But who that Task would after HORACE do?
The best of Masters, and Examples too!
Echoes at best, all we can say is vain ;
Dull the Defign, and fruitless were the Pain.
'Tis true, the Ancients we may rob with ease; But who with that mean shift himself can please, Without an Actor's Pride? A Player's Art
Is above his, who writes a borrow'd Part.
Yet modern Laws are made for later Faults,
And new Abfurdities infpire new Thoughts;
What need has Satire then to live on Theft,
When so much frefh occafion ftill is left?
Fertile our Soil, and full of rankest Weeds,
And Monsters worfe than ever Nilus breeds.
But hold, the Fools fhall have no caufe to fear;
'Tis Wit and Senfe that is the Subject here:
Defects of witty Men deferve a Cure,
And those who are fo, will ev❜n this endure.
First then of SONGS, which now fo much abound, Without his Song no Fop is to be found;
A most offensive Weapon, which he draws
On all he meets against APOLLO's Laws.
Tho' nothing seems more eafy, yet no part
Of Poetry requires a nicer Art ;
For as in Rows of richeft Pearl there lics
Many a Blemish that escapes our Eyes,
The least of which Defects is plainly shown
In one fmall Ring, and brings the Value down:
So Songs fhould be to juft Perfection wrought;
Yet where can one be feen without a Fault?
Exact Propriety of Words and Thought;
Expreffion cafy, and the Fancy high;
Yet that not seem to creep, nor this to fly;
No Words tranfpos'd, but in fuch order all,
As wrought with Care, yet feem by Chance to fall.
Here, as in all things elfe, is most unfit
Bare Ribaldry, that poor Pretence to Wit;
Such naufeous Songs by a late Author made,
Call an unwilling Cenfure on his Shade.
Not that warm Thoughts of the transporting Joy,
Can fhock the chafteft, or the niceft cloy;
But Words obfcene, too grofs to move Defire,
Like heaps of Fuel, only choak the Fire.
On other Themes he well deferves our Praise;
But palls that Appetite he meant to raise.
Next ELEGY, of fweet, but folemn Voice,
And of a Subject grave exacts the choice;
The Praife of Beauty, Valour, Wit contains;
And there too oft defpairing Love complains:
In vain alas! for who by Wit is mov'd?
That Phenix-She deferves to be belov'd;
But noify Nonfenfe, and fuch Fops as vex
Mankind, take moft with that fantaftick Sex.
This to the Praife of those who better knew;
The many raise the Value of the few.
But (here as all our Sex too oft have try'd)
Women have drawn my wandring Thoughts afide. Their greatest Fault who in this kind have writ,
's not defect in Words, or want of Wit;
ut fhould this Mufe harmonious Numbers yield,
nd ev'ry Couplet be with Fancy fill'd;
f yet a juft Coherence be not made
Between each Thought; and the whole Model laid
So right, that every Line may higher rife,
Like goodly Mountains till they reach the Skies:
Such Trifles may perhaps of late have past,
And may be lik'd a while, but never laft;
'Tis Epigram, 'tis Point, 'tis what you will,
But not an Elegy, nor writ with Skill,
No* Panegyrick, nor at Cooper's-Hill.
A higher Flight, and of a happier Force,
Are ODES: the Mufes moft unruly Horse,
That bounds fo fierce the Rider has no reft,
Here foams at Mouth, and moves like one poffefs'd.
The Poet here must be indeed infpir'd,
With Fury too, as well as Fancy fir'd.
COWLEY might boaft to have perform'd this part,
Had he with Nature join'd the Rules of Art ;
But fometimes Diction mean, or Verfe ill-wrought,
Deadens, or clouds, his noble Flame of Thought.
Tho' all appear in Heat and Fury done,
The Language ftill must soft and easy run.
These Laws may found a little too fevere;
But Judgment yields, and Fancy governs here,
Which, tho' extravagant, this Muse allows,
And makes the Work much easier than it shows.
Of all the ways that wifeft Men could find
To mend the Age, and mortify Mankind,
SATIRE well writ has most successful prov'd,
And cures, because the Remedy is lov'd.
'Tis hard to write on fuch a Subject more,
Without repeating things faid oft before:
Some vulgar Errors only we'll remove,
That ftain a Beauty which we fo much love,
|