REFLECTIONS ON Aristotle's TREATISE OF POESY. CONTAINING The Necessary, Rational, and Universal RULES for Epic, Dramatic, and the other sorts of POETRY.  
With Reflections on the Works of the Ancient and Modern POETS, And their Faults Noted.  
By R. RAPINE.  
Licenced june 26, 1674. Roger L'Estrange.  
LONDON, Printed by T. N. for H. Herringman, at the Anchor in the Lower Walk of the New Exchange. 1674.   

THE PREFACE OF THE TRANSLATOR.  
THE Artist would not take pains to polish a Diamond, if none besides himself were quicksighted enough to discern the flaw; And Poets would grow negligent, if the Critics had not a strict eye over their miscarriages. Yet it often happens, that this eye is so distorted by envy or ill nature, that it sees nothing aright. Some Critics are like Wasps, that rather annoy the Bees, than terrify the Drones.  
For this sort of Learning, our Neighbour Nations have got far the start of us; in the last Century, Italy swarmed with Critics, where, amongst many of less note, Castelvetro opposed all comers; and the famous Academy LaCrusca was always impeaching some or other of the best Authors. Spain, in those days, bred great Wits, but, I think, was never so crowded, that they needed to fall out and quarrel amongst themselves. But from Italy, France took the Cudgels; and though some light strokes passed in the days of Marot, Baif, etc. yet they fell not to it in earnest, nor was any noble Contest amongst them, till the Royal Academy was founded, and Cardinal Richlieu encouraged and rallied all the scattered Wits under his Banner. Then Malherb reformed their ancient licentious Poetry; and Corneille's Cid raised many Factions amongst them. At this time with us many great Wits flourished, but Ben johnson, I think, had all the Critical learning to himself; and till of late years England was as free from Critics, as it is from Wolves, that a harmless well-meaning Book might pass without any danger. But now this privilege, whatever extraordinary Talon it requires, is usurped by the most ignorant: and they who are least acquainted with the game, are aptest to bark at every thing that comes in their way. Our fortune is, Aristotle, on whom our Author makes these Reflections, came to this great work better accomplished. He who Criticised on the ancient and his contemporary Philosophers; on Pythagoras, Democritus, Empedocles, Heraclitus, Epicharmus, Parmenides, Xenophanes, Melissus, Anaxagoras, Protagoras, Eudoxus, Solon, Anaximander, Anaximenes, Plato, Speusippus; who examined and censured the Laws and Polities of Minos, Lycurgus, Solon, Hippodamus, Phaleas, and all the other Commonwealths; 'tis he, I say, that undertakes this Province, to pass a judgement on the Poets, and their Works; and him Antiquity first honoured with the name of Critic.  
It is indeed suspected that he dealt not always fairly with the Philosophers, misreciting sometimes, and misinterpreting their opinions. But I find him not taxed of that injustice to the Poets, in whose favour he is so ingenious, that to the disadvantage of his own profession, he declares, That Tragedy more conduces to the instruction of Mankind, than even Philosophy itself. And however cried down in the Schools, and vilisied by some modern Philosophers; since Men have had a taste for good sense, and could discern the beauties of correct writing, he is preferred in the politest Courts of Europe, and by the Poets held in great veneration. Not that these can servilely yield to his Authority, who, of all men living, affect liberty. The truth is, what Aristotle writes on this Subject, are not the dictates of his own magisterial will, or dry deductions of his Metaphysics: But the Poets were his Masters, and what was their practice, he reduced to principles. Nor would the modern Poets blindly resign to this practice of the Ancients, were not the Reason's convincing and clear as any demonstration in Mathematics. 'Tis only needful that we understand them, for our consent to the truth of them. The Arabians, 'tis confessed, who glory in their Poets and Poetry, more than all the world besides; and who, I suppose, first brought the art of Rhyming into Europe, observe but little these Laws of Aristotle: 
On Arist. de Poet.  yet Averois rather chooses to blame the practice of his Countrymen as vicious, than to allow any imputation on the doctrine of this Philosopher as imperfect. Fancy with them is predominant, is wild, vast and unbridled, o'er which their judgement has little command or authority: hence their conceptions are monstrous, and have nothing of exactue●s, nothing of resemblance or proportion.  
The Author of these Reflections is as well known amongst the Critics, as Aristotle to the Philosophers: never man gave his judgement so generally, and never was judgement more free and impartial. He might be thought an enemy to the Spaniards, were he not as sharpon the Italians; and he might be suspected to envy the Italians, were he not as severe on his own Countrymen. These Nations make it a Problem, whether a Dutchman or German may be a Wit or no; and our Author finds none worthy of his Censure amongst them, except Heinsius and Grotius. Amongst us he gives Buchanan a particular Character: but for such as writ in the English Tongue, he has not, I presume, understood the language so well, to pass a judgement on them: only in general he confesses, that we have a Genius for Tragedy above all other people; one reason he gives we cannot allow of, viz. The disposition of our Nation, which, he saith is delighted with cruel things. 'Tis ordinary to judge of People's manners and inclinations, by their public diversions; and Travellers, who see some of our Tragedies, may conclude us certainly the cruelest minded people in Christendom.  
In another place this Author says of us, That we are men in an I stand, divided from the rest of the world, and that we love blood in our sports. And, perhaps, it may be true, that on our Stage are more Murders than on all the Theatres in Europe. And they who have not time to learn our Language, or be acquainted with our Conversation, may there in three hours' time behold so much bloodshed as may affright them from the inhospitable shore, as from the Cyclops Den. Let our Tragedy-makers consider this, and examine whether it be the disposition of the People, or their own Caprice that brings this Censure on the best natured Nation under the Sun.  
His other Reason is our Language which, he says, is proper for great expressions. The Spanish is big and fastuous, proper only for Rodomontades, and compared with other Languages, is like the Kettle drum to Music.  
The Italian is fittest for Burlesque, and better becomes the mouth of Petrolin and Arloquin in their Farces, than any Heroic character. The perpetual termination in vowels is childish, and themselves confess, rather sweet than grave.  
The French wants sinews for great and heroic Subjects, and even in Love-matters, by their own confession, is a very Infant; 
Mesna●dir●. & al. Lenga di Masseritie.  the Italians call it the Kitchin-language, it being so copious and flowing on those occasions.  
The Germane still continues rude and unpolisht, not yet filled and civilised by the commerce and intermixture with strangers to that smoothness and humanity which the English may boast of.  
The dissyllable Rhymes force the Italians and Spaniards on the Stanza in Heroics; which, besides many other disadvantages, renders the Language unfit for Tragedy.  
The French now only use the long Alexandrins, and would make up in length what they want in strength and substance; yet are they too faint and languishing, and attain not that numerosity which the dignity of Heroic Verse requires, and which is ordinary in an English Verse of ten syllables. But I shall not here examine the weight, the fullness, the vigour, force, gravity, and the sitness of the English for Heroic Poesy above all other Languages; the world expecting these matters learnedly and largely discussed 
Shering●am.  in a particular Treatise on that Subject.  
But from our Language proceed to our Writers, and with the freedom of this Author, examine how unhappy the greatest English Poets have been through their ignorance or negligence of these fundamental Rules and Laws of Aristotle. 
〈…〉 pre●er● him to the be●t of 〈◊〉.  I shall leave the Author of the Romance of the Rose (whom Sir Richard Baker makes an Englishman) for the French to boalt of, because he writ in their Language. Nor shall I speak of Chaucer, in whose time our Language, I presume, was not capable of any Heroic Character. Nor indeed was the most polite Wit of Europe in that Age sufficient for a great design. That was the Age of Tales, Ballads, and Roundelays. Petrarch in those days attempted the Epic strain in his Africa; but though most happy in his Sonnets and Madrigals, was far too feeble for a work of that weight and importance.  
Spencer, I think, may be reckoned the first of our Heroic Poets; he had a large spirit, a sharp judgement, and a Genius for Her●ick Post, perhaps above any that ever writ since Virgil. But our misfortune is, he wanted a true Idea; and lost himself, by following an unfaithful guide. Though besides Homer and Virgil he had read Tasso, yet he rather suffered himself to be misled by Ariosto; with whom blindly rambling on marvellous Adventures, he makes no Conscience of Probability. All is fanciful and chimerical, without any uniformity, without any foundation in truth; his Poem is perfect Fairy-land.  
They who can love Ariosto, will be ravished with Spencer; whilst men of juster thoughts lament that such great Wits have miscarried in their Travels for want of direction to set them in the right way. But the truth is, in Spencer's time, Italy itself was not well satisfied with Tasso; and few amongst them would then allow that he had excelled their divine Ariosto. And it was the vice of those Times to affect superstitiously the Allegory; and nothing would then be currant without a mystical meaning. We must blame the Italians for debauching great Spencer's judgement; and they cast him on the unlucky choice of the Stanza, which in no wise is proper for our Language.  
The next for Epic Post, is Sir William D'avenant, his Wit is well known; and in the Preface to his Gondibert, appear some strokes of an extraordinary judgement. He is for unbeaten tracks, and new ways of thinking; but certainly in his untried Seas he is no great discoverer.  
One design of the Epic Poets before him was to adorn their own Country, there finding their Heroes, 
Et Pater Aeneas & Auunculus excitet Hector.  and patterns of Virtue; whose example (as they thought) would have greatest influence and power over Posterity; but this Poet steers a different course, his Heroes are all Foreigners: He cultivates a Country that is nothing akin to him, 'tis Lombardy that reaps the honour of all.  
Other Poets chose some Action or Hero so illustrious, that the name of the Poem prepared the Reader, and made way for its reception: but in this Poem none can divine, what great action he intended to celebrate; nor is the Reader obliged to know whether the Hero be Turk or Christian. Nor do the first lines give any light or prospect into his design. Methinks. though his Religion could not dispense with an Invocation, he needed not have scrupled at the Proposition: yet he rather chooses to enter in at the top of an house, because the mortals of mean and satisfied minds go in at the door. And I believe the Reader is not well pleased to find his Poem begin with the praises of Aribert, when the Title had promised a Gondibert. But before he falls on any other business, he presents the Reader with a description of each particular Hero, not trusting their actions to speak for them; as former Poets had done. Their practice was fine and artificial, his (he tells us) is a new way. Many of his Characters have but little of the Heroic in them; Dalga is a Jilt, proper only for Comedy; Birtha for a Pastoral; and Astragon, in the manner here described, yields no very great ornament to an Heroic Poem; nor are his Battles less liable to Censure, than those of Homer.  
He dares not, as other Heroic Poets, heighten the action by making Heaven and Hell interested, for fear of offending against probability; and yet he tells of 
— Threads by patient Parcaes slowly spun.  And for being dead, his phrase is, 
Heaven called him, where peacefully he rules a star.  And the Emerald he gives to Birtha, has a stronger tang of the old Woman, and is a greater improbability than all the enchantments in Tasso. A just medium reconciles the farthest extremes, and due preparation may give credit to the most unlikely Fiction. In Marino, Adonis is presented with a Diamond Ring, where, indeed, the stone is much-what of the same nature; but this Present is made by Venus: and from a Goddess could not be expected a gift of ordinary virtue.  
Although a Poet is obliged to know all Arts and Sciences, yet he ought discreetly to manage this knowledge. He must have judgement to select what is noble or beautiful, and proper for his occasion. He must by a particular Chemistry extract the essence of things, without soiling his Wit with the gross and trumpery. But some Poet's labour to appear skilful with that wretched affectation, they dote on the very terms and jargon: exposing themselves rather to be laughed at by the Apprentices, than to be admired by Philosophers: But whether D' Avenant be one of those, I leave others to examine.  
The sort of Verse he makes choice of, might, I suppose, contribute much to the vitiating of his stile; for thereby he obliges himself to stretch every period to the end of four lines. Thus the sense is broken perpetually with parentheses, the words jumbled in confusion, and a darkness spread over all; that the sense is either not discerned, or found not sufficient for one just Verse, which is sprinkled on the whole tetrastick.  
In the Italian and Spanish, where all the Rhymes are dissyllable, and the percussion stronger, this kind of Verse may be necessary; and yet to temper that grave march, they repeat the same Rhyme over again, and then they close the Stanza with a Couplet further to sweeten the severity. But in French and English, where we rhyme generally with only one syllable, the Stanza is not allowed, much less the alternate Rhyme in long Verse; for the ●ound of the monosyllable Rhyme is either lost ere we come to its correspondent, or we are in pain by the so long expectation and suspense.  
This alternate Rhyme, and the downright Morality throughout whole Cantos together, show him better acquainted with the quatrains of Pybrach, which he speaks of, than with any true Models of Epic Post.  
After all, he is said to have a particular Talon for the Manners: his thoughts are great, and there appears something roughly Noble throughout this fragment; which, had he been pleased to finish it, would, doubtless, not have been left so open to the attack of Critics.  
A more happy Genius for Heroic Post, appears in Cowley. He understood the purity, the perspicuity, the majesty of stile, and the virtue of numbers. He could discern what was beautiful and pleasant in Nature, and could express his Thoughts without the least difficulty or constraint. He understood to dispose of the matters, and to manage his Digressions. In short, he understood Homer and Virgil, and as prudently made his advantage of them.  
Yet as it may be lamented, that he carried not on the work so far as he designed, so it might be wished that he had lived to revise what he did leave us: I think the Troubles of David is neither title nor matter proper for an Heroic Poem; seeing it is rather the actions, than his sufferings, that make an Hero: nor can it be defended by Homer's Odysseis, since Vlysse's sufferings conclude with one great and perfect action.  
After all the heavy Censures that jointly from all Critics have fallen on Lucan, I do a little wonder that this Author should choose History for the Subject of his Poem; and a History where he is so strictly tied up to the Truth. Aristotle tells us, That Poetry is something more excellent, and more philosophical, than History, and does not inform us what has been done; but teaches what may, and what ought to be done. And since many particulars in Sacred Story are neither Heroic, nor indeed consistent with the common principles of Morality, but of a singular, extraordinary, and unaccountable dispensation; and since in the principal actions all is carried on by Machine; how can these examples be proposed for great persons to imitate? or what foundation for their hopes in impossibilities? Poetry has no life, nor can have any operation without probability: it may indeed amuse the People, but moves not the Wise, 
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 etc. Stob.  for whom alone (according to Pythagoras) it is ordained.  
Instead of one illustrious and perfect action, which properly is the subject of an Epic Poem; Cowley proposes to adorn some several particulars of David's life: and these particulars have no necessary relation to the end, nor in any wise lead to the great revolution; David is made King, but this is the work of Heaven, not any achievement of his own. He neither did, nor ought to lif● a finger for gaining the Crown: he is amongst the Amalekites, whilst his work is done without him. This ill choice of a Subject forces the Poet (how excellent otherwise soever) perpetually on digressions: and David is the least part of the Poem.  
Some, perhaps, may object, That he begins not his Poem with all the art and address as might be desired. Homer would make us believe the drawing of Achilles, adorned with all his glorious actions, a design too vast and impossible: and therefore only proposes his resentment of the affront given him by Agamemnon; as if any one particular of his life were sufficient to employ the greatest humane Wit with all its Muses and divine assistance. Achilles could not be angry, but Heaven and Earth are engaged, and just matter given for an Heroic Poem. Thus whilst he proposes but one passage, we conceive a greater Idea of the rest than any words could express; and whilst he promises so little, his performances are the more admirable and surprising. But in the Davideis we have all the Herve at the first: in the Proposition, he is the best Poet, and the best King; now all the Author could do afterwards, is only to make good his word, and make us conceive of his Hero the same Idea at the end of the Poem, which was given us in the beginning; whereas Homer calls the man he designs to celebrate barely Achilles, son of Peleus, and recording his actions, leaves others to conclude from them what a great Captain, Prince and Hero this Achilles was.  
Tasso left the Episode of Sophonia out of his Poem, because it was Troppo Lyrico.  
co. Yet Mr. Cowley is not content to mix matters that are purely lyrical in this Heroic Poem, but employs the measures also.  
Yet, notwithstanding what has been said, we cannot now approve the reason (which Sir Philip Sidney gives) why Poets are less esteemed in England, than in the other famous Nations, to be want of merit: nor be of their opinion, who say, that Wit and Wine are not of the growth of our Country. Valour they allow us; but what we gain by our Arms, we lose by the weakness of our Heads: our good Ale, and English Beef, they say, may make us Soldiers; but are no very good Friends to Speculation. Were it proper here to handle this Argument, and to make comparisons with our Neighbours, it might easily, by our Poetry be evinced, that our Wit was never inferior to theirs, though, perhaps, our honesty made us worse Politicians. Wit and Valour have always gone together, and Poetry been the companion of Camps. The Hero and Poet were inspired with the same Enthusiasm, acted with the same heat, and both were crowned with the same laurel. Had our Tongue been as generally known, and those who felt our blows, understood our Language; they would confess that our Poets had likewise done their part, and that our Pens had been as successful as our Swords. And certainly if Sir Philip Sidney had seen the Poets who succeeded him, he would not have judged the English less deserving than their Neighbours. In the Davideis (fragment and imperfect as it is) there shines something of a more fine, more free, more new, and more noble air, than appears in the Jerusalem of Tasso, which for all his care, is scarce perfectly purged from Pedantry. But in the Lyric way however, Cowley far exceeds him, and all the rest of the Italians: though Lyric Post is their principal glory, and Pope Vrban VIII, had the honour a little before him to enrich modern Post with the Pindaric strains. Many the greatest Wits of France have attempted the Fpick, but their performance answered not expectation; our fragments are more worth than their finished pieces. And though, perhaps, want of encouragement has hindered our labours in the Epic, yet for the Drama, the World has nothing to be compared with us. But a debate of this importance is not the work of a Preface: I shall only here on the behalf of our English Poetry, give one single instance, and leave the Reader to judge of Hercules by his foot.  
Amongst the common places (by which Scaliger, and before him Macrobius, Agellius, and the other Critics have compared the Poets, and examined their worth) none has been more generally, and more happily handled, and in none have the Noblest wits both ancient and modern more contended with each other for victory, than in the description of the right. Yet in this the English has the advantage, and has even outdone them where they have outdone themselves. The first, I meet with, who had the lucky hit, is Apollonius in his Argonautiques. 
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉  
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉  
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉  
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉  
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉.  
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉  
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉.  
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉.  Here we have variety of matter, yet rather many, than choice thoughts. He gives us the face of things both by Land and Sea, City and Country, the Mariner, the Traveller, the Doorkeeper, the Mistress of the Family, her Child and Dog; but loses himself amongst his particulars, and seems to forget for what occasion he mentions them. He would say that all the world is fast asleep but only Medea; and then his Mariners, who are gazing from their ships on Helice and Orion, can serve but little for his purpose; unless they may be supposed to sleep with their eyes open. Neither dares he say that the Traveller and Porter are yet taking a Nap, but only that they have a good mind to't. And after all, we find none but the good Woman who had lost her Child (and she indeed is fast) asleep, unless the Dogs may likewise be supposed so, because they had left off barking. And these, methinks, were scarce worthy to be taken notice of in an Heroic Poem, except we may believe that in the old time, or that in Greek they bark Heroically. Scaliger, as his manner is, to prefer Virgil, calls this description mean and vulgar. Virgil well saw the levity and trifling of the Greeks, and from him we may expect something better digested. 
Nox erat, & placidum carpebant fessa soporem  
Corpora per terras, sylvaeque & saeva quierant  
Aequora, cum Medio volvuntur sydera lapsu:  
Cum tacet omnis ager, pecudes piciaeque volucres  
Quaeque lacus late liquidos, quaeque aspera dumis  
Rura tenent, somno positae sub nocte silenti  
Lenibant curas, & corda oblita laborum.  [Aen. l. 4.]  
Against this may be objected, That sleep being of such a soft and gentle nature, that 'tis said to steal upon our senses, the word [carpe●ant] suits but ill with it; this word seeming to imply a force, and might rather express the violence of Robbers, than the slieness of a Thief. Nor can it be pretended that [sopor] signifies a kind of violent and snoring sleep, for here we have it placidum soporem. Instead of Woods and Seas, Tasso rather chooses to join Winds and Seas, as of a nearer relation, and going more naturally together; the Commentators being certainly mistaken, who would have a Metonymy in this place. The third Verse I can scarce believe legitimate: the words speak nothing but motion, and the numbers are so rattling, that nothing can be more repugnant to the general repose and silence which the Poet describes: or, if any Copies might favour the conjecture, I should rather read 
— Cum medio librantur sydera cursu.   
For nothing can be more Poetical, than to suppose the Stars rest (as it were poised) in their Meridian; and this would not only express it to be Midnight, but heighten the Poet's design, which by the common reading is absolutely destroyed. The fifth line seems to bear a doubtful face, and looks not unlike something of equivocation: an ordinary Grammarian ●ould seek no further than the antecedent [volucres] to refer these relatives to; and might construe Wild ducks, and Woodcocks, what the Poet intended for Fish in the Sea, and the wild Beasts of the Forest.  
Besides this, I find none amongst the Latins that deserves to be brought into comparison. In the Italian, Ariosto (whose every description is said to be a masterpiece) in this is not over-fortunate; he is easy and smooth, but produces nothing of his own invention. He only enlarges on a thought of Virgil's; which yet he leaves without that turn which might give it perfection. What I think is more considerable, is this of Tasso.  
Era la notte all'hor, ch' alto riposo  
Ha● l'onde, e i venti, e parea muto il mondo:  
Gli animai lassi, e quei, che'l mar ondoso,  
O d'ye liquidi lagbi alberga il fondo,  
E chi sigiace in tana, o in mandra ascoso,  
E i pinti augelli ne l' oblio profondo,  
Sotto il silentio d'ye secreti horrori,  
Sopian gli affanni, e raddolciano i cori.  
Tasso, when he reformed his Poem, could mend nothing in this description, but repeats it entire in his Jerusalem liberata, without any alternation. 'Tis well nigh word for word taken out of Virgil, and (to give it its due) is a most excellent Translation. He most judiciously leaves out that Hemistick, volvuntur sydera lapsu, the place whereof is (perhaps from Statius) supplied with parea muto il mondo. 
Achilleidos' l. 1. mutuinque amplectitur orbem.  Yet on the other hand, here seems to be some superfluity of Fish: those in the Sea, and those at the bottom of the Lakes, are more by half than Virgil, or, perhaps than Tasso had occasion for in this place.  
But that we may have something new from the Italians on this Subject, Marino has taken care in his Adonis, Canto 13.  
Notte era, allhor che dal diurno moto  
Ha requie ogni pensier, tregna ogni duolo,  
L'onde giacean, tacean zefiro, e Noto,  
E cedeva il quadrante a l' hurivolo,  
Sopra l' huom la fatica, il pesce il nuoto,  
La fera il Corso, e l' augelletto il volo.  
Aspettando il tornar del novo lume  
Tra l' alghe, o troth rami, o so le pigmy.  
In these we have more of the fancy, than of the judgement; variety of matter, rather than exquisite sense, Marino is perfectly himself throughout; the thoughts diurnal motion, I fear, will scarce pass for a very pathetical expression, nor will it satisfy, that he makes Zephyrus and the Southwind silent; if he particularise these, he should also name the rest, otherwise the East-wind and Boreas have leave to bluster. But, above all, he tells us that the Clocks have got the better of the Sun-dials. A thought purely New, and strangely Heroic. What could come more sudden or surprising? in the latter part of the Stanza, we have some strokes of Ariosto, but far more lame and imperfect than the original. Neither ought he in this place to speak of any expecting the return of the light; omnia noctis crant.  
But I hasten to the French, amongst whom none more eminent than Chapelain, nor was ever a Poem of greater expectation. His description is thus: 
Cependant la nuit vole, & sous son ail obscure  
Invite a sommeiller l' agissante Nature.  
Dans les plains des airs tient les vents en repose,  
Et sur les champs sales fait reposer les flots,  
A tout ce qui se ment, a tout ce qui respire  
Dans les pres, dans les hois le repos elle inspire,  
Elle suspend par tout les travaux & les bruits,  
Et par tout dans les caeurs assoupit les ennuis.  
Charles seul esveille—   
This description is perfect French. There is scarce any coming at a little sense, 'tis so encompassed about with words. What Virgil or Tasso would have dispatched in half a Verse, here fills out the measures of two whole Alexandrins.  
Some Caviller would object, That since the Night flies, there is little sleep to be got under her wing, unless for such as can walk in their sleep. And that the Night might have spared this invitation, seeing those she invites are asleep already: Charles alone is awake, and for that reason, was the only thing fit to be invited; and doubtless the Night was as free of her invitation to him, as to any others, 'twas his fault that he had no stomach to't. And here is much power given to the Night, which she has no claim or title to: 'tis not the Night that makes the Waves and Winds, and all the things that move and breath in Meads and Woods to repose. She only invites them to sleep, and it is sleep that makes them rest. In the space of four lines, we meet with repos, reposer, repos, which argue the language very batren, or else the Poet extremely negligent, and a lover of repose. He tells us, that the Night inspires repose. But certainly motion is a more likely thing to be inspired, than rest, as more properly the effect of breath.  
But without examining this further, let us try if Le Moyne (whom our Critic prefers before all others of the French Epic Poets) be more fortunate. 
Cependant le soleil se couche dans son lit,  
Que luymesme de ponrpre & de laque embellit:  
Et la nuit qui survient aussi triste que sombre,  
De toute les co●leurs ne fuit que ●●e grand ombre;  
Aveque le sommeil le silence la suit,  
L'un amy du repos, l'autre ennemy du bruit:  
Et quoiqne sous leur pas la tempeste se taise,  
Quoique le vent s' endorme & que l'onde s' appaise:  [St. Lovys.]  
Here again are words in abundance. He cannot tell us that 'tis Midnight, till he first have informed us that the Sun is gone to Bed, to a fine Bed of his own trimming: and this is matter enough for the first two Verses. Then we are told, that the Night of all Colours makes but one great shade, and this suffices for the second Couplet. Aussi triste que sombre, is an expression the French are so delighted with, they can scarce name any thing of Night without it. The third Couplet is much-what as in a Bill of Fare: 
Item— Beef and Mustard,  
That Friend to th' Stomach, this a Foe to th' Nose.  The second line in both being alike impertinent.  
Any further Reflections, or more examples would be superfluous. What has been noted, rather concerns the Niceties of Poetry, than any the little trifles of Grammar. We have seen what the noblest Wits both ancient and modern have done in other Languages, and observed that in their very Masterpieces they sometimes trip, or are however liable to Cavils. It now remains that our English be exposed to the like impartial Censure. 
All things are hushed, as Nature's self lay dead,  
The Mountains seem to Nod their drowsy head,  
The little Birds in dreams their Songs repeat,  
And Sleeping flowers beneath the Night-dew sweat,  
Even Lust and Envy sleep.  [In the Conquest of Mexico.]  
In this description, four lines yield greater variety of matter, and more choice thoughts than twice the number of any other Language. Here is something more fortunate than the boldest fancy has yet reached, and something more just, than the severest reason has observed. Here are the flights of Statius and Marino tempered with a more discerning judgement, and the judgement of Virgil and Tasso animated with a more sprightly Wit. Nothing has been said so expressive and so home in any other Language as the first Verse in this description. The second is Statius improved. 
Et simulant fessos curvata cacumina somnos.   
Saith Statius, where simulant is a bold word in comparison of our English word Seem, being of an active signification; and cacumina may as well be taken for the tops of Trees, as the tops of Mountains, which doubtful meaning does not so well content the Reader, as the certainty.  
In the third Verse, 'tis not said that the Birds sleep, but what is more new, and more Poetical, their sleep is employed, by their dreams. Somewhat like to the Fourth we have in Marino. 
— Elanguidettis i fiori  
Giaceano a l'herba genitrice in seno.  [Adonis Canto 20.]  
Which is a pretty image, but has not so near a resemblance with truth, nor can so generally be applied to all flowers. Our Author here dares not say directly that the flowers sleep, which might sound a little harsh, but slurs it over in the participle, as taken for granted, and affirms only that they sweat, which the Night-d●w makes very easy.  
In the last Halfverse, we may see how far our Author has outdone Apollonius. 'Twas no such strange thing in the sorrowful Woman when she had spent her tears, for sleep to close her eyes: but here we have the most raging and watchful passions Lust and Envy. And these too instead of the lustful and the envious, for the greater force and emphasis, in the abstract.  
Some may object, That the third Verse does contradict the first. How can all things be hushed, if Birds in dreams repeat their Songs? Is not this like the indiscretion of Marino, who says, That the Winds and all things are hushed, and the Seas so fast asleep, that they snore. [Canto 20.]  
It may be answered, That in this place 'tis not the Poet that speaks, but another person; and that the Poet here truly represents the nature of man, whose first thoughts break out in bold and more general terms, which by the second thoughts are more correct and limited. As if one should say, all things are silent, or asleep however; if there is any noise, 'tis still but the effect of sleep, as the dreams of Birds, etc. This comparison might be much further improved to our advantage, and more observations made, which are left to the Readers ingenuity.   

