The Works of Horace In English Verse :: :: University of Virginia Library

Whatever Work we undertake should be all of a Piece, and consistent with itself; else, though some Parts of it may be beautiful, it will, upon the whole, be ridiculous. Unity of Design. To chuse a Theme suited to our Genius. Method. With what Restrictions it is allowable to coin new Words, and revive old ones.

After a short Account of the various Metre proper for different kinds of Poetry, he lays down more particular Rules for the Conduct of the Drama. Language, or Style. Passions. Brief Rules for Actors. Manners and Characters. Safer to form a Play on an old Subject, than to invent a new

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one. In planning an Epic Poem, to follow the Example of Homer. The Manners to be carefully marked. A Description of those proper for every Stage of Life. The Office of the Chorus.

Of the Changes in the Roman Stage and Music. Of Satire. Satire beneath the Dignity of the Tragic Muse. Rules for the decent Conduct of Farce. The Greek Originals to be studied. The Rise and Progress of the Grecian Drama. Defects of the Roman Poets. He advises them to correct and polish their Works from Year to Year; rallies those who pretend to Inspiration without Art or Study. A large Stock of Knowledge the only Source of good Writing. The Characters and Manners of greater Importance than Diction and Colouring. The Grecian Education more proper than the Roman to form a Poet. Farther Directions to Play-writers. Some Faults excusable. No Medium in Poetry; yet all pretend to be Poets, and many without Study or Application.

The ancient Poets were Priests and Prophets, and their Office highly honoured: How beneficial to Society.

Here the Poet, transported by his Subject, rises above the common Epistolary Style.

Genius, Art, and Study, all necessary to constitute a Poet.

The Tricks of the Roman Nobles to catch Applause.

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A young Man should submit his Poems to the Correction of a judicious Friend. He concludes the whole with a humorous Description of an empty Poëtaster.

To a Man's Head suppose a Painter joins
A Horse's Neck, with various Plumage spread
O'er various Limbs; or should he draw, above,
A female Face, and a foul Fish below:
Would you not laugh at such a motley Piece?
Trust me, my Friends, such is the Book, where join
Things incoherent as a sick Man's Dreams,
Nor Head nor Foot, that to one Form belongs.

“Poets, you'll say, and Painters are allow'd
“The Liberty to feign whate'er they please.”
'Tis true: This Leave we ask, and freely give;
But not to reconcile Antipathies,
To couple Doves with Snakes, with Tygers Lambs.

‘Some that, at first, have promis'd mighty things,
Yet, in their tawdry Work, have tack'd alone
A purple Shred or two, which widely shine:

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Diana's Altar, and her Grove; a Stream,
That through delightful Meadows swiftly runs,
The rapid Rhine, or Iris' watry Bow,
In florid Lines they paint. Yet here, perhaps,
They ought not to be plac'd. You might as well
A Cypress draw, when You receive a Price
To paint the Horrors of a Storm, and show
A shipwreck'd Sailor buffeting the Waves.

Why sinks your stately Palace to a Cot?
Chuse as you will the Subject of your Piece,
But let that Piece be simple still and one.

O Sire, and Youths deserving such a Sire!
Most Poets are misled by specious Forms:
One strives to be concise, and is obscure;
Another studies to be smooth, and sinks;
He that affects to soar, with Fustian swells;
Who fears to rant, creeps languid on the Ground;
And he, who loves the Marvellous, will paint
In Woods the Dolphin, and in Streams the Boar.
The very Fear of Faults, if void of Art,
Will into Faults the cautious Bard betray.
The meanest Sculptor in th'Æmilian Square
On Brass can grave the Nails or flowing Locks,
Unhappy in the Whole, because unskill'd

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To join the Parts, and make them harmonize.
But I no more like such a one would write,
Than, with a Nose of hideous Size, appear
With jetty Eyes, and Hair of jetty Hue.

They, who compose, should still a Subject chuse
Proportion'd to their Strength; and know what Weight
Their Shoulders will sustain, and what refuse.
Nor Eloquence, nor Method will forsake
Those who are Masters of the Theme they treat.

