THE ART OF POETRY, Written in French by The SIEUR de Boileau, Made English.  
LONDON, Printed for R. Bentley, and S. Magnes, in Russel-street in Covent-Garden, 1683.   

Canto I.  
RAsh Author, 'tis a vain presumptuous Crime  
To undertake the Sacred Art of Rhyme;  
If at thy Birth the Stars that ruled thy Sense  
Shone not with a Poetic Influence:  
In thy straight 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 Talon 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 Translated by Sylvester.  Dubartas vainly Writ,  
Allaying Sacred Truth with trifling Wit,  
Impertinently, and without delight,  
Described the Israelites Triumphant Flight,  
And following Moses o'er the Sandy Plain,  
Perished with Pharaoh in th' Arabian Main.  
Whate'er you write of Pleasant or Sublime,  
Always let sen●e 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'er you Write  
Borrow from her its Beauty, Force, and Light.  
Most Writers, mounted on a resty Muse,  
Extravagant, and Senseless Objects choose;  
They Think they err, 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 glittering Poetry.  
All aught to aim at Sense; but most in vain  
Strive the hard Pass, and slippery 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 overwrought:  
If he describes a House, he shows 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,  

* Verse of Scudery.  The Festoons, Freezes, and the Astragals:  
Tired with his tedious Pomp, away I run,  
And skip o'er twenty Pages to be gone.  
Of such Descriptions the vain Folly see,  
And shun their barren Superfluity.  
All that is needless carefully avoid,  
The Mind once satisfied, is quickly cloyed:  
He cannot Write, who knows not to give o'er;  
To mend one Fault, he makes a hundred more:  
A Verse was weak, you turn it much too strong,  
And grow Obscure, for fear 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 Style, that neither Ebbs or Flows,  
Instead of pleasing, makes us gape and dose.  
Those tedious Authors are esteemed by none  
Who tyre 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 admired wherever found,  
And oft with Buyers will be compassed round.  
In all you Write, be neither Low nor Vile:  
The meanest Theme may have a proper Style.  
The dull Burlesque appeared with impudence,  
And pleased by Novelty, in Spite of Sense.  
All, except trivial points, grew out of date;  
Parnassus spoke the Cant of Belins-gate:  
Boundless and Mad, disordered Rhyme was seen:  
Disguised Apollo changed to Harlequin.  
This Plague, which first in Country Towns began,  
Cities and Kingdoms quickly overran;  
The dullest Scribblers some Admirers found,  
And the 
* The Mock-Tempest, a Play, written by Mr. Duffet.  Mock-Tempest was a while renowned:  
But this low stuff the Town at last despised,  
And scorned the Folly that they once had prized;  
Distinguished Dull, from Natural and Plain,  
And left the Villages to Fleckno's Reign.  
Let not so mean a Style your Muse debase;  
But learn from 
† Hudebrass.  Butler the Buffooning grace:  
And let Burlesque in Ballads be employed;  
Yet noisy Bombast carefully avoid,  
Nor think to raise (tho' on Pharsalia's Plain)  

† Verse of Brebeuf.  Millions of mourning Mountains of the Slain:  

* Verse of Dubartas.  Nor, with Dubartas, bridle up the Floods,  
And Periwig with Wool the baldpate Woods,  
Choose a just Style; be Grave without constraint,  
Great without Pride, and Lovely without Paint:  
Write what your Reader may be pleased 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 laboured Sense,  
Displease us, if the Ear once take offence.  
Our ancient Verse, (as homely as the Times,)  
Was rude, unmeasured, only Tagged with Rhimes:  
Number and Cadence, that have Since been Shown,  
To those unpolished Writers were unknown.  

* Fairfax in his Translation of Godfrey of Bullen.  Fairfax was He, who, in that Darker Age,  
By his just Rules restrained 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 Vein.  
Then D'Avenant came; who, with a new found Art,  
Changed all, spoiled 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 exposed his Rhimes;  
The Laurels he pretended did refuse,  
And dashed the hopes of his aspiring Muse.  
This headstrong 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-placed Word could teach the force,  
And showed for Poetry a nobler Course:  
His happy Genius did our Tongue Refine,  
And easy Words with pleasing Numbers join:  
His Verses to good method did apply,  
And changed harsh Discord to Soft Harmony.  
All owned his Laws; which, long approved and tried,  
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 Sense delay,  
My Patience tires, my Fancy goes astray,  
And from your vain Discourse I turn my mind,  
Nor search an Author troublesome to find.  
There is a kind of Writer pleased with Sound,  
Whose Fustian head with clouds is compassed round,  
No Reason can disperse 'em with its Light:  
Learn then to Think, ere you pretend to Write,  
As your Ideas 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 Sense  
Displease us, if ill English give offence:  
A barbarous 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 haste;  
And value not yourself for writing fast.  
A rapid Poem, with such fury writ,  
Shows want of Judgement, not abounding Wit.  
More pleased we are to see a River lead  
His gentle Streams along a flowery 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 oftener take away.  
'tis not enough, when swarming Faults are writ,  
That here and there are scattered Sparks of Wit;  
Each Object must be fixed in the due place,  
And differing parts have Corresponding Grace:  
Till, by a curious Art disposed, we find  
One perfect whole, of all the pieces joined.  
Keep to your Subject close, in all you say;  
Nor for a sounding Sentence ever stray.  
The public Censure for your Writings fear,  
And to yourself 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 sound;  
Here the Sense 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 approved 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 power is absolute:  
But of his feigned Humility take heed;  
'Tis a Bait laid, 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 scribbling 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, Scribbling Fop  
Has found some greater Fool to cry him up.  
End of the first Canto.   

