University of Virginia Library

Canto I.

Rash Author, 'tis a vain presumptuous Crime
To undertake the Sacred Art of Rhyme ;
If at thy Birth the Stars that rul'd thy Sence
Shone not with a Poetic Influence :
In thy strait Genius thou wilt still be bound,
Find Phoebus deaf, and Pegasus unsound.
You then, that burn with the desire to try
The dangerous Course of charming Poetry ;
Forbear in fruitless Verse to lose your time,
Or take for Genius the desire of Rhyme :
Fear the allurements of a specious Bait,
And well consider your own Force and Weight.
Nature abounds in Wits of every kind,
And for each Author can a Talent find :
One may in Verse describe an Amorous Flame,
Another sharpen a short Epigram :
Waller a Hero's mighty Acts extol ;
Spencer Sing Rosalind in Pastoral :
But Authors that themselves too much esteem,
Lose their own Genius, and mistake their Theme ;
Thus in times past * Dubartas vainly Writ,
Allaying Sacred Truth with trifling Wit,
Impertinently, and without delight,
Describ'd the Israelites Triumphant Flight,
And following Moses o're the Sandy Plain,
Perish'd with Pharaoh in th' Arabian Main.
What-e're you write of Pleasant or Sublime,
Always let sence accompany your Rhyme :
Falsely they seem each other to oppose ;
Rhyme must be made with Reason's Laws to close.
And when to conquer her you bend your force ,
The Mind will Triumph in the Noble Course ;
To Reason's yoke she quickly will incline,
Which, far from hurting, renders her Divine :
But, if neglected, will as easily stray,
And master Reason, which she should obey.
Love Reason Then : and let what e're you Write
Borrow from her its Beauty, Force, and Light.
Most Writers, mounted on a resty Muse,
Extravagant, and Senceless Objects chuse ;
They Think they erre, if in their Verse they fall
On any thought that's Plain, or Natural :
Fly this excess ; and let Italians be
Vain Authors of false glitt'ring Poetry.
All ought to aim at Sence ; but most in vain
Strive the hard Pass, and slipp'ry Path to gain :
You drown, if to the right or left you stray ;
Reason to go has often but one way.
Sometimes an Author, fond of his own Thought,
Pursues his Object till it's over-wrought :
If he describes a House, he shews the Face,
And after walks you round from place to place ;
Here is a Vista, there the Doors unfold,
Balcone's here are Ballustred with Gold ;
Then counts the Rounds and Ovals in the Halls,
* The Festoons, Freezes, and the Astragals :
Tir'd with his tedious Pomp, away I run,
And skip o're twenty Pages to be gon.
Of such Descriptions the vain Folly see,
And shun their barren Superfluity.
All that is needless carefully avoid ,
The Mind once satisfi'd, is quickly cloy'd :
He cannot Write, who knows not to give o're,
To mend one Fault, he makes a hundred more :
A Verse was weak, you turn it much too strong,
And grow Obscure, for far you should be Long.
Some are not Gaudy, but are Flat and Dry ;
Not to be low, another soars too high.
Would you of every one deserve the Praise?
In Writing, vary your Discourse, and Phrase ;
A frozen Stile, that neither Ebs or Flows,
Instead of pleasing, makes us gape and doze.
Those tedious Authors are esteem'd by none
Who tire us, Humming the same heavy Tone.
Happy, who in his Verse can gently steer,
From Grave, to Light ; from Pleasant, to Severe :
His Works will be admir'd where-ever found,
And oft with Buyers will be compass'd round.
In all you Write, be neither Low nor Vile :
The meanest Theme may have a proper Stile.
The dull Burlesque appear'd with impudence,
And pleas'd by Novelty, in Spite of Sence.
All, except trivial points, grew out of date ;
Parnassus spoke the Cant of Belinsgate :
Boundless and Mad, disorder'd Rhyme was seen :
Disguis'd Apollo chang'd to Harlequin.
This Plague, which first in Country Towns began,
Cities and Kingdoms. quickly over-ran ;
The dullest Scriblers some Admirers found,
And the * Mock-Tempest was a while renown'd :
But this low stuff the Town at last despis'd,
And scorn'd the Folly that they once had pris'd ;
Distinguish'd Dull, from Natural and Plain,
And left the Villages to Fleckno's Reign.
Let not so mean a Stile your Muse debase ;
But learn from † Butler the Buffooning grace :
And let Burlesque in Ballads be employ'd ;
Yet noisy Bumbast carefully avoid,
Nor think to raise (tho' on Pharsalia's Plain)
† Millions of mourning Mountains of the Slain :
* Nor, with Dubartas, bridle up the Floods,
And Periwig with Wool the bald-pate Woods,
Chuse a just Stile ; be Grave without constraint,
Great without Pride, and Lovely without Paint :
Write what your Reader may be pleas'd to hear ;
And, for the Measure, have a careful Ear.
On easy Numbers fix your happy choice ;
Of jarring Sounds avoid the odious noise :
The fullest Verse and the most labor'd Sence,
Displease us, if the Ear once take offence.
