The Third Volume of the Works of Mr. William Congreve containing Poems upon Several Occasions |
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| VIII. |
OF PLEASING; AN EPISTLE TO Sir RICHARD TEMPLE. |
 | The Third Volume of the Works of Mr. William Congreve |  |
1063
OF PLEASING; AN EPISTLE TO Sir RICHARD TEMPLE.
'Tis strange, dear Temple, how it comes to pass,
That no one Man is pleas'd with what he has.
So Horace sings—and sure, as strange is this:
That no one Man's displeas'd with what he is.
The Foolish, Ugly, Dull, Impertinent,
Are with their Persons and their Parts content.
Nor is that all; so odd a thing is Man,
He most would be what least he should or can.
Hence, homely Faces still are foremost seen,
And cross-shap'd Fops affect the nicest Mien;
Cowards extol true Courage to the Skies,
And Fools are still most forward to advise;
Th'untrusted Wretch, to Secresie pretends,
Whisp'ring his Nothing round to All as Friends.
Dull Rogues affect the Politician's part;
And learn to nod, and smile, and shrug with Art;
Who nothing has to lose, the War bewails;
And he who nothing pays, at Taxes rails.
Thus, Man, perverse, against plain Nature strives,
And to be artfully absurd, contrives.
Plautus will dance, Luscus at Ogling aims,
Old Tritus keeps, and undone Probus games.
Noisome Curculio, whose envenom'd Breath,
Tho' at a distance utter'd, threatens Death,
Full in your Teeth his stinking Whisper throws;
Nor mends his Manners, tho' you hold your Nose.
Thersites, who seems born to give Offence,
From uncouth Form and frontless Impudence,
Assumes soft Airs, and with a Slur comes in,
Attempts a Smile, and shocks you with a Grin.
Raucus harangues with a dissuasive Grace,
And Helluo invites with a forbidding Face.
That no one Man is pleas'd with what he has.
So Horace sings—and sure, as strange is this:
That no one Man's displeas'd with what he is.
The Foolish, Ugly, Dull, Impertinent,
Are with their Persons and their Parts content.
Nor is that all; so odd a thing is Man,
He most would be what least he should or can.
Hence, homely Faces still are foremost seen,
And cross-shap'd Fops affect the nicest Mien;
1064
And Fools are still most forward to advise;
Th'untrusted Wretch, to Secresie pretends,
Whisp'ring his Nothing round to All as Friends.
Dull Rogues affect the Politician's part;
And learn to nod, and smile, and shrug with Art;
Who nothing has to lose, the War bewails;
And he who nothing pays, at Taxes rails.
Thus, Man, perverse, against plain Nature strives,
And to be artfully absurd, contrives.
Plautus will dance, Luscus at Ogling aims,
Old Tritus keeps, and undone Probus games.
Noisome Curculio, whose envenom'd Breath,
Tho' at a distance utter'd, threatens Death,
Full in your Teeth his stinking Whisper throws;
Nor mends his Manners, tho' you hold your Nose.
Thersites, who seems born to give Offence,
From uncouth Form and frontless Impudence,
Assumes soft Airs, and with a Slur comes in,
Attempts a Smile, and shocks you with a Grin.
1065
And Helluo invites with a forbidding Face.
Nature, to each allots his proper Sphere,
But, that forsaken, we like Comets err:
Toss'd thro' the Void, by some rude Shock we're broke,
And all our boasted Fire is lost in Smoke.
But, that forsaken, we like Comets err:
Toss'd thro' the Void, by some rude Shock we're broke,
And all our boasted Fire is lost in Smoke.
Next to obtaining Wealth, or Pow'r, or Ease,
Men most affect, in general to please:
Of this Affection, Vanity's the Source,
And Vanity alone obstructs its Course;
That Telescope of Fools, thro' which they spy
Merit remote, and think the Object nigh.
The Glass remov'd, would each himself survey,
And in just Scales, his Strength and Weakness weigh,
Pursue the Path for which he was design'd,
And to his proper Force adapt his Mind;
Scarce one, but, to some Merit might pretend,
Perhaps might please, at least would not offend.
Who would reprove us while he makes us laugh,
Must be no Bavius, but a Bickerstaffe.
If Garth, or Blackmore, friendly Potions give,
We bid the dying Patient drink and live:
When Murus comes, we cry, beware the Pill,
And wish the Tradesman were a Tradesman still.
If Addison, or Rowe, or Prior write,
We study 'em with Profit and Delight:
But when vile Macer and Mundungus rhyme,
We grieve we've learnt to read, ay, curse the Time,
All Rules of Pleasing in this one unite,
Affect not any thing in Nature's spight.
Baboons and Apes ridiculous we find;
For what? For ill resembling Human-kind.
None are, for being what they are, in fault,
But for not being what they wou'd be thought.
Men most affect, in general to please:
Of this Affection, Vanity's the Source,
And Vanity alone obstructs its Course;
That Telescope of Fools, thro' which they spy
Merit remote, and think the Object nigh.
The Glass remov'd, would each himself survey,
And in just Scales, his Strength and Weakness weigh,
Pursue the Path for which he was design'd,
And to his proper Force adapt his Mind;
Scarce one, but, to some Merit might pretend,
Perhaps might please, at least would not offend.
