Doubts her own ftrength fo far, and justly fears
The lofty road of airy travellers;
But yet incited by some bold defign,
That does her hopes beyond her fears incline,
Prunes every feather, views herself with care,
At laft, resolv'd, the cleaves the yielding air ;
Away fhe flies, fo strong, fo high, so fast,
She leffens to us, and is loft at last :
So (though too weak for fuch a weighty thing)
The Muse inspires a fharper note to fing.
And why should truth offend, when only told
To guide the ignorant, and warn the bold?
On then, my Mufe, adventurously engage
To give instructions that concern the Stage.
The unities of action, time, and place,
Which, if obferv'd, give plays fo great a grace,
Are, though but little practis'd, too well known
To be taught here, where we pretend alone
From nicer faults to purge the present age,
Lefs obvious errors of the English stage.
First then, Soliloquies had need be few,
Extremely fhort, and spoke in paffion too.
Our lovers talking to themselves, for want
Of others, make the pit their confidant;
Nor is the matter mended yet, if thus
They trust a friend, only to tell it us;
Th' occafion fhould as naturally fall,
As when Bellario confeffes all.
* In Philafter, a play of Beaumont and Fletcher.
Figures of fpeech, which poets think so fine,
(Art's needlefs varnish to inake nature shine)
All are but paint upon a beauteous face,
And in defcriptions only claim a place :
But, to make rage declaim, and grief discourse,
From lovers in despair fine things to force,
Muft needs fucceed; for who can chuse but pity
A dying hero, miferably witty?
But oh! the Dialogues, where juft and mock
Is held up like a reft at shittle-cock;
Or elfe, like bells, eternally they chime,
They figh in Simile, and die in Rhyme.
What things are thefe who would be poets thought,
By nature not inspir'd, nor learning taught?
Some wit they have, and therefore may deferve
A better course than this, by which they starve:
But to write plays! why, 'tis a bold pretence
To judgment, breeding, wit, and eloquence :
Nay more ; for they must look within, to find
Thofe fecret turns of nature in the mind:
Without this part, in vain would be the whole,
And but a body all, without a foul.
All this united yet, but makes a part
Of Dialogue, that great and powerful art,
Now almost loft, which the old Grecians knew,
From whom the Romans fainter copies drew,
Scarce comprehended fince, but by a few.
Plato and Lucian are the best remains
Of all the wonders which this art contains;
Yet to ourselves we justice must allow,
Shakespeare and Fletcher are the wonders now:
Confider them, and read them o'er and o'er,
Go fee them play'd; then read them as before;
For though in many things they grofsly fail,
Over our paffions ftill they fo prevail,
That our own grief by theirs is rock'd asleep;
The dull are forc'd to feel, the wife to weep.
Their beauties imitate, avoid their faults;
First, on a plot employ thy careful thoughts;
Turn it, with time, a thousand several ways;
This oft', alone, has given fuccefs to plays.
Reject that vulgar error (which appears
So fair) of making perfect characters;
There's no fuch thing in nature, and you'll draw
A faultlefs monfter which the world ne'er faw.
Some faults muft be, that his misfortunes drew,
But fuch as may deserve compaffion too.
Besides the main defign compos'd with art,
Each moving scene must be a plot apart;
Contrive cach little turn, mark every place,
As painters first chalk out the future face:
Yet be not fondly your own slave for this,
But change hereafter what appears amifs.
Think not fo much where fhining thoughts to place, As what a man would fay in fuch a case: Neither in comedy will this fuffice, The player too must be before your eyes; And, though 'tis drudgery to stoop so low, To him you must your fecret meaning show.
Expofe no fingle fop, but lay the load
More equally, and spread the folly broad;
Mere coxcombs are too obvious; oft' we fee
A fool derided by as bad as he:
Hawks fly at nobler game; in this low way,
A very owl may prove a bird of prey.
Small poets thus will one poor fop devour,
But to collect, like bees, from every flower,
Ingredients to compose that precious juice,
Which ferves the world for pleasure and for ufe,
In spite of faction this would favour get;
But Falstaff* ftands inimitable yet.
Another fault which often may befall,
Is, when the wit of fome great poet shall
So overflow, that is, be none at all;
That ev'n his fools fpeak fenfe, as if possest,
And each by inspiration breaks his jet.
If once the juftness of each part be loft,
Well may we laugh, bất at the poet's cost.
That filly thing men call sheer-wit avoid,
With which our age so nauseously is cloy'd:
Humour is all; wit fhould be only brought
To turn agreeably fome proper thought.
But fince the poets we of late have known,
Shine in no drefs fo much as in their own,
The better by example to convince,
Caft but a view on this wrong fide of fenfe.
* The matchlefs character of Shakespeare.
First, a foliloquy is calmly made,
Where every reason is exactly weigh'd;
Which once perform'd, most opportunely comes
Some hero frighted at the noise of drums;
For her sweet fake, whom at first fight he loves,
And all in metaphor his paffion proves :
But fome fad accident, though yet unknown,
Parting this pair, to leave the fwain alone;
He ftrait grows jealous, though we know not why;
Then, to oblige his rival, needs will die :
But first he makes a fpeech, wherein he tells
The abfent nymph how much his flame excels;
And yet bequeaths her generously now,
To that lov'd rival whom he does not know!
Who ftrait appears; but who can fate withstand?
Too late, alas! to hold his hafty hand,
That just has given himself the cruel stroke !
At which his very rival's heart is broke:
He, more to his new friend than mistress kind,
Moft fadly mourns at being left behind,
Of fuch a death prefers the pleasing charms
To love, and living in a lady's arins.
What shameful and what monstrous things are these I
And then they rail at those they cannot please ;
Conclude us only partial to the dead,
And grudge the sign of old Ben Jonson's head;
When the intrinsic value of the stage
Can fcarce be judg'd but by a following age:
For dances, flutes, Italian songs, and rhyme,
May keep up finking nonsense for a time;
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