AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND CONCERNING POETRY. By SAMUEL WESLEY. Fungor vice Cotis. LONDON: Printed for CHARLES HARPER, at the Flower de Luce in Fleetstreet. MDCC. PREFACE. I Have not much to say of this Poem, before I leave it to the Mercy of the Reader. There's no need of looking far into it, to find out that the direct Design of a great part of it, is to serve the Cause of Religion and Virtue; tho' 'twas necessary for that End to dispose the whole in such a manner as might be agreeable to the Taste of the present Age, and of those who usually give such sort of Books the Reading. If there be any Thoughts in it relating to Poetry, that either are not known to all Persons, or are tolerably ranged and expressed, the Reader is welcome to 'em for Over-weight: If there are too few of these, I yet hope the Pardon of all candid Judges, because I've done the best I could on this Argument. I can't be angry with any Person for ranking me amongst the Ogylbies; my Quarrel is with those that rank themselves amongst Atheists, and impudently defend and propagate that ridiculous Opinion of the Eternity of the World, and a fatal invincible Chain of Things, which, it seems, is now most commonly made use of to destroy the Faith, as our lewd Plays are to corrupt the Morals of the Nation: An Opinion, big with more Absurdities than Transubstantiation itself, and of far more fatal Consequence, if received and believed: For besides its extremely weakening, if not destroying, the Belief of the Being and Providence of God, it utterly takes away any sort of Freedom in Humane Actions, reduces Mankind beneath the Brute Creation; perfectly excuses the greatest Villainies in this World, and entirely vacates all Retribution hereafter. One would wonder with what Face or Conscience such a Sett of Men should hope to be treated by the Rules of Civility, when they themselves break through those of Society, and common Humanity: How they can expect any fairer Quarter than Wolves or Tigers; or what Reason they can give why a Price should not be set upon their Heads, as well as on the Others; or at least why they should not be securely hampered and muzzled, and led about for a Sight, like other Monsters. 'Tis the fatal and spreading Poison of these men's Examples and Principles which has extorted these warm Expressions from me; I cannot with Patience see my Country ruined by the prodigious increase of Infidelity and Immorality, nor forbear crying out with some Vehemence, when I am giving Warning to all honest Men to stand up in the Defence of it, when it is in greater and more eminent danger than it would have been formerly, if the Spanish Armada had made a Descent amongst us: I don't speak of these things by distant Hear-say, or only from our public Prints, but from my own Knowledge and little Acquaintance in the World, and therefore others must have observed much more, and cannot but fear, that if things go on as they now are, without a greater Check, and more severe Laws against these wide and contagious Mischiefs, at least without a more general united Endeavour to put those Laws already made in strict Execution, we are in a fair way to become a Nation of Atheists. 'Tis now no difficult matter to meet with those who pretend to be lewd upon Principles; They'll talk very gravely, look as if they were in earnest, and come sobrii ad perdendam Rempublican: they would be Critics too, and Philosophers: They attack Religion in Form and batter it from every Quarter; they would turn the very Scriptures against themselves, and labour hard to remove a Supreme Being out of the World; or if they do vouchsafe him any room in it, 'tis only that they may find Fault with his Works, which they think, with that Blasphemer of old, might have been much better ordered, had they themselves stood by and directed the Architect. They'll tell you the Errors of Nature are every where plain and visible, all monstrous, here too much and there too little; or, as one of their own Poets, Here she's too sparing, there profusely vain. What would these Men have, or why can't they be content to sink single into the bottomless Gulf, without dragging so much Company thither with ' 'em? Can they grapple Omnipotence, are are they sure they can be too hard for Heaven? Can they Thunder with a Voice like God, and cast abroad the Rage of their Wrath? Could they annihilate Hell, indeed, or did it only consist of such painted Flames as they'd fain believe it, they might make a shift to be tolerably happy, more quietly rake through the World, and sink into Nothing. There's too great reason to apprehend, that this Infection is spread among Persons of almost all Ranks and Qualities; and that tho' some may think it decent to keep on the Masque, yet if they were searched to the bottom, all their Religion would be found that which they most blasphemously assert of Religion in general, only a State Engine to keep the World in Order. This is Hypocrisy with a Witness, the basest and meanest of Vices; and how come Men to fall into these damnable Errors in Faith, but by Lewdness of Life? The Cowards would not believe a God because they dare not do it, for Woe be to 'em if there be one, and consequently any Future Punishments. From such as these, I desire no Favour, but that of their Ill Word, as their Crimes must expect none from me, whose Character obliges me to declare an eternal War against Vice and Infidelity, tho' at the same time hearty to pity those who are infected with it. If I could be ambitious of a Name in the World, it should be that I might sacrifice it in so glorious a Cause as that of Religion and Virtue: If none but Generals must fight in this sacred War, when there are such infernal Hosts on the other side, they could never prevail without one of the ancient Miracles: If little People can but well discharge the Place of a private Centinel, 'tis all that's expected from us. I hope I shall never let the Enemies of God and my Country come on without Firing, tho' it serve but to give the Alarm, and if I die without quitting my Post▪ I desire no greater Glory. I have endeavoured to show that I had no Personal Pique against any whose Characters I may have given in this Poem, nor think the worse of them for their Thoughts of me. I hope I have every where done 'em Justice, and as well as I could, have given 'em Commendation where they deserve it; which may also, on the other side, acquit me of Flattery with all Impartial Judges; for 'tis not only the Great whose Characters I have bear attempted. And if what I have written may be any ways useful, or innocently diverting to the virtuous and ingenious Readers, he has his End, who is Their Humble Servant S. WESLEY. AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND CONCERNING POETRY. AS Brother Prynne of old from Mount Orgueil, So I to you from Epworth and the Isle: Harsh Northern Fruits from our cold heavens I send, Yet, since the best they yield, they'll please a Friend. You ask me, What's the readiest way to Fame, And how to gain a Poet's sacred Name? For Saffold send, your Choice were full as just, When burning Fevers fry your Limbs to Dust! Yet, lest you angry grow at your Defeat, And me as ill as that fierce Spark should treat Who did the Farrier into Doctor beat; You to my little Quantum, Sir, are free, Which I from HORACE glean or NORMANBY; These with some grains of Common Sense unite, " Then freely think, and as I think I write. First poise your Genius, nor presume to write If Phoebus smile not, or some Muse invite: Nature refuses Force, you strive in vain, She will not drag, but struggling breaks the Chain. How bright a Spark of Heavenly Fire must warm! What Blessings meet a Poet's Mind to form! How oft must he for those Life-Touches sit, Genius, Invention, Memory, judgement, Wit? There's here no Middle-State, you must excel; Wit has no Half-way-House 'twixt Heaven and Hell. All cannot All things, lest you mourn too late, Remember Phaeton's unhappy Fate! Eager to guide the Coursers of the Day, Beneath their Brazen Hoofs he trampled lay, And his bright Ruins marked their flaming Way. Genius. You'll ask, What GENIUS is, and Where to find? 