Fertile our Soil, and full of rankest Weeds,
And Monsters, worfe than ever Nilus breeds
But hold, the Fools fhall have no cause to fear
Tis Wit and Senfe that is the Subject here.
Defects of witty Men deferve a Cure,

And those who are so, 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 offenfive Weapon which he draws
On all he meets against Apollo's Laws :
Tho nothing feems more eafie, yet no part
Of Poetry requires a nicer Art ;

For as in rows of richest Pearl there lies
Many a Blemish that escapes our Eyes,
The leaft of which Defects is plainly fhewn

In some small Ring, and brings the value down;

Il Songs.

So

So Sangs should be to juft Perfection wrought;
Yet where can we fee one without a Fault;
Exact Propriety of Words and Thought;
Expreffion eafie, and the Fancy high,
Yet that not seem to creep, nor this to fly ;
No Words tranfpos'd, but in fuch order all,

As, tho hard wrought, may feem by chance to fall.

Here, as in all things elfe, is moft unfit

Bare Ribaldry, that poor Pretence to Wit;
Such nauseous Songs by a late Author made
Call an unwilling Censure on his Shade.

Not that warm Thoughts of the transporting
Joy,

Can fhock the chafteft, or the niceft cloy; But obfcene Words, too grofs to move Defire, Like Heaps of Fewell do but choak the FireOn other Themes he well deferves our Praise, But palls that Appetite he meant to raise.

Next, *EL EGY, of feet, but folemn Voice,

And of a Subject grave exacts the Choice,
The Praise of Beauty, Valour, Wit contains,
And there too oft defpairing Love complains:
In vain alas, for who by Wit is mov'd,
That Phenix be deferves to be belov'd;
But noify Nonfenfe, and fuch Fops as vex

Mankind, take most with that fantastick Sex.
This to the Praise 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, Is not Defect in Words, nor want of Wit;

But fhould this Mufe harmonious numbers

yield,

And every Couplet be with Fancy fill'd,

* Elegy.

If

If yet a juft Coherence be not made

Between each Thought, and the whole Mode laid

So right, that every ftep may higher rife,

Like goodly Mountains, till they reach the

Skies;

Trifles like fuch perhaps of late have past,
And may be lik'd awhile, but never laft ;
'Tis Epigram, 'tis Point, 'tis what you will,
But not an Elegy, nor writ with Skill,
No * Panegyrick, nor a || Coopers-Hill.

A higher Flight, and of a happier Force Are †ODES, the Muses moft unruly Horse; That bounds fo fierce, the Rider has no rest, But foams at mouth, and moves like one poffeft. The Poet here must be indeed inspired,

With Fury too, as well as Fancy fired.

* Waller's.

Denham's. † Pindarick Odes.

Cowley

Cowley might boast to have perform'd this part,

Had he with Nature joyn'd the Rules of Art;
But ill Expreffion gives fometimes Allay

To that rich Fancy, which can ne'er decay :
Tho all appear in Heat and Fury done,
The Language still must soft and cafie run.
Thefe Laws may feem a little too fevere,
But Judgment yields, and Fancy governs there;
Which, tho extravagant, this Mufe allows,
And makes the Work much easier than it fhews.

* Of all the Ways that wifeft Men could find To mend the Age, and mortifie Mankind, SATYR 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 remove, That ftain a Beauty which fo much we love.

Satyr.

Of