HORACE'S Art of Poetry.  
Made English By the Right Honourable THE EARL of ROSCOMMON.  
LONDON, Printed for Henry Herringman at the Blue Anchor in the Lower Walk of the New Exchange. 1680.   

PREFACE.  
I Have seldom known a Trick succeed, and will put none upon the Reader, But tell him plainly that I think it could never be more seasonable than now to lay down such Rules, as if they be observed, will make Men write more Correctly, and judge more discreetly; But Horace must be read seriously or not at all, for else the Reader want be the better for him, and I shall have lost my labour, I have kept as close as I could, both to the Meaning, and the Words of the Author, and done nothing but what I believe he would forgive if he were alive; And I have often asked myself that Question. I know this is a Field  
Per quem Magnus Equos Arunci flexit Alumnus.  
But with all the respect due to the name of Ben. Johnson, to which no Man pays more Veneration than I, it cannot be denied that the constraint of Rhyme, and a literal Translation (to which Horace in this Book declares himself an Enemy) has made him want a Comment in many places.  
My chief care has been to Write intelligibly, and where the Latin was Obscure, I have added a Line or two to explain it.  
I am below the Envy of the Critics, but if I durst, I would beg them to remember, that Horace owed his favour and his fortune to the Character given of him by Virgil and Varius, that Fundanius & Pollio are still valued by what Horace says of them, and that in their Golden Age, there was a good Understanding among the Injenious, and those who were the most Esteemed were the best Natured.  
ROSCOMMON.   

OF THIS TRANSLATION, And of the Use of Poetry, BY Edm. Waller Esq.  
Room was not better by her Horace taught,  
Than we are here, to comprehend his thought▪  
The Poet writ to Noble Piso, there,  
A Noble Piso does instruct us here,  
Gives us a pattern in his flowing Style,  
And with rich Precepts does oblige our Isle,  
Britain, whose Genius is in Verse expressed  
Bold and sublime, but negligently dressed;  
Horace will our superfluous Branches prune,  
Give us new rules, and set our Harp in tune,  
Direct us how, to back the winged Horse,  
Favour his flight, and moderate his force;  
Thou Poets may of Inspiration boast.  
Their Rage ill governed, in the Clouds is lost;  
He that proportioned wonders can disclose,  
At once his Fancy and his Judgement shows;  
chaste moral Writing we may learn from hence  
Neglect of which no wit can recompense;  
The Fountain which from Helicon proceeds,  
That sacred Stream should never water weeds,  
Nor make the Crop of thorns and thistles grow  
Which Envy or perverted Nature sow;  
Well-sounding Verses are the Charm we use,  
Heroic thoughts, and virtue to infuse;  
Things of deep sense we may in Prose unfold,  
But they move more, in lofty numbers told;  
By the loud Trumpet, which our Courage aids,  
We learn that sound, as well as sense, persuades,  
The Muse's friend, unto himself severe,  
With silent pity looks on all that Err,  
But where a brave, a public Action shines  
That he rewards with his Immortal Lines;  
Whether it be in Counsel or in Fight,  
His country's Honour is his chief delight;  
Praise of great Acts, he scatters as a seed,  
Which may the like, in coming Ages breed:  
Here taught the sat of Verses, always prized  
With admiration, or as much despised,  
Men will be lesle indulgent to their fauts  
And patience have to cultivate their thoughts;  
Poets loose half the praise they should have got,  
Could it be known, what they discreetly blot  
Finding new words, that to the ravished Ear  
May like the Language of the Gods appear,  
Such as of old, wise Bards employed, to make  
Unpolished men their wild retreats forsake,  
Law-giving-Heroes, famed for taming Bru'ts,  
And raising Cities with their Charming Lutes,  
For rudest minds, with Harmony were caught,  
And civil Life was by the Muses taught,  
So wand'ring Bees would perish in the Air,  
Did not a sound, proportioned to their Ear,  
Appease their rage, invite them to the Hive,  
Unite their force, and teach them how to thrive  
To rob the flowers, and to forbear the spoil,  
Preserved in Winter by their Summer's toil,  
They give us food, which may with Nectar Vie,  
And Wax that does, the absent Sun, supply.   