'Tis the full Power and Energy of Mind: A Reach of Thought that skims all Nature over, Exhausts this narrow World, and asks for more: Through every Rank of Being's when it has flown, Can frame a New Creation of its own: By Possible and Future unconfined: Can stubborn Contradictions yoke, and bind Through Fancy's Realms, with Number, Time and Place, Chimaera-Forms, a thin, an airy Race; Then with a secret conscious Pride surveys Th' Enchanted Castles which it had Power to raise. Wit. As Genius is the Strength, be WIT defined The Beauty and the Harmony of Mind: Beauty's Proportion, Air, each lively Grace The Soul diffuses round the Heavenly Face: 'Tis various, yet 'tis equal, still the same In Alpine Snows, or Ethiopian Flame; While glaring Colours short-lived Grace supply, Nor Frost nor Sun they bear, but scorch and die. judgement. Nor these alone, though much they can, suffice, JUDGEMENT must join, or never hope the Prize: Those Headstrong Coursers scour along the Plains, The Rider's down, if once he lose the Reins: Soon the Mad Mixture will to all give Law, And for the Laurel Wreaths present thee Wreaths of Straw. judgement's the Act of Reason; that which brings Fit Thoughts to Thoughts, and argues Things from Things, True, Decent, Just, are in its Balance tried, And thence we learn to Range, Compound, Divide. A Cave there is wherein those Nymphs reside Invention and Memory Who all the Realms of Sense and Fancy guide; Nay some affirm that in the deepest Cell Imperial Reason's self does not disdain to dwell: With Living Reed 'tis thatched and guarded round, Which moved by Winds emit a Silver Sound: Two Crystal Fountains near its Entrance play, Wide scattering Golden Streams which ne'er decay, Two Labyrinths behind harmonious Sounds convey: Chief, within, the Room of State is famed Of rich Mosaic Work divinely framed: Of small Extent to view, 'twill all things hid, heavens Azure Arch itself not half so wide: Here all the Arts their sacred Mansion choose, Here dwells the MOTHER of the heaven-born Muse: With wondrous mystic Figures round 'tis wrought Inlaid with FANCY, and annealed with Thought: With more than humane Skill depicted here The various Images of Things appear; What Was, or Is, or labours yet to Be Within the Womb of Dark Futurity, May Stowage in this wondrous Storehouse find, Yet leave unnumbered empty Cells behind: But ah! as fast they come, they fly too fast, Not Life or Happiness are more in haste: Only the First Great Mind himself can stay The Fugitives, and at one Glance survey; But those whom he disdains not to befriend, Uncommon Souls, who nearest Heaven ascend Far more, at once, than others comprehend: Whate'er within this sacred Hall you find, Whate'er will lodge in your capacious Mind Let judgement sort, and skilful Method bind; And as from these you draw your ancient Store Daily supply the Magazine with more. Furnished with such Materials he'll excel Who when he works is sure to work 'em well; This ART alone, as Nature that bestows, And in Perfection both, th' accomplished Verser knows. Knows to persuade, and how to speak, and when; The Rules of Life, and Manners knows and Men: Those narrow Lines which Good and Ill divide; Learning. And by what Balance Just and Right are tried: How Kindred-Things with Things are closely joined; How Bodies act, and by what Laws confined, Supported, moved and ruled by th' Universal Mind. When the moist Kids or burning Sirius rise; Through what ambiguous Ways Hyperion flies, And marks our Upper or the Nether Skies. He knows those Strings to touch with artful Hand Which rule Mankind, and all the World command: What moves the Soul, and every secret Cell Where Pity, Love, and all the Passions dwell. The Music of his Verse can Anger raise, Which with a softer Stroke he smooths and lays: Can Emulation, Terror, all excite, Compress the Soul with Grief, or swell with vast Delight. If this you can, your Care you'll well bestow, And some new Milton or a Spencer grow; If not, a Poet ne'er expect to be, Content to Rhyme, like D—y or like me. But here perhaps you'll stop me, and complain, To such Impracticable Heights I strain A Poet's Notion, that if This be He, There ne'er was one, nor e'er is like to be. — But soft, my Friend! may we not copy well Tho far th' Original our Art excel? Divine Perfection we our Pattern make Th' Idea thence of Goodness justly take; But they who copy nearest, still must fall Immensely short of their Original; Converse. But Wit and Genius, Sense and Learning joined, Will all come short if crude and unrefined; 'Tis CONVERSE only melts the stubborn Ore And polishes the Gold, too rough before: So fierce the Natural Taste, 'twill ne'er b' endured, The Wine is strong, but never rightly cured. STYLE is the Dress of Thought; Style. a modest Dress, Neat, but not gaudy, will true Critics please: Not Fleckno's Drugget, nor a worse Extreme All daubed with Point and Gold at every Seam: Who only Antique Words affects, appears Like old King Harry's Court, all Face and Ears; Nor in a Load of Wig thy Visage shroud, Like Hairy Meteors glimmering through a Cloud: Happy are those who here the Medium know, We hate alike a Sloven and a Beau. I would not follow Fashion to the height Close at the Heels, nor yet be out of Sight: Words alter, like our Garments, every day, Now thrive and bloom, now whither and decay. Let those of greater Genius new invent, Be you with those in Common Use content. A different Style's for Prose and Verse required, Strong Figures here, Neat Plainness there desired: A different Set of Words to both belong; What shines in Prose, is flat and mean in Song. The Turn, the Numbers must be varied here, And all things in a different Dress appear. This every Schoolboy lashed at Eton knows. Yet Men of Sense forget when they compose, And Father DRYDEN'S Lines are sometimes Prose. A varied Style do various Works require, This soft as Air, and towering that as Fire. None than th' Epistle goes more humbly dressed, Tho neat 'twould be, and decent as the best. Such as th' ingenious Censor may invite Oft to return with eager Appetite; So HORACE wrote, and so I'd