Canto II.  

Pastoral.  
AS a fair Nymph, when Rising from her bed,  
With sparkling Diamonds dresses not her head;  
But, without Gold, or Pearl, or costly Scents,  
Gathers from neighbouring Fields her Ornaments:  
Such, lovely in its dress, but plain withal,  
Ought to appear a Perfect Pastoral:  
It's humble method nothing has of fierce,  
But hates the rattling of a lofty Verse:  
There, Native beauty pleases, and excites,  
And never with harsh Sounds the Ear affrights.  
But in this stile a Poet often spent,  
In rage throws by his 
* Flute Pipe.  Rural Instrument,  
And vainly, when disordered thoughts abound,  
Amidst the Eclogue makes the Trumpet Sound:  
Pan flies, Alarmed, into the neighbouring Woods,  
And frighted Nymphs dive down into the Floods.  
Opposed to this another, low in stile,  
Makes Shepherds speak a Language base and vile:  
His Writings, flat and heavy, without Sound,  
Kissing the Earth, and creeping on the ground;  
You'd swear that Randal, in his Rustic Strains,  
Again was quavering to the Country Swains,  
And changing, without care of Sound or Dress,  
Strephon and Phyllis, into Tom and Bess.  
'twixt these extremes 'tis hard to keep the right;  
For Guides take Virgil, and read Theocrite:  
Be their just Writings, by the Gods inspired,  
Your constant Pattern, practised and admired.  
By them alone you'll easily comprehend  
How Poets, without shame, may condescend  
To sing of Gardens, Fields, of Flowers, and Fruit,  
To stir up Shepherds, and to tune the Flute,  
Of Love's rewards to tell the happy hour,  
Daphne a Tree, Narcissus made a Flower,  
And by what means the Eclogue yet has power  

* Virg. Eclog. 4.  To make the Woods worthy a Conqueror:  
This of their Writings is the grace and flight;  
Their risings lofty, yet not out of Sight.   

Elegy.  
The Elegy, that loves a mournful stile,  
With unbound hair weeps at a Funeral Pile,  
It paints the Lover's Torments, and Delights,  
A Mistress Flatters, Threatens, and Invites:  
But well these Raptures if you'll make us see,  
You must know Love, as well as Poetry.  
I hate those Lukewarm Authors, whose forced Fire  
In a cold stile describes a hot Desire,  
That sigh by Rule, and raging in cold blood  
Their sluggish Muse whip to an Amorous mood:  
Their feigned Transports appear but flat and vain;  
They always sigh, and always hug their Chain,  
Adore their Prison, and their Sufferings bless,  
Make Sense and Reason quarrel as they please.  
'Twas not of old in this affected Tone  
That Smooth Tibullus made his Amorous moan;  
Nor Ovid, when, Instructed from above,  
By Nature's Rules he taught the Art of Love.  
The Heart in Elegies forms the Discourse.   

Ode.  
The Ode is bolder, and has greater force.  
Mounting to Heaven in her Ambitious flight,  
Amongst the Gods and Heroes takes delight;  
Of Pisa's Wrestlers tells the Sin'ewy force,  
And sings the dusty Conqueror's glorious Course:  
To Simois streams does fierce Achilles bring,  
And makes the Ganges bow to Britan's King.  
Sometimes she flies, like an Industrious Bee,  
And robs the Flowers by Nature's Chemistry,  
Describes the Shepherd's Dances, Feasts, and Bliss,  
And boasts from Phyllis to surprise a Kiss,  
When gently she resists with feigned remorse,  
That what she grants may seem to be by force:  
Her generous stile at random oft will part,  
And by a brave disorder shows her Art.  
Unlike those fearful Poets, whose cold Rhyme  
In all their Raptures keep exactest time,  
That sing th' Illustrious Hero's mighty praise  
(Lean Writers!) by the terms of Weeks and Days;  
And dare not from least Circumstances part,  
But take all Towns by strictest Rules of Art:  
Apollo drives those Fops from his abode;  
And some have said, that once the humorous God  
Resolving all such Scribblers to confound  
For the short Sonnet ordered this strict bound:  
Set Rules for the just Measure, and the Time,  
The easy running, and alternate Rhyme;  
But, above all, those Licences denied  
Which in these Writings the lame Sense Supplied;  
Forbade an useless Line should find a place,  
Or a repeated Word appear with grace.  
A faultless Sonnet, finished thus, would be  
Worth tedious Volumes of loose Poetry.  
A hundred Scribbling Authors, without ground  
Believe they have this only Phoenix found:  
When yet th' exactest scarce have two or three  
Among whole Tomes, from Faults and Censure free.  
The rest, but little read, regarded less,  
Are shoveled to the Pastry from the Press.  
Closing the Sense within the measured time,  
'Tis hard to fit the Reason to the Rhyme.   

