University of Virginia Library

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 bloodless dy'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,
'Twas 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 Galen's dang'erous Science does reject,
And from ill Doctor turns good Architect.
In this Example we may have our part :
Rather be Mason, ('tis 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 finish'd Piece ! The admirable Play !
Which, when expos'd to Censure and to Light,
Cannot indure a Critic's piercing fight.
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.
'Tis 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 flight ;
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 ;
Let not your only bus'ness be to Write ;
Be Virtuous, Just, and in your Friends delight.
'Tis 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 Græcian 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,
Works 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.
'Tis 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 debauch'd our Age,
Vanish, with all the Ministers of Hell ;
His Rayes their poys'nous Vapors shall dispel :
'Tis He alone our safety did create,
His own firm Soul secur'd the Nation's Fate,
Oppos'd to all the boutseaus 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 flight,
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 necessary Friend.