wish to write. Nor creeps it always, but can mount and rise, And with bold Pinions sail along the Skies. The selfsame Work of different Style admits, Now soft, now loud, as best the Matter fits: So Father THAMES from unexhausted Veins, Moves clear and equable along the Plains; Yet still of different Depth and Breadth is found, And humours still the Nature of the Ground. READING will mend your Style, Reading. and raise it higher, And Matter find to feed th' Immortal Fire: But if you would the Vulgar Herd excel, And justly gain the Palm of Writing well, Wast not your Lamp in scanning Vulgar Lines, Where grovelling all, or One in twenty shines: With Prudence first among the Ancients choose, The noblest only, and the best peruse; Such HOMER is, such VIRGIL'S sacred Page, Which Death defy, nor yield to Time or Age; New Beauties still their Vigorous Works display, Their Fruit still mellows, but can ne'er decay. The Modern Pens not altogether slight, Be Master of your Language e'er you writ! Immortal TILLOTSON with Judgement scan, " That Man of Praise, that something more than Man! Even those who hate his Ashes this advice, As from black Shades resplendent Lightning flies, Unwilling Truths break through a Cloud of Lie. He Words and Things for mutual Aid designed, Before at Variance, in just Numbers joined; He always soars, but never's out of sight, He taught us how to Speak, and Think, and Writ. If English Verse you'd in Perfection see, ROSCOMMON read, and Noble NORMANBY: We borrow all from their exhaustless Store, Or little say they have not said before. Poor Infects of a Day, we toil and strive To creep from Dust to Dust, and think we live; These weak imperfect Being's scarce enjoy E'er Death's rude Hand our blooming Hopes destroy: With Lynx's Eyes each others Faults we find, But to our own how few who are not blind? How long is Art, how short, alas! our Time! How few who can above the Vulgar climb, Whose stronger Genius reach the True Sublime! With tedious Rules which we ourselves transgress, We make the Trouble more who strive to make it less. But meanly why do you your Fate deplore, Yet still write on?— Why do a Thousand more, Who for their own or some Forefathers Crime Are doomed to wear their Days in beating Rhyme? But this a Noble Patron will redress, And make you better write, though you writ less: Whate'er a discontented Mind pretends, Distinguished Worth can rarely miss of Friends: Do but excel, and he'll at last arise Who from the Dust may lift thee to the Skies; For his own Sake will his Protection grant; What Horace e'er did yet Maecenas want? Or if the World its Favours should refuse, With barren Smiles alone reward thy Muse; Be thy own Patron, thou no more wilt need, For all will court thee if thy Works succeed; At least the few Good judges will commend, And secret growing Praise thy Steps attend. Who showed Columbus where the Indies lay? True to thyself, charge through, and force to Fame the way! If Envy snarl, indulge it no Reply, Writ better still, and let it burst and die! Rest pleased if you can please the Wiser Few, Since to please all is more than Heaven itself can do. There are who can whate'er they will believe, That B—'s too hard for B B —y, Three are Five: That Nature, Justice, Reason, Truth must fall, With Clear Ideas they'll confound 'em all: That Parallels may travel till they meet; Faith they can find in L—, no Sense in STILLINGFLEET. Disturb 'em not, but let 'em still enjoy Th' unenvied Charms of their Eternal Moi. If to the craggy Top of Fame you rise, Those who are labouring after ne'er despise. Nor those above on Honour's dazzling Seat Tho disobliged, with saucy Rudeness treat, Revenge not always is below the Great. Their Stronger Genius may o'er thine prevail: Wit, Power and Anger joined but rarely fail. Tho Eagles would not choose to hawk at Flies They'd snap 'em, should their buzzing Swarms arise Importunate, and hurt their Sun bright Eyes. Nor should the Muse's Birds at random fly, And strike at all, lest if they strike they die. Why should we still be lazily content With threadbare Schemes, and nothing new invent? All Arts besides improve, Sea, Air and Land Are every day with nicer judgement scanned, And why should this alone be at a stand? Or Nature largely to the Ancients gave And little did for younger Children save; Or rather we impartial Nature blame To hid our Sloth, and cover o'er our Shame; As Sinners, when their Reason's drowned in Sense, Fall out with Heaven, and quarrel Providence. Yet should you our Galenic Way despise, And some new Colbatch of the Muses rise; No Quarter from the College hope, who sit Infallible at Will's and judge of Sense and Wit: Keep fair with these, or Fame you court in vain, A strict Neutrality at least maintain! Speak, like the wise Italian, well of all; Who knows into what Hands he's doomed to fall? Writ oft and much, at first, if you'd write well, For he who ne'er attempts will ne'er excel; Practice will file your Verse, your Thoughts refine, And Beauty give, and Grace to every Line: The Gnat to famed AEneis led the way, And our Immortal COWLEY once did play. Let not the Sun of Life in vain decline, Or Time run waste; No Day without a Line. Yet learn by me, my Friend, from Errors past; O never write, or never Print in Haste! The worst Excuse Ill Authors e'er advance, Which does, like Lies, a single Gild enhance. Lay by your Work, and leave it on the Loom, Which if at moderate distance you resume, A Father's Fondness you'll with Ease look through, And Objects in a proper Medium view. 'Tis Time alone can Strength and Ripeness give; A Hasty Birth can ne'er expect to live. Fly low at first, you'll with Advantage rise; This pleases all, as that will all surprise. The Subject. No Work attempt but where your Strength you know, Be Master of your Subject, Thoughts will flow: The newer 'tis, the choicer Fruit 'twill yield, More Room you have to work if large your Field; The Sponge you oftener than the Pen will want, And rather Reason see to prune than plant; Yet where the Thoughts are barren, weak and thin, New Cyons should be neatly grafted in. If you with Friend or Enemy are blest, A judge. Your Fancy's Offspring ne'er can want a Test, Tho Both, perhaps may overshoot the Mark: First Spite with Envy charges in the Dark; Unread they damn, and into Passion fall, 'Tis Stuff, 'tis Blasphemy, 'tis Nonsense all; They sleep (when dozed before) at every Line, While your more dangerous Friend exclaims,— 'Tis fine, 'Tis furiously Delightful, 'tis Divine; Th' inspiring God's in every Page confessed; A COWLEY or a DRYDEN at the least! Yet you'd from both an equal judgement frame And stand the nearest Candidate for Fame: What Envy praises, or what Friends dislike, This bears the Test, and that the Sponge should strike. Choose to be absent when your Cause is tried, Lest Favour should the partial judge misguide; Nor others Thoughts implicitly prefer, Your Friends a Mortal, and like you, may err. Upon the last Appeal let Reason sit, And here, let all Authority submit. Divest your self of self whate'er you can, And think the Author now some other Man. A thousand trivial Lumber-Thoughts