HORACE OF THE Art of Poetry▪  

IF in a Picture (Piso) you should see,  
A handsome Woman with a Fish's Tail,  
Or a Man's Head upon a Horse's Neck,  
Or Limbs of Beasts of the most different kinds,  
Covered with Feathers of all sorts of Birds,  
Would you not laugh, and think the Painter mad?  
Trust me that Book is as ridiculous,  
Whose incoherent Style (like sick men's Dreams)  
Varies all Shapes, and mixes all Extremes,  
Painters and Poets have been still allowed,  
Their Pencils, and their Fancies unconfined,  
This privilege we freely give and take;  
But Nature, and the Common-Laws of Sense,  
Forbid to reconcile Antipathys,  
Or make a Snake engender with a Dove,  
And hungry Tiger's court the tender Lambs;  
Some that at first have promised mighty things,  
Applaud themselves, when a few florid Lines  
Shine through th' insipid dulness of the rest;  
Here they describe a Temple, or a Wood,  
Or Streams that through delightful Meadows run,  
And there the Rainbow, or the rapid Rhine,  
But they misplace them all, and crowd them in,  
And are as much to seek in other things,  
As he that only can design a Tree,  
Would be to draw a Shipwreck or a Storm;  
When you begin with so much Pomp and Show,  
Why is the end so little and so low?  
Be what you will, so you be still the same.  
Most Poets fall into the grossest faults,  
Deluded by a seeming Excellence:  
By striving to be short, they grow Obscure,  
And when they would write smoothly they want strength,  
Their Spirits sink; while others that affect,  
A lofty Style, swell to a Tympany;  
Some timorous wretches start at every blast,  
And fearing Tempests, dare not leave the Shore;  
Others in love with wild variety,  
Draw Boars in Waves, and Dolphins in a Wood;  
Thus fear of Erring, joined with want of Skill,  
Is a most certain way of Erring still.  
The meanest Workman in the AEmilian Square,  
May grave the Nails, or imitate the Hair,  
But cannot finish what he hath begun;  
What is there more ridiculous than he?  
For one or two good fcatures in a Face  
Where all the rest are scandalously ill,  
Make it but more remarkably deformed.  
Let Poets march their Subject to their strength,  
And often try what weight they can support,  
And what their Shoulders are too weak to bear,  
After a serious and judicious choice,  
Method and Eloquence will never fail;  
As well the Force as Ornament of Verse,  
Consists in choosing a fit time for things,  
And knowing when a Muse should be indulged  
In her full flight, and when she should be curbed:  
Words must be chosen, and be placed with skill,  
You gain your point, if your industrious Art  
Can make unusual words easy and plain,  
But (if you write of things Abstruse or New)  
Some of your own Inventing may be used,  
(So it be seldom and discreetly done)  
But he that hopes to have new Words allowed,  
Must so derive them from the Grecian Spring,  
As they may seem to flow without constraint;  
Can an Impartial Reader discommend  
In Varus, or in Virgil what he likes?  
In Plautus or Caecilius? Why should I  
Be envied for the little I Invent,  
When Ennius and Cato's copious Style  
Have so enriched, and so adorned our Tongue?  
Men ever had, and ever will have leave,  
To coin new words well suited to the age:  
Words are like Leaves, some whither every year,  
And every year a younger Race succeeds;  
Death is a Tribute all things owe to Fate;  
The Lucrine Mole (Caesar's stupendous Work)  
Protects our Navys from the raging North;  
And (since Cethegus drained the Pontin Lake)  
We Blow and Reap where former ages rowed.  