Epigram.  
The Epigram, with little art composed,  
Is one good sentence in a Distich closed.  
These points, that by Italians first were prized,  
Our ancient Authors knew not, or despised:  
The Vulgar, dazzled with their glaring Light,  
To their false pleasures quickly they invite;  
But public Favour so increased their pride,  
They overwhelmed Parnassus with their Tide.  
The Madrigal at first was overcome,  
And the proud Sonnet fell by the same Doom;  
With these grave Tragedy adorned her flights,  
And mournful Elegy her Funeral Rites:  
A Hero never failed 'em on the Stage,  
Without this point a Lover durst not rage;  
The Amorous Shepherds took more care to prove  
True to their Point, than Faithful to their Love.  
Each word, like janus, had a double face:  
And Prose, as well as Verse allowed it place:  
The Lawyer with Conceits adorned his Speech,  
The Parson without Quibbling could not Preach,  
At last affronted Reason looked about,  
And from all serious matters shut 'em out:  
Declared that none should use 'em without Shame,  
Except a scattering in the Epigram;  
Provided that, by Art, and in due time  
They turned upon the Thought, and not the Rhyme  
Thus in all parts disorders did abate;  
Yet Quiblers in the Court had leave to prate:  
Insipid Jesters, and unpleasant Fools,  
A Corporation of dull Punning Drolls.  
'Tis not, but that sometimes a dextrous Muse  
May with advantage a turned Sense abuse,  
And, on a word, may trifle with address;  
But above all avoid the fond excess,  
And think not, when your Verse and Sense are lame,  
With a dull Point to Tag your Epigram.  
Each Poem his Perfection has apart;  
The British Round in plainness shows his Art;  
The Ballad, though the pride of Ancient time,  
Has often nothing but his humorous Rhyme;  
The 
† An old way of Writing, which began and ended with the same Measure.  Madrigal may softer Passions move,  
And breathe the tender Ecstasies of Love:  
Desire to show itself, and not to wrong  
Armed Virtue first with satire in its Tongue.   

satire.  
Lucilius was the man who bravely bold,  
To Roman Vices did this Mirror hold,  
Protected humble Goodness from reproach,  
Showed Worth on foot and Rascals in the Coach:  
Horace his pleasing Wit to this did add,  
And none uncensured could be Fool, or mad;  
Unhappy was that Wretch, whose name might be  
Squared to the Rules of their Sharp Poetry.  
Persius, obscure, but full of Sense and Wit,  
Affected brevity in all he writ!  
And juvenal, Learned as those times could be,  
Too far did stretch his sharp Hyperbole;  
Tho horrid Truths through all his labours shine,  
In what he writes there's something of Divine:  
Whether he blames the Caprean Debauch,  
Or of Sejanus Fall tells the approach,  
Or that he makes the trembling Senate come  
To the stern Tyrant, to receive their Doom;  
Or Roman Vice in coursest Habits shows,  
And paints an Empress reeking from the Stews:  
In all he Writes appears a noble Fire;  
To follow such a Master then desire▪  
Chaucer alone fixed on this solid Base;  
In his old Style, conserveses a modern grace:  
Too happy, if the freedom of his Rhymes  
Offended not the method of our Times.  
The Latin Writers, Decency neglect;  
But modern Readers challenge our respect,  
And at immodest Writings take offence,  
If clean Expression cover not the Sense.  
I love sharp satire, from obsceneness free;  
Not Impudence, that Preaches Modesty:  
Our English, who in Malice never fail,  
Hence, in Lampoons and Libels, learned to Rail;  
Pleasant Detraction, that by Singing goes  
From mouth to mouth, and as it marches grows!  
Our freedom in our Poetry we see,  
That Child of Joy, begot by Liberty.  
But, vain Blasphemer, tremble, when you choose  
God for the Subject of your Impious Muse:  
At last, those Jests which Libertines invent  
Bring the lewd Author to just punishment,  
Even in a Song there must be Art, and Sense;  
Yet sometimes we have seen, that Wine, or Chance  
Have warmed cold Brains, and given dull Writers Mettle,  
And furnished out a Scene for Mr. S—:  
But for one lucky Hit, that made thee please,  
Let not thy Folly grow to a Disease,  
Nor think thyself a Wit; for in our Age  
If a warm Fancy does some Fop engage;  
He neither eats or sleeps, till he has Writ,  
But plagues the World with his Adulterate Wit.  
Nay, 'tis a wonder, if, in his dire rage,  
He Prints not his dull Follies for the Stage;  
And, in the Front of all his Senseless Plays,  
Makes 
* D. Logan a Graver.  David Logan Crown his head with Bays.   
End of the second Canto.   

Canto III.  