ADVERTISEMENT.  
SInce it is not so much to instruct, as to exercise the Wits, that I make these Reflections public; I am not so vain to think them necessary, nor yet humble enough to believe them altogether unprofitable. This Treatise is no New Model of Poesy; for that of Aristotle only is to be adhered to, as the exactest Rule for governing the Wit. In effect this Treatise of Poesy, to Speak properly, is nothing else, but nature put in method, and good sense reduced to principles. There is no arriving at perfection but by these Rules, and they certainly go astray that take a different course. What faults have not most of the Italian, Spanish, and other Poets fallen into, through their ignorance of these principles. And if a Poem made by these Rules fails of success, the fault lies not in the Art, but in the Artist; all who have writ of this Art have followed no other Idea but that of Aristotle.  
Horace was the first who proposed this great Model to the Romans. And by this all the great men in the Court of Augustus formed their Wits, who applied themselves to make Verse. Petronius (whom no man of modesty dares name, unless on the account of those directions be gave for writing) amongst the Ordures of his Satire, gives certain precepts for Poetry that are admirable. He is disgusted with the stile of Seneca and Lucan, which to him seemed affected, and contrary to the principles of Aristotle. 'Tis at them he levels with those glances, that slip from him against the Poetasters, and false Declamators. Nothing more judicious was writ in those days, yet himself had not that easy and natural way, which he requires so much in others. He gives the best Rules in the World against affectation, which he never observes himself. For he commends even to the simplicity of stile, whereas his own is not always natural. To say the truth, what is good on this Subject, is all taken from Aristotle; who is the only source whence good sense is to be drawn, when one goes about to write.  
We have had no Books of Poesy till this last Age; when that of Aristotle, with his other Works, were brought from Constantinople to Italy; where immediately appeared a great number of Commentators, who writ upon this Book of Poesy: the chief whereof were Victorius, Robortellus, Madius, who literally enough interpreted the Text of this Philosopher, without diving much into his meaning. These were followed by Castelvetro, Piccolomini, Beni, Riccobon, Majoragius, Minturnus, Vida, Patricius, Andre Gili, Vossius, and many others. But Vossius has commented on him merely as a Scholiast, Gili as a Rhetorician, Patricius as an Historian, Vida as a Poet, who endeavours more to please, than to instruct; Minturnus as an Orator, Majoragius and Riccobon as Logicians, Beni as a Doctor who has a sound judgement when the honour of his Country is not concerned. For he compares Ariosto with Homer, and Tasso with Virgil, in a Treatise made expressly on that subject. Castelvetro and Piccolomini have acquitted themselves as able Critics, and much better than the rest. Piccolomini deals with Aristotle more fairly than Castelvetro: who is naturally of a morose Wit, and out of a cross humour makes it always his business to contradict Aristotle, and, for the most part, confounds the Text, instead of explaining it. Notwithstanding all this, he is the most subtle of all the Commentators, and the Man from whom most may be learned.  
In fine, Lope de Vega was the only person that undertook, on the good fortune of his old reputation, to hazard a new method of Poesy, which he calls El Arte Nuevo, wholly different from this of Aristotle. to justify the fabric of his Comedies, which the Wits of his Country incessantly Criticised upon; which Treatise succeeded so ill, that it was not judged worthy of a place amongst the rest, in the Collection of his Works, because he followed not Aristotle. Which I have precisely done in these Reflections: where I bring only examples to confirm the Rules he gives us. And I take occasion to tell what we ought to judge of all those who have writ in Verse for more than these Two thousand years. I dispense with myself for speaking of those who are yet living: for I am not in humour to mount the Stage, and distribute Laurels; I had rather rely on the Public, for the opinion we ought to have of their merit.  
For the rest, I choose rather to write by way of Reflections, to avoid all those words which are necessary for Connexion in a continued Discourse. And since these Reflections may, peradventure, be offensive to some persons of a different Genius, I expect from them to hear of my mistakes, that I may make my profit thereof.   

REFLECTIONS ON ARISTOTLE's TREATISE OF POESY In General.  

I.  
THe true value of Poetry is ordinarily so little known, that scarce ever is made a true judgement of it. 'Tis the talon of wits only that are above the common rank to esteem of it according to its merit: and one cannot consider, how Alexander, Scipio, julius Caesar, Augustus, and all the great men of Antiquity have been affected therewith, without conceiving a Noble Idea of it. In effect, Poesy, of all Arts, is the most perfect: for the perfection of other Arts is limited, but this of Poesy has no bounds; to be excellent therein, one must know all things: but this value will best appear, by giving a particular of the qualities necessary for a Poet.   

II.  
HE must have a Genius extraordinary, great Natural gifts; a Wit just, fruitful, piercing, solid, universal; an Understanding clean and distinct; an Imagination neat and pleasant; an elevation of Soul that depends not on art nor study, and which is purely a gift of Heaven, and must be sustained by a lively sense and vivacity; a great Judgement to consider wisely of things, and a vivacity to express them with that grace and abundance which gives them beauty. But as Judgement without Wit is cold and heavy, so Wit without Judgement is blind and extravagant. Hence it is that Lucan often in his Pharsalia grows flat for want of Wit. And Ovid in his Metamorphosis sometimes loses himself through his defect of judgement. Ariosto has too much flame. Dante has none at all. Boccace's wit is just, but not copious: the Cavalier Marino is luxuriant, but wants that justness; for in fine; to accomplish a Poet, is required a temperament of wit and of fancy, of strength and of sweetness, of penetration and of delicacy: and above all things, he must have a sovereign eloquence, and a profound capacity. These are the qualities that must concur together to form the Genius of a Poet, and sustain his Character.   

III.  
BUt the first injustice that Poets suffer, is, that commonly what is merely the effect of Fancy, is mistaken for Wit. Thus an ignorant person shall start up, and be thought a Poet in the world, for a lucky hit in a Song or Catch, where is only the empty flash of an imagination heated perhaps by a debauch, and nothing of that celestial fire which only is the portion of an extraordinary Genius. One must be careful (saith Horace) of profaning that Name, by bestowing it without distinction on all those who undertake to versify. For (saith he) there must be a greatness of Soul, and something divine in the spirit. There must be lofty expressions, and noble thoughts, and an air of majesty to deserve that name. A Sonnet, Ode, Elegy, Epigram, and those little kind of Verses that often make so much noise in the world, are ordinarily no more than the mere productions of imagination, a superficial wit, with a little conversation of the world is capable of these things. True Poetry requires other qualifications, a Genius for War, or for Business, comes nothing near it; a little phlegm, with a competency of experience, may fit a man for an important Negotiation: and an opportunity well managed, joined with a little hazard, may make the success of a Battle, and all the good fortune of a Campagne; but to excite these emotions of the Soul, and transports of admiration that are expected from Poetry, all the wit that the Soul of man is capable of, is scarce sufficient. For example.   

IV.  
HOmer, who had a Genius accomplished for Poetry, had the vastest, sublimest, profoundest, and most universal wit that ever was; 'twas by his Poems that all the Worthies of Antiquity were formed: from hence the Lawmakers took the first platform of the Laws they gave to Mankind; the founders of Monarchies and Commonwealths from hence took the Model of their Polities. Hence the Philosophers found the first principals of Morality which they have taught the People. Hence Phys●ians have studied Diseases, and their Cures. Astronomers have learned the knowledge of Heaven, and Geometricians of the Earth. Kings and Princes have learned the art to govern, and Captains to form a Battle to encamp an Army, to besiege Towns, to fight and to gain Victories. From this great original Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, came to be Philosophers. Sophocles and Euripides took the haughty air of the Theatre and Ideas of Tragedy. Zeuxes, Apelles, Polygnotus, became such excellent Painters; and Alexander the Great so valiant. In fine, Homer has been (if I may so say) the first Founder of all Arts and Sciences, and the pattern of the wise men in all Ages. And as he has been in some manner the Author of Paganism, the Religion whereof he established by his Poems, one may say that never Prophet had so many followers as he: yet notwithstanding this so universal Genius, this wit capable of all things, applied himself only to Poetry, which he made his business.   

V.  
'TIs in no wise true, what most believe, That some little mixture of Madness goes to make up the character of a Poet; for though his Discourse ought in some manner to resemble that of one inspired: yet his mind must always be serene, that he may discern when to let his Muse run mad, and when to govern his Transports▪ And this serenity of spirit which makes the judgement, is one of the most essential parts of a Poet's Genius, 'tis with this that he must be possessed. Aristotle allows that there is something Divine in his character, but nothing of Madness. These the Vulgar always confound, and 'tis their ignorance joined with the extravagance of some particular Poets that made way for this opinion, to the disrespect of the profession, which is not considered in the world as it ought to be, by reason of the little care to distinguish those that are Poets, from those that are not.   

VI  
ONe may be an Orator without the natural gift of Eloquence, because Art may supply that defect; but no man can be a Poet without a Genius: the want of which, no art or industry is capable to repair. This Genius is that celestial fire intended by the Fable, which enlarges and heightens the Soul, and makes it express things with a lofty air. Happy is he to whom Nature has made this present, by this he is raised above himself; whereas others are always low and creeping, and never speak but what is mean and common. He that hath a Genius, appears a Poet on the smallest Subjects, by the turn he gives them▪ and the noble manner in which he expresses himself. This Character the French gave their Monsieur R●can, but in truth where shall we find all these qualities I have mentioned? where is that sparkling Wit. and that solid Judgement? That flame and that phlegm? That rapture and that moderation which constitute that Genius we inquire after? 'tis the little Wits always who think they versify the best; the greatest Poets are the most modest. 'Twas with trembling that Virgil under the covert of the Night, went to fix on the gate of the Emperor's Palace, those two Verses which caused so much admiration all over Rome. This great man concealed himself, when Augustus so earnestly made search after the Author of that admirable Distich, and he was the last that understood the value of his own work: 'tis certain that the great Wits never have a very good opinion of what they compose, by reason of the too great Idea of perfection they propose to themselves in their works. Happy Age, when Poets were so modest, when shall we see those days again! nothing is more troublesome than a Scribbler conceited of his own Merit, he tires all the world, eternally showing his labours: and no sooner is he able to make a Rhyme at the end of a line, but all the world must be made to know his Talon; whereas the great men are in pain whilst they show themselves, and industriously labour to be concealed.   

VII.  
IT is not easily decided what the Nature, and what precisely is the End of this Art, the interpreters of Aristotle differ in their opinions. Some will have the End to be Delight, and that 'tis on this account it labours to move the passions, all whose motions are delightful, because nothing is more sweet to the Soul than agitation, it pleases itself in changing the objects, to satisfy the immensity of its desires. 'Tis true, delight is the end Poetry aims at, but not the principal end, as others pretend. In effect, Poetry being an Art, aught to be profitable by the quality of its own nature, and by the essential subordination that all Arts should have to Polity, whose end in general is the public good. This is the judgement of Aristotle, and of Horace, his chief Interpreter.   

VIII.  
AFter all, since the design of Poetry is to delight, it omits nothing that may contribute thereto; 'tis to this intent that it makes use of Numbers and Harmony, which are naturally delightful, and animates its Discourse with more lively draughts, and more strong expressions, than are allowed in Prose; and does affranchize itself from that constraint and reservedness that is ordinary with Orators, and permits a great liberty to imagination, and makes frequent images of what is most agreeable in nature; and never speaks but with figures, to give a greater lustre to the Discourse; and is noble in its Ideas, sublime in the Expressions, bold in the Words passionate in the Motions, and takes pleasure in relating extraordinary Adventures to give the most common and natural things a fabulous gloss, to render them more admirable, and heighten Truth by Fiction. 'Tis finally for this, that it employs whatever Art has that is pleasant, because its end is to delight. Empedocles who used not this art in his Poems, as Homer, nor Lucretius, as Virgil, are not true Poets Homer is delightful even in the description of Laertes Swineherds lodge in his Odyssis, and Virgil in the Dung and Thistles in his Georgics, as he expresses himself; for every thing becomes beautiful and slowry in the hands of a Poet who hath a Genius.   

IX.  
HOwever the principal end of Poesy, is to pro●it; not only by refreshing the mind, to render it more capable of the ordinary functions, and by assuaging the troubles of the Soul with its harmony, and all the elegancies of expression. But furthermore, by purging the manners with wholesome instructions which it professes to administer to humane kind; for Virtue being naturally austere, by the constraint it imposes on the heart, in repressing the desires: Morality, which undertakes to regulate the motions of the heart by its precepts, aught to make itself delightful that it may be listened to, which can by no means be so happily effected as by Poetry: 'Tis by this, that Morality in curing the Maladies of men, makes use of the same artifice that Physicians have recourse to in the sickness of children, they mingle Honey with the Medicine to take off the bitterness. The principal design therefore of this Art, is to render pleasant that which is wholesome; in which 'tis more wise than other Arts, which endeavour to profit without any care to please. Eloquence itself, by its most passionate Discourse, is not always capable to persuade men to Virtue with that success, as Poetry; because men are more sensible and sooner impressed upon by what is pleasant, than by reason. For this cause, all Poetry that tends to the corruption of Manners, is irregular and vicious; and Poets are to be looked on as a public Contagion, whose Morals are not pure: and 'tis these dissolute and debauched Poets that Plato banished his Commonwealth. And true it is, that the petty Wits only are ordinarily subject to say what is impious or obscene. Homer and Virgil were never guilty in this kind, they were sweet and virtuous as Philosophers; the Muses of true Poets are as chaste as Vestals.   