will come, A thousand Fagot-Lines will crowd for room; Reform your Troops, and no Exemption grant, You'll gain in Strength, what you in Numbers want. Nor yet Infallibility pretend; He still errs on who thinks he ne'er can mend: Reject that hasty, that presumptuous Thought! None e'er but VIRGIL wrote without a Fault; (Or none he has, or none that I can find, Who, dazzled with his Beauties, to his Moles am blind.) Who has the least is happiest, he the best, Who owns and mends where he has once transgressed. Nor will good Writers smaller Blots despise, Lest those neglected should to Crimes arise; Such Venial Sins indulged will mortal prove, At least they from Perfection far remove. Nor Critical Exactness here deride, It looks like Sloth, or Ignorance, or Pride; Good Sense is spoilt in Words unapt expressed, And Beauty pleases more when 'tis well dressed. Method. Forget not METHOD if the Prize you'd gain, 'Twill cost you Thought, but richly pays the Pain; What first, what second, or what last to place, What here will shine, and there the Work disgrace. Before you build, your MODEL justly lay, And every Part in Miniature survey; Where airy Terraces shall threat the Skies, Where Columns tower, or neat Pilasters rise; Where cool Cascades come roaring down the Hill, Or where the Crystal Nymph a mossy Basin fill: What Statues are to grace the Front designed, And how to throw the meaner Rooms behind. Draw the Main Strokes at first, 'twill show your Skill, Life-Touches you may add whenever you will. Even Chance will sometimes all our Art excel, The angry Foam we ne'er can hit so well. A sudden Thought, all beautiful and bright Shoots in and stunns us with amazing Light; Secure the happy Moment e'er 'tis past, Not Time more swift, or Lightning flies so fast. All must be free and easy, or in vain You whip and spur, and the winged Courser strain: When foggy Clouds hand bellying in the Skies, Or sleety Boreas through th' Horizon flies; He then, whose Muse produces aught that's fine, His Head must have a stronger Turn than mine: Like Sibyls Leaves the Train of Thoughts are ranged, Which by rude Winds disturbed, are nothing if they're changed. Or are there too in Writing softer Hours? Or is't that Matter nobler Mind o'erpow'rs, Which boasts her native Liberty in vain, In Mortal Fetters and a Slavish Chain? Death only can the Gordian Knot divide, Tho by what secret wondrous Bands 'tis tied, Even Reason's self must own she can't decide: For as the rapid Tides of Matter turn We're fanned with Pleasure or with Anger burn, We Love and Hate again, we joy and Mourn. Now the swift Torrent high and headstrong grows, Shoots through the Dykes, and all the Banks overflows; Straight the capricious Waters backward fly, The Pebbles rake and leave the Bottom dry; Watch the kind Hour and seize the rising Flood, Else will your dreggy Poem taste of Mud. Hence old and battered Hackneys of the Stage, By long Experience rendered Wise and Sage, With powerful juices restive Nature urge, Or else with Bays of old, they bleed and purge; Thence, as the Priestess from her Cave inspired, When to his Cell the rancid God retired, Double Entendres their fond Audience blin●d, Their boasted Oracles abuse Mankind: False joys around their Hearts in Slumbers play, And the warm tingling Blood steals fast away; The Soul grows dizzy, lost in Senses Night, And melts in pleasing Pain and vain Delight. Not that the sourest Critic can reprove The soft the moving Scenes of Virtuous Love: Life's Sunny Morn, which wears, alas! too fast; Pity it e'er should hurt, or should not always last! Has Bankrupt Nature then no more to give, Or by a Trick persuades Mankind to live? No— when with Prudence joined 'tis still the same Or ripens into Friendship's nobler Name, The Matter pure, immortal is the Flame. No Fool, no Debauchee could ever prove The honest Luxury of virtuous Love; Then cursed are those who that fair Name abuse, And holy Hymen's sacred Fillets lose; Who poison Fountains, and infect the Air, Ruin the Witty, and debauch the Fair; With nauseous Images their Scenes debase At once their Country's Ruin and Disgrace. Weigh well each Thought if all be Just and Right, For those must clearly think who clearly write. Nothing obscure, equivocal, or mean, Much less what is or impious or obscene: Although the tempting Serpent play his part, And wind in glittering Folds around thy Heart; Reject the traitorous Charmer, tear him thence, And keep thy Virtue and thy Innocence. In wild America's rank Champaign grows A Tree which Europe oft too dearly knows; It rises high in cool enchanting Groves, The Manchinel, or Eves Apple. Whose green broad Leaves the fainting traveler loves; Fair is the treacherous Fruit, and charms your Eye, But ah! beware! for if you taste you die. Too well alas! it thrives when planted here, It's deadly Branches shade our Theatre. Of Measures, Numbers, Pauses next I sing, And rest the breathless Muse with cautious Wing: Of Embryo Thoughts, unripened yet by Time, The Rules of Verse, of Quantity and Rhyme: With trembling Steps through Shades unknown I stray, And mark a rugged and a dubious way; Yet some small glimmering Light will hence be showed, And future travelers may enlarge the Road. Measure. Of CHAUCER'S Verse we scarce the Measures know, So rough the Lines, and so unequal flow; Whether by Injury of Time defaced, Or careless at the first, and writ in haste; Or coarsely, like old Ennius, he designed What After-days have polished and refined. SPENCER more smooth and neat, and none than He Can better skill of English Quantity; Tho by his Stanza cramped, his Rhimes less chaste, And antique Words affected all disgraced; Yet vast his Genius, noble were his Thoughts, Whence equal Readers wink at lesser Faults. From France their Alexandrins we receive Which more of Liberty and Compass give; Hence by our dull Translators were they used, Nor CHAPMAN nor old STERNHOLD these refused; They borrow from Hexameters their Feet, Which with Asclepiads and iambics meet; Yet in the midst we still a Weakness see, Their Music gives us no Variety. More numerous the Pentameter and strong, Which to our Saxon Fathers did belong. In this their ancient Edda * Vide Edda Saemundi— apud Sheringham. de Gentis Anglorum Origine, pag. 28, 29. Hiaelp beiter eitt eun t'had their hialpa must Vid Sekum og Sottum giorv ollum, I know your only Help, the powerful Charm That aids in ev'ery Grief and every Harm, 'thad kann egg annad ere thorfa Ita Syner their ed vilia lakner lisfa. I know the Leeches Craft, and what they need Who Doctors in that Noble Art proceed. seems to write, Mysterious Rhimes, and horrid to the sight: Their Runic Staves in this on Rocks engraved, Which long th' Assaults of Time itself have braved. In this our ancient British Bards delight; And, if I measure his rough Numbers right, In this old Taliessin used to write † Vide British Chronicle, and Taliessin's Prophecies; Prryff fared l'yffred in ●dwyfi i Elphin Am gwalad gynefio ymmeo Goribbin. jonas ddewn am golwis Merddin Bebach Pob Brenmam geilw Taliesin. Me Elphin now his Bard may justly boast Who sung of old amid the Fire-winged Host: Once Merlin