Tragedy.  
THere's not a Monster bred beneath the Sky  
But, well disposed by Art, may please the Eye:  
A curious Workman, by his Skill Divine,  
From an ill Object makes a good Design.  
Thus, to Delight, as Tragedy, in Tears  
For 
* Writ by Mr. Dryden.  Oedipus, provokes our Hopes, and Fears:  
For Parricide Orestes asks relief;  
And, to increase our pleasure, causes grief.  
You then, that in this noble Art would rise,  
Come; and in lofty Verse dispute the Prize.  
Would you upon the Stage acquire renown,  
And for your Judges summon all the Town?  
Would you your Works for ever should remain,  
And, after Ages past, be sought again?  
In all you Write, observe with Care and Art  
To move the Passions, and incline the Heart.  
If, in a laboured Act, the pleasing Rage  
Cannot our Hopes and Fears by turns engage,  
Nor in our mind a feeling Pity raise;  
In vain with Learned Scenes you fill your Plays:  
Your cold Discourse can never move the mind  
Of a stern Critic, natu'rally unkind;  
Who, justly tired with your Pedantic flight,  
Or falls asleep, or censures all you Write.  
The Secret is, Attention first to gain;  
To move our minds, and then to entertain:  
That, from the very opening of the Scenes,  
The first may show us what the Author means.  
I'm tired to see an Actor on the Stage  
That knows not whether he's to Laugh, or Rage;  
Who, an Intrigue unravelling in vain,  
Instead of pleasing, keeps my mind in pain:  
I'd rather much the nauseous Dunce should say  
Downright, my name is Hector in the Play;  
Than with a Mass of Miracles, ill joined,  
Confound my Ears, and not instruct my Mind.  
The Subjects never soon enough expressed;  
Your place of Action must be fixed, and rest.  
A Spanish Poet may, with good event,  
In one day's space whole Ages represent;  
There oft the Hero of a wand'ring Stage  
Begins a Child, and ends the Play of Age:  
But we, that are by Reason's Rules confined,  
Will, that with Art the Poem be designed,  
That unity of Action, Time, and Place  
Keep the Stage full, and all our Labours grace.  
Write not what cannot be with ease conceived;  
Some Truths may be too strong to be believed.  
A foolish Wonder cannot entertain:  
My mind's not moved, if your Discourse be vain.  
You may relate, what would offend the Eye:  
Seeing, indeed, would better satisfy;  
But there are objects, that a curious Art  
Hides from the Eyes, yet offers to the Heart.  
The mind is most agreably surprised,  
When a well-woven Subject, long disguised,  
You on a sudden artfully unfold,  
And give the whole another face, and mould.  

* The beginning and progress of Tragedies.  At first the Tragedy was void of Art;  
A Song; where each man Danced, and Sung his Part,  
And of God Bacchus roaring out the praise  
Sought a good Vintage for their Jolly days:  
Then Wine, and Joy, were seen in each man's Eyes,  
And a fat Goat was the best Singer's prize.  
Thespis was first, who, all besmeared with Lee,  
Began this pleasure for Posterity:  
And, with his Carted Actors, and a Song▪  
Amused the People as he passed along▪  
Next, Aeschylus the different Persons placed,  
And with a better Masque his Players graced:  
Upon a Theatre his Verse expressed,  
And showed his Hero with a Buskin dressed.  
Then Sophocles, the Genius of his Age,  
Increased the Pomp, and Beauty of the Stage,  
Engaged the Chorus Song in every part,  
And polished rugged Verse by Rules of Art:  
He, in the Greek, did those perfections gain  
Which the weak Latin never could attain.  
Our pious Fathers, in their Priest-rid Age,  
As Impious, and Profane, abhorred the Stage:  
A Troop of silly Pilgrims, as 'tis said,  
Foolishly zealous, scandalously Played  
(Instead of Heroes, and of Love's complaints)  
The Angels, God, the Virgin, and the Saints.  
At last, right Reason did his Laws reveal,  
And showed the Folly of their ill-placed Zeal,  
Silenced those Nonconformists of the Age,  
And raised the lawful Heroes of the Stage:  
Only th' Athenian Masque was laid aside,  
And Chorus by the Music was supplied.  
Ingenious Love, inventive in new Arts,  
Mingled in Plays, and quickly touched our Hearts:  
This Passion never could resistance find,  
But knows the shortest passage to the mind.  
Paint then, I'm pleased my Hero be in Love;  
But let him not like a tame Shepherd move:  
Let not Achilles be like Thyrsis seen,  
Or for a Cyrus show an 
* Artamen, the name of Cyrus in Scuderies Romance.  Artamen;  
That, struggling oft, his Passions we may find,  
The Frailty, not the Virtue of his mind.  
Of Romance Heroes shun the low Design;  
Yet to great Hearts some Human frailties join:  
Achilles must with Homer's heat engage;  
For an affront I'm pleased to see him rage.  
Those little Failings in your Hero's heart  
Show that of Man and Nature he has part:  
To leave known Rules you cannot be allowed;  
Make Agamemnon covetous, and proud,  
Aeneas in Religious Rites austere,  
Keep to each man his proper Character.  
Of Countries and of Times the humours know;  
From different Climates, differing Customs grow:  
And strive to shun their fault, who vainly dress  
An Antique Hero like some modern Ass;  
Who make old Romans like our English move,  
Show Cato Sparkish, or make Brutus Love.  
In a Romance those errors are excused:  
There 'tis enough that, Reading, we're amused:  
Rules too severe would then be useless found;  
But the strict Scene must have a juster bound:  
Exact Decorum we must always find.  
If then you form some Hero in your mind,  
Be sure your Image with itself agree;  
For what he first appears, he still must be.  
Affected Wits will nat'urally incline  
To paint their Figures by their own design:  
Your Bully Poets, Bully Heroes write;  
Chapman, in Bussy D'Ambois took delight,  
And thought perfection was to Huff, and Fight.  
Wise Nature by variety does please;  
Cloth differing Passions in a differing Dress:  
Bold Anger, in rough haughty words appears;  
Sorrow is humble, and dissolves in Tears.  
Make not your 
* Seneca Trag.  Hecuba with fury rage,  
And show a Ranting grief upon the Stage;  
Or tell in vain how the rough Tanais bore  
His sevenfold Waters to the Euxine Shore:  
These swollen expressions, this affected noise  
Shows like some Pedant, that declaims to Boys.  
In sorrow, you must softer methods keep;  
And, to excite our tears, yourself must weep:  
Those noisy words with which ill Plays abound,  
Come not from hearts that are in sadness drowned▪  
The Theatre for a young Poet's Rhymes  
Is a bold venture in our knowing times:  
An Author cannot easily purchase Fame;  
Critics are always apt to hiss, and blame:  
You may be Judged by every Ass in Town,  
The Privilege is bought for half a Crown.  
To please, you must a hundred Changes try;  
Sometimes be humble, then must soar on high:  
In noble thoughts must every where abound,  
Be easy, pleasant, solid, and profound:  
To these you must surprising Touches join,  
And show us a new wonder in each Line;  
That all in a just method well designed,  
May leave a strong Impression in the mind,  
These are the Arts that Tragedy maintain:   