X.  
FOr no other end is Poetry delightful, then that it may be profitable. Pleasure is only the means by which the profit is conveyed; and all Poetry, when 'tis perfect, aught of necessity to be a public Lesson of good Manners for the instruction of the world. Heroic Poesy proposes the example of great Virtues, and great Vices, to excite men to abhor these, and to be in love with the other: it gives us an esteem for Achilles in Homer, and contempt for Thersites: it begets in us a veneration for the piety of Aeneas in Virgil, and horror for the profaneness of Mezentius. Tragedy rectifies the use of Passions, by moderating our fear, and our pity, which are obstacles of Virtue; it lets men see that Vice never escapes unpunished, when it represents Aegisthus in the Electra of Sophocles, punished after the Ten years' enjoyment of his Crime. It teaches us, that the favours of Fortune, and the grandeurs of the World, are not always true Goods, when it shows on the Theatre a Queen so unhappy as Hecuba deploring with that pathetic air her misfortunes in Euripides Comedy, which is an image of common conversation, corrects the public Vices, by letting us see how ridiculous they are in particulars. Aristophanes does not mock at the foolish vanity of Praxagora (in his Parliament of Women) but to cure the vanity of the other Athenian Women; and 'twas only to teach the Roman Soldiers in what consisted true Valour, that Plautus exposed in public the extravagance of false Bravery in his Braggadocio Captain, in that Comedy of the Glorious Soldier.   

XI.  
BUt because Poetry is only profitable so far as it is delightful, 'tis of greatest importance in this Art to please; the only certain way to please, is by Rules: these therefore are to be established, that a Poet may not be left to confound all things, imitating those Extravagances which Horace so much blames; that is to say, by joining things naturally incompatible, mixing Tigers with Lambs, Birds with Serpents, to make one body of different species, and thereby authorise Fancies more indigested than the Dreams of sick men; for unless a man adhere to Principles, he is obnoxious to all Extravagances and Absurdities imaginable: unless he go by Rule, he slips at every step towards Wit, and falls into Errors as often as he sets out. Into what Enormities hath Petrarch run in his Africa; Ariosto in his Orlando Furioso; Cavalier Marino in his Adonis, and all the other Italians who were ignorant of Aristotle's Rules; and followed no other guides but their own Genius and capricious Fancy: Truth is, the Wits of Italy were so prepossessed in favour of the Romantic Poetry of Pulci, Boyardo, and Ariosto, that they regarded no other Rules than what the heat of their Genius inspired. The first Italian Poet who let the World see that the Art was not altogether unknown to him, was Giorgio Trissino in his Poem of Italy delivered from the Goths, under the Pontificats of Leo X. and Clement VIII. in this Poem appeared some kind of imitation of Homer's Ilias. This Model was followed with success by Tasso in his Jerusalem delivered; though one Oliviero had essayed the same before him, but not so happily; in his Poem of Germany, Victorius, Madius, Robertellus, and after them Castelvetno, and Picolomini were the first that made Europe acquainted with Aristotle's Rules, which were brought over by the Grecians from Constantinople into Italy: and these were followed by Beni, Minturno, Ricobon, Vida, Gallutio, and many others.   

XII.  
ARistotle drew the platform of these Rules from the Poems of Homer, and other Poets of his time, by the Reflections he had a long time made on their Works. I pretend not by a long Discourse to justify the necessity, the justness, and the truth of these Rules; nor to make an History of Aristotle's Treatise of Poesy; or examine whether it is complete, which many others have done, all these things I suppose: only I affirm, That these Rules well considered one shall find them made only to reduce Nature into method, to trace it step by step, and not suffer the least mark of it to escape us. 'Tis only by these Rules that the verifimility in Fictions is maintained, which is the soul of Poesy. For unless there be the unity of place, of time, and of the action in the great Poems, there can be no verisimility. In fine, 'tis by these Rules that all becomes just, proportionate, and natural; for they are founded upon good Sense, and sound Reason, rather than on Authority and Example. Horace's book of Poesy, which is but an interpretation of that of Aristotle, discovers sufficiently the necessity of being subject to Rules, by the ridiculous Absurdities one is apt to fall into, who follows only his fancy; for though Poesy be the effect of fancy, yet if this fancy be not regulated, 'tis a mere Caprice, not capable of producing any thing reasonable.   

XIII.  
BUt if the Genius must indispensibly be subjected to the servitude of Rules, 'twill not easily be decided whether Art or Nature contributes more to Poetry; 'tis one of those questions unresolved which might be proper for a declamation, and the decision is of small importance: it suffices that we know both the one and the other are of that moment, that none can attain to any sovereign perfection in Poetry, if he be defective in either: So that both (saith Horace) must mutually assist each other, and conspire to make a Poet accomplished. But though Nature be of little value without the help of Art, yet we may approve of Quintilians opinion, who believed that Art did less contribute to that perfection, than Nature. And by the comparison that Longinus makes betwixt Apollonius and Homer, Erastathenes and Archilochus, Bacchilides and Pindar, jon and Sophocles, the former of all which never transgressed against the Rules of Art, whereas these other did; it appears that the advantage of Wit is always preferred before that of Art.   

XIV.  
'TIs not enough to have a Genius: one must know that he has it, and be sure by the experience he ought to have of it: and he must know well of what it is most capable▪ and of what it is not, lest he force it contrary to the precept of Horace: which yet cannot be known without a long time making reflections on himself: and though Nature is always ready to discover itself, yet we are not to rely on that, but study it with great attention, to learn its strength. There are universal Genius's capable of all things by the immensity of their wit, as Horace and Virgil, and there are others that are limited. Demetrius Phalereus says, That Archilochus had not that greatness of Soul proper for an Heroic Poem, which Homer was endued withal. Anacreon, whose delicacy of Wit was admirable, had not that loftiness. Propertius affirms of himself, That he was not fit to sing the Wars of Augustus, nor describe the Genealogy of Caesar. Horace peradventure, by the strength of his Genius, might have been capable of a great Poem, if his inclination and nature had not determined him to Lyric Verse. Fracastorius, who with so good success writ his Syphilis, the most excellent Poem in Latin Verse that these latter Ages has produced in Italy, and which is writ in imitation of Virgil's Georgics, was not so happy in his Epic Poem of joseph Viceroy of Egypt, a fragment whereof is extant; for this Poem is of a poor Genius, and low Character. Ronsard who had a Talon for Lyric Verse in Scaliger's opinion, and who got Reputation by his Odes, fell short extremely in his Franciad, which is dry and barren throughout, and has nothing of an Heroic air in it.   

XV.  
BUt 'tis not so much to discover its strength, that we must know our Genius, as that we may be diligent to form it by the help of Art, and not go astray in the way we take to bring it to perfection. 'Twas thus that Horace, whose Genius was capable of all things, chiefly applied himself to Satire, by the inclination of his Natural gaiety, which made him Rallee so pleasantly on all occasions. He had found in his Nature the seeds of this Character, which he afterwards cultivated with so much success: And what loftiness he found in his Nature, he confined to Lyric Poesy, for which he had an Inclination. For though he had a Genius for greater things, yet by a certain love of ease, which was natural to him, he only applied himself to the little, for that he was not of an humour to strain, or give himself trouble. Ovid finding in himself a capacity of expressing things naturally, left Heroic Verse to write Elegies, in which he was more happy. Virgil, who perceived himself more strong, and had a greater elevation of Soul, took Trumpet in hand, and raised himself by his Eglogues, and Georgics, as by so many steps to the most sublime Character of Heroic Verse. 'Tis therefore by reflecting a long time on a man's self, and by continual study of his Nature, joined with the care and exercise of Composing, that he does accomplish his Genius, and arrives to perfection.   

XVI.  
NOthing can more contribute to this perfection, than a judgement proportioned to the Wit; for the greater that the Wit is, and the more strength and vigour that the imagination has to form these Ideas that every Poesy; the more wisdom and discretion is requisite to moderate that heat, and govern its natural Fury. For Reason ought to be much stronger than the Fancy, to discern how far the Transports may be carried. 'Tis a great Talon to forbear speaking all one thinks, and to leave something for others to employ their thoughts. 'Tis not ordinarily known how far matters should be carried; a man of an accomplished Genius stops regularly where he ought to stop, and retrenches boldly what ought to be omitted. 'Tis a great fault not to leave a thing when 'tis well, for which Apelles so much blamed Protogenes. This moderation is the character of a great Wit, the Vulgar understand it not; and (what ever is alleged to the contrary) never any, save Homer and Virgil, had the discretion to leave a thing when 'twas well.   

XVII.  
THis Natural discernment which is necessary for a Poet to accomplish him, ought itself to be improved, and to attain to perfection by the ministry of Art, without which, nothing exact or regular can be produced. A Poet that designs to write nothing but what is just and accurate, above all things ought to apply himself with great attention to the precepts of Aristotle as the best Master that ever writ of this Art; but because his method is nothing exact, though his matter be solid, I rather attend his Rules, than the order in which he has left them. Horace, who was the first Interpreter of Aristotle, in his Book on this Subject, has observed as little method, because peradventure it was writ in an Epistle, whose Character ought to be free, and without constraint. This is what may be said in general of subjecting the Wit to Rules of Art, which the Italian and Spanish Poets scarce ever were acquainted withal: hereafter follows what may be observed in particular of this Art.   

XVIII.  
THe Art of Poetry in general, comprehends the matters of which a Poet treats, and the manner in which he handles them; the invention, the contrivance, the design, the proportion and symmetry of parts, the general disposition of matters, and whatever regards the invention, belong to the matters of which this Art ought to treat. The Fable, the Manners, the Sentiments, the Words, the Figures, the Numbers, the Harmony, the Versification regard the manner in which the matters are to be handled: So that the Art is (as it were) the instrument of the Genius, because it contains essentially all the different parts which are employed in the management. So that those who are furnished with a naked Wit only, and who, to be great Poets, rely principally on their Fancy, as Cavalier Marino among the Italians, Theophile among the French, and those likewise who place the essence of Poetry in big and pompous words, as Statius among the Latins, and Du Bartas among the French, are much mistaken in their account, when they aspire to the glory of Poetry by such feeble means.   

XIX.  
●Mong the particulars of this Art, 〈…〉 the Subject and Design ought to 〈…〉 the first place, because it is, as it 〈…〉 the ●irst production of the Wit; 〈…〉 design in a Poem is, what they call the Ordonnance in a picture. The great Painters only are capable of a great design in their draughts, such as a Raphael, a julius Romanus, a Poussin, and only great Poets are capable of a great Subject in their Poetry. An indifferent Wit may form a vast design in his Imagination, but it must be an extraordinary Genius that can work this design, and fashion it according to justness and proportion. For 'tis necessary that the same spirit reign throughout, that all contribute to the same end, and that all the parts bear a secret relation to each other, all depend on this relation and alliance; and this general design is nothing else but the form which a Poet gives to his work. This also is the most difficult part, being the effect of an accomplished judgement, and because judgement is not the ordinary Talon of the French, 'tis generally in the contrivance of their design, that their Poets are defective, and nothing is more rare among them, than a design that is great, just, and well conceived▪ They pretend to be more happy in the Talents of Wit and Fancy, as likewise the Italians. The most perfect design of all modern Poems, is that of Tasso, nothing more complete has appeared in Italy, though great faults are in the conduct of it. And the most judicious, the most admirable, the most perfect design of all Antiquity, is that of Virgil in his Aeneads; all there is great and noble, all proportionable to the Subject, which is the establishment of the Empire of Rome, to the Hero who is Aene●s, to the glory of Augustus and the Romans, for whom it was composed. Nothing is weak or defective in the execution, all there is happy, all is just, all is perfect. But the sovereign perfection of a design, in the opinion of Horace, is to be simple, and that all turn on the same Centre. Which is so true, that even in little things, that is to say, in an Eglogue, Elegy, Song or Epigram, and in the meanest Compositions there ought to be a just cast, and that all of it turn on the same point. Ovid did much violence to himself to unite his Metamorphoses, and close them in one design, in which he was not altogether so happy, as afterwards in his Elegies, where well nigh always one may find a certain turn which binds the design, and makes thereof a work that is just by the dependence and relation of its parts. In this the ancient Poets were always more exact than the modern; for most of the modern express their thoughts higgle piggle, without any Order or Connexion. If there be design, 'tis never with that scrupulous unity, which is the principal virtue that should be predominant, to make it just and complete. I know there are a kind of works which, by the quality of their Character, aught to be writ with a free air, without other design than that of writing things naturally, and without constraint, such are the Hymns of Orpheus, Homer, Callimachus; and such are certain Odes of Pindar, Anacreon, and Horace, that have no other Rule but Enthusiasm: and such likewise are the most part of the Elegies of Tibullus and Propertius. But it must be granted, that these are not the best and most beautiful; and who reflects on the Elegies of Ovid, shall always there perceive a secret turn which makes the design, and this is ordinarily the principal beauty in these little works of Verse, as may be seen in most Epigrams of the Anthology, in those of Catullus, in the correct Odes of Horace, and in the Phalensiacks of Bonefons, who within this last Age, has writ in Latin Verse with all the softness and delicacy possible. Thus every sort of Poesy ought to have its proportionable design; a great design, in great Poems; and in little, a little design: But of this, the ordinary Wits know nothing; their Works, which generally are mere productions of Imagination, have scarce ever any design, unless it be by chance. It must be the work of an accomplished Genius, to close his thoughts in a design, whence results an agreement and proportion of parts, that makes the harmony perfect.   

XX.  
THe design of a Poem must consist of two Parts, of Truth, and of Fiction; Truth is the foundation, Fiction makes the accomplishment. And Aristotle calls the mixture of these two, the constitution of things: or the Fable, which is no other than the subject of a Poem, as the Design or Fable of the Andria in Terence, are the Loves of Pamphilus and Glycerium. The Fable of Hippolytus in Euripides, is the passion of▪ Phaedra for her Son-in-law; this passion causes the misfortunes of Hippolytus, and the disorders of Theseus' house. The Fable of Homer's Iliad is the anger of Achilles, who by his presence, or by his absence from the Grecian Army, determines the good or ill success of all his party; the anger of this Prince, which proceeds of the discontent he received from Agamemnon, is the truth of the History, which is adorned with all the Episodes and variety of Adventures that every this Poem: and the Poet fills not his Poem with that variety of extraordinary Events, but to give delight; which he could never perform, if he had nothing to say but truth; and he would never be regarded, if all were fabulous: therefore History and Fiction must necessarily enter the composition of the Subject.   

XXI.  
ARistotle divides the Fable, which serves for Argument to a Poem, into simple and compound. The simple is that which hath no change of Fortune, as is the Prometheus of Eschylus, and the Hercules of Seneca. The compound Fable is that which hath a turn from bad Fortune to good, or from good to bad, as the Oedipus of Sophocles. And the contrivance of each Fable must have two parts, the Intrigue, and the Discovery. The Intrigue embroils matters, casting troubles and confusion among the Affairs. The Discovery remits all into a calm again. Whatever goes before the change of Fortune, is called the Intrigue; all that makes the change, or follows it, is the Discovery. The Intrigue in the Andromache of Euripides, is, that this Princess, after she had lost Hector her Husband, had seen her Father Priam murdered, the chief City of his Kingdom burnt, became a slave to Neoptolemus. Hermione the Wife of this Prince, pricked with jealousy against Andromache, was minded to kill her. Menelaus' Father of Hermione, causes her with her son Astyanax to be dragged to execution; this is the Intrigue. Now she is rescued from death by Tethys and Peleus, who prefer the Son to be King of the Molossians, and the Mother to be Queen by a Marriage with Helenus; this is the Discovery. And every Fable must have these two parts, to be the subject of a just Poem. Thus Aeneas chased from his Country, spoiled of all that he possessed, beaten by Tempests, wand'ring from Coast to Coast, destitute of all Succours, persecuted by juno, and the other Deities of her Cabal; After all these disgraces, became the Founder of the greatest Monarchy in the world▪ This is the Fable of the Aeneid with its Intrigue, and its Discovery. And it is to be observed, that only by this change of Fortune the Fable pleases, and has its effect, in which the simple Fable is defective in Aristotle's opinion, because it wants variety.   

XXII.  
FAble is so essential to Poetry, that there is no Poetry without it; it is the form and the distinction; for the Fable to a Poem, is what the Figure is to Marble in a Statue: but the Fable, besides the two parts already mentioned that compose it, must yet have two qualities to be perfect; it must be admirable, and it must be probable. By the first of these qualities it becomes worthy of admiration, and by the second it becomes worthy of belief. However admirable the Fable be, it can have no effect unless it be probable. The truth is, it strikes the Soul, because it is extraordinary, but it never enters, nor can make any impression, by reason it appears incredible▪ Probability alone is too faint and dull for Poetry, and what is only admirable, is too dazzling. 'Tis true, whatever appears incredible, is strongly relished by the curiosity of the people; for the People, saith Synesius, despises whatever seems common and ordinary; they love nothing but what is prodigious, but the Wise cannot endure what is incredible; the public being composed of the one and the other, is delighted with what is admirable, so be, it is credible; therefore it most imports to know so to mingle these in such a just temperament as may please the fancy without shocking the reason; but to learn this secret, it must be known what it is to be admirable, and what it is to be probable.   

XXIII.  
THe admirable is all that which is against the ordinary course of 〈…〉 is what ever suits with common opinion. The changing of Niobe into a stone, is an event that holds of the admirable; yet this becomes probable, when a Deity, to whose power this change was possible, is engaged. Aeneas in the Twelfth Book of the Aeneid, lifts, by himself, a stone, that Ten men could scarce remove; this Prodigy is made probable by the assistance of the Gods that took his part against Turnus. But most part of those that make Verse, by too great a passion they have to create admiration, take not sufficient care to temper it with probability. Against this rock most ordinarily fall the Poets, who are too easily carried to say incredible things, that they may be admirable. Thus Homer, in the Fifteenth Book of his Iliad, makes Stentors voice more loud than that of Fifty men. And Virgil makes a bough of Gold to grow on a Tree, in the Sixth of his Aeneid. And Boreas demands of Aeolus, in the Argonauticks of Valerius Flaccus, the permission to destroy the ship of the Argonaules, where his two Sons Zethus and Calais were embarked. Almost all the ancient Poets, however judicious otherwise, have been guilty of this fault; not to speak of the modern, and especially Ari●sto, for that Hippogrife or winged Horse of Roger, those Giants, those Monsters, that wonderful Ring of Angelica; which renders her invisible, the Combats of Marfisa, Bradamante and Olympia, and all the bravery of that Sex, which he makes valiant in War, contrary to their Natural timidity; those Visions, Enchantments, and prodigious Adventures, are like the vain imaginations of a sick brain, and are pitied by all men of Sense, because they have no colour of likelihood. The same judgement must be pronounced of the other Italian and Spanish Poets, who suffer their Wits to ramble in the Romantic way: 'tis too great Honour to call them Poets, they are for the most part but Rhymesters.   

XXIV.  
BEsides, that probability serves to give credit to whatever Poesy has the most fabulous; it serves also to give, to whatever the Poet saith, a greater lustre and air of perfection, than Truth itself can do, though probability is but the Copy. For Truth represents things only as they are, but probability renders them as they ought to be. Truth is well nigh always defective, by the mixture of particular conditions that compose it. Nothing is brought into the world that is not remote from the perfection of its Idea fro● the very birth. Originals and Models are to be searched for in probability▪ and in the universal principles of things, where nothing that is material and singular enters to corrupt them; for this reason the portracts of History are less perfect than the portracts of Poesy; and Sophocles, who in his Tragedies represents men as they ought to be, is, in the opinion of Aristotle, to be preferred before Euripides, who represents Men as really they are; and Horace makes less account of the Lessons of Crantor and Chrysippus, for the manners▪ than of those of Homer.   

XXV.  
AFter the Design or Fable, Aristotle places the Manners for the second Part; he calls the Manners the cause of the action, for it is from these that a Man begins to act. Achilles retires from the Grecian Army in Homer, because he is discontent, Aeneas in Virgil carries his gods into Italy, because he is pious. Medea kills her children in Seneca, because she is revengeful; so the Manners are, as it were, the first springs of all humane actions. The Painter draws Faces by their features; but the Poet represents the minds of Men by their Manners: and the most general Rule for painting the Manners, is to exhibit every person in his proper Character. A Slave, with base thoughts, and servile inclinations. A Prince, with a liberal heart, and air of Majesty. A Soldier, fierce, insolent, surly, inconstant. An old Man, covetous, wary, jealous. 'Tis in describing the Manners, that Terence triumphed over all the Poets of his time, in Varro's opinion, for his persons are never found out of their Characters. He observes their Manners in all the Niceties and Rigours of decorum, which Homer himself has not always done, as some pretend. Longinus cannot endure the wounds, the adulteries, the hatred, and all the other weaknesses to which he makes the gods obnoxious, contrary to, their Character. Philostratus finds much to object against his portracts: but justin Martyr excuses him, alleging, That he took these Notions from Orpheus, and that he had followed the opinion that publicly prevailed in those days. However it be, it may be granted that Homer has not treated the Gods with all the respect due to their condition. Aristotle condemns Euripides for introducing Menalippa to speak too much like a Philosopher of the Sect of Anaxagoras, whose opinions were then new in his time. Theon the Sophist cannot e●●●re the unseasonable discourses of 〈◊〉 on her misfortunes, in the same Author. Sophocles makes Oedipus too weak and low-spirited in his Exile, after he had bestowed on him that Character of constancy and resolution before his disgrace. Seneca, for his part, knows nothing of the Manners. He is a fine Speaker, who is eternally uttering pretty sayings, but is in no wise Natural in what he speaks, and whatever persons he makes to speak, they always have the mien of Actors. The Angelica of Ariosto is too immodest. The Armida of Tasso is too free and impudent; these two Poets rob Women of their Character, which is Modesty. Rinaldo is soft and effeminate in the one, Orlando is too tender and passionate in the other: these weaknesses in no wise agree with Heroes; they are degraded from the Nobless of their condition, to make them guilty of Folly. The sovereign Rule for treating of Manners, is to copy them after Nature, ●nd above all to study well the heart of Man, to know how to distinguish all its motions. 'Tis this which none are acquainted with: the heart of man is an abyss, where none can sound the bottom: it is a mystery, which the most quicksighted cannot pierce into, and in which the most cunning are mistaken; at the worst the Poet is obliged to speak of Manners according to the common opinion. Ajax mus● be represented grum, as Sop●ocles; Polyxena and Iphigenia generous, as Euripides has represented them. Finally, th● Manners must be proportionable to th● Age, to the Sex, to the Quality, to th● Employment, and to the Fortune of the persons▪ and it is particularly in the Second Book of Aristotle's Rhetoric, and in Horace's Book of P●●try, that this secret may be learned; whatever agrees not with his principles, is false; nothing tolerable can be performed in Poetry without this knowledge, and with it all becomes admirable. And Horace in that place of his Book of Poetry, where he makes distinction of Ages to draw their Portracts, affirms, That 'tis only by the representation of Manners that any can have success on the Stage; for there all is frivolous, if the Manners be not observed.   

