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 should 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 last;
'Tis Epigram, 'tis Point, 'tis what you will,
But not an Elegy, nor writ with Skill,
No* Panegyrick, nor a ↑ Cooper's-Hill.
A higher Flight, and of a happier Force,
Are ODES: the Mufes most unruly Horfe,
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 still must soft and casy run.
These Laws may found a little too severe ;
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 stain a Beauty which we so much love,
Of chofen Words fome take not care enough,
And think they should be as the Subject rough;
This Poem must be more exactly made,
And sharpest Thoughts in smootheft Words convey'd.
Some think, if sharp enough, they cannot fail,
As if their only Business was to rail:
But human Frailty nicely to unfold,
Distinguishes a Satyr from a Scold.
Rage you must hide, and Prejudice lay down;
A Satyr's Smile is fharper than his Frown;
So while you seem to flight fome Rival Youth,
Malice itself may pass fometimes for Truth.
The Laureat here may justly claim our Praise,
Crown'd by + Mac-Fleckno with immortal Bays;
Yet once his ** Pegafus has born dead Weight,
Rid by fome lumpish Minister of State.
Here reft my Mufe, fufpend thy Cares a while,
A more important Task attends thy Toil.
A famous Satirical Poem of his.
** A Poem call'd, The Hind and Panther.
As fome young Eagle that defigns to fly
A long unwonted Journey through the Sky,
Weighs all the dang'rous Enterprize before,
O'er what wide Lands and Seas fhe is to foar,
Doubts her own Strength fo far, and juftly fears
That lofty Road of airy Travellers;
But yet incited by fome bold Defign
That does her Hopes beyond her Fears incline,
Prunes every Feather, views her felf with Care,
At laft refolv'd, fhe cleaves the yielding Air;
Away fhe flies, fo ftrong, so high, so fast,
She leffens to us, and is loft at last.
So (tho' too weak for fuch a weighty thing)
The Mufe infpires a fharper Note to fing.
And why fhould Truth offend, when only told
To guide the ignorant and warn the bold?
On then, my Muse, adventrously engage
To give Inftructions that concern the Stage.
The Unitics of Action, Time, and Place,
Which, if obferv'd, give Plays fo great a Grace,
Are, tho' but little practis'd, too well known
To be taught here, where we pretend alone
From nicer Faults to purge the present Age,
Less obvious Errors of the English Stage.
Firft then, Soliloquies had need be few,
Extremely short, and spoke in Paffion too;
Our Lovers talking to themselves, for want
Of others, make the Pit their Confidant ;
Nor is the matter mended yet, if thus
They truft a Friend, only to tell it us;
Th'occafion fhould as naturally fall,
As when * BELLARIO confeffes all.
Figures of Speech, which Poets think so fine, (Art's needless Varnish to make Nature shine) Are all but Paint upon a beauteous Face,
And in Defcriptions only claim a place:
But, to make Rage declaim, and Grief discourse, From Lovers in defpair fine things to force,
* In Philafter, a Play of Beaumont and Fletcher.
|