The Epic.  
But the Heroic claims a Loftier Strain.  
In the Narration of some great Design,  
Invention, Art, and Fable all must join:  
Here Fiction must employ its utmost grace;  
All must assume a Body, Mind, and Face:  
Each Virtue a Divinity is seen;  
Prudence is Pallas, Beauty Paphos Queen.  
'Tis not a Cloud from whence swift Lightnings fly;  
But jupiter, that thunders from the Sky:  
Nor a rough Storm, that gives the Sailor pain;  
But angry Neptune, ploughing up the Main:  
Echoes no more an empty Airy Sound;  
But a fair Nymph that weeps, her Lover drowned.  
Thus in the endless Treasure of his mind,  
The Poet does a thousand Figures find,  
Around the work his Ornaments he pours,  
And strews with lavish hand his opening Flowers.  
'Tis not a wonder if a Tempest bore  
The Trojan Fleet against the Libyan Shore;  
From faithless Fortune this is no surprise,  
For every day 'tis common to our eyes;  
But angry juno, that she might destroy,  
And overwhelm the rest of ruin'd Troy:  
That Aeolus with the fierce Goddess joined,  
Oped the hollow Prisons of the Wind;  
Till angry Neptune, looking o'er the Main,  
Rebukes the Tempest, calms the Waves again,  
Their Vessels from the dangerous quicksands steers;  
These are the Springs that move our hopes and fears  
Without these Ornaments before our Eyes,  
Th'unsinewed Poem languishes, and dies:  
Your Poet in his art will always fail,  
And tell you but a dull insipid Tale.  
In vain have our mistaken Authors tried  
These ancient Ornaments to lay aside,  
Thinking our God, and Prophets that he sent,  
Might Act like those the Poets did invent,  
To fright poor Readers in each Line with Hell,  
And talk of Satan, Ashtaroth, and Bel;  
The Mysteries which Christians must believe,  
Disdain such shifting Pageants to receive:  
The Gospel offers nothing to our thoughts  
But penitence, or punishment for faults;  
And mingling falsehoods with those Mysteries,  
Would make our Sacred Truths appear like Lies▪  
Besides, what pleasure can it be to hear,  
The howl of repining Lucifer,  
Whose rage at your imagined Hero flies,  
And oft with God himself disputes the prize?  
Tasso, you'll say, has done it with applause;  
It is not here I mean to Judge his Cause:  
Yet, though our Age has so extolled his name,  
His Works had never gained immortal Fame,  
If holy Godfrey in his Ecstasies  
Had only Conquered Satan on his knees;  
If Tancred, and Armida's pleasing form,  
Did not his melancholy Theme adorn.  
'Tis not, that Christian Poems ought to be  
Filled with the Fictions of Idolatry;  
But in a common Subject to reject  
The Gods, and Heathen Ornaments neglect;  
To banish Triton's who the Seas invade,  
To take Pan's Whistle, or the Fates degrade,  
To hinder Charon in his leaky Boat  
To pass the Shepherd with the Man of Note,  
Is with vain Scruples to disturb your mind,  
And search Perfection you can never find:  
As well they may forbid us to present  
Prudence or Justice for an Ornament,  
To paint old janus with his front of Brass,  
And take from Time his Scythe, his Wings and Glass,  
And every where, as't were Idolatry,  
Banish Descriptions from our Poetry.  
Leave 'em their pious Follies to pursue;  
But let our Reason such vain fears subdue:  
And let us not, amongst our Vanities,  
Of the true God create a God of Lies.  
In Fable we a thousand pleasures see,  
And the smooth names seem made for Poetry;  
As Hector, Alexander, Helen, Phillis,  
Ulysses, Agamemnon, and Achilles:  
In such a Crowd, the Poet were to blame  
To choose King Chilp'eric for his Hero's name.  
Sometimes, the name being well or ill applied,  
Will the whole Fortune of your Work decide.  
Would you your Reader never should be tired?  
Choose some great Hero, fit to be admired,  
In Courage signal, and in Virtue bright,  
Letev'n his very failings give delight;  
Let his great Actions our attention bind,  
Like Caesar, or like Scipio, frame his mind,  
And not like Oedipus his perjured Race;  
A common Conqueror is a Theme too base.  
Choose not your Tale of Accidents too full;  
Too much variety may make it dull:  
Achilles rage alone, when wrought with skill,  
Abundantly does a whole Iliad fill.  
Be your Narrations lively, short, and smart;  
In your Descriptions show your noblest Art:  
There 'tis your Poetry may be employed;  
Yet you must trivial Accidents avoid.  
Nor imitate that 
* St. Amant.  Fool, who, to describe  
The wondrous Marches of the Chosen Tribe,  
Placed on the sides, to see their Armies pass,  
The Fishes staring through the liquid Glass;  
Described a Child, who with his little hand,  
Picked up the shining Pebbles from the sand.  
Such objects are too mean to stay our sight;  
Allow your Work a just and nobler flight.  
Be your beginning plain; and take good heed  
Too soon you mount not on the Airy Steed:  
Nor tell your Reader, in a Thundering Verse,  