XXVI.  
THe third part of the Art consists in the Thoughts, of sentiments, which are properly the expressions of the Manners, as words are the expressions of the Thoughts. Their office, saith Aristotle, is to approve or dislike, to stir or to calm the passions, to magnify or diminish things. Thus Polyxena in the Hecuba of Euripides, cannot approve the thoughts of her Mother, which directed her to throw herself at the feet of Ulysses to move him to pity, who demanded her in the name of the Grecian Army to be sacrificed, for Virtue inspired this generous Princess with other sentiments. 'Tis thus that Drances in Virgil amplifies (at the Council of King Latinus) the danger, the injustice, the ill consequences of the War they waged with Aeneas, being fearful and cowardly: and that Turnus confutes so strongly the sentiments of this Speaker, being himself valiant, and a despiser of dangers. Thoughts must not only be conformable to the Persons to whom they are given, but likewise to the Subject treated of; that is to say, on great Subjects are required great Thoughts, as those of Evadne in the suppliants of Euripides; there this Queen, after the death of her husband Capaneus, may be seen to express all the extremity of her grief, by force of a sorrow the most generous that ever was; her affliction oppresses her, without extorting from her one word that betrays any thing of weakness. The Greek Poets are full of these great Thoughts: and it is much by this greatness of their sentiments, that they are particularly signalised in their Works. Demetrius and Longinus perpetually propose them for Models to those who study the sublime stile; and it is in these great originals that our modern Poets ought to consult Nature, to learn how to raise their Wits, and be lofty. We may flatter our felves with our Wit, and the Genius of our (the French) Nation; but our Soul is not enough exalted to frame great Ideas, we are busied with petty Subjects, and by that means it is that we prove so cold in the great; and that in our works scarce appears any shadow of that sublime Poesy, of which the ancient Poets have left such excellent Models, and above all Homer and Virgil; for great Poetry must be animated and sustained by great thoughts, and great sentiments, but these we ordinarily want, either because our Wit is too much limited, or because we take not care to exercise on important matters. Thus we are low on high Subjects. For example, how feeble are we, when we speak of the Conquests of a King? our Poets make their expressions swell, to supply the want of Noble sentiments: but it is not only the greatness of the Subjects, and the thoughts that give this air of majesty to Poetry, there is likewise required lofty words, and noble expressions.   

XXVII.  
THe last part is the Expression, and whatever regards the language; it must have five qualities, to have all the perfection Poetry demands: it must be apt, clear, natural, splendid, and numerous. The language must in the first place be apt, and have nothing impure or barbarous: for though one may speak what is great, noble, and admirable, all is despicable and odious, if the purity be be wanting: the greatest thoughts in the World have not any grace, if the construction be defective. This purity of writing is of late so strongly established among the French, that he must be very hardy, that will make Verse in an Age so delicate, unless he understand the tongue perfectly. Secondly, the language must be clear, that it may be intelligible, for one of the greatest faults in discourse is obscurity: in this Camoens, whom the Portuguese call their Virgil, is extremely unblamable; for his Verse are so obscure, that they may pass for mysteries: and the thoughts of Dante are so profound, that much art is required to dive into them. Poetry demands a more clear air, and what is less incomprehensible. The third quality, is that it be natural, without affectation, according to rules of decorum, and goodsense. Studied phrases, a too florid stile, fine words, terms strained and remote, and all extraordinary expressions are insupportable to the true Poesy; only simplicity pleases, provided it be sustained with greatness and majesty: but this simplicity is not known, except by great Souls, the little Wits understand nothing of it; 'tis the Masterpiece of Poesy, and the Character of Homer and Virgil. The ignorant hunt after Wit, and fine thoughts, because they are ignorant. The language must be lofty and splendid, which is the fourth quality, for the common and ordinary terms are not proper for a Poet, he must use words that partake nothing of the base and vulgar, they must be noble and magnificent; the expressions strong, the colours lively, the draughts bold: his discourse must be such as may equal the greatness of the Ideas of a Workman, who is the Creator of his work. The fifth quality, is that it be numerous, to uphold that greatness and air of majesty which reigns throughout in Poesy, and to express all the force and dignity of the great things it speaks: terms that go off roundly from the mouth, and that fill the ears, are sufficient to render all admirable, as Poesy requires. But this is not enough that the expressions be stately and great, there must likewise be heat and vehemence: and a●ove all, there must shine throughout the discourse a certain grace and delicacy, which makes the principal ornament, and most universal beauty.   

XXVIII.  
IT may be affirmed that never person in any language possessed all these qualities in such eminent degree as Homer; he is the first Model a Poet must propose to himself, to write as he ought; for never person writ more purely, nor more naturally than he: 'tis he alone that ever found the secret of joining to the purity of style all the sublimity and greatness that Heroic Poesy is capable of; for this reason, Longinus always proposes him as the most just and exact rule for the sublime style. It was formerly on this original, that Euphranor formed his Idea for drawing the image of jupiter, for that he might be more successful therein, he travailed to Athens to consult a Professor that read Homer to his Scholars; upon the description the Poet gives in the first Book of his Iliad, of a jupiter with black eyebrows, a brow covered with clouds, and a head environed with all that majesty has most terrible, this Painter made a portrait that after was the wonder of his age, as Appion the Grammarian has reported. The same happened to Phidias in that admirable Statue of jupiter he made, after the Model he found in the same place in Homer, as Eustathius affirms. And one of the most famous Painters of this Age, made Homer be read to him to heighten his Fancy, when he disposed himself to draw. The same judgement is to be made of the expressions of Virgil, especially in his Georgics.   

XXIX.  
THis loftiness of expression is so important, that for the attaining it, 'tis not enough to propose Homer and Virgil, it must be searched in Pindar, in Sophocles, in Euripides; and it must be had in grave and serious Subjects, that, of themselves, are capable to furnish with great thoughts, as the great thoughts are capable to furnish with noble expressions. But the way to heighten Discourse, saith Aristotle, is to make good use of Metaphors, and to understand perfectly their Nature, that they may not be abused: 
Poet. c. 2. 22.  and he adds in the same place, That this discernment is the mark of an excellent Wit; and because, as saith Quintilian, 
Lib. 8. cap. 6.  this loftiness which is aimed at by the boldness of a Metaphor, is dangerous, insomuch that it comes nigh to rashness, Aristotle must be consulted on this matter, to employ them with discretion, as Virgil has done: who, treating of Bees, in the Fourth Book of his Georgics▪ that he might heighten the meanness of his Subject speaks not of them but in metaphorical terms, of a Court, of Legions, of Armies, of Combats, pitched Fields, Kings, Captains, Soldiers: and by this admirable Art, forms a noble image of the lowest Subject; for after all, they are still but Flies. Finally, the Poet must above all things know what Eloquence has of art and method for the use of Figures: for it is only by the Figures that he gives force to the passions, lustre to the discourses, weight to the reasons, and makes delightful all he speaks. 'Tis only by the most lively Figures of Eloquence that all the emotions of the Soul become fervent and passionate: Nature must be the only guide that can be proposed in the use of these Figures and Metaphors, and must therefore be well understood, that it may be traced and followed without mistake: for no protracts can be drawn that have resemblance without it, and all the images that Poetry employs in expressing itself, are false, unless they be natural.   

XXX.  
BUt this sublime stile is the Rock to the mean Wits: they fly out in too vast and boisterous terms, from what is natural, when they endeavour to be high and lofty. For this haughty and pompous kind of speech becomes vain and cold, if not supported with great thoughts; and the great words that are indiscreetly affected to heighten the discourse, for the most part, only make a noise. The Emperor Nero who had the Worm in his Head, and conceited himself a Wit, ran into this Character with that extravagance, that he became a Subject of Raillery to the Satirists of his time. Statius, who had a better Genius, would imitate this kind of writing in his Poems, by an affection of great words, and swelling expressions: but seeing he swells into fustian, he fills the ears without touching the heart; and all those universally, who in the decline of the Empire affected to be lofty, and wanted Wit, by a too great boldness of language, became obscure, as Persius in his Satyrs: or cold and flat, as Valerius Flaccus in his Argonauticks: or fell into the impropriety, as Sidonius Apollinaris, and the others. For the most essential virtue of Speech, next to the clearness and perspicuity, is that it be chaste and modest, as Demetrius Phalerius observes; There must be (saith he) a proportion betwixt the words and the things: and nothing is more ridiculous, than to handle a frivolous Subject in a sublime stile; for whatsoever is disproportionate, is either altogether false, or at the least, 
Plut. Georg.  is trifling and childish. This by Socrates is objected to the Sophist Gorgias Leontinus, whom he pleasantly plays upon for affecting to speak petty things with a great and solemn mien. Most French Poets fall into this vice, for want of Genius; their verses where Logic is much neglected, most commonly, are either Pedantry, or Nonsense. Should I cite Examples, there would be no end. Dubartas and Ronsard, who would heighten their Conceits with great words after their fashion, compounded according to the manner of the Greek, and of which the French Tongue is not capable, were guilty of impropriety, and made themselves barbarous; who succeeded them, committed the same fault. Malherb was the first that joined purity to the lofty stile; but being the beginner, he could not carry it to perfection, there is good store of Prose amongst his Verse. Theophile, who followed him, by too great affectation of the easy stile, degenerated into trifling and puerility: the truth is, the foundation of his Character was a luxuriant fancy, rather than a fruitful wit. The Pharsale of Brebeuf corrupted afterwards much of the youth, who were dazzled at the pomp of his Verse. 'Tis true, they have splendour: but after all, whatever seemed great and sublime in this Poem, when 'tis viewed near hand, will not pass with the intelligent, but for a false lustre full of affectation. The small Wits were transported with the noise this Poem made formerly, which at the bottom has nothing in it natur●l▪   

XXXI.  
OF late some have fallen into another extremity, by a too scrupulous care of purity of language: they have begun to take from Poesy all it● nerves, and all its majesty, by a too timorous reservedness, and false modesty, which some thought to make the Character of the French Tongue, by robbing it of all those wise and judicious boldnesses that Poesy demands: they would retrench, without reason, the use of Metaphors, and of all those Figures that give life and lustre to the expressions: and study to confine all the excellency of this admirable Art within the bounds of a pure and correct Discourse, without exposing it to the danger of any high and bold flight. The gust of the Age, which loved purity; the women, who naturally are modest, the Court, which then had sca●● any Commerce with the great men of Antiquity, through their ordinary antipathy to learning, and the general ignorance in the persons of Quality, gave reputation to this way of writing▪ But nothing more authorised it, than the Verses of Voiture and Sarazin, the Metamorphosis of the eyes of phyllis into stars, the Temple of Death, the Eglogues of Lane, and some other works of that Character, that came abroad at that time with a success which distinguished them from the Vulgar. In this way they were polite, and writ good sense; and it agreed with the gust of the Age, and was followed: and who succeeded therein, would make a new kind of refinement in Poetry; as if the Art consisted only in the purity and exactness of language. This indeed pleased well, and was much to the advantage of Women that had a mind to be tampering and writing in Verse; they found it their concern to give vogue to this kind of writing, of which they were as capable as the most part of men; for all the secret was no more but to make some little easy Verses, in which they were content, if they could close some kind of delicateness of sweet and passionate thoughts, which they made the essence of Poetry. The ill fortune is, Horace was not of their mind; It is not enough (saith he) to write with purity to make ● Poet: he must have other qualities. But there are now living, Authors, of a mor● strong and noble Genius than those I have mentioned; who, at this day, let us see in their Works, that purity of language may be joined with greatness of thoughts, and with all the elevation, whereof Heroic Poesy can be capable; but there is not in the French Tongue any work, wherein is so much Poetry, as in the Poem of Saint Lovis; yet the Author is not reserved enough, he gives his Wit too much scope, and his Fancy always carries him too far.   

XXXII.  
BUt examining well, one shall find that Heroic Poetry is not so much in use among the French, as some would persuade us: either by the application of them to little and frivolous Subjects, or by a natural difficulty in them, which clogs and suffers them not to rise in the matters of which they treat: or by reason they want a Genius for that Character they ought to bear; or that, in effect, their Models are defective. He is but capable of very little, who governs himself, and is directed only by the modern Poems; whereas nothing nobl● and sublime can be made without consulting the Ancients. The greatest flights of Latin Poetry are in some certain excellent places of Virgil's Georgics▪ and everywhere in his Aeneid, that are capable of great Figures. The modern Latin Poets afford but few; most whereof have only copied Virgil's phrases, without expressing his spirit. Fracastorius, Vida, Cardinal Sadolet, Sannazarius, have some touches of that noble air, but not many: they fall and return again to their own Genius, when they have strained a little to reach that of Virgil: and amidst the vain efforts of a servile imitation, there continually escapes from them some strokes of their own natural spirit. It may be affirmed likewise, that the best modern Poets have the advantage more by their words, than by their thoughts: what they say, would be very little worth, were it devested of the expression.   

XXXIII.  
THe most important and most necessary part for a Poet, to make him succeed well on high Subjects, is to know well to distinguish what there is of beautiful and pleasant in Nature, that he may form thereof perpetual images: for Poetry is an Art where every thing should please. It is not enough to exhibit Nature, which in certain places is rude and unpleasant; he must choose in her what is beautiful, from what is not: she has her secret graces in Subjects, which he must discover. How clearsighted must a Poet be, to discern what to choose, and what to refuse, without mistaking, that he may avoid the object that will not please, and retain what will? Nicander, Aratus, Lucretius, in the description they have made of natural things, wanted this admirable secret, which Virgil afterwards found out: he had the Art to give delight whilst he instructed by the pleasant images, and most exquisite strokes of Poetry, which adorn his Georgics, and sweeten the harshness of those precepts he gives on a Subject, in itself austere and flat. It is true, Lucretius has beautiful draughts, and Virgil understood well to copy them without losing aught of their perfection, because he had a judgement to discern them; which knowledge cannot be attained, but by a long commerce with the good Authors of Antiquity, whose Works are the only true sources, whence these riches so necessary to Poetry may be drawn, and whence is derived that good sense, and that just discernment which distinguishes the true from the false in natural beauties: and a Poet that hath found in his Works these happy hits, which are born to please, may rejoice as much, as the Workman that has found a precious jewel. It is not, but by the help of his Genius, that he finds these beauties, and they are made by the turn given to the things he writes.   

XXXIV.  
THere is a particular Rhetoric for Poetry, which the Modern Poets scarce understand at all; this Art consists in discerning very precisely what ought to be said figuratively, and what to be spoken simply: and in knowing well where ornament is required, and where not. Tasso understood not well this secret, he is too trim and too polite in places, where the gravity of the Subject demanded a more simple and serious stile: as for example, where Tancred comes near the Tomb of Clorinda; he makes the unfortunate Lover, who came from slaying his Mistress, speak points, instead of expressing his sorrow naturally, he commits this fault in many other places. Guarini in his Pastor Fido, and Bonarelli in his Phillis, are often guilty of this vice, they always think rather to speak things wittily, than naturally: this is the most ordinary Rock to mean Wits, who suffer their fancy to fl●e out after the pleasing images they find in their way: they rush into the descriptions of Groves, Rivers, Fountains, and Temples, which Horace calls Childish in his Book of Poesy. 'Tis only the talon of great men to know to speak, and to be silent; to be florid, and to be plain; to be lofty; and to be low; to use figures, and to speak simply▪ to mingle fiction and ornament, as the Subject requires: finally, to manage all well in his Subject, without pretending to give delight, where he should only instruct, and without rising in great thoughts, where natural and common sentiments are required, a simple thought in its proper place, is more worth than all the most exquisite words and wit out of season. Fancy, which is all the wit of common Writers, apprehends not this; this discernment, and this particular Rhetoric, which is proper to Poetry, is a pure effect of the judgement.   

XXXV.  
YEt is there in Poetry, as in other Arts, certain things that cannot be expressed, which are (as it were) mysteries. There are no precepts, to teach the hidden graces, the insensible charms, and all that secret power of Poetry which passes to the heart, as there is no method to teach to please, 'tis a pure effect of Nature. However, Nature alone can never please regularly, unless in the small compositions: there must be the assistance of Art to succeed well in the great Poems. 'Tis by this help that a Genius a little cultivated, shall range his thoughts in that admirable order which makes the greatest beauty in the productions of Wit; by this order every thing becomes delightful, because, as Horace saith, 'tis in its place; but this is the work of judgement, as invention the work of imagination; and this order that keeps all right, and without which the most beautiful become deformed, is a mystery but little known to modern Poets.   

XXXVI.  
NExt to Order, the greatest delight of Poetry comes from the Manners, and from the Passions, when they are well handled. If you would have applause, saith Horace to the Poets, learn well to distinguish the Manners of every Age, and the Characters proper to them in general and in particular. It was by this great secret that Menander got that high reputation at Athens, as appears by the testimony of Plutarch, and that Terence so exceedingly pleased the Romans; never Poet better understood the Manners, than these two. Plato affirms, in the Ninth Book of his Commonwealth, that Homer had particularly signalised himself by the Manners of men which he had described in his Poems to the life. But that I may not repeat what hath been said in the Twenty fifth Reflection, I proceed to the Passions which give no less grace to Poetry, than the Manners: when the Poet has found the Art to make them move by their natural springs. Without the Passio●●, all is cold and flat in the discourse, saith Quintilian: for they are, as it were, the so●l and life of it; but the secret is to express them according to the several estates and different degrees from their birth: and in this distinction consists all the delicacy, wherewith the Passions ar● to be handled, to give them that Character which renders them admirable by the secret motions they impress on th● Soul. Hecuba in Euripides falls into a Swoon on the Stage, the better to express all the weight of her sorrow that could not be represented by words. But Achilles appears with too much calmness and tranquillity at the sacrifice of Iphigenia, designed for him in marriage by Agamemnon: his grief has expressions too little suiting to the natural impetuosity of his heart. Clytaemnestra much better preserves her Character, she discovers all the Passion of a Mother in the loss of a Daughter so lovely as was this unfortunate Princess, whom they wer● about to sacrifice, to appease the Gods: and Agamemnon generously lays aside the tenderness of a Father, to take, as he ought, the sentiments of a King; he neglected his own interest, to provide for the public. Seneca, so little natural as he is, omits not to have of these strokes that distinguish the passion, as that of Phaeara in the second Act of his Hippolytus; for the affects a negligence of her person, and considered it as not very proper to please a Hunter, who hated ornament and neatness. 'Tis finally this exact distinction of the different degrees of passion, that is of most effect in Poetry: for this gives the draught of Nature, and is the most infallible spring for moving the Soul; but it is good to observe that the most ardent and lively passions become cold and dead, if they be not well managed, or be not in their place. The Poet must judge when there must be a calm, and when there must be trouble; for nothing is more ridiculous, than passion out of season. But it is not enough to move a passion by a notable incident, there must be Art to conduct it, so far as it should go; for by a passion that is imperfect and abortive, the Soul of the Spectator may be shaken; but this is not enough, it must be ravished.   

XXXVII.  
BEsides the graces that Poetry finds in displaying the Manners and the Passions: there is a certain I know not what in the Numbers, which is understood by few, and notwithstanding gives great delight in Poetry. Homer hath excelled generally all the Poets by this Art; whether the nature of his language was favourable to him, by the variety in the numbers, and by the noble sound of the words: or that the delicacy of his ear made him perceive this grace, whereof the other Poets of his time were not sensible; for his Verse sound the most harmoniously that can be imagined. Atheneus pretends that nothing is more proper to be sung than the verses of Homer, so natural is the harmony of them; 'tis true, I never read this Poet, or hear him read, but I feel, what is found in a Battle, when the Trumpets are heard. Virgil, who had a nice ear, did not imitate Homer in this, further than the harshness, or rather the heaviness of the Latin Tongue permitted him. Ennius had not then in his days discovered this grace, which is in the numbers, whereof appears no footstep in his verse. Lucretius perceived it first, but gave only the imperfect strokes of this beauty in versification, which Virgil finished so far as the language was capable. The other Poets, as Ovid in his Metamorphoses, Statius in his two Poems, Valerius Flaccus in his Argonauts, Silius Italicu● in his Hannibal, Claudian in his Ravishment of Proserpina never went so far. Among the modern Poets that have writ in Latin of late days, those who could attain to the numbers and cadence of Virgil in the turn of their verse, have had most reputation; and because that Buchanan, who otherwise had wit, fancy, and a pure stile, perceived not this grace, or neglected it, he hath lost much of his price: perhaps nothing was wanting to make him an accomplished Poet, but this perfection, which most certainly is not Chimerical; and whoever shall reflect a little on the power of the Dorian, Lydian and Phrygian Airs, whereof Aristotle speaks in his Problems▪ and Athenaeus in his Banquets, he may acknowledge what virtue there is in number and harmony: It is a beauty unknown to the French Tongue, where all the syllables are counted in the verses, and where there is no diversity of cadence.   