was I called, well known to Fame, Whom future Kings shall Taliessin name. Gwae a gasglo olud Tra foyna bud, Gwae erbin didd brawd ni chospo i gnawed, Gwae ni cheidw i gail ag ef y●fugail, Gwae in cheidw i ddesaud chag bleidduo. woe to the Wretch who Wealth by Rapine gains, And woe to him who Fasts and Prayers refrains; Woe to the Shepherds who their Flocks betray, And will not drive the Romish Wolves away. This still Possession keeps, few else we read, And Right as well as Fact may justly plead; Although the French Intruders oft pursue Their baffled Title, and their Claim renew; Too oft Impressions on our Armies make, Cut off our Stragglers and our Outguards take; Which lazily our Authors now admit, And call th' Excursions of Luxuriant Wit; With Badger-feets the two-toped Mount we climb, And stalk from Peak to Peak on Stilts of Rhyme. Sweet WALLER'S Dimeter we most approve For cheerful Songs and moving Tales of Love, Which for Heroic Subjects wants of Strength, Too short, as Alexandrins err in Length. Our Ear's the Judge of Cadence; nicely weigh What Consonants rebel, and what obey; What Vowels mixed compose a pleasing Sound, And what the tender Organs grate and wound. Nor at thy Reader's Mercy choose to lie, Nor let his judgement want of thine supply: So easy let thy Verse so smoothly fall, They must be read aright if read at all. Numbers. Nor equal Numbers will for all suffice, The Sock creeps low, the Tragic Buskins rise: None knew this Art so well, so well did use As did the Mantuan Shepherd's Heavenly Muse: He married Sound and Sense, at odds before, We hear his Scylla bark, Charybdis roar; And when in Fields his Fiery Coursers meet The hollow Ground shakes underneath their Feet: Yet nicer Ears can taste a Difference when Of Flocks and Fields he sings, or Arms and Men. If I our English Numbers taste aright, We in the grave jambic most delight: Each second Syllable the Voice should rest, Spondees may serve, but still th' Iambic's best: Th' unpleasing Trochee always makes a Blot, And Iames the Numbers; or, if this forgot, A strong Spondaic should the next succeed, The feeble Wall will a good Buttress need: Long Writing, Observation, Art and Pain Must here unite if you the Prize would gain. Pauses. Pause is the Rest of Voice, the poor Remains Of ancient Song that still our Verse retains: The second Foot or third's our usual Rest, Tho more of Art's in varying oft expressed. At every Word the Pause is sometimes * Olli sedato respondit cord Latinus. Virg. made, And wondrous Beauty every where displayed: — But here we guess, and wander in the dark; How should a hoodwinked Archer hit the Mark? The little Glimpse that DRYDEN gives, is more Than all our careless Writers knew before; A few Chance Lines may smooth and roundly fly, But still no Thanks to us, we know not why. He finds Examples, we the Rule must make, Tho who without a Guide may not mistake? (a) Mr. Dryden's Riddle, in his Preface to Virgil. " Tho deep yet clear, though gentle yet not dull, " Strong without Rage, without overflowing full. If we that famous Riddle can untie, Their brightest Beauties in the Pauses lie, To Admiration varied; next to these The Numbers justly ordered charm and please: Each Word, each happy Sound is big with Sense, They all deface who take one Letter thence. But little more of Quantity we know Quantity. Than what our Accent does, and Custom show: The Latin Fountains often we forsake, As they the Greek; nay different Ages take A different Path; Perfùme and Envy now We say, which Ages past would scarce allow: If no Position make our Accent strong Most Syllables are either short or long. Primitive Verse was graced with pleasing Rhimes, Rhyme. The Blank a lazy Fault of Aftertimes; Nor need we other proof of this to plead With those the sacred (b) This was observed before Mr. Le Clerc was born. Vide Song of the Well, Num. 21.17. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 Vide Psal. 80, & 81. Where some Verses have Triple, others Quadruple Rhimes, four in one Verse. Hebrew Hymns can read: If this to lucky Chance alone be due, Why Rhyme they not in Greek and Latin too? (c) Ode 1. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, etc. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉. PINDAR at first his ancient Copy traced, And sometimes equal Sounds his Numbers graced; Till with the more than human Labour tired, He dropped his Rhyme, and owned him uninspired. ORPHEUS and HOMER too, who first did dream Of numerous Gods, and left the One Supreme, Religion both and Poetry did wrong, Apostatised from Rhyme, and lost the Soul of Song. Yet still some weak and glimmering Sparks remained, And still our Great Forefathers this retained; Nor Inundations of Barbarian Rome, Vide p. 13. Our ancient Rhyme could wholly overcome. Ne'er cramp thy Reason for some paltry Chime, Nor sacrifice Good Sense to Numbers and to Rhyme: Both may be saved and made good Friends; and here The Poet's Art and Happiness appear: But when some stubborn Word denies to draw In Numbers, and defies the Muse's Law, Reject it straight, unworthy such a Grace, Another yoke which better fills the Place: Much Reading will thy Poverty amend And Tags without the help of Crambo lend. The Double Rhyme is antiquated grown, Or used in satire or Burlesque alone; Nor loves our stronger Tongue that tinkling Chime, The Darling of the French, a Female Rhyme. Now, daring Muse! attempt a stronger Flight, Beyond a Vulgar Verser's cautious Height, Beyond thyself, and consecrate to Fame Those who a Title to the Laurel claim, And may to aftertimes embalm thy Name; Commend the Good, to all but Vice be kind, And cast the smaller Faults in shades behind; Who first, who next; the Balance justly hold, As that which shines above, and flames with Heavenly Gold. Great N— BY the first, ROSCOMMON gone, He rules our Empire now of Wit alone: The Beauties he of Verse exactly knows, The famous DRYDEN'S not more smoothly flows: Had ORPHEUS half so sweetly mourned his Fate, As VIRGIL sung, or Sh—d did translate; HE had made the Manes once again relent, They would again Eurydice have sent: Death's Temple we with sacred Aw survey, With Admiration read his Great Essay: Was Art or bounteous Nature here more kind? Strong Sense! Uncommon Learning! Thoughts refined! A Godlike Person, and an equal Mind! The next in Dignity, if not the same, Is Deathless D— t'tis loved and noble Name: How did he sing, Paraphrase on Psal. 148. O Azure Vaults, etc. (listened the Heavenly Choir;) The Wondrous Notes of DAVID'S Royal Lyre! Ah! Why no more? must we for ever long And vainly languish for so sweet a Song? The next is Tityrus, who not disdains To read his Name among the tuneful Swains; Unwearyed in his Prince's glorious Cause, As he of Faith, Defender of the Laws; Easie to all but to himself, he shares His Monarch's Favours, and his Monarch's Cares: His flowing Language cloaths his massy Sense, Nor makes with pompous Words a vain pretence, Sound without Soul, to Wit and Eloquence. Tho Great, he's still the same he was before: — I sue for nothing, and I'll say no more. M—ue left the Muse's peaceful Seat, And bore the Cares and Honours of the Great: The Pollio he of our Augustan days, Who Wit rewards with more than hungry Praise; True Worth his Patronage can never miss, He has his Prince's Smiles and that has his. Nor should he pass unpraised whom all admire, Who, mixed with Seraphs, rules the Western Choir; Flowing and pure his unexhausted Vein, As Silver Thames, which, rolling down the Plain, Salutes his Sacred Dome.