That from the very opening of the scenes,
The first may show us what the author means.
I'm tir'd to see an actor on the stage,
That knows not whether he 's to laugh or rage;
Who, an intrigue unravelling in vain,
Instead of pleasing keeps my mind in pain.
I'd rather much the nauseous dunce should say
Downright, My name is Hector in the play;
Than with a mass of miracles, ill-join'd,
Confound my ears, and not instruct my mind.
The subject's never soon enough exprest;
Your place of action must be fix'd, and rest.
A Spanish poet may, with good event,
In one day's space whole ages represent;
There oft the hero of a wandering stage
Begins a child, and ends the play of age:
But we, that are by reason's rules confin'd,
Will, that with art the poem be design'd,
That unity of action, time, and place,
Keep the stage full, and all our labours grace.
Write not what cannot be with ease conceiv'd;
Some truths may be too strong to be believ'd.
A foolish wonder cannot entertain:
My mind 's not mov'd if your discourse be vain.
You may relate what would offend the eye:
Seeing, indeed, would better satisfy;
But there are objects that a curious art
Hides from the eyes, yet offers to the heart.
The mind is most agreeably surpris'd,
When a well-woven subject long disguis'd,
You on a sudden artfully unfold,
And give the whole another face and mould.
At first the Tragedy was void of art;
A song; where each man danc'd and
part; And of god Bacchus roaring out the praise, Sought a good vintage for their jolly days: Then wine and joy were seen in each man's eyes,
And a fat goat was the best singer's prize.
Thespis was first, who, all besmear'd with lee,
Began this pleasure for posterity:
And with his carted actors, and a song,
Amus'd the people as he pass'd along.
Next Eschylus the different persons plac'd,
And with a better mask his players grac'd:
Upon a theatre his verse express'd,
And show'd his hero with a buskin dress'd.
Then Sophocles, the genius of his age,
Increas'd the pomp and beauty of the stage,
Engag'd the chorus song in every part,
And polish'd rugged verse by rules of art:
He in the Greek did those perfections gain,
Which the weak Latin never could attain.
Our pious fathers, in their priest-rid age,
As impious and profane, abhorr'd the stage;
A troop of silly pilgrims, as 't is said,
Foolishly zealous, scandalously play'd,
VOL. 1.-26
Instead of heroes, and of love's colapiaints,
The angels, God, the virgin, and the saints.
At last, right reason did his laws reveal,
And show'd the folly of their ill-plac'd zeal,
Silenc'd those nonconformists of the age,
And rais'd the lawful heroes of the stage:
Only the Athenian mask was laid aside,
And chorus by the music was supplied.
Ingenious love, inventive in new arts,
Mingled in plays,and quickly touch'd our hearts:
This passion never could resistance find,
But knows the shortest passage to the mind.
Paint then, I'm pleas'd my hero be in love,
But let him not like a tame shepherd move;
Let not Achilles be like Thyrsis seen,
Or for a Cyrus show an Artamen;
That struggling oft his passions we may find,
The frailty, not the virtue of his mind.
Of romance heroes shun the low design;
Yet to great hearts some human frailties join:
Achilles must with Homer's heat engage;
For an affront I 'm pleas'd to see him rage.
Those little failings in your hero's heart
Show that of man and nature he has part:
To leave known rules you cannot be allow'd;
Make Agamemnon covetous and proud,
Eneas in religious rites austere,
Keep to each man his proper character.
Of countries and of times the humours know;
From different climates different customs grow
And strive to shun their fault who vainly dress
An antique hero like some modern ass;
Who made old Romans like our English move
Show Cato sparkish, or make Brutus love.
In a romance those errors are excus'd:
There t' is enough that, reading, we 're amus'd:
Rules too severe would there be useless found
But the strict scene must have a juster bound:
Exact decorum we must always find.
If then you form some hero in your mind,
Be sure your image with itself agree;
For what he first appears, he still must be.
Affected wits will naturally incline
To paint their figures by their own design:
Your bully poets, bully heroes write:
Chapman in Bussy D'Ambois took delight,
And thought perfection was to huff and fight.
Wise nature by variety does please;
Clothe differing passions in a differing dress :
Bold anger,
in rough haughty words appears;
Sorrow is humble, and dissolves in tears.