XXXVIII.  
THere yet remains beauties and ornaments whereof each Tongue, is capable, and these the Poet must understand, and must not confound, when he writes in another Tongue, than those he proposes for Models, which Virgil hath well observed in imitating Ho●er; for he did not give himself over to follow him servilely in the exact turn of his versification: he knew withal that those big words which make a beauty at the end of the Greek verses, would have been no elegancy in the Latin: because, in effect, this succeeds not with Lucretius. Virgil found that the character of the Latin Tongue required numbers too severe, as Martial observes, to allow of that licentious cadence, which was familiar with the Greek▪ Horace, who proposed the Odes of Pindar for the model of those he writ in Latin, quitted immediately the numbers and the turn of that Author's verse, of which he found the Latin Tongue uncapable, as the French Poetry is not accommodated to the numbers of the Spanish and Italian, because every language is con●●n'd within certain bounds, which makes the beauty of their Character. 'Tis a great Art to know these beauties, and well to distinguish them each from other; but besides the numbers that are particular to each Tongue, there is also a certain turn of the period which makes the cadence and the harmony, of which none ought to be ignorant. How many are there of the modern Poets, who have endeavoured to imitate Virgil, without beingable to attain this admirable turn, which renders him so majestic▪ Sannazarius, Fracastorius, Sadoletus, saint Marthe come somewhat nigh it, the others never so much as understood it. This cast off the period which is proper to each kind of verse▪ is necessary for expressing their Character: it must be grave, and the numbers thick in Heroick, in Tragic verse, and in Odes: it must be soft and easy in the little verse and delicate subjects.   

XXXIX.  
BEsides all the Rules taken from Aristotle, there remains one mentioned by Horace, to which all the other Rules must ●e subject, as to the most essential, which is the decorum. Without which the other Rules of Poetry are false: it being the most solid foundation of that probability so essential to this Art. Because it is only by the decorum that this probaility gains its effect; all becomes probable, where the decorum is strictly preserved in all circumstances. One ordinarily transgresses this Rule, either by confounding the serious with the pleasant, as Pulci has done in his Poem of Morgante; or by giving Manners disproportionate to the condition of the persons, as Guarini has done to his Shepherds, which are too polite: in like manner as those of Ronsard are too gross; or because no regard is had to make the wonderful Adventures probable, whereof Ariosto is guilty in his Orlando; or that a due preparation is not made for the great Events by a natural Conduct, in which Bernardo Tasso transgressed in his Poem of Amadis, and in his Floridante; or by want of care to sustain the Characters of persons, as Theophile in his Tragedy of Pyramus and Thisbe; or by following rather a capricious Genius than Nature, as Lope de Vega, who gives his wit too much swinge, and is ever foisting in his own Fancies on all occasions; or by want of Modesty, as Dante, who invokes his own wit for his Deity; and as Boccace, who is perpetually speaking of himself: or by saying every thing indifferently without shame, as Cavalier Marino in his Adonis. Finally, whatever is against the Rules of Time, of Manners, of Thoughts, of Expression, is contrary to the decorum, which is the most universal of all the Rules.   

XL.  
ANd to close, in a last Reflection, all the others that can be made, the Poet must understand that the great secret of the Art is to work his matter well, and to execute happily what he had designed with all the attention his Subject requires; that he know always, that in great works he may be negligent in certain places, which regularly ought to be neglected; that all may not be finished alike, and what is finished may appear so the more, among the studied negligences. These strokes less perfect than the rest, and these inequalities of expression which Art requires, are as necessary to Poesy, as the s●ades to a Painter, which serve to give lustre to the other parts of his work. 'Tis the fault of the mean wits, to express things more high than they ought to be expressed. So, the Poet must take heed that he run not with the young Writers into the florid stile, by his excessive ornaments, and farfetched beauties; that he retrench boldly what is too luxuriant, for all becomes false in Poetry, that glitters too much. The Poet is in no wise natural, who will be always speaking fine things: he will not be so prodigal of his wit, when he hath wit formed as it ought to be; for all he speaks is worth nothing, if he will be speaking too finely. The course he must take to come at good sense, is to have yet a greater care in his expression of things, than in his words, because it is in the things he must search the principal graces of his discourse. The discourse must be diversified by the variety of expressions, because the same images tyre the mind of the Reader: and there must not only be frequent ●igures in the words, but also different turns in the thoughts. The narrow and limited wits are always finding themselves, and by the barrenness of their Genius, become like that player of the Lute in Horace, who could only strike on one string. For the rest, it is good to be mindful, that none must meddle with making Verses, who does not make them excellently, and does not distinguish himself from others. For since none is obliged to make them, to what end should he crack his brain, and hazard his Reputation, unless he acquit himself well? he may know likewise that Poetry will be no honour to men of little sense; and that the appetite of ●●rse-making is a dangerous malady, when it seizes on an indifferent wit: that he is liable to all extravagancies imaginable, who is taken therewith and wants a Genius: that he should be endued with submission▪ and be docible, that he fall not into this misfortune. For after the manner men live at present, he may ●ind everywhere some or other who out of charity or ill humour, are always ready to give him advice: that the greatest fault of a Poet is to be indocible; and that nothing hath made so many b●d Poets, as Flattery, which will be continually buzzing in his ears, and daubing him on that occasion, so soon as he begins to tamper with writing Verse; especially it is to be considered, that he should apply himself betimes to this mystery, to attain any perfection: that he may ●orm his imagination to that delicate air, which is not to be had, but from the first Ideas of our youth. julius and joseph Scaliger could not succeed herein, for having begun this study too late, neither of them could overcome the stiffness of their Genius, which had before bend their wit another way: and though the Son was more polite than his Father, yet had he nothing of elegancy, or graceful in his Poetry, no more than the other learned men of his time; and that he who aspires to the glory of this profession, may reckon that he hath much more to lose, than to gain▪ by writing Verse, in an Age so squeamish as this of ours. We are no longer in that Age, when men got reputation by their foolhardy writing: than it was no difficult matter to impose, seeing what glittered, was more respected than what was solid: and one may reflect that nothing can now succeed in Poetry, unless it be delicately conceived, and formed with the utmost regularity, and set off with all the grace and happiness of expression: that Verse are not tolerable, if but indifferent; and are ridiculous, unless they be admirable. That finally, true Poetry is not perceived▪ but by the impression it makes on the Soul; it is not as it should be, unless it go to the heart: hence it is that Homer animates me, Virgil heats me, and all the rest freeze me, so cold and flat they are.  
This is what may be said in General of Poetry, after follows the Particular.    

REFLECTIONS ON ARISTOTLE's BOOK OF POESY In Particular.  

I.  
ARistotle distinguishes Poesy into three divers kinds of perfect Poems, the Epic, the Tragic, and the Comic, Horace reduces these three into two only, one whereof consists in Action, the other in Narration; all the other kinds whereof Aristotle makes mention may be brought to these two, the Comedy to the Dramatic, the Satire to the Comedy, the Ode and Eglogue to the Heroic Poem; for the Sonnet, Madrigal, Epigram, etc. are only a sort of imperfect Poems; it is the Poet's part to consult his strength in the different ways he must hold in the different Characters of Verse, that he may not do violence to his Genius.   

II.  
THe Epic Poem is that which is the greatest and most Noble in Poesy; it is the greatest work that humane wit is capable of. All the Nobleness, and all the elevation of the most perfect Genius, can hardly suffice to form one such as is requisite for an Heroic Poet; the difficulty of finding together fancy and judgement, heat of imagination, and sobriety of reason, precipitation of spirit, and solidity of mind, causes the rareness of this Character, and of this happy temperament which makes a Poet accomplished; it requires great images, and yet a greater wit to form them. Finally, there must be a judgement so solid, a discernment so exquisite, such perfect knowledge of the language, in which he writes; such obstinate study, profound meditation, vast capacity, that scarce whole Ages can produce one Genius fit for an Epic Poem. And it is an enterprise so bold, that it cannot fall into a wise Man's thoughts, but affright him. Yet how many Poets have we seen of late days, who, without capacity, and without study, have dared to undertake these sort of Poems; having no other foundation for all, but the only heat of their imagination, and some briskness of spirit.   

III.  
BUt another hindrance to this Character, is to have a Wit too vast; for such will make nothing exact in these kind of works, whose chief perfection is the justness. These Wits that strike at all, are apt to pass the bounds: the swinge of their Genius carries them to irregularity; nothing they do is exact, because their wit is not: all that they say, and all that they imagine, is always vast; they neither have proportion in the design, nor justness in the thought, nor exactness in the expression. This fault is common to the most of the modern Poets, especially to the Spaniards, as Diego Ximenes in his Poem of Cid Ruydias de Bivar, Camo●ns in his Conquest of the Indians by the Portuguese: and among the Italians, Boiardo, Ariosto, Cavalier Marino, and Chiabrera, whose Works are very ill patterns for an Epic Poem: they perpetually digress, yet there is always wit in their digressions. The French, who pretend to wit, and love wit even in trifles, suffered themselves to be blinded with the Poems of Ariosto and Cavalier Marino. The beauty of their Verse, their expression, the pleasant images they make of things they treat of, and the charms of their Verse, have so enchanted most part of these French Poets, that they have not seen the gross enormities of judgement those Authors run into. This is ordinary with Poets that have wit, and little judgement: they endeavour to hide what is irregular in their Works by glittering faults, and false beauties; but they must have a great judgement and wisdom to sustain a great design in the utmost regularity.   

IV.  
THe value of Heroic Poesy is yet more high by the matter, and by its end, than by its form; it discourses not but of Kings and Princes; it gives not Lessons but to the Grandees to govern the People, and sets before them the Idea of a virtue much more perfect than History can do; for History proposes not virtue but imperfect, as it is found in the particulars; and Poetry proposes it free from all imperfections, and as it ought to be in general, and in the abstract. This made Aristotle confess that Poesy is a better School of virtue, than Philosophy itself, 
Arist. Poct. ●. 10.  because it goes more directly to perfection by the verisimility, than Philosophy can do with the naked truth. And because the Poet gives not reason for what he saith, as the Philosopher, but the reason must be perceived without his speaking it.   

V.  
Poesy in general, is a picture or imitation of an action; and Heroic Poesy is the imitation or picture of an Heroic action, as Aristotle informs us. The qualifications he gives to this action, are, that it be one and simple, true, or that passes for true, and that it ought to be happy, commendable, and entire. He believes that it must be one and simple, to avoid confusion; that it must be true, to deserve credit; happy and commendable, to serve for a pattern and instruction to the Grandees, and to be a public example of virtue. Finally, it must be entire, that there may be nothing in it imperfect. These conditions are so essential to the action, which is to serve for the Subject of an Heroic Poem, that it is altogether defective, if any one of them be wanting; but to the end the action may be entirely perfect in a Poem, all must go in a direct line to establish the merit of the Heroc, and to distinguish him from all others: as the figures in a Table ought to have nothing so shining either by the colours, or by the lights that may divert the eyes from the principal figure. 'Tis in this that Tasso was mistaken, who in his Poem of the Conquest of Jerusalem, makes Rinaldo do all that is shining and extraordinary; it is Rinaldo that slays Adrastus, Tysapharnes, Solyman, and all the principal Leaders of the Enemy: 'Tis he that breaks the Charm of the Enchanted Forest; the most important Episodes are reserved for him; nothing is done in his absence: he alone is called out to all the great actions. Godfrey, who is the Hero, has nothing to do; and it is in vain that Tasso would excuse this fault by the Allegory, in a long Treatise made to that end; that is to justify one Chimaera with another. Homer, whose sense was more right, by a spirit altogether contrary, makes Achilles, who is his Hero, do all; though it is true, he strays sometimes too far from him, and forgets him. Virgil never falls into this fault: one shall never lose the sight of Aeneas in the Aeneid, as they do of Achilles in the Iliad.   

VI  
THe action must neither be too vast, nor too much limited, it must have a just greatness within the natural proportion of an heroic action, to be perfect. The War of Troy that lasted ten years, had been a matter disproportioned for a Poem; so great an object had tired the wit, and a natural action of the same man cannot regularly be of that continuance; but neither aught it to be too much limited, lest it become despicable by the littleness. Hence it is that the Poem of Gabriel Chiabrera on the the Conquest of Rhodes by Amedee of Savoy, is in some measures defective in the action, which lasts but four days. For great achievements, to be extraordinary, are not performed but by slow means, and intrigues wrought and woven with a long thread: with persons often absent and remote: more time is necessary to move the springs of great designs. Besides in the precipitation of so short time, the Events cannot be prepared, the Characters sustained the Incidents managed, the Manners observed, and nothing works as it should do in these great Machine's; and the probability is throughout destroyed.   

VII.  
THe unity of the action, however simple and scrupulous it ought to be, is no enemy to those delights which naturally arise from variety, when the variety is attended with that order and that proportion which makes uniformity; as one Palace may contain the various ornaments of Architecture, and a great diversity of parts, provided it be built in the same order, and after the same design. This variety hath a large field in Heroic Poesy; the Enterprises of War, the Treaties of Peace, Ambassies, Negotiations, Voyages, Councils, Debates, building of Palaces and Towns, Manners, Passions, unexpected Discoveries, unforeseen and surprising Revolutions, and the different images of all that happens in the life of great Men, may there be employed, so be that all go to the same end; without this order, the most beautiful figures become monstrous, and like those extravagances that Horace taxes as ridiculous, in the beginning of his Book of Poesy.   

VIII.  
IT is particularly by the Art of Episodes, that this great variey of matters which adorn a Poem, is brought into the principal action; but though the Episodes are a kind of digression from the subject, being an adventure wholly foreign, that is added to the principal action to adorn it; yet, however, it ought to have a natural relation to the principal action, to make thereof a work that hath order and proportion: and therefore must the decorum of persons, of time, and of place, be preserved. without this condition the Episode is no longer probable, and there appears an air of affectation, which becomes ridiculous. Which Horace reproaches to the witless Poets, who would be gay on grave subjects, and search foreign ornaments, where only the natural were proper. The Episodes of Lucan, who makes long Scholastic dissertations and disputes merely speculative, on things that fall in his way, show much of constraint and affectation. But besides, that the Episode must be natural, and never farfetched; it is to be handled with a certain management and dexterity, that it may not lie in the way to make confusion, nor burden the subject with too much action. 'Tis for this cause Aristotle so greatly blames the Episodical Fables; and it is also in this that the art of Homer principally appears, who never confounds any thing in the throng of objects he represents: never was Poem more charged with matter than the Iliad, yet never any thing appeared more simple or more natural; for every thing there is in due order. Any too licentious Paracronism may render an Episode defective and imperfect, though that of Dido in the fourth of the Aeneid is pardonable, by the admirable effect it produceth; and in so great an elongation of times as those of Aeneas and Dido, the Poet need not be a slave to Chronology. The most natural Episodes are most proper to circumstantiate the principal action best, that are the causes, the effects, the beginning, and the consequences of it; but we find not always these qualifications in Tasso, who seeks to please often by passages that are too glittering; and much less in Ariosta, whose Episodes are too affected, never probable, never prepared, and often without any dependence on his subject, as than of King Agramante and Marfis●● but these things are not to be expected from a Poem, where the Heroes are Pal●dius: and where predominates an air of Ghimerical and Romantic Knight-errantry, rather than any Heroic spirit.   

IX.  
THough all must be natural in an E●pick Poem, yet the order that is observed in relating things, ought not so to be; for were it natural, and according to the succession of time, it would be a History, and not a Poem; and thereby one would fall into the same fault with the impertinent scribbler, whom Horace makes ridiculous, who begun his Poem of the Trojan War, with the loves of Jupiter and Leda, and with the birth of Helen, who was the cause of the War. For to render the Narration more insinuating, delightful, and surprising, the Poet must confound the natural order of times and things, to make thereof one purely artificial. 'Tis by this Maxim, that the Poem of Nonnus upon Bacchus, the Thebay of Statius, and the Poems of the first Italians, who writ before they knew the Rules of Aristotle; and some Spanish Poems, as that of Diego Ximenes, on the Conquest of Valencia, are so defective.   

X.  
THe principal Character of an Heroic Poem, consists in the Narration; 'tis in this that it is opposed to the Dramatic, which consists altogether in the action: but as nothing is more difficult than to relate things, as one ought, the Poet must employ all his art to succeed herein. The qualities a Narration must have, to be perfect, are these; it must be short and succinct, that nothing may be idle, flat, or tedious; it must be lively, quick, and delightful, that it may have nothing but what is attractive: finally, it must be simple and natural; but it is a great art, to know to relate things simply and yet the simplicity not appear. The most ordinary graces of a Narration must come from the figures, the transitions, and from all those delicate turns, that carry the Reader from one thing to another, without his regarding it; and in this chiefly consists all the artifice of the Narration. It must never pour out all the matter, that some place may always be left for the natural Reflections of the Reader; it must likewise avoid the particulars and the length of affected description. Homer, great speaker as he is, amuses not himself, says Lucian, to discourse of the torments of the unhappy in Hell, when Ulysses descended thither; though this was a fair occasion for him. But the Poet, when he is judicious, makes no descriptions but to clear the matters, and never to show his Wit. Finally, the Narration must be delightsom, not only by the variety of things it relates, but likewise by the variety of the numbers. 'Tis this variety that makes the Greek versification more harmonious, and more proper for Narration, than the Latin; and though Tasso has been successful enough in the Narrations of his Poem, and likewise Ariosto, who, to me, seems more natural than he; yet the pauses and interruptions to which the Italian Poesy is subjected, by the Stanza's, do weaken, methinks, and enervate that force and vigour, which makes one part of the Character of Heroic Verse. That Monotomie of the Alexandrin Verse which can suffer no difference, nor any variety of numbers, seems, to me, likewise a great weakness in the French Poetry: and though the vigour of the Verse might be sustained either by the great Subjects, or by an extraordinary Genius and Wit above the common rate, yet this sort of Verse will grow tedious and irksome in a long Poem. For the rest, one shall scarce ever meet with Narrations that are continued with the same force and the same spirit, except in Homer and Virgil. It is true, the Narration of the death of Polyxena in the Hecuba of Euripides, is the most lively and most moving in the world; and that of Tecmessa in the Ajax of Sephocles, is the most tender and most passionate that can be imagined. 'Tis by these great Models that a Poet must learn to be pathetical in what he relates, without amusing himself to make subtle and witty Narrations, by ridiculous affectations. In the other Greek and Latin Poets, are found only some imperfect essays of Narrations. He, among the Moderns, who has the best Genius to sustain all the Nobleness of a Narration in Heroic Verse, is Hierom Vida Bishop of Alba, in his Poem on the death of jesus Christ; and if sometimes he fell not into low expressions, and harshnesses like those of Lucretius, his stile had been incomparable. Scaliger objects against the long Narrations, which Homer makes his Heroes speak in the heat and fury of a Battle, in effect this is neither natural nor probable; neither can I approve the descriptions of Alcina's Palace in Ariosto, nor of Armida's in Tasso, no more than the particulars of the pleasant things which both of them mix in their Narrations; hereby they degenerate from their Character, and show a kind of puerility, that is in no wise conformable to the gravity of an Heroic Poem, where all aught to be majestic.   

XI.  
NOthing is more essential to an Epic Poem than Fiction, which ought to reign throughout, Fiction being its soul. 'Tis by this that the most common things take a Character of greatness and sublimity, which renders them extraordinary and admirable. Aristotle gave but the shadow of this precept, which Petronius has drawn more fully, by these words, per ambages deorumque ministeria praecipitandus est liber spiritus. 'Tis thus that meanest things become Noble; that Thetis in Homer, throws herself at the feet of jupiter, that the Gods assemble in Council, where arise great debates, their spirits grow warm, and all heaven is divided into parties; for what? because, indeed, Achilles' Mistress was taken from him, which at the bottom is but a trifle. 'Tis by this great Art, that all the Voyages, and indeed every step that Telemachus made in the Odyssis, to seek his father Ulysses, became considerable, because Minerv● is of his Retinue, and of his Council; and all became remarkable, by the impression they received from the conduct of a Deity, that presides over wisdom. 'Tis finally by this that Virgil gives greatness and lustre to the meanest things he speaks. If Aeneas break a bough, in the third of his Aeneid, to pay a pious duty to a Tomb that he finds accidentally in his way, the ghost of Polydorus speaks to him from the bottom of the Tomb, and this makes an Episode. If Aruns draw an Arrow in the eleventh Book, it is by the direction of Apollo, who does interess himself therein to kill Camilla. Finally, all has relation to the Gods and their Ministry, even to the least actions that are described in this Poem, to heighten the lustre of all that is there done, in that marvellous way, whereof Aristotle gives so admirable Lessons.   