— But those profane who meanly thus commend, Th' Immortal Cowley's and the Muse's Friend. Of matchless DRYDEN only Dryden's Skill Can justly say enough,— of Good or iii. Envy must own he has our Tongue refined, And manly Sense with tenderest Softness joined: His Verse would Stones and Trees with Soul inspire, As did the Theban and the Thracian Lyre: His youthful Fire within, like Aetna, glows, Tho Venerable Age around his Temples snows: If from the modern or the ancient Store He borrows oughr, he always pays 'em more: So much improved, each Thought, so fine appears, WALLER or OVID scarce durst own 'em theirs. The Learned Goth has scoured all Europe's Plains, France, Spain, and fruitful Italy he drains, From every Realm and every Language gains: His Gains a Conquest are, and not a Theft; He wishes still new Worlds of Wit were left: Thus haughty Rome, when, all the Firm surpassed, Her Eagles found our moated World at last; Touching upon th' unhospitable Coast, Good Laws bestowed for our wild Freedom lost; With Arts of Peace our stubborn Soil manured, And naked Limbs from Frost and Sun secured: — But ah! how dear the Price of all we gain! What Shoals of Vices with 'em crossed the Main? What Pride, what Luxury, a foul, an odious Train? Who weighs, like Galcacus, the Good with Ill, Would wish they'd let us been Barbarians still: Such thankless Pains Ignatian Firebrands take An honest Pagan spoil, and a bad Christian make. Blessed be kind Heaven, which wrapped me in a Gown, And drew me early from the fatal Town! And blest Her Name, to endless Ages blest, Who gave my weary Muse this calm Retreat and Rest. True to my God, my Country, and my Friend, Here, may I Life, not wholly useless, spend, Steal through the World, and smiling meet my End! I envy not Great Dryden's loftier Strain Of Arms and Men designed to entertain, Princes and Courts, so I but please the Plain: Nor would I batter Profit for Delight, Nor would have writ like him, like him to write. If there's Hereafter, and a last Great Day, What Fire's enough to purge his Stains away? How will he wish each lewd applauded Line Which makes Vice pleasing, and Damnation shine, Had been as dull as honest Quarles or mine! With sixty Years of Lewdness rest content! It mayn't be yet too late, O yet Repent! Even Thee our injured Altar will receive; While yet there's Hopes fly to its Arms and live! So shall for Thee their Harps the Angel's string, And the Returning Prodigal shall sing; New joys through all the Heavenly Host be shown In Numbers only sweeter than thy own. CONGREVE from Ireland wondering we receive, Would he the Town's lose way of Writing leave, More Worth than all their Forfeit Lands will give: justness of Thought, a Courtly Style, and clear, And wellwrought Passions in his Works appear: None knows with finer Strokes our Souls to move, And as he please we smile, or weep, or love. When Dryden goes, 'tis he must fill the Chair, With Congreve only Congreve can compare. Yet, though he natural is as untaught Loves, His Style as smooth as Cytherea's Doves, When e'er unbyass'd judges read him over, He sometimes nods, as Homer did before: Some Lines his most Admirers scarce would please, Nor B— s Verse alone could raise Disease. * Vide Collier's Reflections on Mourning Bride, and Garth 's Dispensary. For smooth and well turned Lines we T— admire, Who has in justness what he wants in Fire: Each Rhyme, each Syllable well-weighed and fair, His Life and Manners scarce more regular. With Strength and Flame prodigious D— s writes Of Love's soft Wars, and cruel martial Fights: Scarce LEE himself strove with a mightier Load, Or laboured more beneath th' Incumbent God: Whate'er of old to Rome or Athens known, What France or We have gleaned, 'tis all his own. How few can equal Praise with C—ch obtain, Who made Lucretius smooth, and chaste, and plain? Courted by Fame he could her Charms despise, Still wooed by that false Fair he still denies, And pressed, for Refuge to the Altar flies; Like votive Tablets offers up his Bays, " And leaves to our lewd Town the Drudgery of Plays: In lofty Raptures, born on Angels Wings Above the Clouds, above Castalian Springs, N— inspired, of God and Nature sings; And if one Glance on this poor World he throw, If e'er he mind the Crowd and Buzz below; Pities our fruitless Pains for Fame and Praise, And wonders why we drudge for Crowns and Bays. Can B— be sober, many he'd excel, Few know the Ancients, or could use so well; But ah! his Genius with his Virtue's fled, Condemned to Want of Grace and Want of Bread. Even Envy B— re's Subject must confess Exact and rare, a curious Happiness, Nor many could the Fable better dress: Of Words what Compass, and how vast a Store! His Courage and his virtue's only more: More various Scenes of Death his Fights display Then Aghrim's Field or Landen's fatal Day: Let beauteous Elda's Tears and Passion prove His Soul is not unknowing how to love: Disrobed of Clouds he viewed the Stagyrite As Nature he, confessed to Human sight: His Rules surveys, and traces to their Springs, Where the blind Bard of flaming Ilium sings; Thence with the Mantuan Swan in narrower Rings, Tho more exact, he, stooping from his height, Reviews the same fierce Wars, and Gods and Heroes fight: That beauteous ancient Palace he surveys Which Maro's Hands had only Strength to raise, Models from thence, and copies every Grace: Each Page is big with Virgil's Manly Thought, To follow him too near's a glorious Fault. He dared be virtuous in the World's Despite, While D— n lives he dared a Modest Poem write. Who can th' ingenious S— y's Praise refuse, Who serves a grateful Prince, and grateful Muse? Or P— r read unmoved, whose every Page So just a Standard to the opening Age? Neat S— n courtly Vein's correct and clear, Nor shall he miss his Praise and Station here: Nor should the rest whom I unnam'd must leave, (Tho such Omission they'll with ease forgive:) Unknown to me, let each his Works commend, Since Virtue, Praise, as Shame does Vice, attend. Poets, like Leaves and Words, their Periods know, Now fresh and green, now sear and withered grow; Or burnt by Autumn's Heat, and Winter's Cold, Or a new hasty Birth shoves off the old. Happy are those, and such are some of ours, Who blest by bounteous heavens indulgent Showers Bear wholesome Fruit, and not gay poisonous Flowers: Who would not even a Lawreat's self commence Or at their Virtue's or their Faith's Expense: Renounce their Creed to save a wretched Play, And for a crowded House and full Third Day At one bold Struck throw all their Heaven away. What gained Euripides by all his Sense, Who madly railed against a Providence? Apostate Poets first seduced Mankind, But ours upons the Pagan Herd refined; They Virtue praised at least, which