In this (or I mistake) consists the Force
And Grace of Method, to assign a Place
For what shall now be said, and what postpon'd,
And reassum'd with greater Elegance.

Let him, who plans a Poem, and aspires
To Praise, adopt this Thought, and that reject.

Be sparing and reserv'd in coining Words;
Yet will he never fail to please, who Words
Of new Invention can with Grace apply,
Smooth on the Tongue, and easy to the Mind:
This Licence with Discretion you may use;
For things abstruse, and novel Arts require
New Phrases, to our rustic Sires unknown.
These will be prais'd, if from the Grecian Stock

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They spring, and without Force are grafted here.
Shall Virgil, or shall Varius be deny'd
What was to Plautus and Cecilius given?
If from my slender Store I can produce
A few new Words, shall it in Me be deem'd
A Crime, when Cato's and old Ennius' Style
Enrich'd our Tongue, and gave new Names to things?
It ever was, and will be still allow'd,
‘To coin new Words, well suited to the Age.
‘Words are like Leaves; some wither every Year;
‘And, every Year, a younger Race succeeds.

Ourselves, and all our Works, to Death we owe.
The Royal Lucrine Mole, by Cæsar rais'd,
Protects our Navy from the the Northern Storms:
The Lake long barren, fit for Oars alone,
Now feels the Plough, and feeds the neighbouring Towns:
The Tyber, that before licentious roll'd,
And swept away the Harvest, has been taught
A happier Course; yet these, and all the Works
Of Man shall die! Who then can vainly hope,
That Words, more frail, for ever shall endure?

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Many that now are lost, again shall live;
And many drop, which we in Honour hold.
So Custom wills, to whom alone belongs
The Power despotic over Words and Speech.

Homer first taught the World in Epic Verse
To sing heroic Deeds and mournful Wars.

In Verse of various Length, Complaints at first
Were taught to sigh; now Joy and Pleasure smile.
But who invented simple Elegy,
Critics dispute; and still the Suit depends.

Rage with Iämbics arm'd Archilochus,
A kind of Verse invented by himself.
This Foot the Sock and lofty Buskin took,
Adapted to the Stage and Dialogue,
And fit to quell the Clamours of the Pit.

To sounding Strings the Lyric Muse records
Gods, and the Sons of Gods, the Victor-Horse,
The Wrestler, pining Youth, and Joys of Wine.

Shall He be honour'd with a Poet's Name,
Who knows not how to make a proper Draught,
Or to adjust the Colouring of his Piece?
What! shall I, falsely bashful, rather chuse
To live in shameful Ignorance, than learn?

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Still let your Style be suited to your Theme.
The Comic Muse abhors a lofty Verse;
And Tragedy a low and creeping Style.
Yet sometimes Comedy exalts her Voice;
And angry Chremes chides in tumid Phrase.
Tragedians, too, in humble Words complain.
Peleus and Telephus, when Exiles both
And poor, dismiss their big and sounding Words,
Else would they strive in vain to move the Heart.

'Tis not enough that Plays are tersely writ,
And elegant; let them be tender too,
And each Affection raise, or qualify.
Our Passions sympathize with what we see.
If you would have me weep, first weep yourself:
Then Your Misfortunes, Telephus! and Yours,
O Peleus! wound and touch me to the Soul.
If ill you act your Part, I sleep or smile.

Ev'n in the Face the Passions should be read.
A Countenance dejected waits on Grief;
Joy shows a chearful Air; and Anger frowns;
Important Truths a Look severe attends.
Nature first forms the Motions of the Soul
Within, to Fortune's ever-shifting Course;
Now swells with Mirth; then kindles into Wrath;

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Or sinks us to the Ground with Heart-felt Woe;
And what we feel is by the Tongue express'd.
The Roman Knights, and ev'n the Populace
Will justly hiss that Actor off the Stage,
Whose Gesture and whose Looks belye his Words.
Wide is the Difference between the Style
A God or Hero speaks; an old Man sage,
Or fiery Youth: Nor must the noble Dame
Talk in the Language of her faithful Nurse.
Observe the Husbandman, and Merchant vague,
The savage Colchian, and Assyrian false,
Argives polite, and untaught Thebans rude:
How various are the Manners of each Class!