Our ancient Verse, (as homely as the Times,)
Was rude, unmeasur'd, only Tagg'd with Rhimes:
Number and Cadence, that have Since been Shown,
To those unpolish'd Writers were unknown.
* Fairfax was He, who, in that Darker Age,
By his just Rules restrain'd Poetic Rage ;
Spencer did next in Pastorals excel,
And taught the Noble Art of Writing well :
To stricter Rules the Stanza did restrain,
And found for Poetry a richer Veine.
Then D'Avenant came; who, with a new found Art,
Chang'd all, spoil'd all, and had his way apart :
His haughty Muse all others did despise,
And thought in Triumph to bear off the Prize,
Till the Sharp-sighted Critics of the Times
In their Mock-Gondibert expos'd his Rhimes;
The Lawrels he pretended did refuse,
And dash'd the hopes of his aspiring Muse.
This head-strong Writer, falling from on high,
Made following Authors take less Liberty.
Waller came last, but was the first whose Art
Just Weight and Measure did to Verse impart ;
That of a well-plac'd Word could teach the force,
And shew'd for Poetry a nobler Course :
His happy Genius did our Tongue Refine,
And easie Words with pleasing Numbers joyn:
His Verses to good method did apply,
And chang'd harsh Discord to Soft Harmony.
All own'd his Laws which, long approv'd and try'd,
To present Authors now may be a Guide.
Tread boldly in his Steps, secure from Fear,
And be, like him, in your Expressions clear.
If in your Verse you drag, and Sence delay,
My Patience tires, my Fancy goes astray,
And from your vain Discourse I turn my mind,
Nor search an Author troublesom to find.
There is a kind of Writer pleas'd with Sound,
Whose Fustian head with clouds is compass'd round,
No Reason can disperse 'em with its Light :
Learn then to Think, e're you pretend to Write,
As your Idea's clear, or else obscure,
Th' Expression follows perfect, or impure :
What we conceive, with ease we can express ;
Words to the Notions flow with readiness.
Observe the Language well in all you Write,
And swerve not from it in your loftiest flight.
The smoothest Verse, and the exactest Sence
Displease us, if ill English give offence :
A barb'rous Phrase no Reader can approve ;
Nor Bombast, Noise, or Affectation Love.
In short, without pure Language, what you Write,
Can never yield us Profit, or Delight.
Take time for thinking ; never work in hast ;
And value not your self for writing fast.
A rapid Poem, with such fury writ,
Shews want of Judgment, not abounding Wit.
More pleas'd we are to see a River lead
His gentle Streams along a flow'ry Mead,
Than from high Banks to hear loud Torrents roar,
With foamy Waters on a Muddy Shore.
Gently make haste, of Labour not afraid ;
A hundred times consider what you've said :
Polish, repolish, every Colour lay,
And sometimes add ; but oft'ner take away.
Tis not enough, when swarming Faults are writ,
That here and there are scattered Sparks of Wit ;
Each Object must be fix'd in the due place,
And diff'ring parts have Corresponding Grace :
Till, by a curious Art dispos'd, we find
One perfect whole, of all the pieces join'd.
Keep to your Subject close, in all you say ;
Nor for a founding Sentence ever stray.
The publick Censure for your Writings fear,
And to your self be Critic most severe.
Fantastic Wits their darling Follies love ;
But find You faithful Friends that will reprove,
That on your Works may look with careful Eyes,
And of your Faults be zealous Enemies :
Lay by an Author's Pride and Vanity,
And from a Friend a Flatterer descry,
Who seems to like, but means not what he says :
Embrace true Counsel, but suspect false Praise.
A Sycophant will every thing admire ;
Each Verse, each Sentence sets his Soul on Fire :
All is Divine ! there's not a Word amiss !
He shakes with Joy, and weeps with Tenderness ;
He over-pow'rs you with his mighty Praise.
Truth never moves in those impetuous ways :
A Faithful Friend is careful of your Fame,
And freely will your heedless Errors blame ;
He cannot pardon a neglected Line,
But Verse to Rule and Order will confine,
Reproves of words the too affected found ;
Here the Sence flags and your expression's round
Your Fancy tires and your Discourse grows vain,
Your Terms improper make them just and plain.
Thus 'tis a faithful Friend will freedom use ;
But Authors, partial to their Darling Muse,
Think to protect it they have just pretence,
And at your Friendly Counsel take offence.
Said you of this, that the Expression's flat ?
Your Servant, Sir ; you must excuse me that,
He answers you. This word has here no grace,
Pray leave it out : That, Sir's the proper'st place.
This Turn I like not : 'Tis approv'd by all.
Thus, resolute not from a fault to fall.
If there's a Syllable of which you doubt,
'Tis a sure Reason not to blot it out.
Yet still he says you may his Faults confute,
And over him your pow'r is absolute :
But of his feign'd Humility take heed ;
Tis a Bait lay'd, to make you hear him read :
And when he leaves you, happy in his Muse,
Restless he runs some other to abuse,
And often finds ; for in our scribling times
No Fool can want a Sot to praise his Rhymes :
The flattest work has ever, in the Court,
Met with some Zealous Ass for its support :
And in all times a forward, Scribling Fop
Has found some greater Fool to cry him up.