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be transfused, and yet not lost: and thus 'tis plain, that the reason alleged by Sir John Denham has no farther force than to expression; for thought, if it be

translated truly, cannot be lost in another language; 5 but the words that convey it to our apprehension

(which are the image and ornament of that thought,) may be so ill chosen, as to make it appear in an unhandsome dress, and rob it of its native lustre.

There is, therefore, a liberty to be allowed for the 10 expression; neither is it necessary that words and

lines should be confined to the measure of their original. The sense of an author, generally speaking, is to be sacred and inviolable. If the fancy of Ovid be luxuriant,

'tis his character to be so; and if I retrench it, he is 15 no longer Ovid. It will be replied, that he receives

advantage by this lopping of his superfluous branches ; but I rejoin, that a translator has no such right. When a painter copies from the life, I suppose he has no

privilege to alter features and lineaments, under pre20 tence that his picture will look better : perhaps the

face which he has drawn would be more exact, if the eyes or nose were altered; but 'tis his business to inake it resemble the original. In two cases only there

may a seeming difficulty arise; that is, if the thought 25 be notoriously trivial or dishonest; but the same answer

will serve for both, that then they ought not to be translated :

Et qud

Desperes tractata nitescere posse, relinquas. 30 Thus I have ventured to give my opinion on this

subject against the authority of two great men, but I hope without offence to either of their memories; for I both loved them living, and reverence them now they

are dead. But if, after what I have urged, it be thought 35 by better judges that the praise of a translation consists


in adding new beauties to the piece, thereby to recompense the loss which it sustains by change of language, I shall be willing to be taught better, and to recant. In the meantime it seems to me that the true reason why we have so few versions which are tolerable, is not 5 from the too close pursuing of the author's sense, but because there are so few who have all the talents which are requisite for translation, and that there is so little praise and so small encouragement for so considerable a part of learning.

To apply, in short, what has been said to this present work, the reader will here find most of the Translations with some little latitude or variation from the author's

That of Enone to Paris is in Mr. Cowley's way of imitation only. I was desired to say that the author, 15 who is of the fair sex, understood not Latin. But if she does not, I am afraid she has given us occasion to be ashamed who do.

For my own part, I am ready to acknowledge that I have transgressed the rules which I have given; and 20 taken more liberty than a just translation will allow. But so many gentlemen whose wit and learning are well known being joined in it, I doubt not but that their excellencies will make you ample satisfaction for

25 my errors.









When I first designed this play, I found, or thought I found, somewhat so moving in the serious part of it, and so pleasant in the comic, as might deserve 5 a more than ordinary care in both; accordingly, I used

the best of my endeavour, in the management of two plots, so very different from each other, that it was not perhaps the talent of every writer to have made them

of a piece. Neither have I attempted other plays of 10 the same nature, in my opinion, with the same judg.

ment, though with like success. And though many poets may suspect themselves for the fondness and partiality of parents to their youngest children, yet

I hope I may stand exempted from this rule, because 15 I know myself too well to be ever satisfied with my own

conceptions, which have seldom reached to those ideas that I had within me; and consequently, I presume

I may have liberty to judge when I write more or less pardonably, as an ordinary marksman may know certainly when he shoots less wide at what he aims. Besides, the care and pains I have bestowed on this, beyond my other tragi-comedies, may reasonably make 5 the world conclude, that either I can do nothing tolerably, or that this poem is not much amiss. Few good pictures have been finished at one sitting ; neither can a true just play, which is to bear the test of ages, be produced at a heat, or by the force of fancy, 10 without the maturity of judgment. For my own part, I have both so just a diffidence of myself, and so great a reverence for my audience, that I dare venture nothing without a strict examination; and am as much ashamed to put a loose indigested play upon the public, as I should 15 be to offer brass money in a payment; for though it should be taken (as it is too often on the stage), yet it will be found in the second telling; and a judicious reader will discover, in his closet, that trashy stuff, whose glittering deceived him in the action. I have 20 often heard the stationer sighing in his shop, and wishing for those hands to take off his melancholy bargain which clapped its performance on the stage. In a play-house, everything contributes to impose upon the judgment; the lights, the scenes, the habits, and, 25 above all, the grace of action, which is commonly the best where there is the most need of it, surprise the audience, and cast a mist upon their understandings; not unlike the cunning of a juggler, who is always staring us in the face, and overwhelming us with 30 gibberish, only that he may gain the opportunity of making the cleaner conveyance of his trick. But these false beauties of the stage are no more lasting than a rainbow; when the actor ceases to shine upon them, when he gilds them no longer with his reflection, they 35

vanish in a twinkling. I have sometimes wondered, in the reading, what was become of those glaring colours which amazed me in Bussy D'Amboys upon the theatre; but when I had taken up what I supposed a fallen star, 5 I found I had been cozened with a jelly; nothing but

a cold, dull mass, which glittered no longer than it was shooting; a dwarfish thought, dressed up in gigantic words, repetition in abundance, looseness of expression,

and gross hyperboles; the sense of one line expanded 10 prodigiously into ten; and, to sum up all, uncorrect

English, and a hideous mingle of false poetry, and true nonsense; or, at best, a scantling of wit, which lay gasping for life, and groaning beneath a heap of

rubbish. A famous modern poet used to sacrifice 15 every year a Statius to Virgil's Manes; and I have

indignation enough to burn a D'Amboys annually, to the memory of Johnson. But now, My Lord, I am sensible, perhaps too late, that I have gone too far:

for, I remember some verses of my own Maximin and 20 Almanzor, which cry vengeance upon me for their

extravagance, and which I wish heartily in the same fire with Statius and Chapman. All I can say for those passages, which are, I hope, not many, is, that I knew

they were bad enough to please, even when I writ them; 25 but I repent of them amongst my sins; and if any of

their fellows intrude by chance into my present writings, I draw a stroke over all those Delilahs of the theatre; and am resolved I will settle myself no reputation by

the applause of fools. 'Tis not that I am mortified to 30 all ambition, but I scorn as much to take it from half

witted judges, as I should to raise an estate by cheating of bubbles. Neither do I discommend the lofty style in Tragedy, which is naturally pompous and magnificent;

but nothing is truly sublime that is not just and proper. 35 If the Ancients had judged by the same measures which

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