Tradition trace, or things consistent feign.
If you Achilles bring upon the Stage,
Draw him, as Homer has already drawn,
Wrathful, impatient, cruel, insolent;
‘Scorning all Judges, and all Law but Arms.
Medéa must be fierce; and Ino weep;
Iö a Vagrant paint; Ixion false;
Orestes wild, and haunted by the Furies.

But if you dare to tread unbeaten Paths,
And introduce new Characters, be sure

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To make them still consistent, and the same,
From the first Opening to the closing Scene.

Not small the Task on a new Theme to write;
And 'twill be more discreet from Homer's Works
To borrow, than your own Invention trust.
An antique Piece you may so well improve,
‘That with some Justice it may pass for yours;’
But then you must not trace it Step by Step,
‘Nor Word for Word too faithfully translate;’
Nor to your Muse such rigid Laws prescribe,
As will your Genius cramp; which once impos'd,
You cannot then without a Fault transgress.

Begin not, like the vaunting Bard of old,
‘Troy's famous War, and Priam's Fate, I sing.
‘In what will all this Ostentation end?
The Mountain labours, and behold a Mouse!
Far better he, whose Plan is always good:
‘Muse! sing the Man who, after Troy was burn'd,
‘Such various Realms and various Manners saw.’
The first presents a Flash, and sinks in Smoke;
But this from Smoke bursts in a Blaze of Light,
Prepar'd to show us glorious Miracles,
Scylla with barking Dogs, Antiphates,
Charybdis' Gulph, and Polyphemus' Den.

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He does not the Return of Diomed
From Meleager's Death begin; nor trace
The Trojan War from Leda's double Egg;
But hastens to th'Event, and swiftly bears
His Reader to the 'midst of things at once,
As if appriz'd of what had pass'd before:
Each Circumstance he artfully omits,
Which he despairs to polish and adorn;
The true and fabulous so nicely blends,
That all the Parts harmoniously cohere.

You, who attempt to entertain the Pit,
Hear what the People will with Me expect.
If you would have th'applauding Audience stay
From the Beginning till the Curtain falls,
You must of every Stage the Manners mark,
And how our Tempers vary with our Years.

The Child, who but begins to speak, and walk
With steady Step, is fond of idle Play
With his Companions; easily provok'd,
But soon appeas'd; and changes every Hour.

The beardless Youth, freed from his Tutor's Yoke,
Delights in Horses, Hounds, and Exercise;
‘Prone to all Vice, impatient of Reproof;

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Profuse of Money; slothful to provide
Things useful; proud, impetuous, fickle, vain;
Hating to-morrow what he loves to-day.

With alter'd Mind, a Man of riper Years
For Wealth and Honours toils: he cultivates
The Friendship of the Great; with Forecast wise,
Slow to pursue what he may wish undone.

Many the Evils that attend on Age:
The old Man heaps up Wealth he dares nor use;
Procrastinates; and is in Action cold;
Tardy to hope, listless, and clings to Life;
Suspicious, fretful, never to be pleas'd;
Extolls the Manners of the sober Youths,
Who in his Childhood liv'd; and sternly chides
The wild Excesses of the present Race.

As Life advancing many Blessings brings,
Our ebbing Years will many take away.
We must not therefore give the Parts of Age
To Youth; nor those of Youth to Infancy;
But yield to each its proper Cast of Thought.

The Business of the Stage is all compriz'd
In Action or Description. What we hear
More slowly moves the Heart than what we see.

559

But Decency requires that many things,
Unfit for Sight, be wrought behind the Scenes,
Which Eloquence pathetic will relate.
Medéa must not shed her Children's Blood;
Nor wicked Atreus human Entrails boil
Upon the Stage; nor Progne to a Bird,
Nor Cadmus to a Snake, be there transform'd.
Things so incredible would shock the Sight.