See how the Tiber (whose licentious Waves  
So often overflowed the neighbouring Fields,  
Now runs a smooth and inoffensive Course,  
Confined by our great Emperors Command;  
Yet this and they, and all will be forgot;  
Why then should Words challenge Eternity,  
When greatest Men, and greatest Actions dye?  
Use may revive the obsoletest Words,  
And banish those that now are most in Vogue;  
Use is the Judge, the Law, and rule of Spe●ch.  
Homer first taught the World in Epic Verse  
(To write of great Commanders, and of Kings,  
Elegies were at first designed for Grief,  
Though now we use them to express our Joy)▪  
But to whose Muse we owe that sort of Verse,  
Is Undecided by the Men of Skill.  
Rage with Jambick's, armed Archilochus▪  
Numbers for Dialogue and action fit  
And favourites of the Dramatic Muse.  
Fierce, lofty, Rapid, whose commanding sound  
Awes the tumultuous noises of the Pit,  
And whose peculiar Province is the Stage.  
Gods, Heroes, Conquerors, Olympic Crowns▪  
Loves pleasing Cares, and the free joys of Wine,  
Are proper subjects for the Lyric Song.  
Why is he honoured with a Poet's Name,  
Who neither knows, nor would observe a Rule?  
And chooses to be Ignorant and Proud,  
Rather than own his Ignorance, and Learn,  
Let every thing have its due Place and Time.  
A Comic Subject loves an Humble Verse,  
Thyestes scorns a low and Comic Style.  
Yet Comedy sometimes may raise her voice,  
And Chremes be allowed to foam and rail:  
Tragedians too, lay by their State to grieve;  
Peleus and Telephus exiled and poor,  
Forget their swelling, and Gygantick Words.  
He that would have Spectators share his Grief,  
Must write not only well, but movingly,  
And raise men's Passions to what height he will,  
We Weep and Laugh as we see others do,  
He only makes me sad who shows the way,  
And first is sad himself, than (Telephus)  
I feel the weight of your Calamities,  
And fancy all your miseries my Own,  
But if you Act them ill, I sleep or laugh:  
Your looks must needs alter, as your Subject does  
From kind to fierce, from wanton to severe,  
For Nature forms, and softens us within,  
And writes our fortune's changes in our face.  
Pleasure enchants, impetuous Rage transports,  
And grief dejects, and wrings the tortured Soul,  
And these are all interpreted by Speech;  
But he whose words and fortunes disagree,  
Absurd, unpitied grows a public Jest.  
Observe the Characters of those that speak,  
Whether an honest Servant, or a Cheat▪  
Or one whose blood boils in his youthful, veins▪  
Or a grave Matron▪ or a busy Nurse,  
Extorting Merchants, careful Husbandmen,  
Argives, or Thebans, Asians or Greeks.  
Follow Report, or feign coherent things,  
Describe Achilles, as Achilles was,  
Impatient, rash, inexorable, proud,  
Scorning all Judges, and all Law but Arms;  
Medea must be all Revenge and Blood,  
Ino all Tears, Ixion all deceit,  
Io must wander, and Orestes mourn:  
If your bold Muse dare tread unbeaten Paths,  
And bring new Characters upon the stage,  
Be sure you keep them up to their first height.  
New Subjects are not easily explained,  
And you had better choose a well known Theme,  
Than trust to an Invention of your own;  
For what originally others writ,  
May be so well disguised, and so improved,  
That with some Justice it may pass for yours▪  
But than you must not Copy trivial things,  
Nor word for word too faithfully Translate,  
Nor (as some servile Imitators do)  
Prescribe at first such strict uneasy rules▪  
As they must ever slavishly observe,  
Or all the laws of decency renounce:  
Begin not as th' old Poetaster did,  
(Troy's famous War, and Priam's Fate, I sing)  
In what will all this Ostentation end?  
The labouring mountain scarce brings forth a mouse▪  
How far is this from the Meonian Style?  
Muse, speak the Man, who since the siege of Troy,  
So many Towns, such change of Manners saw.  