1066
Must be no Bavius, but a Bickerstaffe.
If Garth, or Blackmore, friendly Potions give,
We bid the dying Patient drink and live:
When Murus comes, we cry, beware the Pill,
And wish the Tradesman were a Tradesman still.
If Addison, or Rowe, or Prior write,
We study 'em with Profit and Delight:
But when vile Macer and Mundungus rhyme,
We grieve we've learnt to read, ay, curse the Time,
All Rules of Pleasing in this one unite,
Affect not any thing in Nature's spight.
Baboons and Apes ridiculous we find;
For what? For ill resembling Human-kind.
None are, for being what they are, in fault,
But for not being what they wou'd be thought.
Thus, I, dear Friend, to you my Thoughts impart,
As to one perfect in the Pleasing Art;
If Art it may be call'd in you, who seem,
By Nature, form'd for Love, and for Esteem.
Affecting none, all Virtues you possess,
And really are what others but profess.
I'll not offend you, while my self I please;
I loath to flatter, tho' I love to praise.
But when such early Worth so bright appears,
And antedates the Fame which waits on Years;
I can't so stupidly affected prove,
Not to confess it, in the Man I love.
Tho' now I aim not at that known Applause
You've won in Arms, and in your Country's Cause;
Nor Patriot now, nor Hero I commend,
But the Companion praise, and boast the Friend.
As to one perfect in the Pleasing Art;
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By Nature, form'd for Love, and for Esteem.
Affecting none, all Virtues you possess,
And really are what others but profess.
I'll not offend you, while my self I please;
I loath to flatter, tho' I love to praise.
But when such early Worth so bright appears,
And antedates the Fame which waits on Years;
I can't so stupidly affected prove,
Not to confess it, in the Man I love.
Tho' now I aim not at that known Applause
You've won in Arms, and in your Country's Cause;
Nor Patriot now, nor Hero I commend,
But the Companion praise, and boast the Friend.
But you may think, and some, less partial, say,
That I presume too much in this Essay.
How should I show what pleases? How explain
A Rule, to which I never could attain?
To this Objection, I'll make no Reply,
But tell a Tale, which, after, we'll apply.
That I presume too much in this Essay.
How should I show what pleases? How explain
A Rule, to which I never could attain?
1068
But tell a Tale, which, after, we'll apply.
I've read, or heard, a learned Person, once,
Concern'd to find his only Son a Dunce;
Compos'd a Book in favour of the Lad,
Whose Memory, it seems, was very bad.
This Work contain'd a world of wholesome Rules,
To help the Frailty of forgetful Fools.
The careful Parent laid the Treatise by,
'Till Time should make it proper to apply.
Simon at length the look'd-for Age attains,
To read and profit by his Father's Pains;
And now the Sire prepares the Book t'impart,
Which was yclep'd Of Memory the Art.
But ah! how oft is human Care in vain!
For now, he could not find his Book again.
The Place where he had laid it, he forgot,
Nor could himself remember what he wrote.
Concern'd to find his only Son a Dunce;
Compos'd a Book in favour of the Lad,
Whose Memory, it seems, was very bad.
This Work contain'd a world of wholesome Rules,
To help the Frailty of forgetful Fools.
The careful Parent laid the Treatise by,
'Till Time should make it proper to apply.
Simon at length the look'd-for Age attains,
To read and profit by his Father's Pains;
And now the Sire prepares the Book t'impart,
Which was yclep'd Of Memory the Art.
But ah! how oft is human Care in vain!
For now, he could not find his Book again.
The Place where he had laid it, he forgot,
Nor could himself remember what he wrote.
1069
Now to apply the Story that I tell,
Which if not true, is yet invented well.
Such is my Case: Like most of theirs who teach:
I ill may practice, what I well may preach.
My self not trying, or not turn'd to please,
May lay the Line, and measure out the Ways.
The Mulcibers, who in the Minories sweat,
And massive Bars on stubborn Anvils beat,
Deform'd themselves, yet, forge those Stays of Steel,
Which arm Aurelia with a Shape to kill.
So Macer and Mundungus school the Times,
And write in rugged Prose the Rules of softer Rhymes.
Well do they play the careful Criticks Part,
Instructing doubly by their matchless Art:
Rules for good Verse they first with Pains indite,
Then shew us what are bad, by what they write.
Which if not true, is yet invented well.
Such is my Case: Like most of theirs who teach:
I ill may practice, what I well may preach.
My self not trying, or not turn'd to please,
May lay the Line, and measure out the Ways.
The Mulcibers, who in the Minories sweat,
And massive Bars on stubborn Anvils beat,
Deform'd themselves, yet, forge those Stays of Steel,
Which arm Aurelia with a Shape to kill.
So Macer and Mundungus school the Times,
And write in rugged Prose the Rules of softer Rhymes.
Well do they play the careful Criticks Part,
Instructing doubly by their matchless Art:
Rules for good Verse they first with Pains indite,
Then shew us what are bad, by what they write.
| The Third Volume of the Works of Mr. William Congreve | |