A Play, which hopes again to be requir'd,
Should of five Acts consist, nor more, nor less.

Bring in no God, unless some weighty Cause,
And worthy heavenly Aid, his Presence asks.

Three Actors only in one Scene must speak.
The Chorus bears a single Actor's Part;
But it must nothing sing between the Acts,
But what may aptly suit, and aid the Plot.
The Virtuous it supports with kind Advice;
Delights to sooth the Storms of swelling Rage;
Applauds the Banquet of a temperate Meal;
Loves Justice, Band of all Society,
And wholesome Laws, and Peace with open Gates;
Reveals not Secrets; and implores the Gods,
To raise the Wretched, and to quell the Proud.

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The Flute, of old, was slender, small and plain,
Had but few Stops, nor was it bound with Brass,
Nor, like the Trumpet, loud; yet its soft Notes
Aided the warbling Choir; able to fill
The little Theatre with Melody:
The People there (so few they might be told)
Chaste, frugal, temperate, contented met.
But when our Sires out-stretch'd their conquering Arms,
Enlarg'd the ample Walls of powerful Rome,
And on each festal Day carouz'd with Wine
Without Restraint; licentious Manners grew,
And chang'd our Music and our Poësy.
The Hind and Citizen, the Man of base
And generous Birth, confus'dly blended sat.
What could such Judges taste but Show and Sound?
The Minstrel to the ruder Flute now join'd
Luxurious Tones, while in a richer Dress
He trail'd his lengthen'd Robe along the Stage.
Then too were added to the solemn Harp
More sprightly Sounds; and swelling Eloquence
Burst forth in Rants unknown to chaster Times.
The Chorus, to display important Truths,

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And teach the Crowd approaching Destiny,
Dark, as the Pythian from the Tripod sung.

He, who contended for a worthless Goat
In Tragic Style at first, soon introduc'd
The rough and naked Satyrs on his Stage,
‘And jok'd, when Decency would give him Leave:
For the Spectators, who, on Holydays,
Lawless assembled there and flush'd with Wine,
Were only to be drawn, and kept together,
By Arts like these, and grateful Novelty.
On this Condition then, we will allow
The drolling Satyrs Laugh, and that they turn
Things serious into Pleasantry; that he,
Who lately shone a Hero, or a God,
Array'd in purple Robes and Royal Gold,
Shall not adopt the Language of the Stews,
Nor while he shuns a low and creeping Style,
In Fustian soar, and vainly catch the Clouds.

The Tragic Muse, disdaining trivial Verse,
Will rarely with the wanton Satyrs mix;
As the chaste Matron, on a festal Day,
Reluctant dances, by the Priest compell'd.

Were I, my Friends, to write satiric Farce,
All broad and vulgar Words I would avoid;

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Yet not so far indulge the Tragic Strain,
As to make Davus, and bold Pythias speak
In such a Style as might Silenus suit,
Giving sage Lessons to his Pupil-God.
From a known Fable I would draw my Plan;
So easily the Language too should flow,
That every one shall hope to do the same,
Till by repeated Tryals, 'twill be found,
That it requires much Labour, Thought and Care.
So much may Method and Connexion raise,
And ev'n to common Subjects Beauty give!

If right I judge, let not the rural Gods,
From Forests brought, in such smooth Phrases speak
As if they all their Lives had pass'd at Court;
Nor ever rally in a Style too soft;
Nor babble things impure and scandalous;
For Men of Fortune and high Birth despise
What the base Vulgar crown with loud Applause. [OMITTED]

Not all who hear can judge of Harmony,
And Rome is too indulgent. Shall I then,
On this depending, without Study write,
Nor strive to polish and adorn my Lines?

563

Or, thinking every one will mark my Faults,
With timid Caution ne'er transgress a Rule?
Censure by this, indeed, we may escape,
Not merit Favour. But here lies the Art,
To steer the middle Course, and shun Extremes.