† The first line of Scuderies Alaric.  I sing the Conqueror of the Universe.  
What can an Author after this produce?  
The labouring Mountain must bring forth a Mouse.  
Much better are we pleased with his 
* Virgil's Eneids:  Address  
Who, without makingsuch vast promises,  
Says, in an easier Style and plainer Sense,  
" I Sing the Combats of that pious Prince  
" Who from the Phrygian Coast his Armies bore,  
" And landed first on the Lavinian shore.  
His opening Muse sets not the World on fire,  
And yet performs more than we can require:  
Quickly you'll hear him celebrate the fame,  
And future glory of the Roman Name;  
Of Styx and Acheron describe the Floods,  
And Caesar's wand'ring in▪ th' Elysian Woods:  
With Figures numberless his Story grace,  
And every thing in beauteous Colours trace.  
At once you may be pleasing, and sublime;  
I hate a heavy melancholy Rhyme:  
I'd rather read Orlando's Comic Tale,  
Than a dull Author always stiff and stale,  
Who thinks himself dishonoured in his stile,  
If on his Works the Graces do but smile.  
'Tis said, that Homer, Matchless in his Art,  
Stole Venus' Girdle, to engage the Heart:  
His Works indeed vast Treasures do unfold,  
And whatsoever he touches, turns to Gold:  
All in his hands new beauty does acquire;  
He always pleases, and can never tyre.  
A happy Warmth he every where may boast;  
Nor is he in too long Digressions lost:  
His Verses without Rule a method find,  
And of themselves appear in order joined:  
All without trouble answers his intent;  
Each Syllable is tending to th'Event.  
Let his example your endeavours raise:  
To love his Writings, is a kind of praise.  
A Poem, where we all perfections find,  
Is not the work of a Fantastic mind:  
There must be Care, and Time, and Skill, and Pains;  
Not the first heat of unexperienced Brains.  
Yet sometimes Artless Poets, when the rage  
Of a warm Fancy does their minds engage,  
Puffed with vain pride, presume they understand,  
And boldly take the Trumpet in their hand;  
Their Fustian Muse each Accident confounds;  
Nor can she fly, but rise by leaps and bounds,  
Till their small stock of Learning quickly spent,  
Their Poem dies for want of nourishment:  
In vain Mankind the hot-brained fools decryes,  
No branding Censures can unveil his eyes:  
With Impudence the Laurel they invade,  
Resolved to like the Monsters they have made.  
Virgil, compared to them, is flat and dry;  
And Homer understood not Poetry:  
Against their merit if this Age Rebel,  
To future times for Justice they appeal.  
But waiting till Mankind shall do 'em right,  
And bring their Works Triumphantly to Light;  
Neglected heaps we in by-corners lay,  
Where they become to Worms and Moths a prey;  
Forgot, in Dust and Cobwebs let 'em rest,  
Whilst we return from whence we first digressed.  
The great Success which Tragic Writers found,  
In Athens first the Comedy renowned,  
Th'abusive Grecian there, by pleasing ways,  
Dispersed his natu'ral malice in his Plays:  
Wisdom, and Virtue, Honour, Wit, and Sense,  
Were Subject to Buffooning insolence:  
Poets were publicly approved, and sought,  
That Vice extolled, and Virtue set at naught;  
And Socrates himself, in that loose Age,  
Was made the Pastime of a Scoffing Stage.  
At last the Public took in hand the Cause,  
And cured this Madness by the power of Laws;  
Forbade at any time, or any place,  
To name the Person, or describe the Face.  
The Stage its ancient Fury thus let fall,  
And Comedy diverted without Gall:  
By mild reproofs, recovered minds diseased,  
And, sparing Persons, innocently pleased.  
Each one was nicely shown in this new Glass,  
And smiled to think He was not meant the Ass:  
A Miser oft would laugh the first, to find  
A faithful Draught of his own sordid mind;  
And Fops were with such care and cunning writ,  
They liked the Piece for which themselves did sit.  
You then, that would the Comic Laurels wear,  
To study Nature be your only care:  
Who e'er knows man, and by a curious art  
Discerns the hidden secrets of the heart;  
He who observes, and naturally can Paint  
The Jealous Fool, the fawning Sycophant,  
A Sober Wit, an enterprising Ass,  
A humorous Otter, or a Hudibras;  
May safely in these noble Lists engage,  
And make 'em Act and Speak upon the Stage:  
Strive to be natural in all you Write,  
And paint with Colours that may please the Sight.  
Nature in various Figures does abound;  
And in each mind are different Humours found▪  
A glance, a touch, discovers to the wise;  
But every man has not discerning eyes.  
All-changing Time does also change the mind;  
And different Ages, different pleasures find:  
Youth, hot and furious, cannot brook delay,  
By flattering Vice is easily led away;  
Vain in discourse, inconstant in desire,  
In Censure, rash; in pleasures, all on fire.  
The Manly age does steadier thoughts enjoy;  
Power, and Ambition do his Soul employ:  
Against the turns of Fate he sets his mind;  
And by the past the future hopes to find.  
Decrepit Age, still adding to his Stores,  
For others heaps the Treasure he adores.  
In all his actions keeps a frozen pace;  
Past Times extols, the present to debase:  
Incapable of pleasures Youth abuse,  
In others blames, what age does him refuse.  
Your Actors must by Reason be controlled;  
Let young men speak like young, old men like old:  
Observe the Town, and study well the Court;  
For thither various Characters resort:  
Thus 'twas great johnson purchased his renown,  
And in his Art had born away the Crown;  
If less desirous of the People's praise,  
He had not with low Farce debased his Plays;  
Mixing dull Buffonery with Wit refined,  
And Harlequin with noble Terence joined.  
When in the Fox I see the Tortoise hist,  
I lose the Author of the Alchemist.  
The Comic Wit, born with a smiling Air,  
Must Tragic grief, and pompous Verse forbear;  
Yet may he not, as on a Marketplace,  
With Bawdy jests amuse the Populace:  
With well-bred Conversation you must please,  
And your Intrigue unravelled be with ease:  
Your Action still should Reason's Rules obey,  
Nor in an empty Scene may lose its way.  
Your humble Style must sometimes gently rise;  
And your Discourse Sententious be, and Wise:  
The Passions must to Nature be confined,  
And Scenes to Scenes with Artful weaving joined▪  
Your Wit must not unseasonably play;  
But follow Business, never lead the way.  
Observe how Terence does this error shun;  
A careful Father chides his Am'orous Son:  
Then see that Son, whom no advice can move,  
Forget those Orders, and pursue his Love:  
'Tis not a well-drawn Picture we discover;  
'Tis a true son, a Father, and a Lover.  
● like an Author that Reforms the Age;  
And keeps the right Decorum of the Stage,  
That always pleases by just Reason's Rule:  
But for a tedious Droll, a Quibbling Fool,  
Who with low nauseous Baudry fills his Plays;  
Let him begun and on two Trestles raise  
Some Smithfield Stage, where he may act his Pranks,  
And make jack Puddings speak to Mountebanks.   
End of the third Canto.   