One with a flash begins, and ends in smoke,  
The other out of smoke brings glorious light,  
And (without raising Expectation high)  
Surprises us with darling miracles,  
The bloody Lestrygons inhuman Feasts,  
With all the Monsters, of the Land and Sea▪  
How Scylla barked, and Polyphemus roared:  
He doth not trouble Us with Leda's Eggs,  
When he begins to write the Trojan War;  
Nor writing the return of Diomedes,  
Go back as far as Meleager's Death:  
Nothing is idle, each judicious Line  
Insensibly acquaints Us with the Plot;  
He chooses only what he can improve,  
And Truth and Fiction are so aptly mixed  
That all seems Uniform, and of a piece.  
Now hear what every Auditor expects;  
If you intent that he should stay to hear  
The Epilogue, and see the Curtain fall;  
Mind how our tempers alter with our years,  
And by those Rules form all your Characters:  
One that hath newly learned to speak and go,  
Loves childish Plays, is soon provoked and pleased,  
And changes every hour his wavering mind.  
A Youth that first casts off his Tutor's yoke,  
Loves Horses, Hounds, and Sports, and Exercise,  
Prove to all Vice, impatient of Reproof,  
Proud, careless, fond, inconstant, and profuse▪  
Gain and Ambition rule our riper years,  
And make us Slaves to interest and power▪  
Old Men are only walking Hospitals,  
Where all defects, and all diseases crowd  
With restless pain, and more tormenting fear,  
Lazy, morose, full of delays and hopes▪  
Oppressed with Riches which they dare not use;  
Ill-natured censors of the present Age,  
And fond of all the follies of the past▪  
Thus all the treasure of our flowing Years,  
Our ebb of life for ever takes away.  
Boys must not have the ambitious cares of Men▪  
Nor Men the weak anxieties of Age▪  
Some things are acted, others only told;  
But what we hear moves lesle than what we see▪  
Spectators only have their Eyes to trust,  
But Auditors must trust their Ears and you;  
Yet there are things improper for a Scene,  
Which men of Judgement only will relate;  
Maedoea must not draw her murdering knife,  
And spill her children's blood upon the Stage,  
Nor Atreus there his horrid Feast prepare,  
Cadmus', and Pr●g●es Metamorphosis  
(She to a Swallow turned, he to a Snake)  
And whatsoever contradicts my Sense,  
I hate to see, and never can believe,  
Five Acts are the just measure of a Play▪  
Never presume to make a God appear▪  
But for a business worthy of a God,  
And in one Scene no more than three should speak.  
A Chorus should supply what Action wants,  
And hath a generous and manly part;  
Bridles wild rage, loves Rigid honesty,  
And strict Observance of impartial Laws,  
Sobriety, security and peace,  
And begs the Gods to turn blind fortunes Wheel,  
To raise the Wretched, and pull down the Proud.  
(But nothing must be Sung between the Acts▪  
But what some way conduces to the Plot.)  
First the shrill sound of a small rural Pipe,  
(Not loud like Trumpets, nor adorned as now)  
Was entertainment for the Infant Stage.  
And pleased the thin and bashful Audience,  
Of our well meaning frugal Ancestors▪  
But when our Walls and limits were enlarged,  
And Men (grown wanton by prosperity)  
Studied new Arts of Luxury and Ease,  
The Verse, the Music, and the Scene's improved;  
For how should ignorance be judge of Wit,  
Or men▪ of Sense applaud the Jests of Fools?  
Then came rich clothes and graceful Action in,  
Then instruments were taught more moving notes,  
And Eloquence with all her pomp and charms  
Foretold as useful and sententious Truths▪  
As those delivered by the Delphic God:  
The first Tragedians, found that serious Style  
Too grave for their Uncultivated age,  
And so brought wild and naked Satyrs in,  
(Whose motion, words, and shape were all a Farce)  
(As oft as decency would give them leave)  
Because the mad ungovernable Rout,  
Full of confusion, and the fumes of Wine,  
Loved such Variety and antic Tricks.  