XII.  
BUt the importance is, as I before have observed, that this admirable be probable, by a just mixture, and temperament of the one and the other. For the Heroic action which the Poet proposes to imitate, must be rendered not only worthy of admiration, but also of credit, to attain its end. The Poets ordinarily are carried without consideration to speak incredible things, whilst they aim too much at the marvellous; they thrust imprudently into the Fable, without managing the truth, because they would please, without taking care to persuade; and they scarce ever think of the preparations, and all the colours of decency that must be employed whereon to ground the verisimility. And 'tis thus that by a false Idea they have of Poesy, they place its beauty in the pleasant surprises of something extraordinary wonderful: whereas in truth it is not regularly to be found, but in what is natural and probable. For the sure way to the heart, is not by surprising the spirit; and all becomes incredible in Poetry, that appears incomprehensible. Scarce any of the Poets but Virgil, had the Art, by the preparation of incidents, to manage the probability in all the circumstances of an heroic action. Homer is not altogether so scrupulous and regular in his contrivances; his Machines' are less just, and all the measures he takes, to save the probability, are, less exact; I shall not give a particular in a Subject where I only allow myself to make Reflections on the general principles of Presie. Many Reflections may be made in the works of both the ancient and modern Poets, on the subject of this observation; for the necessity of probability is a great check to the Poets; who think to make the incidents the more heroic, by how much more wonderful and more surprising they be, without regarding whether they be natural.   

XIII.  
FInally, the sovereign perfection of an Epic Poem, in the opinion of Aristotle, consists in the just proportion of all the parts. The marvellous of Tragedy consists in the pathetical stile; but the marvellous of an Heroic Poem, is that perfect connexion, that just agreement, and the admirable relation, that the parts of this great work have each to other, as the perfection of a great Palace, consists in the uniformity of design, and in the proportion of parts. It is this symmetry that Horace so much commends in the beginning of his Book of Poesy, where he taxes the ridiculousness of the extravagant disproportions in the Picture he speaks of; and which he compares to the prodigious Adventures of Dolphins in the Forests, and wild Boars in the Sea, and all the other images he so much blames, because disproportionable to the subject. And this proportion that Aristotle demands, is not only in the quantity of the parts, but likewise in the quality. In which point Tasso is very faulty, who mixes in his Poem the light Character with the serious, and all the force and majesty of Heroick, with the softness and delicacy of the Eglogue and Lyric Poesy. For the Shepherd's adventures with Herminia in the seventh Canto, and the Letters of her lovers Name, which she carved on the bark of bays and beech's, the moan she made to the Trees and Rocks, the purli●● streams, the embroidered meadows; the singing of Birds, in which the Poet himself took so much pleasure: the enchanted wood in the thirteenth Canto; the songs of Ar●●da in the fourteenth to inspire Rinaldo with love, the caresses this Sorceress made him, the description of her Palace, where nothing is breathed but softness and effeminacy, and those other affected descriptions have nothing of that grave and majestic Character, which is proper for Heroic Verse. 'Tis thus that Saunazarius, in his Poem de partu virgins, has injudiciously mingled the Fables of Paganism with the mysteries of Christian Religion; as also Camae●s, who speaks without discretion of Venus and ●acchus, and the other profane Deities in a Christian Poem. It is not sufficient that all be grand and magnificent in an Epic Poem, all must be just, uniform, proportionable in the different parts that compose it.   

XIV.  
THis proportion of parts is so essential to heroic, that it ought likewise to be (if I may so say) the soul of all little Poems; as are Epithalumiums, Panegyrics, and others that are made on the birth; and brave actions of great men; and these Poems are so far perfect, as they have that unity and proportion of parts, requisite for a complete work, In this ordinarily are faulty the Panegyrists, and all those pretended Poets, that seek to make their fortune, by making their Court to great persons. For besides that there is nothing more difficult, than to praise, and that by so bold an enterprise, one ordinarily exposes himself to be rendered ridiculous, as well as those he commends, because he does it ill; the common undertakers, in this kind, who have not force to form handsomely a design, lose the reins to their fancy; and after they have piled a heap of gross and deformed praises without order or connexion one upon another, this, forsooth, must be called a Panegyric. 'Tis thus that Claudian has praised the Emperor Honorius and the Consuls, Probinus, Olybrius, Stilicon, and the other illustrious persons of his time. Throughout all his Panegyrics reigns an air of youthfulness, that has nothing of what is solid, though there appear some wit. I speak not of Ausonius, nor Prudentius, and the Latin Poets, who have writ Panegyrics; because all of them have writ after this manner, and yet more feebly, according to the decline of the Ages in which they writ. Tibullus himself, otherwise so exact and polite in his Elegies, falls short in his Panegyric of Messala; so hard is it to praise well. And nothing perhaps has contributed more to render the Character of a Poet a little ridiculous, than the vile and unmanly flatteries whereby most part of those that professed Poetry have debased themselves. For a man always praises ill, when he praises for interest; and there is nothing but these sottish praises that bring a disparagement on Poets. What art, what springs, what turns, what wit must be employed, to praise well, and how few are capable to do it? for praise has always something gross in it, if it lie too open, and go in a direct line. Voiture, one of the most delicate Wits of these latter Ages, never scarce, commended any but in drollery, and it may be said that of a long time none has done it with more success. The true Models, that aught to be taken, to praise well, are the Poems of Homer and Virgil; Homer praises not Achilles, but by the simple and bare relation of his actions; and never was man praised so delicately as Augustus, by Virgil; it is not but, as it were, by covert paths that he conducts him to glory. There was not a Roman that had any thing of understanding, who knew not well that Virgil commended not the piety of Aeneas, but to honour that of Augustus, whose portrait he draws in his Hero; for whatever the Poet says of the one, is only for the other. Whereby, one may say, that never man knew better the art of praising; for he saves all the modesty of the person he praiseth, even whilst he overwhelms him with praise. Finally, the true art of praising, is to say laudable things simply, but delicately; for praises are not to be endured, unless they be fine and hidden. The truth is, 'tis so hard a thing to praise as one ought, that it is a Rock which they that are wise should shun. And since the Poets are ordinarily too lavish in this kind, they may make advantage sometimes of this Reflection, to save their Reputation, that whilst they pretend to give honour to particulars, themselves be not pitied by the public. This is all that can be observed most essential to an Epic Poem; and now follows a judgement that may be made of those who have writ in this kind of Poesy.   

XV.  
HOmer is the most perfect Model of the Heroic Poesy; and he only, saith Aristotle, deserves the name of Poet; 'tis certain, never man had a more happy Genius. Dionysius Halicarnasseus commends him chiefly for the contrivance of his design, the greatness and majesty of his expression, the sweet and passionate motions of his sentiments. Hestod, saith he, was content to be delightful, and to speak well. All the other Greek Poets that writ in this sort of Verse, have acquitted themselves so meanly, that they have gained with posterity a reputation only proportionable to the poorness of their Genius, Coluthus in his Poem of the rape of Helen, has nothing considerable, the design is shallow, the stile cold and flat. The Poem of Tryphiodor●● on the taking of Troy, is of a gross and low character, as likewise the History of Leander by Musaeus. The Poem of Apollonius Rhodius, on the expedition of the Argonauts, is of a slender character, and has nothing of that nobleness of expression of Homer; the Fable is ill invented, and the list of the Argonauts in the first Book is flat. Quintus Calaber who would undertake to write the supplement to the Iliad and Odysseis, without having the least sprinkling of Homer's easy and natural vein, has nothing exact or regular. Nicander is hard, Oppian dry; and the Poem of Nonnus, not so much a Poem, as a Romance, or History of the Birth, Adventures, Victories, and Apotheosis of Bacchus. The design is too vast, the Fable ill wrought, without art, without order, without probability, the stile is obscure and cumbered. For the Latins, never any possessed all the graces of Poesy in so eminent a degree, as Virgil; he has an admirable taste for what is natural, an exquisite judgement for the contrivance, an incomparable delicacy for the numbers and harmony of versification. The design of his Poem, well considered in all the circumstances, is the most judicious and the best devised that ever was, or ever will be. Ovid has wit, art, design in his Metamorphosis; but he has youthfulnesses that could hardly be pardoned, but for the vivacity of his wit, and a certain happiness of fancy. Lucan is great and sublime, but has little judgement. Scaliger blames his continual Transports, for, in effect, he is excessive in his discourse, where he affects rather to appear a Philosopher, than a Poet. Petronius in his little Poem of the corruption of Rome, falls into all the faults that he condemns; never man gave more ●udicious Rules for Poetry, and never man observed them worse. Statius is as fantastical in his Ideas as in his expressions; the greatness that appears in his stile is more in the words, than in the things: his two Poems have nothing in them regular, all is vast and disproportionable. Silius Italicus is much more regular; he owes more to his industry, than to his nature, there seems some judgement and conduct in his design, but nothing of greatness and nobleness in his expression; and if one may rely on the younger Pliny's judgement, there is more art than wit in his Poem; it is rather the History of the second punic War, than a Poem. That of Valerius Flaccus on the Argonauts, is incomparably mean; the fable, the contrivance, the conduct, all there are of a very low character. Claudian hath wit and fancy; but no taste for that delicacy of the numbers, and that turn of the Verse, that the skilful admire in Virgil; he falls perpetually into the same cadence; for that cause, one can hardly read him without being wearied; and he has no elevation in any manner. Ansonius and Prudentius had not a Genius strong enough, to overcome the grossness of the Age they lived in.   

XVI.  
FOr the modern, this judgement may be given. In the Ages succeeding, when Letters passed from Italy into afric, the Arabians, though lovers of Poetry, produced nothing of Heroick, That barbarous air of the Goths which then was spread in Europe over all Arts, did also mingle with Poetry; as appears by the works of Sidonius, Mamercus, Nemesianus and others, who writ then after a dry, jejune, and insipid manner. Some Ages after these, Poesy began to flourish again in Italy by the Poems of Dante, Petrarch, and Boccace. The Poem of Dante, which the Italians of those days, called a Comedy, passes for an Epic Poem in the opinion of Castelvetro; but it is of a sad and woeful contrivance. And speaking generally Dante has a strain too profound, Petrarch too vast, Boccace too trivial and familiar, to deserve the name of Heroic Poets: though they have writ with much purity in their own Tongue, especially Petrarch and Boccace. These were followed some time after by the Comte of Scandian, Matthieu Boyardo, who made the Poem of the loves of Orlando and Angelica; by Oliviero who writ a Poem on Germany; by Pulci in his Morgante; by Ariosto in his War of the Moors under their King Agramante against Charlemain; who all suffered their wit to be squandered on the Books of Chivalry and Romances of those times. Ariosto has I know not what of an Epic Poem more than the others, because he had read Homer and Virgil; he is pure, great, sublime, admirable in the expression; his descriptions are masterpieces: but he has no judgement at all; his wit is like the fruitful ground that together produces flowers and thistles; he speaks well, but thinks ill; and though all the pieces of his Poem are pretty, yet the whole work together is nothing worth, for an Epic Poem: he had not then seen the Rules of Aristotle; as Tasso did afterwards, who is better than Ariosto, whatever the Academy of Florence say to the contrary. For Tasso is more correct in his design, more regular in the contrivance of his Fable, and more complete in all the parts of his Poem, than 〈◊〉 other Italians; but he mingles so much gallantry in it, and affectation, that he often forgets the gravity of his design, and the dignity of his character. I speak not of Cavalier Marino in his Adonis; it is a very ill Model, though he have as much, and perhaps more wit than the others; yet it is a sort of wild wit that runs loose with such eagerness after what is pleasant and glittering throughout his whole work, that, it seems, he has not any relish for solid things. Sannazarius and Vida, who were famous much about the same time among the Italian Poets, one for his Poem de partu virgins, the other for his of the passion of our Saviour, made appear a good Genius for writing in Latin; for the purity of their stile is admirable; but the contrivance of their Fable has no delicateness, their manner is in no wise proportionable to the dignity of their Subject. Pontanus, Politian, Cardinal Sadolet, Pal●otti, Strozzi, Cardinal bembo, and many other Italians, writ at the same time, in Latin pure enough, but with a very indifferent wit. Camoens, who is the only Heroic Poet of Portugal, regarded only to express the haughtiness of his Nation in his Poem of the Conquest of the Indies. For he is fierce and fastuous in his composition, but has little discernment, and little conduct. Buchanan, who is a Scotch Poet, has a character composed of ● any characters; his wit is easy, delicate, natural, but not great or losty. Hugo Grotius, and Daniel Heinsius, both Hollanders, have writ nobly enough in Latin Verse; but the great Learning wherewith they were fraught, hindered them from thinking things in that delicate manner, which makes the beauty. For the French Poets who have writ in Heroic Verse, Dubartas and Ronsard, had all the Genius their Age was capable of; but the French Poets being ignorant, they both affected to appear learned, to distinguish them from the common; and corrupted their wit, by an imitation of the Greek Poets ill understood: they were not skilful enough to place the sublime manner of the Heroic Verse in things, rather than in words; nor were so happy to apprehend that the French Tongue is not capable of those compounded words, which they made after the example of the Greek, and with which they stuffed their Poems; and it was by this indiscreet affectation to imitate the Aneients, that both became barbarous; but besides, that the contrivance of the Fable of Ronsard in his Franciad is not natural, the sort of Verse he took is not enough Majestic, for an Heroic Poem, I speak not of other Poems whose Authors are living, they have, perhaps, their desert; but time must make proof. Now let us see what Reflections may be made on Dramatic Post, which Aristotle divides into Tragedy and Comedy.   

XVII.  
TRagedy, of all parts of Poesy, is that which Aristotle has most discussed; and where he appears most exact. He alleges that Tragedy is a public Lecture, without comparison more instructive than Philosophy; because it teaches the mind by the sense, and rectifies the passions, by the passions themselves, in calming by their emotion the troubles they excite in the heart. The Philosopher had observed two important faults in man to be regulated, pride, and hardness of heart, and he found for both Vices a cure in Tragedy. For it makes man modest, by representing the great masters of the earth humbled; and it makes him tender and merciful, by showing him on the Theatre the strange accidents of life, and the unforeseen disgraces to which the most important persons are subject. But because man is naturally timorous, and compassionate, he may fall into another extreme, to be either too fearful, or too full of pity; the too much fear may shake the constancy of mind, and the too great compassion may enfeeble the equity. 'Tis the business of Tragedy to regulate these too weaknesses; it prepares and arms him against disgraces, by showing them so frequent in the most considerable persons; and he shallcease to fear ordinary accidents, when he sees such extraordinary happen to the highest part of Mankind. But as the end of Tragedy is to teach men not to fear too weakly the common misfortunes, and manage their fear; it makes account also to teach them to spare their compassion, for objects that deserve it. For there is an injustice in being moved at the afflictions of those who deserve to be miserable. One may see without pity Clytaemnestra slain by her son Orestes in Eschylus, because she had cut the throat of Agamemnon her husband; and one cannot see Hippolytus die by the plot of his stepmother Phedra in Euripides, without compassion; because he died not but for being chaste and virtuous. This to me seems, in short, the design of Tragedy, according to the system of Aristotle, which to me appears admirable, but which has not been explained as it ought by his Interpreters; they have not, it may seem, sufficiently understood the mystery, to unfold it well.   

XVIII.  
BUt it is not enough that Tragedy be furnished with all the most moving and terrible Adventures, that History can afford, to stir in the heart those motions it pretends, to the end, it may cure the mind of those vain fears that may annoy it, and of those childish compassions that may soften it. 'Tis also necessary, says the Philosopher, that every Poet employ these great objects of terror and pity, as the two most powerful springs, in art, to produce that pleasure which Tragedy may yield. And this pleasure which is properly of the mind, consists in the agitation of the Soul moved by the passions. Tragedy cannot be delightful to the Spectator, unless he become sensible to all that is represented, he must enter into all the different thoughts of the Actors, interest himself in their Adventures, fear, hope, afflict himself, and rejoice with them. The Theatre is dull and languid, when it ceases to produce these motions in the Soul of those that stand by. But as of all passions fear and pity are those that make the strongest impressions on the heart of man, by the natural disposition he has of being afraid, and of being mollified; Aristotle has chosen these amongst the rest, to move more powerfully the Soul, by the tender sentiments they cause, when the heart admits, and is pierced by them. In effect, when the Soul is shaken, by motions so natural and so humane, all the impressions it feels, become delightful; its trouble pleases, and the emotion it finds, is a kind of charm to it, which does cast it into a sweet and profound meditation, and which insensibly does engage it in all the interests that are managed on the Theatre. 'Tis then that the heart yields itself over to all the objects that are proposed, that all images strike it, that it espouses the sentiments of all those that speak, and becomes susceptible of all the passions that are presented, because 'tis moved. And in this agitation consists all the pleasure that one is capable to receive from Tragedy; for the spirit of man does please itself with the different situations, caused by the different objects, and the various passions that are represented.   

XIX.  
IT is by this admirable spring, that the Oedipus of Sophocles (of which Aristotle speaks continually, as of the most perfect Model of a Tragedy) wrought such great effects on the people of Athens, when it was represented. The truth is, all is terrible in that piece, and all there is moving. See the Subject. The Plague destroying Thebes, Oedipus the King concerned at the loss of his Subjects, causes the Oracle to be consulted, for a remedy. The Oracle ordains him to revenge the affassinat committed on the person of his Predccessor King Laius. Oedipus rages in horrible imprecations against the author of the crime, without knowing him; he himself makes a strict search to discover him; he questions Creon, Tiresias, Jocasta, and a man of Corinth for intelligence; and it appeared by the account that this Prince received, that he himself committed the murder, he would punish. The minds of the Spectators are in a perpetual suspense; all the words of Tire●ias, jocasta, and the Corinthian, as they give light to the discovery, cause terrors and surprises; and clear it by little and little. Oedipus finding it to be himself that was Author of the assassinat, by evidence of the testimonies, at the same time understood that Laius whom he had slain, was his Father; and that jocasta, whom he had married, is his Mother, which he knew not till then; because he had from his Infancy been brought up in the Court of the King of Corinth. This discovery is like a Thunderclap that obliged him to abandon himself to all the despair that his Conscience inspired; he tears out both his eyes, to punish himself the more cruelly with his own hands. But this Criminal whom all the world abhors before he is known, by a return of pity and tenderness, becomes an object of compassion to all the Assembly; now he is bemoaned, who a moment before passed for execrable; and they melt at the misfortunes of the person they had in horror; and excuse the most abominable of all Crimes, because the Author is an Innocent unfortunate, and fell into this crime, that was foretold him, notwithstanding all the precautions he had taken to avoid it; and what is most strange, is, that all the steps he made to carry him from the murder, brought him to commit it. Finally, this flux and reflux of indignation, and of pity, this revolution of horror and of tenderness, has such a wonderful effect on the minds of the Audience; all in this piece moves with an air so delicate and passionate, all is unravelled with so much art, the suspensions managed with so much probability; there is made such an universal emotion of the Soul, by the surprises, astonishments, admirations; the sole incident that is formed in all the piece, is so natural, and all tends so in a direct line to the discovery and catastrophe; that it may not only be said, that never Subject has been better devised than this, but that never can be invented a better, for Tragedy. And thus also it was that the Andromeda of Euripides (so much boasted of in Atheneus, and an Episode whereof Alexander sung in the last Banquet of his life) wrought those wonderful effects in the City Abdera; when it was acted there by Archelaus under the Reign of Lysimachus. The two parts of Perseus and Andromeda, the misfortunes of this Princess exposed to the Sea-monster, and all that moved terror and pity in this representation, made so strong and violent impression on the people, That they departed, saith Lucian, from the Theatre, possessed (as it were) with the spectacle, and this became a public malady, wherewith the imaginations of the Spectators were seized. Something of a grosser stroke of this sort of impressions made by Tragedy, has even happened in our days. When Mondory acted the Mariam of Tristan, the people never went away but sad and pensive, making reflection on what they had seen, and struck with great pleasure at the same time. These are the two great springs of the Greek Tragedy, and all that is marvellous in Dramatic Poems, results principally from what there is of pity and terror in the objects represented.   