Canto IU.  
IN Florence dwelled a Doctor of Renown,  
The Scourge of God, and Terror of the Town,  
Who all the Cant of Physic had by heart,  
And never Murdered but by rules of Art.  
The Public mischief was his Private gain;  
Children their slaughtered Parents sought in vain:  
A Brother here his poisoned Brother wept;  
Some bloodlessdyed, 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 over:  
One Friend, unkilled by Drugs, of all his Store,  
In his new Countryhouse affords him place,  
'Twas a rich Abbot, and a Building Ass:  
Here first the Doctor's Talon came in play,  
He seems Inspired, and talks like 
* The Kings Archetects.  Wren or May:  
Of this new Portico condemns the Face,  
And turns the Entrance to a better place;  
Designs the Staircase 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 humorous Tale,  
He Gaien's dang'erous Science does reject,  
And from ill Doctor turn good Architect.  
In this Example we may have our part:  
Rather be Mason, ('tis an useful Art!)  
Than a dull Poet; for that Trade accursed,  
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 indifferent Wit:  
The ruin'd Stationers against him bawl,  
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 Style of Gondibert.  
Be not affected with that empty praise  
Which your vain Flatterers will sometimes raise,  
And when you read, with Ecstasy will say,  
The finisded Piece! The admirable Play!  
Which, when exposed to Censure and to Light,  
Cannot endure a Critic's piercing sight.  
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 choose  
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 Sense,  
By their false taste condemn some finished part,  
And blame the noblest flights of Wit and Art.  
In vain their fond Opinions you deride,  
With their loved Follies they are satisfied;  
And their weak Judgement, void of Sense and Light,  
Thinks nothing can escape their feeble sight:  
Their dangerous Counsels do not cure, but wound;  
To shun the Storm, they run your Verse aground,  
And thinking to escape a Rock, are drowned.  
Choose 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 fettered 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 extolled,  
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, join the useful and the sound:  
A Sober Reader, a vain Tale will slight;  
He seeks as well Instruction, as Delight.  
Let all your Thoughts to Virtue be confined,  
Still offering 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 dressed in a fair Disguise.  
Yet do I not their sullen Muse approve  
Who from all modest Writings banish Love;  
That strip the Playhouse of its chief Intrigue,  
And make a Murderer of Roderigue:  