But you, my Friends, take my Advice, and read
The Greek Originals both Day and Night.
The Jests of Plautus, and his Numbers too,
Our Sires have prais'd; with too much Patience sure,
(I scarce forbear to use a harsher Name)
If You and I know how to scan a Verse,
And can distinguish coarse from liberal Wit.

Thespis, 'tis said, invented Tragedy,
And in a Cart his Plays and Actors bore;
On these alone they acted then and sung;
Their Faces with the Lees of Wine besmear'd.

But Æschylus the decent Robe and Mask
Added; and rais'd a little Stage with Planks,
Taught them to bellow, and in Buskins stalk.

With great Applause then ancient Comedy
Appear'd; but her licentious Speech requir'd
The Curb of Law, and justly was restrain'd:
Dumb grew the Choir, not suffer'd to defame.

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The Roman Bards have nothing left untry'd;
Nor small the Honours they have gain'd, who dar'd
Forsake the Grecian History, and teach
The Muse, in Persons of our own, to rise
Majestic; or in lighter Scenes to sport:
And Rome in Eloquence would now excell
No less than Arms and Valour, could her Sons
Bear the slow Toil, to polish and correct.

But you, from great Pompilius Numa sprung,
No Poem with your sacred Sanction vouch,
But what, by Length of Time and many a Blot,
Is to the Summit of Perfection wrought.

Genius, if we believe Democritus,
Is far more excellent than Art; and He
All, but the Mad, excludes from Helicon.
Most Poets, therefore, never trim their Nails
Or Beards; shun Company, and hate the Baths.
That Man, no doubt, deserves a Poet's Name,
Whose Head was never shorn by Barber's Hand;
Whose Brain defies the strongest Hellebore.
‘O my unhappy Stars! for in the Spring,
‘If Physic had not cur'd me of the Spleen,
‘None would have writ with more Success than I.’

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But I am satisfy'd with common Sense.
Me, as a Whetstone, then let others use;
Though blunt itself, it gives the Steel an Edge;
Though I compose not, I may teach the Bards,
Where to collect their Wealth; what will improve;
Is fit or not; where Art or Error leads.

A comprehensive Mind, with Knowledge fraught,
Is the true Source and Spring of writing well.
If then you study the Socratic Lore,
This Knowledge you will readily obtain;
And, when the Theme is fully understood,
Words from your Pen will flow without Constraint.

The Man, who knows the various Offices,
We owe our Country, Parents, Children, Friends,
And how a Judge or General should act,
Will truly paint what's suitable to each.
The Lives of Men and Nature still consult,
And then your Characters will all be just.

A sentimental Play, with Manners true,
Though void of Beauty, Art, or polish'd Style,
Will sometimes greatly please, and fill the Pit
Sooner than sounding Trifles, void of Thought.

566

The Muse her Wit and Eloquence bestow'd
On Greece, inflam'd with Love of Praise alone.
The Roman Youth are train'd to frugal Arts,
To multiply, divide, and subdivide;
To Plutus, God of Wealth, their Vows they pay,
Taught to despise Apollo's barren Wreath.
When once the Rust of Avarice corrupts
The tender Mind, in vain shall we expect
To see a Poem fit to be preserv'd
With Oyl of Cedar, in a Cypress Case.

Poets design to profit, or delight,
Or useful things in pleasing Verse convey.
When Morals you instill, be brief; and then
Your Precepts will be readily retain'd.
Whatever is superfluous, slips away.
Fiction should always wear the Face of Truth.
Tempt not our Faith by things incredible;
Nor bring upon the Stage that Child alive,
Who had by wicked Lamia been devour'd.
The Aged will explode an idle Tale;
And Stories too severe disgust the Young.
‘But he who joins Instruction with Delight,
‘Profit with Pleasure, gains the Praise of all:

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For such a Work shall live, pass o'er the Seas,
And bear to future Times the Author's Fame!