XX.  
Modern Tragedy turns on other principles; the Genius of our (the French) Nation is not strong enough, to sustain an action on the Theatre by moving only terror and pity. These are Machines' that will not play as they ought, but by great thoughts, and noble expressions, of which we are not indeed altogether so capable, as the Greeks. Perhaps our Nation, which is naturally gallant, has been obliged by the necessity of our Character to frame for ourselves a new system of Tragedy to suit with our humour. The Greeks, who were popular Estates, and who hated Monarchy, took delight in their spectacles, to see Kings humbled, and high Fortunes cast down, because the exaltation grieved them. The English, our Neighbours, love blood in their sports, by the quality of their temperament: these are Insulaires, separated from the rest of men; we are more humane. Gallantry moreover agrees with our Manners; and our Poets believed that they could not succeed well on the Theatre, but by sweet and tender sentiments; in which, perhaps, they had some reason: for, in effect, the passions represented become deformed and insipid, unless they are founded on sentiments conformable to those of the Spectator. 'Tis this that obliges our Poets to stand up so strongly for the privilege of Gallantry on the Theatre, and to bend all their Subjects to love and tenderness; the rather, to please the Women, who have made themselves Judges of these divertisements, and usurped the right to pass sentence. And some besides have suffered themselves to be prepossessed, and led by the Spaniards, who make all their Cavaliers amorous. 'Tis by them that Tragedy began to degenerate; and we by little and little accustomed to see Heroes on the Theatre, smitten with another love than that of glory; and that by degrees all the great men of Antiquity have lost their characters in our hands. 'Tis likewise perhaps by this gallantry that our Age would devise a colour to excuse the feebleness of our wit; not being able to sustain always the same action by the greatness of words and thoughts. However it be; for I am not hardy enough, to declare myself against the public; 'tis to degrade Tragedy from that majesty which is proper to it, to mingle in it love, which is of a character always light, and little suitable to that gravity of which Tragedy makes profession. Hence it proceeds, that these Tragedies mixed with gallantries, never make such admirable impressions on the spirit, as did those of Sophocles and Euripides; for all the bowels were moved by the great objects of terror and pity which they proposed. 'Tis likewise for this, that the reputation of our modern Tragedies so soon decays, and yield but small delight at two years' end; whereas the Greek please yet to those that have a good taste, after two thousand years; because what is not grave and serious on the Theatre, though it give delight at present, after a short time grows distasteful, and unpleasant; and because, what is not proper for great thoughts and great figures in Tragedy cannot support itself. The Ancients who perceived this, did not interweave their gallantry and love, save in Comedy. For love is of a character that always degenerates from that Heroic air, of which Tragedy must nev●r divest itself. And nothing to me shows so mean and senseless, as for one to amuse himself with whining about frivolous kindnesses, when he may be admirable by great and noble thoughts, and sublime expressions. But I dare not presume so far on my own capacity and credit, to oppose myself of my own head against a usage so established. I must be content modestly to propose my doubts; and that may serve to exercise the Wits, in an Age that only wants matter. But to end this Reflection with a touch of Christianism, I am persuaded, that the innocence of the Theatre might be better preserved according to the Idea of the ancient Tragedy: because the new is become too effeminate, by the softness of latter Ages; and the Prince de Conty who signalised his zeal against the modern Tragedy, by his Treatise on that Subject, would, without doubt, have allowed the ancient, because that has nothing that may seem dangerous.   

XXI.  
THe other faults of modern Tragedy are ordinarily that either the subjects which are chosen are mean and frivolous; or the Fable is not well wrought, and the contrivance not regular; or that they are too much crowded with Episodes; or that the Characters are not preserved and sustained; or that the incidents are not well prepared; or that the Machines' are forced; or that, what is admirable fails in the probability, or the probability is too plain and flat; or that the surprises are ill managed, the knots ill tied, the losing them not natural, the Catastrophe's precipitated, the Thoughts without elevation, the Expressions without majesty, the Figures without grace, the Passions without colour, the Discourse without life, the Narrations cold, the Words low, the Language improper, and all the Beauties false. They speak not enough to the heart of the Audience, which is the only Art of the Theatre, where nothing can be delightful but that which moves the affections, and which makes impression on the Soul; little known is that Rhetoric which can lay open the passions by all the natural degrees of their birth, and of their progress: nor are those Morals at all in use, which are proper to mingle these different interests, those opposite glances, those clashing maxims, those reasons that destroy each other, to ground the incertitudes and irresolutions, and to animate the Theatre. For the Theatre being essentially destined for action, nothing ought to be idle, but all in agitation, by the thwarting of passions that are founded on the different interests, that arise; or by the embroilment that follows from the intrigue. Likewise there ought to appear no Actor, that carries not some design in his head, either to cross the designs of others, or to support his own; all aught to be in trouble, and no calm to appear, till the action be ended by the Catastrophe. Nor finally, is it well understood that it is not the admirable intrigue, the surprising and wonderful events, the extraordinary incidents that make the beauty of a Tragedy, it is the discourses when they are natural and passionate. Sophocles was not more successful than Euripides on the Theatre at Athens, but by the discourse, though the Tragedies of Euripides have more of action, of morality, of wonderful incidents, than those of Sophocles. It is by these faults, more or less great, that Tragedy in these days has so little e●fect on the mind; that we no longer feel those agreeable trances, that make the pleasure of the Soul, nor ●ind those suspensions, those ravishments, those surprises▪ those admirations that the ancient Tragedy caused; because the modern have nothing of those astonishing and terrible objects that affrighted, whilst they pleased, the Spectators, and made those great impressions on the Soul, by the ministry of the passions. In these day's men go from the Theatre as little moved as when they went in▪ and carry their heart along with them, untouched as they brought it: so that the pleasure they receive there, is become as superficial, as that of Comedy, and our gravest Tragedies are (to speak properly) no more but heightened Comedies.   

XXII.  
IT is not but that the Ancients had likewise their faults. ●schylus had scarce any principle for manners, and for the decencies; his Falls are too simple, the contrivance wretched, the expression obscure and blundered; scarce aught can be understood of his Tragedy of Agame●non. But because he believed that the secret of the Theatre is to speak pompously, he bestowed all his art on the words without any regard to the thoughts. Quintilian says, that he is sublime and lofty to extravagance: in effect, he never speaks in cold●lood, and says the most indifferent things in a tragic hu●s; likewise in the images that he draws, the colours are too glaring▪ and the strokes too gross. He, who writes his life, relates that in one of the Chorus's of his Tragedy of the Eumenideses, he so horribly frighted the Audience, that the spectacle made the children swoon, and the Women with child suffer abortion▪ Finally, his Enthusiasm, it seems, never left him, he is so exalted, and so little natural. Sophocles is too elaborate in his discourse, his Art is not enough hidden, in some of his pieces, it lies too open and near the day; he sometimes becomes obscure, by his too great affectation to be sublime; and the nobleness of his expression, is injurious to the perspicuity; his plots are not all so happily unravelled, as that of the Oedipus. The discovery in the Ajax answers not to the intrigue; the Author ought not to have ended a spectacle of that terror and pity with a dull and frivolous contest about the Sepulture of Ajax, who then had slain himself. And in the same piece that Machin of Minerva is too violent, who casts an enchantment over the eyes of Ajax, to save Ulysses, whom Ajax would have killed, if he had known him. Oedipus ought not to have been ignorant of the assassinat of the King of Thebes; the ignorance he is in of the murder, which makes all the beauty of the intrigue, is not probable▪ Euripides is not exact in the contrivance of his Fables; his Characters want variety, he falls often into the same thoughts, on the same adventures; he is not enough a religious observer of decencies; and by a too great affectation to be moral and sententious, he is not so ardent and passionate as he ought to be; for this reason he goes not to the heart, so much as Sophocles; there are precipitations in the preparation of his Incidents, as in the Suppliants, where Theseus levies an Army, marches from Athens to Thebes, and returns on the same day. The discoveries of his Plots are nothing natural, these are perpetual Machines'; Diana makes the discovery in the Tragedy of Hippolytus; Minerva that of the Iphigenia in Taurica; Thetis that of Andromache; Castor and Pollux that of Helena, and that of Electra; and so of others. After all, as these three Authors are the first Models of Tragedy, they are great in their designs, judicious in their fables, passionate in their expressions; throughout in their Works predominates a genius, nature, and good sense. And though they are guilty of their faults, yet it may be said, that all which is of them is original. The latter Greeks, whereof Ephestion speaks, as Lycophron, Sosi●heus, and the others that flourished under King Ptolemy Philodelphus; and the first Latins, as Livius Andronicus, A●cius Pacuvius, who applied themselves to Tragedy, had not any success in that way. The Romans, for some time, took delight in Comedy. But so soon as the polite Learning was a little established at Rome, most part of the great men employed themselves in writing Tragedies. Catullus made one Tragedy of Alcmeon, out of which Cicero citys some Verses in his Lucullus; ●ra●chus made Thyestes, whereof Censorinus makes mention; Caesar made Adras●us whereof Festus speaks; Rutilous made Astyanax, of which Fulgentius speaks; Maecenas made Octavia, which Priscian mentions; Ovid made Medea, of which Quintilian gives some account; and seeing that these Tragedies are lost, no judgement can be made of them, but by the merit of their Authors. But the esteem these great men had for this sort of Poem then in a time when good s●nse so much swayed, may sufficiently justify Cardinal Richelieu, who was so infinitely affected with it; and he little authorises the ignorance at Court in these things, which is so much the mode at this day. The only Tragedies that remain of the Latins, are those of Seneca▪ who speaks always well, but never speaks naturally; his Verse are pompous, his Thoughts lofty, because he would dazzle; but the contrivance of his Fables are of no great character. This Author pleases himself too much in giving his Ideas, instead of real objects; and he represents not always very regularly, what is to be represented. But it is not only in the composition of Tragedy that the Greeks have excelled the Romans; it is also in the magnificence of their Theatre, these people, however conquered they have been, have had greater thoughts than their Conquerors; and Plutarch assures us, that the Athenians have been at greater expenses in the representation of their Tragedies, and in the rewards they proposed to those Poets that succeeded well, than in all the Wars that ever they undertook for the defence of their Republic; and they believed not this expense unprofitable, since it was to inspire the people with thoughts conformable to the good of their estate.   

XXIII.  
THe following Ages became successively so gross one after another, that they could produce nothing in this kind of Post worthy of an● reflection. The Italians and Spaniards of latter Ages, had their wit too much corrupted with Romances, to sustain the greatness of the character of Tragedy: notwithstanding Trissino would make his Sophonisbe, and ●as●o his Torismondo, after the pattern of the Tragedies of Sophocles: but they could not reach that character. The jephthes, and Baptisms of Buchanan, contain little considerable, except the purity of stile in which these Tragedies are written. The Sedecias of Malapertus, the Crispus of Stephonius, the josephus of ●rotius, the Herod of Heins●us, and the other Tragedies of the learned men of the last Age, have almost all of them a contrivance too simple, the Incidents are cold, the Narrations tedious, the Passions forced, the Style constrained. The Tragedies of Garnier, Rotrou, Serr●, and others of that time, are yet of a far meaner character. The English have more of Genius for Tragedy than other people, as well by the spirit of their Nation which delights in cruelty, as also by the character of their language, which is proper for great expressions. But the French, who have applied themselves to Tragedy more than any others, have likewise writ with more success; and this success does strongly authorise the use, as may be seen by so many great men amongst us, who daily signalise themselves on the Theatre. But the whimsy of these opera of Music, wherewith the Public are infatuated, will, perhaps, be capable to discourage them, if they be regarded. It remains to speak of Comedy, that of a Lecture of virtue which it is essentially; is become, by the licentiousness of these latter Times, a School of debauchery: 'tis only to re-establish it in its natural estate, as it ought to be, according to Aristotle, that I pretend to speak. The rest I leave to the zeal of the Preachers, who are a little slack on this Subject.   

XXIV.  
SOme pretend that Aristotle, who has scarce said any thing of Comedy, has said all, making a remark, that the ridiculous is to be handled in the same manner, as he has discoursed of the grave and serious; by the rule of proportion, that must be observed betwixt Comedy and Tragedy. That is to say, there must be observed in Comedy, as well as in Tragedy, the decencies of places, of times, of persons; that there must be employed all the colours, which ought to be the seeds and the principles of the decency; that the preparations of the Incidents ought to be conducted in such sort, that they serve not to render the events cold, by taking from them what they may have of advantage and grace by the surprise. For it is of importance to consider, that to prepare an Incident well, is not altogether to say things, that may discover; but it is to say so much only as may give place to the Audience, to divine: which also ought to be sparingly done. For the pleasure of the Spectators is to expect always something that may surprise, and that is contrary to their prejudgments. And nothing aught to be predominant on the Theatre so much as the suspension; because the chief delight to be received there, is the surprise.   

XXV.  
COmedy is an image of common life; its end is to show on the Stage the f●ults of particulars, in order to amend the faults of the Public, and to correct the people through a fear of being rendered ridiculous. So that which is most proper to excite laughter, is that which is most essential to Comedy. One may be ridiculous in words, or ridiculous in things: there is an honest laughter▪ and a bu●●oon laughter. 'Tis merely a gift of Nature to make every thing ridiculous. For all the actions of humane life have their fair and their wrong side, their serious and their ridiculous. But Aristotle, who gives precepts to make men weep, leaves none to make them laugh. This proceeds purely from the Genius; Art and Method have little to do with it, 'tis the work of Nature alone. The Spaniards have a Genius to discern the ridiculous of things much better than the French; and the Italians, who are naturally Comedians, express it better; their Tongue is more proper for it, by a drolling tone peculiar to them. The French may be capable of it, when their Language has attained its perfection. Finally, that pleasant turn, that gaiety which can sustain the delicacy of his character, without falling into coldness, nor into buffonery: that ●ine raillery, which is the flower of wit, is the Talon which Comedy demands: but it must always be observed, that the true ridiculous of Art, f●r the entertainment on the Theatre, aught to be no other but the Copy of the ridiculous that is found in Nature. Comedy is as it should be, when the Spectator believes himself really in the company of such persons as he has represented, and takes himself to be in a Family whilst he is at the Theatre; and that he there sees nothing but what he sees in the world. For Comedy is worth nothing at all, unless he know, and can compare the manners that are exhibited on the Stage, with those of such persons as he has conversation withal. 'Twas by this that Menander had so great success amongst the Grecians; and the Romans thought themselves in Conversation, whilst they sat beholding the Comedies of Terence; for they perceived nothing but what they had been accustomed to find in ordinary Companies. 'Tis the great Art of Comedy, to keep close to Nature, and never leave it; to have common thoughts and expressions fitted to the capacity of all the world: For it is most certainly true, that the most gross strokes of Nature, whatever they be, please always more, than the most delicate, that are not Natural: nevertheless base and vulgar terms are not to be permitted on the Theatre, unless supported by some kind of wit. The proverbs and wise sayings of the People ought not to be suffered, unless they have some pleasant meaning, and unless they are Natural. This is the most general principle of Comedy; by which, whatever is represented, cannot fail to please; but without it, nothing. 'Tis only by adhering to Nature, that the probability can be maintained, which is the sole infallible guide, that may be followed on the Theatre. Without probability all is lame and faulty, with it all goes well: none can run astray who follow it; and the most ordinary faults of Comedy happen from thence, that the decencies are not well observed, nor the incidents enough prepared. 'Tis likewise necessary to take heed that the colours employed to prepare the incidents, be not too gross, to leave to the Spectator the pleasure of finding out himself what they signify. But the most ordinary weakness of our Comedies is the unravelling; scarce ever any succeed well in that, by the difficulty there is in untying happily that knot which had been tied. It is easy to wind up an intrigue, 'tis only the work of fancy; but the unravelling is the pure and perfect work of the judgement. 'Tis this that makes the success difficult, and if one would thereon make a little reflection, he might find that the most universal fault of Comedies, is, that the Catastrophe of it is not Natural. It rests to examine, Whether in Comedy the Images may be drawn greater than the Natural, the more to move the minds of the Spectators, by more shining portracts, and by stronger impressions? That is to say, Whether a Poet may make a Miser, more covetous; a morose Man, more morose and troublesome than the original? To which I answer, That Plautus, who studied to please the common People, made them so; but Terence, who would please the better sort, confined himself within the bounds of Nature, and he represented Vices, without making them either better o● worse. Notwithstanding, these extravagant characters, such as the Citizen turned Gentleman, and the sick in imagination of Moliere, failed not of success a little while ago at Court, where all the tastes are so delicate; but all things ther● are well received, even to the divertisements of the Provinces, if they have any air of Plaisanterie; for th●re they love to laugh, rather than to admire. These are the most important Rules of Comedy. Now see those who have been famous for this kind of writing.   

XXVI.  
THe principal amongst the Greeks, are Aristophanes and Menander; the chief amongst the Latins, are Plautus and Terence. Aristophanes is not exact in the contrivance of his Fables, his Fictions are not very probable; he mocks persons too grossly, and too openly. So●rates whom he plays upon so eagerly in his Comedies, had a more delicate air of Raillery than he; but was not so shameless. It is true, Aristophanes writ during the disorder and licentiousness of the old Comedy, and that he understood the humour of the Athenian people, who were easily disgusted with the merit of extraordinary persons, whom he set his wit to abuse, that he might please that people. After all, he often is no otherwise pleasant than by his Buffonery. That Ragoust composed of Seventy-six syllables in the last Scene of his Comedy the Eccles●asousai, would not go down with us in our Age. His language is often obscure, blundered, low, trivial, and his frequent jingling upon words, his contradictions of opposite terms each to other; the hotchpotch of his stile, of Tragic and Comic, of serious and buffoon, of grave and familiar, is ugly; and his witticisms, often when near examined, prove false. Menander is pleasant in a more commendable manner; his stile is pure, neat, shining, natural; he persuades like an Orator, and instructs like a Philosopher. And if one may ground a true judgement on the fragments that remain of this Author, one may find that he made very pleasant images of the civil life; that he makes men speak according to their character; that one may find himself in the portracts he made of Manners, because he keeps close to Nature, and enters into the thoughts of the persons he makes to speak. Finally, Plutarch, in the comparison he has made of these two Authors, says, that the Muse of Aristophanes is like an impudent, and that of Menander resembles a virtuous woman. For the two Latin Comic Poets, Plautus is ingenious in his designs, happy in his imaginations, fruitful in his invention; yet there are some insipid jests that escape from him in the taste of Horace; and his good sayings that make the people laugh, make sometimes the honester sort to pity him: 'tis true, he says the best things in the world; and yet very often he sa●es the most wretched; this a man is subject to, when he endeavours to be too witty; he will make laughter by extravagant expressions, and hyperboles, when he cannot be successful to make it by things. Plautus is not altogether so regular in the contrivance of his pieces, nor in the distribution of the acts; but he is more simple in his subjects: for the Fables of Tere●ce are ordinarily compounded, as is seen in the Andria which contains two loves. This is what was objected to Terence, that he made one Latin Comedy of two Greek, the more to animate his Theatre. But then the Plots are more naturally unravelled, than those of Plautus; as those of Plautus are more natural than those of Aristophanes. And though Caesar call Terence a diminutive Menander, because he only had the sweetness and the smoothness, but had not the force and vigour, yet he has writ in a manner so natural, and so judicious, that of a Copy, as he was, he i● become an original; for never man had so clear an insight into Nature▪ I shall speak nothing of Lucilius, of whom nothing now is left but fragmen●s. All we know of him, is what Varro relates, that he was happy in the Subjects that he chose: but never person had a better Genius for Comedy, than the Spaniard Lope de Vega; he had copious Wit joined with great advantages of Nature, and an admirable facility; for he has composed more than Three hundred Comedies; his Name alone gave applause to his pieces, so strongly was his reputation established: and it was sufficient that a work came from his hands, to merit the public approbation. But he had a Wit too vast to be confined to Rules, or admit of any bounds; 'twas this obliged him to abandon himself to the swing of his Genius, because he might always rely on it. He never consulted other Commentary but the gust of his Auditors, and governed himself by the success of his pieces, rather than by reason. Thus he disengaged himself of all the scruples of unity, and the superstitions of probability. But as most commonly he is for re●ining upon the ridiculous, and would be too witty, his fancies are of●en more fortunate, than they are just▪ and have more of the droll, than they have of what is natural; for by too much subtlety in his drollery, his Wit becomes false, by reason 'tis forced to be too delicate; and his graces become cold, by being too fin●: but amongst the French, never any carried Comedy so high as Moliere. For the ancient Comic Poets had only the f●lk of the Family to make mirth with on the Theatre; but Moliere's fools in the Play are the M●rquises, and the p●rsons of Quality; others have been content to play upon the common and Country conversation in their Comedies, Moliere has made bold with all Paris and the Co●rt. He is ●he only man amongst them who has discovered those lines of Nature that distinguish and make her known. ●he beauties of the portracts he draws are so natural, that they make themselves perceived by the grossest apprehensions: and his talon of being pleasant, is improved one half the more, by that he has of counterfeiting to the life. His Misantrope, in my opinion, is the most complete character, and withal, the most singular that ever appeared on the Theatre. But the contrivance of his Comedies is always defective in something, and his Plots are never handsomely unraveld. This is what may be said in general of Comedy.   

XXVII.  
THe Eglogue is the most considerable of the little Poems; it is an image of the life of Shepherds. Therefore the matter is low, and nothing great is in the Genius of it; it's business is to describe the loves, the sports, the piques, the jealousies, the disputes▪ the quarrels, the intrigues, the passions, the adventures, and all the little affairs of Shepherd's▪ So that its character must be simple, the wit easy, the expression common; it must have nothing that is exquisite, neither in the thoughts, nor in the words, nor in any fashions of speech; in which the Italians, who have writ in this kind of Verse, have been mistaken: for they always aim at being witty, and to say th●ngs too finely. The true character of the Eglogue is simplicity, and modesty: its figures are sweet, the passions tender, the motions easy; and though sometimes it may be passionate, and have little transports, and little despairs, yet it never rises so high as to be fierce or violent; its Narrations are short, Descriptions little, the Thoughts ingenious, the Manners innocent, the Language pure, the Verse flowing, the Expressions plain, and all the Discourse natural; for this is not a great talker that loves to make a noise. The Models to be proposed to write well in this sort of Post, are Theocritus and Virgil. Theocritus is more sweet, more natural, more delicate, by the character of the Greek Tongue. Virgil is more judicious, more exact, more regular, more modest, by the character of his own Wit, and by the Genius of the Latin Tongue Theocritus hath more of all the graces that make the ordinary beauty of Poetry; Virgil has more of good sense, more vigour, more nobleness, more modesty. After all, Theocritus is the Original, Virgil is only the Copy: though some things he hath Copied so happily, that they equal the Original in many places. Mos●hus and Bion, who writ in this sort of Verse, have likewise great excellencies, and very great delicacies in their Idyllia. The other Poets who have writ Eglogues, as Nemesianus, who was an African, and Calphurnius the Sicilian writ very meanly. The Italians, as Bonarelli, Guarini, Cavalier Marino; the Spaniards, as Luis de Gongora, Camoens have little of Natural in their Pastorals, their Idyllia, and their Eglogues; and Ronsard, amongst the French, hath nothing tender or delicate. The French Tongue, however perfect it pretends to be, hath produced nothing in this kind of Verse, comparable to the Eglogues of Virgil; neither yet, it seems, has it force enough to express things so naturally to the life, and to sustain that great simplicity of the Bucolique Verse, so nobly as the Greek and Latin Tongue; for the Greek and Latin have a certain character of majesty that shines even in the smallest things▪ The Idea of Pastoral Comedies for which the Italians have had so great liking, is taken from the C●clops of Euripides. The Greeks, saith Horace, began to bring Satyrs on the Theatre, to temper the austerity of their Tragedy.   

