In what will all this oftentation end?
The labouring mountain fcarce brings forth a mouse : How far is this from the Mæonian ftile ?
“Muse, speak the man, who, fince the fiege of Troy,
"So many towns, fuch change of manners faw."
One with a flash begins, and ends in smoke,
The other out of fmoke brings glorious light,
And (without raifing expectation high)
Surprizes us with daring miracles,
The bloody Leftrygons, Charybdis' gulph,
And frighted Greeks, who near the Ætna shore,
Hear Scylla bark, and Polyphemus roar.
He doth not trouble us with Leda's eggs,
When he begins to write the Trojan war;
Nor, writing the return of Diomed,
Go back as far as Meleager's death:
Nothing is idle, each judicious line
Infenfibly acquaints us with the plot ;
He chooses only what he can improve,
And truth and fiction are fo aptly mix'd
That all feems uniform, and of a piece.
Now hear what every auditor expects;
If you intend that he should stay to hear
The epilogue, and fee the curtain fall;
Mind how our tempers alter in our years,
And by that rule form all your characters.
One that hath newly learn'd to speak and go,
Loves childish plays, is foon provok'd and pleas'd,
And changes every hour his wavering mind.
A youth that first cafts off his tutor's yoke,
Loves horses, hounds, and fports, and exercise,
Prone to all vice, impatient of reproof,
Proud, careless, fond, inconftant, and profuse.
Gain and ambition rule our riper years,
And make us flaves to intereft and power.
Old men are only walking hospitals,
Where all defects and all diseases croud
With restless pain, and more tormenting fear,
Lazy, morofe, full of delays and hopes,
Oppress'd with riches which they dare not use;
Ill-natur'd cenfors of the prefent age,
And fond of all the follies of the past.
Thus all the treasure of our flowing years,
Our ebb of life for ever takes away.
Boys muft not have th' ambitious care of men,
Nor men the weak anxieties of age.
Some things are acted, others only told ;
But what we hear moves lefs than what we fee;
Spectators only have their eyes to truft,
But auditors must trust their ears and you;
Yet there are things improper for a scene,
Which men of judgment only will relate.
Medea muit not draw her murdering knife,
And fpill her childrens blood upon the stage,
Nor Atreus there his horrid feast prepare.
Cadmus and Progné's metamorphofis,
(She to a swallow turn'd, he to a snake)
And whatfoever contradicts my fenfe,
I hate to fee, and never can believe.
Five acts are the just measure of a play.
Never presume to make a God appear,
But for a bufinefs worthy of a God;
And in one scene no more than three should speak.
A chorus should supply what action wants,
And hath a generous and manly part;
Bridles wild rage, loves rigid honesty,
And ftrict obfervance of impartial laws,
Sobriety, fecurity, and peace,
And begs the Gods who guide blind fortune's wheel,
To raise the wretched, and pull down the proud.
But nothing must be fung between the acts,
But what fome way conduces to the plot.
First the fhrill found of a small rural pipe
(Not loud like trumpets, nor adorn'd as now)
Was entertainment for the infant stage,
And pleas'd the thin and bashful audience
Of our well-meaning, frugal ancestors.
But when our walls and limits were enlarg'd,
And men (grown wanton by prosperity)
Study'd new arts of luxury and ease,
The verse, the mufic, and the scene, 's improv'd;
For how should ignorance be judge of wit,
Or men of sense applaud the jests of fools?
Then came rich cloaths and graceful action in,
Then inftruments were taught more moving notes,
And eloquence with all her pomp and charms
Foretold us useful and fententious truths,
As thofe deliver'd by the Delphic God.
The first tragedians found that ferious style.
Too grave for their uncultivated age,
And fo brought wild and naked fatyrs in,
Whofe motion, words, and fhape, were all a farce,
(As oft as decency would give them leave)
Because the mad ungovernable rout,
Full of confufion, and the fumes of wine,
Lov'd fuch variety and antic tricks.
But then they did not wrong themselves fo much
To make a god, a hero, or a king,
(Stript of his golden crown and purple robe)
Defcend to a mechanic dialect,
Nor (to avoid fuch meannefs) foaring high
With empty found and airy notions fly;
For tragedy fhould blufh as much to stoop
To the low mimic follies of a farce,
As a grave matron would to dance with girls:
You must not think that a fatiric ftyle
Allows of fcandalous and brutish words,
Or the confounding of your characters.
Begin with Truth, then give Invention fcope,
And if your style be natural and fmooth,
All men will try, and hope to write as well;
And (not without much pains) be undeceiv'd.
So much good method and connexion may
Improve the common and the plaineft things.
A fatyr that comes ftaring from the woods,
Muft not at firft fpeak like an orator:
But, though his language fhould not be refin'd,
It must not be obfcene and impudent;
The better fort abhors fcurrility,
And often cenfures what the rabble likes.
Unpolish'd verses pass with many men,
And Rome is too indulgent in that point ;
But then to write at a loose rambling rate,
In hope the world will wink at all our faults,
Is fuch a rash ill-grounded confidence,
As men may pardon, but will never praise.
Be perfect in the Greek originals,
Read them by day, and think of them by night.
But Plautus was admir'd in former time
With too much patience (not to call it worse):
His harsh, unequal verfe was music then,
And rudeness had the privilege of wit.
When Thefpis firft expos'd the Tragic Mufe,
Rude were the actors, and a cart the scene,
Where ghaftly faces stain'd with lees of wine
Frighted the children, and amus'd the croud;
This fchylus (with indignation) faw,
And built a stage, found out a decent dress,
Brought vizards in (a civiler disguise),
And taught men how to speak and how to act.
Next Comedy appear'd with great applause,
Till her licentious and abufive tongue
Waken'd the magistrates coercive power,
And forc'd it to fupprefs her infolence.
Our writers have attempted every way ;
And they deferve our praife, whofe daring Muse
Difdain'd to be beholden to the Greeks,
And found fit fubjects for her verse at home.
Nor fhould we be lefs famous for our wit,
Than for the force of our victorious arms;
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