Yet there are Faults which Pardon may deserve.
Not every String obeys the Master's Hand,
Nor always can the Archer hit the Mark.
So, in a Work where many Beauties shine,
I will not cavil at a few Mistakes,
Which Inadvertence sometimes may commit,
Or human Nature could not wholly shun.
What then? suppose a Copyer should transcribe
The same Words wrong, though often told his Fault;
Or a Musician the same jarring Strings
Repeat? Who could abstain from Ridicule?
So he, who trips at every other Line,
May justly be compar'd to Chœrilus.
For when he stumbles on a shining Verse,
‘I smile to see it in such Company,
‘And wonder by what Magic it came there;’
But fret whenever honest Homer nods:
Yet in long Works we will excuse a Nap.

Pictures and Poems are in this alike,
Some are seen best at Distance, some when near:

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That Picture loves the Shade; but this the Light,
And challenges the Critic's piercing Eye;
So in poëtic Works, some must be read
Slightly alone, and with a transient View:
That once has pleas'd; this will for ever please.

Though by thy Father's Voice, from early Youth,
Taught what is right, and with a Genius blest,
Yet thou, the eldest Piso, mark my Words:
In other things a Mean may be allow'd;
The Man who cannot like Messala plead,
Nor Depth of Learning like Casselius boast,
May practise; and is held in some Esteem.

But Gods, nor Men, nor venal Pillars grant
The Name of Poet to the middle Class.
As at the genial Board, a jarring String,
Or Poppy with Sardinian Honey mix'd,
Or Shells of ropy Oyl disgust the more,
Because these Niceties we well can spare;
Thus Poësy, invented but to please,
Must highly entertain, or not at all;
Be excellent, or execrably bad!

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The Man, who is unskill'd in martial Arms,
To guide the Trochus, or to hurl the Quoit,
Forbears the Lists to enter; lest the Ring
Should hoot him from the Field with just Contempt.
But every Dolt presumes to scribble Verse.
Why not? Is he not free? Of liberal Birth?
Perhaps possesses too a Knight's Estate;
Unblemish'd with the Stain of any Vice?

But, Piso! You will nothing speak or write,
Unless Minerva smiles: Such is Your Sense!
Your Judgment such! But if, in Time to come,
You aught compose, submit it to the Ear
Of learned Metius; to your Sire and Me;
And keep it for nine Years conceal'd at home:
While in your own Scrutore, you may correct;
But, publish'd once, it cannot be recall'd!

Orpheus, the Priest and Prophet of the Gods,
From filthy Food and Murder first reclaim'd
A savage Race of Men: Hence was he said
To tame the Tyger's and the Lion's Rage.
Thus, when Amphion built the Walls of Thebes,
The Stones, 'tis said, obey'd his magic Lyre,
And follow'd, as his Song harmonious led.

570

It was, of old, the Province of the Bard,
Public from Private, Sacred from Profane,
To separate; quell vagrant Lust; and keep
The Marriage-bed immaculate; to build
Cities and Towns; and Laws to carve on Wood:
From hence were Poets and their Works esteem'd
Divine. Illustrious Homer after these,
And then Tyrtæus rose, with martial Song
Who rouz'd the manly Soul to great Exploits.

In Verse were Oracles reveal'd: In Verse
Were Nature's Secrets taught: The Grace of Kings
By Verse procur'd; and the Dramatic Muse
Reliev'd their Minds from irksome Cares of State.
E'en great Apollo deigns to strike the Lyre,
And all the Muses in the Chorus join.
‘Then blush not, noble Piso, to protect
What Kings have honour'd, and the Gods inspire!

If to compose a Poem worthy Praise,
Be more th'Effect of Genius or of Art,
Is yet a Question: But I neither see,
What can mere Art, devoid of Nature's Wealth,
Nor Genius, uninform'd, effect alone;

571

They ask each other's kindly Aid; nor can,
Without the strictest Union, gain their End.