* The Cid. Translated into English.  The lightest Love, if decently expressed,  
Will raise no Vicious motions in our breast.  
Dido in vain may weep, and ask relief;  
I blame her Folly, whilst 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 Vigour are expressed;  
Th'obscene expression shows th' Infected breast.  
But above all, base Jealousies avoid,  
In which detracting Poets are employed:  
A noble Wit dares liberally commend;  
And scorns to grudge at his deserving Friend.  
Base Rivals, who true Wit and Merit hate,  
Caballing still against it with the Great,  
Maliciously aspire to gain Renown  
By standing up, and pulling others down.  
Never debase yourself by Treacherous ways,  
Nor by such abject methods seek for praise:  
Let not your only business be to Write;  
Be Virtuous, Just, and in your Friend's delight.  
'Tis not enough your Poems be admired;  
But strive your Conversation be desired:  
Write for immortal Fame; nor ever choose  
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 Honour; 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 bend,  
Committed Murders without Punishment:  
Reason at last, by her all-conquering Arts,  
Reduced these Savages, and Tuned 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 sheltered Innocence by Laws and Peace.  
These benefits from Poets we received,  
From whence are raised those Fictions since believed,  
That Orpheus, by his soft Harmonious strains  
Tamed the fierce Tigers of the Thracian Plains;  
Amphion's Notes, by their melodious powers,  
Drew Rocks & Woods, and raised the Theban towers:  
These Miracles from numbers did arise,  
Since which, in Verse Heaven taught his Mysteries,  
And by a Priest, possessed with rage Divine,  
Apollo spoke from his Prophetic Shrine.  
Soon after Homer the old Heroes praised,  
And noble minds by great Examples raised;  
Then Hesiod did his Grecian Swains incline  
To till the Fields, and prune the bounteous Vine.  
Thus useful Rules were by the Poet's aid,  
In easy numbers, to rude men conveyed,  
And pleasingly their Precepts did impart;  
First Charmed the Ear, and then engaged the Heart:  
The Muses thus their Reputation raised,  
And with just Gratitude in Greece were praised.  
With pleasure Mortals did their Wonders see,  
And Sacrificed to their Divinity:  
But Want, at last base Flattery entertained,  
And old Parnassus with this Vice was stained:  
Desire of gain dazzling the Poet's Eyes,  
〈◊〉 Works were filled 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 enriched with Golden Sand:  
Great Wits, as well as Warriors, only gain  
Laurels and Honours for their Toil and Pain:  
But, what? an Author cannot live on Fame,  
Or pay a Reckoning with a lofty Name:  
A Poet to whom Fortune is unkind,  
Who when he goes to bed has hardly dined;  
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 cherished by the Great,  
And now none famish who deserve to eat:  
What can we fear, when Virtue, Arts, and Sense▪  
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 Offerings bring,  
Our Monarch's praise let bright-eyed 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 Heaven itself does give, and prize,  
Blessings of Peace; that with their milder Rays  
Adorn his Reign, and bring Saturnian Days:  
Now let Rebellion, Discord, Vice, and Rage,  
That have in Patriots Forms debauc head our Age,  
Vanish, with all the Ministers of Hell;  
His Rays their poisonous Vapours shall dispel:  
'Tis He alone our safety did create,  
His own firm Soul. secured the Nation's Fate,  
Opposed to all the boutfeaus of the State.  
Authors, for Him your great endeavours raise;  
The loftiest Numbers will but reach his praise.  
For me, whose Verse in satire 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  
Learned, when the Horace for her Guide did choose:  
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 slight,  
From the fine Gold I separate th' Alloy,  
And show how hasty Writers sometimes stray:  
Apt to blame, than knowing how to mend;  
A sharp, but yet a necesary Friend.  
FINIS.   

ERRATA.  
PAge 2. line 13 for or read of. p. 22. l. 8. for their r. his. p. 29. l. 7. for as, r. us. p. 53. l. 7. for lick, r▪ I like.