But then they did not wrong themselves so much,  
To make a God, a Hero, or a King,  
(Stripped of his golden Crown and purple Robe)  
Descend to a Mechanic Dialect,  
Nor (to avoid such meanness) soaring high  
With empty sound, and airy notions fly;  
For, Tragedy should blush as much to stoop  
To the low Mimmick follies of a Farce,  
As a grave Matron, would to dance with Girls:  
You must not think that a Satiric Style  
Allows of scandalous and brutish Words,  
Or the confounding of your Characters.  
Begin with Truth, then give Invention scope,  
And if your Style be natural and smooth,  
All men will try, and hope to write as well;  
And (not without much pains) be undeceived.  
So much good Method and▪ Connexion may  
Improve the common and the plainest things.  
A satire that comes staring from the Woods,  
Must not at first speak like an Orator;  
But, though his language should not be refined,  
●t must not be Obscene, and Impudent,  
The better Sort abhors scurrility,  
And often censures, what the Rabble likes.  
Unpolished Verses pass with many Men,  
And Rome is too Indulgent in that Point;  
But then, to write at a loose rambling rate,  
In hope the World will wink at all our faults▪  
Is such a rash, ill-grounded confidence,  
As men may pardon, but will never praise▪  
Consider well the Greek Originals,  
Read them by day, and think of them by night;  
But Plautus was admired in former time.  
With too much patience (not to call it worse)  
Hi● harsh, unequal Verse, was Music then,  
And Rudeness had the Privilege of Wit:  
When Thespis first exposed the Tragic Muse,  
Rude were the Actors, and a Cart the Scene,  
Where ghastly faces stained with lees of Wine,  
Frighted the Children, and amused the Crowd;  
This AEschilus (with indignation) saw,  
And built a Stage, found out a decent dress,  
Brought Vizards in (a Civiler disguise)  
And taught men how to speak, and how to Act;  
Next Comedy appeared with great applause,  
Till her licentious, and abusive Tongue,  
Wakened the Magistrates Coercive power,  
And forced it to suppress her Insolence;  
Our Writers have attempted every way,  
And they deserve our praise, whose daring Muse,  
Disdained to be beholden to the Greeks,  
And found fit Subjects for her Verse at home.  
Nor should we be lesle famous for our Wit,  
Then for the force of our Victorious Arms;  
But that the time and care, that are required  
To overlook, and file, and polish well,  
Fright Poets from that necessary Toil.   

Democritus was so in love with wit,  
And some men's Natural impulse to write,  
That he despised the help of Art and Rules,  
And thought none Poets till their Brains were cracked;  
And this hath so Intoxicated some  
That (to appear incorrigibly mad)  
They cleanliness and Company renounce;  
For Lunacy beyond the Cure of art,  
With a long Beard, and Ten long dirty Nails,  
Pass currant for Apollo's Livery.  
O my unhappy Stars! If in the Spring,  
Some Physic had not cured me of the spleen,  
None would have writ with more success than I;  
But I am satisfied to keep my sense,  
And only serve to whet that Wit in you,  
To which I willingly resign my claim.  
Yet without writing I may teach to write,  
Tell what the duty of a Poet is;  
Wherein his Wealth and Ornament consist,  
And how he may be formed, and how improved,  
What's fit, what not, what excellent or ill,  
Sound judgement is the ground of Writing well:  
And when Philosophy directs your choice  
To proper Subjects rightly understood,  
Words from your Pen will naturally flow;  
He only gives the proper Characters,  
Who knows the duty of all Ranks of Men,  
And what we owe to Country, Parents, Friends,  
How Judges, and how Senators should act,  
And what becomes a General to do;  
Those are the likest Copies which are drawn,  
By the Original of human life.  