Make not your Hecuba with fury rage,
And show a ranting grief upon the stage;
Or tell in vain how the rough Tanais bore
His seven-fold waters to the Euxine shore:
These swoln expressions, this affected noise,
Shows like some pedant that declaims to
In sorrow you must softer methods keep;
And to excite our tears yourself must weep.
Those noisy words with which ill plays abound,
Come not from arts that are in sadness drown'd.
The theatre for a young poet's rhymes
Is a bold venture in our knowing times:
An author cannot easily purchase fame;
Critics are always apt to biss, and blame:
You may be judg'd by every ass in town,
The privilege is bought for half a crown.
To please, you must a hundred changes try;
Sometimes be humble, then must soar on high:
In noble thoughts must every where abound,
Be easy, pleasant, solid, and profound:
To these you must surprising touches join,
And show us a new wonder in each line;
That all, in a just method well-design'd,
May leave a strong impression in the mind.
These are the arts that tragedy maintain:
But the Heroic claims a loftier strain.
In the narration of some great design,
Invention, art, and fable, all must join;
Here fiction must employ its utmost grace;
All must assume a body, mind, and face:
Each virtue a divinity is seen;
Prudence is Pallas, beauty Paphos' queen.
'T is not a cloud from whence swift lightnings
fly;
But Jupiter, that thunders from the sky :
Nor a rough storm that gives the sailor pain;
But angry Neptune ploughing up the main:
Echo's no more an empty airy sound;
But a fair nymph that weeps her lover drown'd.
Thus in the endless treasure of his mind
The poet does a thousand figures find;
Around the work his ornaments he pours,
And strows with lavish hand his opening flowers.
"T is not a wonder if a tempest bore
The Trojan fleet against the Libyan shore;
From faithless fortune this is no surprise,
For every day, 't is common to our eyes;
But angry Juno, that she might destroy,
And overwhelm the rest of ruin'd Troy:
That Eolus with the fierce goddess join'd,
Open'd the hollow prisons of the wind;
Till angry Neptune looking o'er the main,
Rebukes the tempest, calms the waves again,
Their vessels from the dangerous quicksands
steers;
[fears;
These are the springs that move our hopes and
Without these ornaments before our eyes,
The unsinew'd poem languishes and dies:
Your poet in his art will always fail,
And tell you but a dull insipid tale.
In vain have our mistaken authors tried
To lay these ancient ornaments aside,
Thinking our God, and prophets that he sent,
Might act like those the poets did invent,
To fright poor readers in each line with hell,
And talk of Satan, Ashtaroth, and Bel;
The mysteries which Christians must believe,
Disdain such shifting pageants to receive:
The gospel offers nothing to our thoughts
But penitence, or punishment for faults;
And mingling falsehoods with those mysteries,
Would make our sacred truths appear like lies
Besides, what pleasure can it be to hear
The howlings of repining Lucifer,
Whose rage at your imagin'd hero flies,
And oft with God himself disputes the prize.
Tasso you'll say has done it with applause?
It is not here I mean to judge his cause:
Yet though our age has so extoll'd his name,
His works had never gain'd immortal fame,
If holy Godfrey in his ecstasies
Had only conquer'd Satan on his knees;
If Tancred and Armida's pleasing form
Did not his melancholy theme adorn.
'Tis not, that Christian poems ought to be
Fill'd with the fictions of idolatry;
But in a common subject to reject
The gods, and heathen ornaments neglect;
To banish Tritons who the seas invade,
To take Pan's whistle, or the Fates degrade,
To hinder Charon in his leaky boat,
To pass the shepherd with the man of note,
Is with vain scruples to disturb your mind,
And search perfection you can never find:
As well they may forbid us to present
Prudence or Justice for an ornament,
To paint old Janus with his front of brass,
And take from Time his scythe, his wings, and
And every where as 't were idolatry, [glass.
Banish descriptions from our poetry.
Leave them their pious follies to pursue ;
But let our reason such vain fears subdue:
And let us not, amongst our vanities,
Of the true God create a God of lies.
In fable we a thousand pleasures see,
And the smooth names seem made for poetry;
As Hector, Alexander, Helen, Phyllis,
Ulysses, Agamemnon, and Achilles :
In such a crowd, the poet were to blame
To choose king Chilperic for his hero's name.