ours abuse, And more than Paganize the heaven-born Muse: No Signs of Grace, or of Repentance show, Like Strumpets lashed, more impudent they grow. Now learn, my Friend, and freely I'll impart My little All in this delightful Art: Of Poetry the various Forms and Kind's, The widest, strongest Grasp of human Minds: Not all from all, but some from each I take, Since we a Garland not a Garden make. EPIC's the first and best, Epic. which mounting sings In Mighty Numbers worthy mighty Things, Of High Adventures, Heroes, Gods and Kings: By lively Schemes the Mind to Virtue forms, And far beyond unactive Precept warms. The Subject may be either feigned or true, Too Old it should not be, but less too New: Narration mixed with Action most delights, Intrigues and Councils, varied Games and Fights: Nothing so long as may the Reader tyre, But all the just well-mingled Scenes admire. Your Hero may be virtuous, must be brave; Nothing that's mean should his great Soul enslave: Yet heavens unequal Anger he may fear, And for his suffering Friends indulge a Tear: Thus when the Trojans Navy scattered lay He wept, he trembled, and to Heaven did pray; But when bright Glory beckoned from afar, And Honour called him out to meet the War; Like a fierce Torrent pouring o'er the Banks, Or Mars himself, he thunders through the Ranks; Death walks before, while he a Foe could find, Horror and Ruin mark long frightful Lanes behind. Machine's. For worn and old MACHINE'S few Readers care, They're like the Pasteboard Chaos in the Fair: If aught surprising you expect to show, The Scenes if not the Persons should be new: With both does MILTON'S wondrous Scheme begin, The Pandemonium, Chaos, Death and Sin; Which D— s had with like Success assayed, Had not the Porch of Death's Grim Court been made Too wide, and there th' impatient Reader stayed. And G—h, though barren is his Theme and mean, By this has reached at least the famed Lutrine. If tired with such a plenteous Feast you call For a far meaner Banquet, Meal and Wall; The best I have is yours, though 'tis too long, And what's behind will into Corners throng. A Place there is, if Place 'tis named aright, Where scattered Rays of pale and sickly Light, Fringe o'er the Confines of Eternal Night. Shorn of their Beams the Sun and Phoebe here Like the fixed Stars, through Glasses viewed, appear; Or those faint Seeds of Light, which just display Ambiguous Splendour round the milky Way; The Waste of Chaos, whose Auguster Reign Does those more barren doubtful Realms disdain: Here dwell those hideous Forms which oft repair To breathe our upper World's more cheerful Air Bleak Envy, grinding Pain, and meager Care; Disease and Death, the Goddess of the place, Death, the least frightful Form of all their Race; Ambition, Pride, false joys and Hopes as vain, Lewdness and Luxury compose her Train: How large their Interest, and how vast their Sway Amid the wide invaded Realms of Day! Soon would they our frail Race of Mortals end, Did not kind Heaven auspicious Succours lend; Sweet Angel-Forms, Peace, Virtue, Health and Love, How near allied, how like to those above! These often drive the Air, those Fury's chase And fetter in their own infernal Place: These lent at once NASSAW and ENGLAND Aid, And bright MARIA to our Shores coveyed: Her, all their Power and all their Charms they gave, To govern what her Hero came to save. Nor Envy this, who in her noisome Cell By Traitors in their swift Descent to Hell, Her rising Glories heard, then with a Groan She crawled before her sovereign's direful Throne: A Pile of Sculls the odious Fantom bore, With Bones half-naked mixed, and dropping putrid Gore; There thus— Shall Heaven defraud us of our Reign, And BRITAIN, only BRITAIN break her Chain? What can we there, while more than mortal Grace Forbids our Entrance, and secures the Place? Awhile I gazed and viewed her as I fled, When first she came, till half my Snakes were dead; And had I tarried longer near her Throne, Had soon some base insipid Virtue grown: So fast the wide progressive Ills increase, If longer unopposed our Power will cease; The base degenerate World dissolve to Peace; Our boasted Empire there will soon be over, And Mortals tremble at our Arms no more. She said, her Tidings all the Court affright, And doubled Horror filled the Realms of Night: Till out foul Lewdness leaped, and shook the Place, The fulsom'st Fiend of all th' infernal Race; A crusted Leprosy deformed her Face; With half a bloodshot Eye the Fury glared, Yet when for Mischief she above prepared, She painted and she dressed, those Arts she knew, And to herself herself a Stranger grew, (Thus old and battered Bawds behind the Scenes, New rigged and daubed, pass on the Stage for Queens;) Nor yet, she cries, of Britain we'll despair I've yet some trusty Friends in Ambush there, All is not lost, we've still the Theatre: I'll batter Virtue thence, nor fear to gain New Subjects daily from her hated Reign; Is not Great D— ours and all his Train? He knows he has new Laurels here prepared, For those he lost above, a just Reward, For his wide Conquests he'll command the Guard: Headed by him one Foot we'll scorn to yield, Tho Virtue's glittering Squadrons drive the Field: Grant me, Dread sovereign! a Detachment hence We'll not be long alone on our Defence, But hope to drive the proud Assailants thence. Bold Blasphemy shall lead our black Forlorn, With Colours from heavens Crystal Ramparts torn, And Anti-Thunderrs armed; Profaneness next Their Canon seize, and turn the Sacred Text Against th' Assailants; brave Revenge and Rage Shall our main Battery ply, and guard the Stage. — But most I on dear Ribaldry depend, We've not a surer or a stronger Friend. Now shall she broad and open to the Sky, Now close behind some double Meaning lie; Now with sulphureous Rivers lave the Trench, And choke th' Assailants with infernal Stench; Each nicer Virtue from the Walls repel, And Heaven itself regale with the Perfumes of Hell. This from the World our dreaded Foe will drive, As murmuring Bees are forced to leave their Hive; Souls so refined such Vapours cannot bear, But seek their native Heaven and purer Air: When She and all her heavenly Guards are gone And her bright Hero absent, all's our own: If any pious Fools should make a stand, To stop our Progress through the conquered Land, They soon shall pass for hot-brained Visionairs, We'll run 'em down with Ridicule and Farce. Must they reform the World! a likely Task! 