Sometimes in rough and undigested Plays  
We meet with such a lucky Character,  
As being humoured right and well pursued,  
Succeeds much better, than the shallow Verse,  
And chiming Trifles, of more studious Pens;  
Greece had a Genius, Greece had Eloquence,  
For her ambition and her end was Fame;  
Our Roman Youth is bred another way,  
And taught no arts but those of Usury;  
And the glad Father glories in his Child,  
When he can subdivide a Fraction:  
Can Souls, who by their Parents from their birth  
Have been devoted thus to rust and gain,  
Be capable of high and generous thoughts?  
Can Verses writ by such an Author live?  
But you (brave Youth) wise Numas worthy Heir,  
Remember of what weight your Judgement is,  
And never venture to commend a Book,  
That has not passed all Judges and all Tests.  
A Poet should instruct, or please, or both;  
Let all your precepts be succinct and clear,  
That ready wits may comprehend them soon,  
And faithful memories retain them long;  
For superfluities are soon forgot.  
Never be so conceited of your Parts,  
To think you may persuade us what you please,  
Or venture to bring in a Child alive,  
That Cannibals have murdered and devoured;  
Old age explodes all but Morality;  
Austerity offends aspiring Youths,  
But he that joins instructions with delight,  
Profit with pleasure, carries all the Votes;  
These are the Volumes that every the Shops,  
These pass with admiration through the World,  
And bring their Author an Eternal fame.  
Be not too rigidly Censorious,  
A string may jar in the best Masters hand,  
And the most skilful Archer miss his aim;  
But in a Poem elegantly writ,  
I will not quarrel with a slight mistake,  
Such as our Nature's frailty may excuse;  
But he that hath been often told his fault,  
And still persists, is as impertinent,  
As a Musician that will always play,  
And yet is always out at the same Note;  
When such a positive abandoned Fop,  
(Among his numerous Absurdities)  
Stumbles upon some tolerable Lines,  
I fret to see them in such company,  
And wonder by what Magic they came there.  
But in long Works, Sleep will sometimes surprise,  
Homer himself hath been observed to nod.  
Poems (like Pictures) are of different Sorts,  
Some better at a distance, others near,  
Some love the dark, some choose the clearest light,  
And boldly challenge the most piercing Eye,  
Some please for once, some will for ever please;  
But Piso (though your own Experience,  
Joined with your Father's precepts make you wise)  
Remember this as an important truth;  
Some things admit of Mediocrity,  
A Counsellor or Pleader at the Bar,  
May want Messalas powerful Eloquence,  
Or be lesle read than deep Cassellius;  
Yet this indifferent Lawyer is esteemed;  
But no authority of Gods nor Men,  
Allow of any mean in Poesy.  
As an ill consort, and a course perfume,  
Disgrace the Delicacy of a Feast,  
And might with more discretion have been spared,  
So Poesy, whose end is to delight,  
Admits of no Degrees, but must be still,  
Sublimely good, or despicably ill.  
In other things men have some reason left;  
And one that cannot Dance, or Fence, or Run;  
Despairing of success, forbears to Try;  
But all (without consideration) write;  
Some thinking that th' omnipotence of Wealth  
Can turn them into Poets when they please.  
But Piso, you are of too quick a sight  
Not to discern which way your Talon lies,  
Or vainly struggle with your Genius;  
Yet if it ever be your fate to Write,  
Let your Productions pass the strictest Hands,  
Mine and your Fathers, and not see the light,  
Till time and care have ripened every Line.  
What you keep by you, you may change, & mend,  
But words once spoke can never be recalled.  
Orpheus' inspired by more than human power,  
Did not (as Poets feign) tame savage Beasts,  
But Men as lawless, and as wild as they,  
And first disuaded them from rage and blood;  
Thus when Amphion built the Theban Wall,  
They feigned the Stones obeyed his Magic Lute;  
Poets the first Instructers of Mankind,  
Brought all things to their proper, native Use;  
Some they appropriated to the Gods,  
And some to public, some to private ends:  
Promiscuous love by marriage was restrained  
Cities were built, and useful Laws were made;  
So ancient is the pedigree of Verse,  
And so divine a Poet's function.  