Sometimes the name being well or ill applied
Will the whole fortune of your work decide.
Would you your reader never should be tir’d?
Choose some great hero, fit to be admir'd,
In courage signal, and in virtue bright,
Let e'en his very failings give delight;
Let his great actions our attention bind,
Like Casar or like Scipio frame his mind,
And not like Edipus his perjur'd race:
A common conqueror is a theme too base.
Choose not your tale of accidents too full;
Too much variety may make it dull;
Achilles' rage alone, when wrought with skill,
Abundantly does a whole Iliad fill.
Be your narrations lively, short, and smart;
In your descriptions show your noblest art:
There't is your poetry may be employ'd ;
Yet you must trivial accidents avoid.
Nor imitate that fool, who, to describe
The wondrous marches of the chosen tribe,
Plac'd on the sides to see their armies pass,
The fishes staring through the liquid glass;
Describ'd a child, who with his little hand
Pick'd up the shining pebbles from the sand.
Such objects are too mean to stay our sight;
Allow your work a just and nobler flight.
Be your beginning plain: and take good heed
Too soon you mount not on the airy steed;
Nor tell your reader in a thund'ring verse,
"I sing the conqueror of the universe."
What can an author after this produce?
The labouring mountain must bring forth a
Much better are we pleas'd with his address,
Who without making such vast promises,
Says, in an easier style and plainer sense,
"I sing the combats of that pious prince,
Who from the Phrygian coast his armies
bore,
And landed first on the Lavinian shore."
His opening muse sets not the world on fire,
And yet performs more than we can require :
Quickly you'll hear him celebrate the fame
And future glory of the Roman name;
Of Styx and Acheron describe the floods,
And Cæsar's wandering in the Elysian woods:
With figures numberless his story grace,
And every thing in beauteous colours trace
At once you may be pleasing and sublime :
I hate a heavy melancholy rhyme:
I'd rather read Orlando's comic tale,
Than a dull author always stiff and stale
Who thinks himself dishonour'd in his style,
If on his works the Graces do but smile.
'T is said, that Homer, matchless in his art,
Stole Venus' girdle to engage the heart:
His works indeed vast treasures do unfold,
And whatsoe'er he touches turns to gold:
All in his hands new beauty does acquire;
He always pleases, and can never tire.
A happy warmth he every where may boast;
Nor is he in too long digressions lost :
His verses without rule a method find,
And of themselves appear in order join'd:
All withe it trouble answers his intent;
Each syllable is tending to the event.
Let his example your endeavours raise :
To love his writings is a kind of praise.
A poem, where we all perfections find,
Is not the work of a fantastic mind:
There must be care, and time, and skill, and
pains ;
Not the first heat of unexperienc'd brains.
Yet sometimes artless poets, when the rage
Of a warm fancy does their minds engage,
Puff'd with vain pride, presume they under-
stand,
And boldly take the trumpet in their hand;
Their fustian muse each accident confounds
Nor can she fly, but rise by leaps and bounds,
Till their small stock of learning quickly spent,
Their poem adies for want of nourishment.
In vain mankind the hot-brain'd fool decries,
No branding censures can unveil his eyes;
With impudence the laurel they invade,
Resolv'd to like the monsters they have made.
Virgil, compar'd to them, is flat and dry;
And Homer understood not poetry:
Against their merit if this age rebel,
To future times for justice they appeal.
But waiting till mankind shall do them right,
And bring their works triumphantly to light;
Neglected heaps we in by-corners lay,
Where they become to worms and moths a
Forgot, in dust and cobwebs let them rest, Whilst we return from whence we first di
The great success which tragic writers found, In Athens first the comedy renown'd, The abusive Grecian there, by pleasing ways, Dispers'd his natural malice in his plays: Wisdom and virtue, honour, wit, and sense, Were subject to buffooning insolence: Poets were publicly approv'd, and sought, That vice extoll'd, and virtue set at nought; A Socrates himself in that loose age, Was made the pastime of a scoffing stage. At last the public took in hand the cause, And cur'd this madness by the power of laws; Forbad at any time, or any place, To name the person, or describe the face. The stage its ancient fury thus let fall, And comedy diverted without gall: By mild reproofs recover'd minds diseas'd, And sparing persons innocently pleas'd. Each one was nicely shown in this new glass, And smil'd to think he was not meant the ass: A miser oft would laugh at first, to find A faithful draught of his own sordid mind And fops were with such care and cunning writ, They lik'd the piece for which themselves did sit. You then that would the comic laurels wear, To study nature be your only care: Whoe'er knows man, and by a curious art Discerns the hidden secrets of the heart;
He who observes and naturally can paint
The jealous fool, the fawning sycophant,
A sober wit, an enterprising ass,
A humorous Otter, or a Hudibras;
May safely in those noble lists engage,
And make them act and speak upon the stage.
