tygers, charm'd by his harmonious lays,
Grew gentle, and laid by their savageness:
Hence that, which of Amphion too they tell,
The pow'r of whose miraculous Lute could call
The well-plac'd stones into the Theban Wall.
Wondrous were the effects of primitive Verse,
Which setled and reform'd the Universe:
This did all things to their due ends reduce,
To publick, private, sacred, civil use:
Marriage for weighty causes was ordain'd,
That bridled lust, and lawless Love restrain'd:
Cities with Walls, and Rampiers were inclos'd,
And property with wholsom Laws dispos'd:
And bounds were fix'd of Equity and Right,
To guard weak Innocence from wrongful might.
Hence Poets have been held a sacred name,
And plac'd with first Rates in the Lists of Fame.
Next these, great Homer to the world appear'd,
Around the Globe his loud alarms were heard,
Which all the brave to war-like action fir'd:

And Hesiod after him with useful skill
Gave Lessons to instruct the Plough-mans toil.
Verse was the language of the gods of old,
In which their sacred Oracles were told:
In Verse were the first rules of vertue taught,
And Doctrine thence, as now from Pulpits sought:
By Verse some have the love of Princes gain'd,
Who oft vouchsafe so to be entertain'd,
And with a Muse their weighty cares unbend.
Then think it no disparagement, dear Sir,
To own your self a Member of that Quire,
Whom Kings esteem, and Heaven does inspire.

Concerning Poets there has been contest,
Whether they're made by Art, or Nature best:
But if I may presume in this Affair,
Amongst the rest my judgment to declare,
No Art without a Genius will avail,
And Parts without the help of Art will fail:
But both Ingredients joyntly must unite
To make the happy Character complete.

None at New-market ever won the Prize,
But us'd his Airings, and his Exercise,
His Courses and his Diets long before,
And Wine, and Women for a time forbore:
Nor is there any Singing-man, we know,
Of good Repute in either Chappel now,
But was a Learner once (he'l freely own)
And by long Practice to that Skill has grown:
But each conceited Dunce, without pretence
To the least grain of Learning, Parts, or sense,
Or any thing but harden'd impudence,
Sets up for Poetry, and dares engage
With all the topping Writers of the Age:
“Why should not he put in amongst the rest?
“Damn him! he scorns to come behind the best:
“Declares himself a Wit, and vows to draw
“On the next man, who e're disowns him so.

Scriblers of Quality who have Estate,
To gain applauding Fools at any rate,
Practise as many tricks as Shop-keepers
To force a Trade, and put off naughty wares:

Some hire the House their Follies to expose,
And are at charge to be ridiculous:
Others with Wine, and Ordinaries treat
A needy Rabble to cry up their Wit:
'Tis strange, that such should the true diff'rence find
Betwixt a spunging Knave and faithful Friend.
Take heed how you e're prostitute your sense
To such a fawning crew of Sycophants:
All signs of being pleas'd the Rogues will feign,
Wonder, and bless themselves at every line.
Swearing, “'Tis soft! 'tis charming! 'tis Divine!
Here they'l look pale, as if surpriz'd, and there
In a disguise of grief squeeze out a tear:
Oft seem transported with a sudden joy,
Stamp and lift up their hands in extasie:
But, if by chance your back once turn'd appear,
You'l have 'em strait put out their tongues in jeer,
Or point, or gibe you with a scornful sneer.
As they who truly grieve at Funerals, shew
Less outward sorrow than hir'd mourners do;

So true Admirers less concernment wear
Before your face than the sham Flatterer.

They tell of Kings, who never would admit
A Confident, or bosom-Favourite,
Till store of Wine had made his secrets float,
And by that means they'd found his temper out:
'Twere well if Poets knew some way like this,
How to discern their friends from enemies.

Had you consulted learned Ben of old,
He would your faults impartially have told:
“This Verse correction wants (he would have said)
“And so does this: If you replied, you had
To little purpose several trials made;
He presently would bid you strike a dash
On all, and put in better in the place:
But if he found you once a stubborn sot,
That would not be corrected in a fault;
He would no more his pains and counsel spend
On an abandon'd Fool that scorn'd to mend;

But bid you in the Devils name go on,
And hug your dear impertinence alone.

A trusty knowing Friend will boldly dare
To give his sense and judgment, wheresoe're
He sees a Fault: “Here, Sir, good faith, you're low,
“And must some heightning on the place bestow:
“There, if you mind, the Rhime is harsh, and rough,
“And should be soft'ned to go smoothlier off:
“Your strokes are here of Varnish left too bare,
“Your Colours there too thick laid on appear:
“Your Metaphor is coarse, that Phrase not pure,
“This Word improper, and that sense obscure.
In fine, you'l find him a strict Censurer,
That will not your least negligences spare
Through a vain fear of disobliging you:
They are but slight, and trivial things, 'tis true:
Yet these same Trifles (take a Poets word)
Matter of high importance will afford,

When e're by means of them you come to be
Expos'd to Laughter, Scorn, and Infamy.

Not those with Lord have mercy on their doors,
Venom of Adders, or infected Whores,
Are dreaded worse by men of sense, and Wit,
Than a mad Scribler in his raving fit:
Like Dog, whose tail is pegg'd into a bone,
The hooting Rabble all about the Town,
Pursue the Cur, aund pelt him up and down.
Should this poor Frantick, as he pass'd along,
Intent on's Rhiming work amidst the throng,
Into Fleet-Ditch, or some deep Cellar fall,
And till he rent his throat for succour bawl,
No one would lend an helping hand at call:
For who (the Plague!) could guess at his design,
Whether he did not for the nonce drop in?
I'd tell you, Sir, but questionless you've heard
Of the odd end of a Sicilian Bard:
Fond to be deem'd a god, this fool (it seems)
In's fit leapt headlong into Ætna's Flames.

Troth, I could be content an Act might pass,
Such Poets should have leave, when e're they please,
To die, and rid us of our Grievances.
A God's name let'em hang, or drown, or choose
What other way they will themselves dispose,
Why should we life against their wills impose?
Might that same fool I mention'd, now revive,
He would not be reclaim'd, I dare believe,
But soon be playing his old freaks again,
And still the same capricious hopes retain.

'Tis hard to guess, and harder to alledg
Whether for Parricide, or Sacriledg,
Or some more strange, unknown, and horrid crime,
Done in their own, or their Fore-fathers time,
These scribling Wretches have been damn'd to Rhime:
But certain 'tis, for such a crack-braind Race
Bedlam, or Hogsdon is the fittest place:
Without their Keepers you had better choose
To meet the Lions of the Tower broke loose,

Than these wild savage Rhymers in the street,
Who with their Verses worry all they meet:
In vain you would release your self; so close
The Leeches cleave, that there's no getting loose.
Remorsless they to no entreaties yield,
Till you are with inhumane non-sense kill'd.