Then Homer's and Tyrtaeus martial Muse,  
Wakened the World, and sounded loud Alarms▪  
To Verse we owe the Sacred Oracles,  
And our best Precepts of Morality;  
Some have by Verse obtained the love of Kings,  
(Who, with the Muses, ease their wearied minds)  
Then blush not Noble Piso to protect,  
What Gods inspire, and King's delight to hear.  
Some think that Poets may be formed by Art,  
Others maintain, that Nature makes them so;  
I neither see what Art without a vein,  
Nor wit without the help of art can do,  
But mutually they need each others aid.  
He that intends to gain th' Olympic Prize,  
Must use himself to hunger heat, and cold,  
Take leave of Wine, and the soft joys of Love;  
And no Musician dares pretend to skill,  
Without a great Expense of time and pains;  
But every little busy Scribbler now  
Swells with the praises which he gives himself;  
And taking Sanctuary in the Crowd,  
Brags of his impudence, and scorns to mend▪  
A wealth Poet, takes more pains to hire,  
A flattering Audience, than poor Tradesmen do  
To persuade Customers to buy their goods.  
'tis hard to find a Man of great Estate,  
That can distinguish flatterers from Friends.  
Never delude yourself, nor read your Book  
Before a bribed and fawning Auditor;  
For he'll commend and feign an Ecstasy,  
Grow pale or weep, do any thing to please;  
True friends appear lesle moved than Counterfeit;  
As men that truly grieve at Funerals,  
Are not so loud, as those that cry for hire;  
Wise were the Kings, who never chose a Friend  
Till with full Cups they had unmasked his Soul,  
And seen the bottom of his deepest thoughts;  
You cannot arm yourself with too much care  
Against the smiles of a designing Knave.  
Quintilius (if his advice were asked)  
Would freely tell you what you should correct,  
Or (if you could not) bid you blot it out,  
And with more care supply the vacancy;  
But if he found you fond, and obstinate  
(And apt to defend than mend your faults)  
With silenc leave you to admire yourself,  
And without Rival hug your darling Book.  
The prudent care of an Impartial friend,  
Will give you notice of each idle Line,  
Show what sounds harsh, & what wants ornament,  
Or where it is too lavishly bestowed;  
Make you explain all that he finds Obscure,  
And with a strict Enquiry mark your faults;  
Nor for these trifles fear to lose your love;  
Those things, which now seem frivolous, & slight,  
Will be of serious consequence to you,  
When they have made you once Ridiculous.  
A Mad Dogs foam, the infection of the Plague,  
And all the Judgements of the angry Gods,  
We are not all more heedfully to eat,  
Then Poetasters in their raging fits,  
Followed and pointed at by Fools and Boys;  
But dreaded and proscribed by Men of sense:  
If (in the Raving of a frantic Muse)  
And minding more his Verses than his Way,  
Any of these should drop into a Well,  
Thomas he might burst his lungs to call for help,  
No Creature would assist or▪ pity him,  
But seem to think he fell on purpose in.  
Hear how an old Sicilian Poet died;  
Empedocles, mad to be thought a God,  
In a cold fit leaped into AEtna's flames.  
Give Poets leave to make themselves away,  
Why should it be a greater sin to kill,  
Then to keep Men alive against their will?  
Nor was this chance; But a deliberate choice;  
For if Empedocles were now revived,  
He would be at his Frolic once again,  
And his pretensions to Divinity:  
'tis hard to say whether for Sacrilege  
Or Incest, or some more unheard of Crime  
The Rhyming Fiend is sent into these Men,  
But they are all most visibly possessed,  
And like a baited Bear, when he breaks loose,  
Without distinction seize on all they meet;  
None ever scaped that came within their reach,  
Sticking like Leeches till they burst with blood,  
Without remorse insatiably they read,  
And never leave till they have read Men dead.   
FINIS.