Strive to be natural in all you write,
And paint with colours that may please the sight.
Nature in various figures does abound,
And in each mind are different humours found:
A glance, a touch, discovers to the wise;
But every man has not discerning eyes.
All-changing time does also change the mind;
And different ages different pleasures find:
Youth, hot and furious, cannot brook delay,
By flattering vice is easily led away;
Vain in discourse, inconstant in desire,
In censure, rash; in pleasures, all on fire.
The manly age does steadier thoughts enjoy;
Power and ambition do his soul employ:
Against the turns of fate he sets his mind;
And by the past the future hopes to find.
Decrepit age still adding to his stores,
For others heaps the treasure he adores;
In all his actions keeps a frozen pace;
Past times extols, the present to debase:
Incapable of pleasures youth abuse,
In others blames what age does him refuse.
Your actors must by reason be controll'd;
Let young men speak like young, old men like
old:
Observe the town, and study well the court;
For thither various characters resort:
Thus 't was great Jonson purchas'd his renown,
And in his art had borne away the crown;
If, less desirous of the people's praise,
He had not with low farce debas'd his plays
Mixing dull buffoonery with wit refin'd,
And Harlequin with noble Terence join'd.
When in the Fox I see the tortoise hist,
I lose the author of the Alchymist.
The comic wit, born with a smiling air,
Must tragic grief and pompous verse forbear;
Yet may he not, as on a market-place,
With bawdy jests amuse the populace:
With well-bred conversation you must please,
And your intrigue unravell'd be with ease:
Your action still should reason's rules obey,
Nor in an empty scene may lose its way.
Your hun ble style must sometimes gently rise;
And your discourse sententious be, and wise:
The passions must to nature be confin'd;
And scenes to scenes with artful weaving join'd.
Your wit must not unseasonably play;
But follow business, never led the way.
Observe how 'Terence does this error shun;
A carefu. father chides his amorous son:
Then see that son, whom no advice can move,
Forget those orders, and pursue his love:
'T is not a well-drawn picture we discover:
"T is a true son, a father, and a lover.
I like an author that reforms the age,
And keeps the right decorum of the stage;
That always pleases by just reason's rule:
But for a tedious droll, a quibbling fool,
Who with low nauseous bawdry fills his plays
Let him be gone, and on two trestles raise
Some Smithfield stage, where he may act his
pranks,
And make Jack-Puddings speak to mountebanks.
IN Florence dwelt a doctor of renown,
The scourge of God, and terror of the town
Who all the cant of physic had by heart,
And never murder'd but by rules of art.
The public mischief was his private gain;
Children their slaughter'd parents sought in
A brother here his poison'd brother wept;
Some bloodless died, and some by opium slept.
Colds, at his presence, would to frenzies turn
And agues, like malignant fevèrs, burn.
Hated, at last, his practice gives him o'er;
One friend, unkill'd by drugs, of all his store,
In his new country-house affords him place,
'T was a rich abbot, and a building ass:
Here first the doctor's talent came in play,
He seems inspir'd, and talks like Wren or May:
Of this new portico condemns the face,
And turns the entrance to a better place;
Designs the staircase at the other end,
His friend approves, does for his mason send:
He comes; the doctor's arguments prevail.
In short, to finish this our humorous tale,
He Galen's dangerous science does reject,
And from ill doctor turns good architect.
In this example we may have our part:
Rather be mason, 't is a useful art!
Than a dull poet; for that trade accurst,
Admits no mean betwixt the best and worst.
In other sciences, without disgrace,
A candidate may fill a second place;
But poetry no medium can admit,
No reader suffers an indifferent wit:
The ruin'd stationers against him bawl,
And Herringman degrades him from his stall.