Who, swift of Foot, would win th'Olympic Prize,
Has done and suffer'd many things in Youth;
Borne Heat and Cold; and carefully abstain'd
From Wine and Love's soft Joys. The Minstrel too,
Who sings the Pythian Hymns in Phœbus' Praise,
First learn'd his Art, and fear'd the Master's Frown.
But each now cries, “What charming Lines I write!
“I'll with the foremost press; Plagues, seize the last!
“What shall I sneak, and own my Ignorance
“With Front abash'd? Not I; forbid it, Jove!”

As Cryers call to Sales the Passers-by,
The noble Poet, rich in Lands and Coin,
Tempts all the Indigent to praise his Works;
And if he treats with hospitable Cheer
The hungry Wits; and sometimes gives in Bail,
To snatch 'em from the Bailiff's harpy Paw,
He must be lucky, if he can discern
A true Admirer from a Sycophant.

If you have giv'n, or promis'd aught to give,

572

Beware, that you invite not such a Man,
Brim-full of Joy, to hear your Poem read;
For, at each Line, transported he will cry,
“How charming all! divine! incomparable!”
Here he turns pale; and there the friendly Drops
Will trickle down his Cheeks; and, sometimes too,
In Ecstacy he dances round the Room.
‘As those, that truly grieve at Funerals,
‘Are not so loud, as Slaves who weep for Hire;
Thus Friends appear less mov'd than Flatterers.

Princes are said to prove by copious Cups
The Truth of him they would adopt for Friend;
For Wine unmasks the Soul. Whene'er you write,
Take Heed, you be not caught by Reynard's Wiles.

To sage Quintilius when a youthful Bard
Read o'er a hasty Piece, he'd frankly say,
“I pr'ythee, Friend, correct this Word, or that.”
If he reply'd, it was not in his Power,
And that he had attempted it in vain,
“Then blot it out; and those unpolish'd Lines
“On your poëtic Anvil forge again.”

But if he sound him readier to defend,
Than to correct his Faults, he said no more;

573

But left him then, unrivall'd, to admire
His own dear Person, and his darling Muse.

A Man discreet and good with Freedom blames
An empty Line, and censures one that's harsh;
Strikes out th'unpolish'd Verses with his Pen;
Cuts off vain Ornaments; and bids you throw
More Light on Passages obscure, or dark;
Makes you explain what seems equivocal;
And sets his Mark on Words that must be chang'd;
A very Aristarchus! nor will say,
“For Trifles why should I displease my Friend?—
Trifles, like these, to serious Mischiefs lead,
When once You stand the Butt of Ridicule.

The Wise avoid a Poet in his Fits,
As they would shun th'infectious Leprosy,
The Plague, a moon-struck Wretch, or foaming Dog;
The Boys pursue, and hoot him through the Streets.
If, while he bellows out his fustian Lines,
He, like a Fowler busy to ensnare
The Mearl, should fall into a Well or Ditch,
And cry aloud for Help; there may he cry;
For none would lend a Hand to help him up.
Who knows, but that on Purpose he leap'd down?

574

And, if a Rope were dropp'd, to draw him out,
He there perversely would resolve to stay.

‘Hear how an old Sicilian Poet died:’
Empedocles, ambitious to be thought
A God immortal, down the burning Jaws
Of Ætna leap'd.—Then let us not dispute
The Right of Bards, to die whene'er they please.
For why should it be deem'd a greater Crime
To kill that Man, who would be glad to live,
Than to keep him alive who longs to die?
Suppose the Gulph had thrown him out alive,
He would not be content to be a Man,
But for his Godship plunge a second Time.

It is not clear to Me, in just Revenge
For what Offence (Incest or Sacrilege)
With this poëtic Rage he is possess'd,
(That he's possess'd, no Mortal will deny)
And, like a baited Bear, broke from the Stake,
The Learned and Unlearned puts to Flight;
But if some hapless Wretch he chance to meet,
He worries him to Death with rumbling Verse;
Sticks, like a Leach; nor drops, till full of Blood.

N. B. The Lines marked thus ‘are taken from Lord Roscommon.