'tis Vizard all, and them we'll soon unmask. The rest will tumble in, or if they stay And loiter in Damnation's ample Way, I've one Expedient left, which can't but take, My last Reserve; From you black brimstone Lake, Whence two Canals thro' subterranean Veins Are drawn to Sodom and Campania's Plains, Myself I'll fill a Vial, and infuse My very Soul amid the potent juice: This Essence near my Heart I'll with me bear, And this among my dearest favourites share, Already tutored by the Theatre; Who passed those Bugbears Conscience, Law and Shame Have there been taught that Virtue's but a Name: Exalted Souls who vulgar Sins despise; Fit for some new discovered nobler Vice; One Drop of this their frozen Blood shall warm, And frighted Nature's feebler Guards disarm: Till their i'll Veins with hotter Fevers glow Than any Aetna or Vesuvius know, Scarce equalled by their Parent Flames below; Till wide around the generous Canker spread, And Vengeance draw on each devoted Head: Impatient Heaven itself our Arms shall join, The Skies again with forky Lightnings shine; Till glutted Desolation pants for Breath, And guilty Shades shall crowd the Realms of Death. — She said, the Motion pleased, she wings away And in blue poisonous Fogs invades the Day: Part of her direful Threats too true we find, And Heaven avert the Plagues that yet remain behind! The Path which Epic treads the TRAGIC Muse Tragedy. With daring tho unequal Steps pursues; A little Epic shines through every Scene, Tho more of Life appears, and less Machine; More Action, less Narration, more Delight; We see the Gods descend, and Heroes fight. While Oedipus is raving on the Stage, Mild Pity enters and dissolves our Rage; We lower our haughty Spirits, our Pride and Hate, And learn to fear the sad Reverse of Fate. A Tyrant's Fall, a treacherous Statesman's End Clear the Just Gods, and equal Heaven defend: Ungrateful Factions here themselves torment, And bring those very Ills they would prevent: Nor think the soft Intrigues of Love too mean To fill the Stage and grace the Tragic Scene! Who from the World this Salt of Nature takes, Twice Slaves of Kings, of Life a Desert makes. The Moral and Pathetic neatly joined, Are best for Pleasure and for Use designed. Be this in Tragic an Eternal Law; Bold Strokes and larger than the Life to draw: Let all be Great; when here a Woman's seen, Paint her a Fury, or a Heroine: Slaves, Spendthrifts, angry Fathers, better fit The meaner Sallies of COMEDIAN Wit; But Courtly HORACE did their Stage refuse, Nor was it trod by Maro's heavenly Muse: A Walk so low their nobler Minds disdain, Where sordid Mirth's exchanged for sordid Gain; Where, in false Pleasure all the Profit's drowned, Nor Authors with just Admiration crowned: Hence was the Sock a Task for servile Wit, Course PLAUTUS hence, and neater TERENCE writ: Yet if you still your Fortune long to take, And long to hear the crowded Benches shake; If you'd reform the Mob, loved Vice restrain, The Pulpits break, and neighbouring B— drain; Let Heaven at least, if not its Priests, be free, The Bible sures' too grave for Comedy: If she nor lewdly nor profanely talk She'll have a cleaner, though a narrower Walk. Our Nation's endless Humour will supply So large a Fund as never can be dry; Why then should Vice be bare and open shown, And with such Nauseous Scenes affront the Town? Why thrive the Lewd, their Wishes seldom crossed, And why Poetic justice often lost? They plead they copy Nature.— Don't abuse Her sacred Name with such a vile Excuse! She wisely hides what these, like Beasts display, Even Vice itself, less impudent than they, Remote in Shades, and far from conscious Day. From this Retrenchment by strong Reason beat, They next to poor Necessity retreat: The Murderers, Bawds and Robbers last pretence With equal justice, equal Innocence! So Crack, in pious Fit, will plead she's poor, 'Tis a hard Choice, Good Sir, to starve or whore! — Is there no Third, or will such Reas'nings' pass In Bridewel's rigid Court, or save the Lash? Where the stern judge, like Radamanth, surveys The trembling Sinner, and each Action weighs. A lazy, black, encumbered Stream rolls by, Whose thick sulphureous Vapours load the Sky; Near where, in Caves from heavens sweet Light debarred, Shrieks, Groans, and Iron Whips, and Clanks of Chains are heard. And can't you thrash. or trail a Pike or Pole? Are there no jakes in Town, or Kennels foul? No honester Employment, that you choose With such vile Drudgery t'abase the heaven born Muse? The numerous ODE in various Paths delights, Ode. Love, Friendship, Gods and Heroes, Games and Fights: Her Age with Veneration is confessed, The first great Mother she of all the rest. This * I know some have affirmed that Moses 's Song in the 14 th' of Exodus was writ in Hexameters, but I can't perceive any such thing in it, any more than in the 90 th'. Psalms, or the Book of Job, which seem to be written about the same time with it. The Song of the Well, in Numbers, pag. 15. is clearly an Ode of unequal Measures. MOSES used, and DAVID'S Royal Lyre, This he whom wondering Seraphs did inspire, Whence PINDAR stole some Sparks of heavenly Fire, Who now by COWLEY'S happy Muse improved, Is understood by some, by more beloved: The Vastness of his Thought, the daring Range, That imperceptible and pleasing Change, Our jealous Neighbours must themselves confess The British Genius tracks with most Success; But still the Smoothness we of Verse desire, The Regulation of our Native Fire: This from experienced Masters we receive, Sweet FLATMAN'S Works, and DRYDEN'S this will give. If you in pointed satire most delight, satire. Worry not, where you only ought to by't: Easie your Style, unstudied all and clear. Prosaic Lines are pardonable here. There are whose Breath would blast the brightest Fame, Who from base Actions court an odious Name, With Beauty and with Virtue War proclaim; Who bundle up the Scandals of the Town, And in lewd Couplets make it all their own: Just Shame be theirs who thus debauch a Muse, To vile Lampoons a noble Art abuse: As ill be theirs, and half of Oats' Fate, Who always dully rail against the State. Kings are but Men, nor are their Councils more, Those Ills we can't avert we must deplore: Not many Poets were for Statesmen made, It asks more Brains than stocks the Rhyming Trade: (At least, when they the Ministry receive, To Poets Militant their Muse they leave.) All sordid Flat'ry hate, it pleases none But Tyrants grinning on their Iron Throne: Yet where wer'e ruled with wise impartial Sway, The Muses should their grateful Homage pay: 'Tis base alike a Tyrant's Name to raise, And grudge a Parent Prince our tributary Praise. No wonder those who by Proscriptions gain In Marian Days, or Sylla's bloody Reign, Of the divine Augustus should complain; Who stoops to wear a Crown's uneasy Weight, As Atlas under Heaven, to prop the State: No Glory strikes his Great exalted Mind, No Pleasure like obliging all Mankind; He lets the Factious their weak Malice vent, Punished enough while they themselves torment: Satiate with Conquest, his dread Sword he sheaths, And with a Nod disbands ten thousand Deaths. Who dares Rebellious Arms against him move While his Praetorian Guard's his Subject's Love? Admired by all the bravest and the best, Who wear a Roman Soul within their ample Breast: Tho charmed with both, which shall they more admire In Peace his Wisdom, or in War his Fire? — One Labour yet remains, and that they ask, Alcides never cleared a nobler Task; O Father! banished Virtue O restore! Let Hydra Vice pollute thy Reign no more! Strike through the Monster-Form, which threatening stands, Fierce with a thousand Throats, a thousand Hands! Rescue once more thy Trojans sacred Line From slavish Chains, so shall thy Temples shine With Stars, and all Elysium shall be thine. FINIS.