XXVIII.  
THe principal end of satire, is to instruct the People by discrediting Vice. It may therefore be of great advantage in a State, when taught to keep within its bounds. But as Flatterers embroil themselves with the public, whilst they strive too much to please particulars; so it happens▪ that the Writers of satire disoblige sometimes particulars, whilst they endeavour too much to please the public: and as downright praises▪ are too gross▪ satire that takes off the mask, and reprehends Vice too openly▪ is not very delicate; but though it be more difficult to pra●se, than to blame, because it is easier to discover in People what may be turned into ridiculous, than to understand their merit; 'tis requisite notwithstanding equally to have a wit for the one, as for the other. For the same delicacies of wit, that is necessary to him who praiseth to purge his praises from what is deformed, is necessary ●o him who blameth to clear the satire from what is bitter in it. And this delicacy which properly gives the relish to satire, was heretofore the character of Horace, for it was only by the way of jest and merriment that he exercised his Censure. For he knew full well, that the sporting of wit, hath more effect than the strongest reasons, and the most sententious discourse, to render Vice ridiculous. In which juvenal, with all his seriousness, has so much ado to succeed. For indeed that violent manner of declamation which throughout he makes use of, has, most commonly, but very little effect, he scarce persuades at all; because he is always in choler, and never speaks in cold blood. 'Tis true, he has some common places of Morality that may serve to dazzle the weaker sort of apprehensions. But with all his strong expressions, energetic terms, and great flashes of eloquence, he makes little impression; because he has nothing that is delicate, or that is natural. It is not a true zeal that makes him talk against the misdemeanours of his Age, 'tis a spirit of vanity and ostentation. Pers●us who to the gravity and vehemence of juvenal had joined obscurity caused by the affectation he had to appear learned, has no better success; because he yields no delight: not but that he has, however, some touches of an hidden delicacy; but these strokes are always wrapped up in such a profound Learning, that there needs a Comment to unfold them; he speaks not but with sadness, what by Horace is said with the greatest mirth imaginable, whom sometimes he would imitate; his moroseness scarce ever leaves him; he speaks not of the least things but in a heat; and he never sports, but after the most serious manner in the world. The satire which Seneca made on the Apotheosis of the Emperor Claudius, is of a much different character, 'tis one of the most delicate pieces of Antiquity: and the Author who otherwise throughout sustains the gravity of a Philosopher by the cold blood of his temperament, and by all the grimaces and severity of his Morals: seems so much the more pleasant in this, as he is more grave and more serious in all his other Works. Most part of the Dialogues of Lucian, are Satyrs of this kind; the Author is a pleasant Buffoon, who makes sport with the most serious matters, and insolently plays upon whatever is great in the world: he is on all occasions infinitely witty; but this, I confess, is a kind of foolish Character. We have two modern Satyrs writ in Prose, much-what of the same air, which surpass all that has been writ of this kind in these latter Ages. The first is Spanish, composed by Cervantes, Secretary to the Duke of Alva. This great man having been slighted, and received some disgrace by the Duke of Lerma chief Minister of State to Philip III, who had no respect for Men of Learning, writ the Romance of Don Quixot, which is a most fine and ingenious satire on his own Country; because the Nobility of Spain, whom he renders ridiculous by this work, were all bit in the head and intoxicated with Knight●rrantry. This is a Tradition I have from one of my friends, who learned this secret from Don Lope whom Cervantes had made the Confident of his resentment. The other satire is French, made in the time of the League, where the Author very pleasantly teaches the Public the intentions of the House of Guise for the Religion: throughout this work is spread a delicacy of wit, that fails not to shine amongst the rude and grosser ways of expressions of those Times: and the little Verses scattered here and there in the work, are of a Character that is most fine, and most natural. The satire of Rabelais, however witty it be; nevertheless is stuffed with so much Ribaldry, and is so little conformable to the refinedness of this present Age we live in, that I think it not worthy to be read by Gentlemen, no more than the Satyrs of Regni●r, though he has wit enough; for he is too impudent, and observes no decency.   

XXIX.  
THe Elegy, by the quality of its name, is destined to Tears and Complaints: and therefore aught to be of a doleful Character. But afterwards it has been used in Subjects of Tenderness, as in Lov●-matters, and the like. The Latins have been more successful therein (by what appears to us) than the Greeks. For little remains to us of Philetas and Tyrtues, who were famous in Greece for this kind of Verse. They who have writ Elegy best amongst the Latins, are Tibullus, Propertius, Ovid. Tibullus is elegant and polite, Propertius noble and high; but Ovid is to be preferred to both; because he is more natural, more moving, and more passionate; and thereby he has better expressed the Character of Elegy, than the others. Some Elegies are left us of Catullus, of Maecenas, and Cornelius Gallus, which are of a great purity, and are exceedingly delicate; but the Verse of Catullus and Me●aenas have too much softness, and a negligence too affected: those of Cornelius Gallus are more round▪ and support themselves better. In these latter Ages have appeared a Germane named Lotichius, an Italian called Molsa, a Fleming called Sidronius, who have writ Elegies with great elegancy. I speak not of the French Elegies, it is a kind of Verse which they distinguish not from Heroick; and they call indifferently Elegy, what they please, whereby the distinction of the tru● Character of this Verse seems not yet well established amongst them.   

XXX.  
THe Ode ought to have as much nobleness, elevation, and transport, as the Eglogue has of simplicity and modesty. 'Tis not only the wit that heightens it, but likewise the ●atter. For its use is to sing the praises of the gods, and to celebrate the illustrious actions of great men, so it requires to sustain all the majesty of its Character, an exalted nature, a great wit, a daring fancy, an expression noble and sparkling, yet pure, and correct. All the briskness and life which Art has by its Figures, is not sufficient to heighten Ode so far as its Character requires. But the reading alone of Pindar, is more capable to inspire this Genius, than all my Reflections. He is great in his designs, vast in his thoughts, bold in his imaginations, happy in his expressions, eloquent in his discourse: but his great vivacity hurries him sometimes past his judgement, he gives himself too much swing; his Panegyrics are perpetual digressions, where rambling from his Subject, he carries the Readers from Fables to Fables, from Allusions to Allusions, from Chimeras to Chimeras; for 'tis the most unbridled and irregular fancy in the world. But this irregularity is one part of the Character of the Ode, the Nature and Genius of it requiring Transport. Pindar likewise is the only person amongst the Greeks, that acquired glory by this sort of writing, for little is remaining of the other nine Lyric Poets, whereof Petronius speaks. Nevertheless it may be avowed by that which is left us of the fragments of Sapph, that Demetrius and Longinus have great reason to boast so highly in their Works of the admirable Genius of this Woman; for there are found some strokes of delicacy the most fine, and the most passionate in the world. None can judge with any certainty of the others, of whom we have so little. Anacreon alone is capable to comfort us for the loss of their Works. For his Odes are flowers, beauties and graces perpetual: it is so familiar to him to write what is natural, and to the life; and he has an air so delicate, so easy, and so graceful; that there is nothing comparable in all Antiquity in the way he took, and in that kind of writing he followed. Horace found the Art to join all the force and high flights of Pindar, to all the sweetness and delicacy of Anacreon, to make himself a new Character by uniting the perfections of the other two. For besides that he had a Wit naturally pleasant, it was also great, solid, and sublime; he had nobleness in his conceits, and delicacy in his thoughts and sentiments: the parts of his Odes that he was willing to finish, are always Masterpieces; but it requires a very clear apprehension to discern all his Wit; for there are many secret graces, and hidden beauties in his Verse, that very few can discover; he also is the only Latin Author who writ well in that Verse amongst the Ancients; and none could ever follow him, his Genius went so high. Boetius made some little Odes, which he scattered in his Work of the Consolation of Philosophy. But for all the politeness of his Wit, he could not surmount the bad air that was then predominant; and what is most elegant in him, is only a false beauty, suitable to the Genius of the Age in which he writ. Amongst the Latin ●yricks of latter times. I find three, that distinguish themselves from the rest, Casimire Sarbieuski a Pole, Dunkan de Cerisantes and Magdalenet, both French. Sarbieuski is lofty, but not pure; Magdalenet is pu●e, but not lofty; Cerisantes in his Odes has joined both, for he writes nobly, and in a stile sufficiently pure: but he has not so much flame as Casimire, who had a great deal of Wit; and of that happy Wit, which makes Poets. Buchanan has Odes comparable to those of Antiquity; but he hath great unevennesses by the mixture of his Character, which is not uniform enough▪ Muret and Vida have a fancy too limited; and their Idea seems constrained, whilst too scrupulously they are addicted to Latinity. Chiabrera has had great reputation by his Odes amongst the Italians; and Ronsard amongst the French, for Ronsard is noble and great; but thi● greatness becomes deformed and odious, by his affectation to appear learned; for he displays his Scholarship even to his Mistress. M●lherb is exact and correct; but he ventures nothing: and affecting to be too discreet, is often cold. Theophil● has a great fancy, and little sense. H● has some fortunate boldnesses, because he permits himself all. Voiture and Sarazin have gay things in their Odes; for they have the art of drolling pleasantly on mean Subjects, and they sustain th●● Character well enough, but they have not vigour and sublimity for high matters; most part of the others who hav● writ after them in Lyric Verse, of which have been made so many Collections, hav● pitched upon a false delicacy of expression, which carries them afar off from the true Character of the Ode, which is the greatness and majesty of discourse, and they flag in a shameful mediocrity: their Verses were flat, and had nothing of that heat, and that noble air so essential to the Ode, which ought to say nothing low or common. I might speak with more advantage of those who write at this present, if I had not imposed a Law on myself not to intermeddle in giving judgement of the living, which would be too much confidence in me, besides the indiscretion.   

XXXI.  
THe Epigram, of all the works in Verse that Antiquity has produced, is the least considerable; yet this too has its beauty. This beauty consists either in the delicate turn, or in a lucky word. The Greeks have understood this sort of Poesy otherwise than the Latins. The Greek Epigram runs upon the turn of a thought that is natural, but fine and subtle. The Latin Epigram, by a false taste that swayed in the beginning of the decay of the pure Latinity, endeavours to surprise the mind by some nipping word, which is called a point. Catullus writ after the former manner, which is of a finer Character; for he endeavours to close a natural thought within a delicate turn of words, and within the simplicity of a very soft expression. Martial was in some manner the Author of this other way, that is to say, to terminate an ordinary thought by some word that is surprising. After all, Men of a good taste, preferred the way of Catullus, before that of Martial; there being more of true delicacy in that, than in this. And in these latter Ages we have seen a noble Venetian named Andreas Naug●rius, who had an exquisite discernment, and who by a natural antipathy against all that which is called point, which he judged to be of an ill relish, sacrificed every year in Ceremony a Volume of martials Epigrams to the Manes of Catullus, in honour to his Character, which he judged was to be preferred to that of Martial. I find nothing to say considerable on the Epigramists of latter Ages. 'Tis one of the sorts of Verse, in which a man has little success; for it is a mere lucky hit, if it prove well. An Epigram is little worth, unless it be admirable; and it is so rare to make them admirable, that 'tis sufficient to have made one in a man's life.   

XXXII.  
IT remains to speak of the Madrigal, the Rondelay, the Sonnet, the Ballad, and all the other little Verse, that are the invention of these latter Ages; but as a little fancy may suffice, to be successful in these kind of Works, without any Genius, I shall not amuse myself in making Reflections on the method that is to be observed in composing them: not but that he who has a Genius, would have a much different success, either by a more happy turn he gives to what he writes, or by a more lively air, or by more natural beauties; or finally, by more delicate fashions of speech; and generally, the Genius makes the greatest distinction in whatsoever work a man undertakes. The Character of the smaller Verse, and of all the little Works of Poesy, requires that they be natural, together with a delicacy; for seeing the little Subjects afford no beauty of themselves, the wit of the Poet must supply that want out of its own stock. The sonnet is of a Character that may receive more of greatness in its expression than the other little pieces; but nothing is more essential to it, than the happy and natural turn of the thought that composes it. The Rondelay and Madrigal are most wretched, if they be not most elegant; and all their beauty consists in the turn that is given them. But it suffices to know what this delicacy is, that aught to be the Character of these small pieces, to understand all that belongs to them. A word may be delicate several ways; either by a subtle equivocation, which contains a mystery in the ambiguity; or by a hidden meaning, which speaks all out, whilst it pretends to say nothing; or by some fierce and bold stroke under modest terms; or by something brisk and pleasant, under a serious air; or, lastly, by some fine thought, under a simple and homely expression. We find all these manners of delicacy in some of the Ancients, as in the Socrates of Plato, in Sappho, in Theocritus, in Anacreon, in Horace, in Catullus, in Petronius, and in Martial, these are all great Models of this Character; of which the French have only in their Tongue Marot, Gentleman of the Chamber to Frances the first. He had an admirable Genius for this way of writing; and whoever have been successful in it since, have only copied him. Voiture had a nature for this Character; if he had not a little corrupted his Wit by the reading of the Spaniards and Italians. If these words are affected, they lose their grace, because they become cold and flat, when they are far-fetched. But the most general fault in these little pieces of Verse, is, when one would cram them with too much Wit. This is the ordinary Vice of the Spaniards and Italians, who labour always to say things finely. This is no very good Character; for they cease to be natural, whilst they take care to be witty. This is the fault of Quevedo in his work of the nine Muses, of Gongora in his Romances, of Preti and Testi in their little Verse, of Marino in his Idyllia, of Acquillini in his Madrigals, and of all the other strangers, who would refine by false Ideas of far-fetched ornaments, and by affectations of Wit, which have nothing of the solid Character, and the good sense of the Ancients. Every small Genius is apt to run into this Vice, of which the late Collections of the French Poesies are full; where the Poets force themselves to be witty in spite of their Genius; for they either there never say things as they ought to be said; or they say nothing in the great discourses; or they load with ornaments Subjects th●t are not capable to suffer any; or they discover all their Art, when it should be concealed; or they give themselves over to the beauty of their Nature without method; or finally, they lose themselves in their Ideas, because they have not strength to execute handsomely what their fancy dictates to them.   

XXXIII.  
WEre I of a humour to decide, I might add to these Reflections the solution of some difficulties in the use of French Poesy, that to me seem worthy to be cleared. The first is concerning the transposition of words, which some Poets seem to affect in the great Poems, as a kind of figure, which they pretend to make use of to give more force and nobleness to their discourse. But Ronsard in the Preface of his Poem of the Franciad, is not of that opinion. For he believes not the French Tongue to have a Character proper to bear in its expression, that sort of Transpositions. In effect, it is too simple and too plain to wind about the words, and give them another order than that of the natural sense, which they ought to have. I refer to those who understand good speaking, better than I do. The second difficulty, is the use of thou and thee, which the Poets employ when they speak to God, or to the King. This use to me seems neither founded on Authority, nor on Reason. For besides that the authority of the Latin Tongue, on which they build, is a false foundation; because that Tongue equally uses thou and thee in Prose and in Verse, for all sort of persons; our Tongue is of itself of a Character so respectful, that it cannot be content with those terms, for persons to whom it would give honour. But nothing to me appears more strong against this use, than the manner which the Poets themselves practise. For those who say thou and thee to God, and to great persons; never speak so to their Mistresses, because they believe that would want respect. 'Tis true, that Theophile has said so to his; but this was said no more, after the Language became polished; and Voiture never used it. This 〈◊〉 a scruple I have, and which I leave to the Critics to examine. The third difficulty, is the use of Metaphors; for the French Tongue is essentially so scrupulous, that it allows nothing but what is modest, and the least thing of boldness offends its modesty. But this would be too great a delicacy to forbid Metaphors to Poets, with the same rigour as to Orators. There are Metaphors authorised by use, which Poesy cannot pass by. It behoves a Poet to use them discreetly, without shocking the modesty of our Language. It require● a great judgement to distinguish what ought to be said in proper therms, and what in metaphorical. The same Censure may be passed on the boldness of compounding, and coining new words. Dubartas has made himself ridiculous, by attempting to imitate Homer and Pindar in the invention of these kind of words. The fourth difficulty, is the constraint of Rhyme: but this can only be a difficulty to the weaker sort of Wits, who suffer themselves to be mastered by this servitude, which a great Genius employs, to give the more force to his thoughts, and more greatness to his sentiments: The last difficulty, and the most important of all the rest, is to know whether one may please in Poetry against the Rules? I apply this to the French Poetry particularly, though it be common to Poetry in general; because most part of our French make a false liberty of this bad principle. 'Tis only by this that Moliere would salve the ordinary irregularity of his Comedies. 'Tis true, that his rashness has been successful; and that he has pleased in his pieces against Art. But I pretend that neither he, nor any others shall ever please, but by the Rules: they have some natural draughts whereby they are successful, and these draughts are the stroke● of Art; for Art, as I have said, is nothing else, but good sense reduced to method. 'Tis only these strokes that are taking in irregular pieces, where what is irregular never pleases, because 'tis never natural.   

XXXIV.  
FInally, to conclude with a touch of Morality. Since the reputation of being modest, is more worth than that of making Verses; were I to make any, I would never forsake honesty nor modesty. For if nothing renders Men more ridiculous, than the kind opinion they conceive of themselves, and of their performances; the Poets are yet more ridiculous than other Men, when their vanity rises from the difficulty of succeeding well in their Mystery. But if I made Verse better tha● another, I would not force any man to find them good, I would not have a greater opinion of myself, though all the world applauded them; nor should the success blind me: amongst the praises that were bestowed on me, I could not persuade myself to suffer those, where appeared aught of favour; and I would impose silence on them, who in commending me, spoke further than my Conscience; to save myself from that ridiculousness, which some vain spirits fall into, who would have praises and admirations eternally for every thing they do. I would employ all my reason, and all my wit▪ to gai● more docility, and more submission, to the advice my Friends should give me; I would borrow their lights, to supply the weakness of mine; and I would listen to all the world, that I might not be ignorant of any of my faults. In the pra●ses that I gave to thos● I found worthy, I would be so conscientious, that for no interest whatsoever, would I speak against my opinion; and there should never enter into any thing that went from my hands, any of those mercenary glances, which so greatly debase the Character of a Poet. Lastly, I would rid myself of all the ridiculous vanities, to which those who make Verse are ordinarily obnoxious: and by this prudent Conduct I would endeavour to destroy those Fripperies which by custom are said of a profession that might continue honourable, were it only exercised by men of honourable principles.    

Names of the AUTHORS whose POEMS are mentioned and Censured in this Book.  

APollon. Rhodius  
Aristophanes  
Acquillini  
Aratus  
Archilochus  
Ausonius  
Ariosto  
Anacreon  
Acti●s.  
BAcchylides  
Bembo  
Boccace  
Boyardo  
Bonnefons  
Bonarelli  
Brebeuf  
Buchanan  
Du-B●rtas  
Boetius.  
CAlphurnius  
Cat●llus  
Caesar  
Callimachus  
Claudian  
Camoens  
Chiabrera  
Calaber  
Cervantes  
Cerisantes  
Casimire  
Coluthus  
DAnte  
Diego Xime●e●  
Ennius'  
Euripide●  
Eschylus  
Erastothenes  
FRacastorius  
GAllus  
Garnier  
Gracchus  
Grotius  
Guarini  
Gongara  
HOmer  
Heslod  
Horace  
Heinsius  
Habert  
IOn  
LIv. Andronicus  
Lotichius  
Lope de Vega  
Lucretius  
Lucilius  
Lucan  
Lycophron  
Lane  
MAgdelenet  
Marot  
Malapertus  
Maecenas  
Menander  
Martial  
Malherb  
Moliere  
Molza  
L● Moy●e  
Marino  
Muret  
Musaeus  
Mamercus  
NEmesianu●  
Nicandor  
Nonnus  
OVid  
Oppian  
Orpheus  
Oliviero  
PRudentius  
Pontanus  
Politianus  
Paleottì  
Philetas  
Preti  
Pindar  
Plautus  
Properti●s  
Persius  
Petrarch  
Pulci  
Petronius  
Pacuvius  
QVevedo  
RAblais  
Racan  
Ronsard  
Rotro●  
Reignier  
Rutilius  
SAppho  
Sophocles  
Seneca  
Sidonius Apollinaris  
Sidronius  
Stephonius  
Statius  
Silius Italicu●  
Scaliger julius  
Scaliger josephus  
Sadolet  
Sanazarius  
Sarazin  
Sositheus  
Serres  
Sancte Marthe  
TAsso Bernardo  
Tasso Torqua●o  
Tryphiodorus  
Theoritus  
Terence  
Tibullus  
Testi  
Tyrtaeus  
Tristan  
Trissino  
Theophile  
VAler. Flaccu●  
Virgil  
Vida  
Voiture   
FINIS.