Burlesque at least our laughter may excite:
But a cold writer never can delight.
The counter-Scuffle has more wit and art,
Then the stiff formal style of Gondibert,
Be not affected with that empty praise
Which your vain flatterers will sometimes raise,
And when you read, with ecstasy will say,
"The finish'd piece! the admirable play!"
Which, when expos'd to censure and to light,
Cannot endure a critic's piercing sight.
A hundred authors' fates have been foretold,
And Shadwell's works are printed, but not sold.
Hear all the world; consider every thought;
A fool by chance may stumble on a fault :
Yet, when Apollo does your muse inspire,
Be not impatient to expose your fire;
Nor imitate the Settles of our times,
Those tuneful readers of their own dull rhymes.
Who seize on all the acquaintance they can
meet,
And stop the passengers that walk the street:
There is no sanctuary you can choose
For a defence from their pursuing muse.
I've said before, be patient when they blame;
To alter for the better is no shame.
Yet yield not to a fool's impertinence :
Sometimes conceited skeptics, void of sense,
By their false taste, condemn some finish'd
part,
And blame the noblest flights of wit and art.
In vain their fond opinions you deride,
With their lov'd follies they are satisfied;
And their weak judgment, void of sense and
light,
Thinks nothing can escape their feeble sight: Their dangerous counsels do not cure, but wound;
To shun the storm they run your verse aground, And thinking to escape a rock, are drown'd. Choose a sure judge to censure what you write, Whose reason leads, and knowledge gives you light,
Whose steady hand will prove your faithfu guide,
And touch the darling follies you would hide :
He, in your doubts, will carefully advise,
And clear the mist before your feeble eyes.
'Tis he will tell you, to what noble height
A generous muse may sometimes take her
flight;
When too much fetter'd with the rules of art,
May from her stricter bounds and limits part:
But such a perfect judge is hard to see,
And every rhymer knows not poetry;
Nay some there are for writing verse extoll'd,
Who know not Lucan's dross from Virgil's gold.
Would you in this great art acquire renown?
Authors, observe the rules I here lay down.
In prudent lessons every where abound;
With pleasant join the useful and the sound:
A sober reader a vain tale will slight;
He seeks as well instruction as delight.
Let all your thoughts to rirtue be confin'd,
Still offering nobler figures to our mind:
I like not those loose writers, who employ
Their guilty muse, good manners to destroy;
Who with false colours still deceive our eyes,
And show us vice dress'd in a fair disguise.
Yet do I not their sullen muse approve,
Who from all modest writings banish love;
That strip the play-house of its chief intrigue,
And make a murderer of Rederigue:
The lightest love, if decently exprest,
Will raise no vicious motions in our breast.
Dido in vain may weep, and ask relief;
I blame her folly, whilst I share her grief.
A virtuous author, in his charming art,
To please the sense needs not corrupt the
heart:
His heat will never cause a guilty fire:
To follow virtue then be your desire.
In vain your art and vigour are exprest;
The obscene expression shows the infected
breast.
But above all base jealousies avoid,
In which detracting poets are employ'd.
A noble wit dares liberally commend;
And scorns to grudge at his deserving friend.
Base rivals, who true wit and merit hate,
Caballing still against it with the great,
Maliciously aspire to gain renown,
By standing up, and pulling others down.
Never debase yourself by treacherous ways,
Nor by such abject methods seek for praise:
Let not your only business be to write;
Be virtuous, just, and in your friends delight.
'Tis not enough your poems be admir'd;
But strive your conversation be desir'd:
Write for immortal fame; nor ever choose
Gold for the object of a generous muse.
I know a noble wit may, without crime,
Receive a lawful tribute for his time:
Yet I abhor those writers, who despise
Their honour; and alone their profits prize;
Who their Apollo basely will degrade,
And of a noble science make a trade.
Before kind reason did her light display,
And government taught morals to obey,
Men, like wild beasts, did nature's laws pur
sue,
They fed on herbs, and drink from rivers drew:
Their brutal force, on lust and rapine bent,
Committed murder without punishment:
Reason at last by her all-conquering arts,
Reduc'd these savages, and tun'd their hearts
Mankind from bogs, and woods, and caverns
And towns and cities fortifies with walls: Thus fear of justice made proud rapine cease, And shelter'd innocence by laws and peace.
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