Muft needs fucceed: for who can chufe but pity
A dying Hero miserably witty?
But oh, the Dialogues, where Jeft and Mock
Is held up like a Reft at Shittle-cock!
Or elfe, like Bells, eternally they chime,
They figh in Simile, and die in Rhime.
What things are these who would be Poets thought,
By Nature not infpir'd, nor Learning taught?
Some Wit they have, and therefore may deferve
A better Course than this, by which they starve:
But to write Plays! why, 'tis a bold pretence
To Judgment, Breeding, Wit, and Eloquence;
Nay more; for they must look within, to find
Thofe Secret Turns of Nature in the Mind;
Without this Part, in vain would be the Whole,
And but a Body all without a Soul,
All this united yet, but makes a part
Of Dialogue, that great and pow'rful Art,
Now almost loft, which the old Grecians knew,
From whom the Romans fainter Copies drew,
Scarce comprehended fince, but by a few:
PLATO and LUCIAN are the best Remains
Of all the Wonders which this Art contains;
Yet to our felves we Juftice muft allow,
SHAKESPEAR and FLETCHER are the Wonders
Confider Them, and read them o'er and o'er;
Go fee them play'd; then read them as before;
For tho' in many things they grofly fail,
Over our Paffions ftill they so prevail,
That our own Grief by theirs is rock'd asleep,
The Dull are forc'd to feel, the Wife to weep.
Their Beauties imitate, avoid their Faults;
First, on a Plot employ thy careful Thoughts;
Turn it, with time, a thousand several ways,
This oft alone has given Success to Plays.
Reject that vulgar Error (which appears
So fair) of making perfect Characters;
There's no fuch thing in Nature, and you'll draw
A faultlefs Monster, which the World ne'er faw.
Some Faults muft be, that his Misfortunes drew,
But fuch as may deferve Compaffion too.
Befides the main Design compos'd with Art,
Each moving Scene must be a Plot apart;
Contrive each little turn, mark every place,
As Painters firft chalk out the future Face:
Yet be not fondly your own Slave for this,
But change hereafter what appears amiss.
Think not fo much where fhining Thoughts to place, 'As what a Man would fay in fuch a Cafe: Neither in Comedy will this fuffice,
The Player too must be before your Eyes;
And, tho' 'tis Drudgery to ftoop so low,
To him
you muft your fecret Meaning show.
Expofe no fingle Fop, but lay the Load
More equally, and spread the Folly broad
Mere Coxcombs are too obvious, oft we fee
A Fool derided by as bad as he:
Hawks fly at nobler Game; in this low way,
A yery Owl may prove a Bird of Prey.
Small Poets thus will one poor Fop devour,
But to collect, like Bees, from every Flower,
Ingredients to compofe that precious Juice,
Which ferves the World for Pleasure and for Ufe,
In spite of Faction this would Favour get;
But *FALSTAFF stands inimitable yet.
Another Fault which often may befall,
Is when the Wit of fome great Poet fhall
So overflow, that is, be none at all;
That ev'n his Fools fpeak Senfe, as if poffeft,
And each by Inspiration breaks his Jeft.
If once the Juftness of each part be loft,
Well we may laugh, but at the Poet's Coft.
That filly thing, Men call Sheer-Wit, avoid,
With which our Age so naufeously is cloy'd ;
Humour is all; Wit fhould be only brought
To turn agreeably fome proper Thought.
But fince the Poets we of late have known,
Shine in no Dress so much as in their own,
* An admirable Character in a Play of Shakespear.
The better by Example to convince,
Caft but a View on this wrong fide of Sense.
Firft, a Soliloquy is calmly made,
Where every Reason is exactly weigh'd;
Which once perform'd, most opportunely comes
Some Hero frighted at the Noife of Drums;
For her sweet fake, whom at first fight he loves,
And all in Metaphor his Paffion proves :
But fome fad Accident, tho' yet unknown,
Parting this Pair to leave the Swain alone;
He ftrait grows jealous, tho' we know not why,
Then to oblige his Rival, needs will die ;
But first he makes a Speech, wherein he tells
The absent Nymph how much his Flame excels;
And yet bequeaths her generously now,
To that lov'd Rival whom he does not know?
Who ftrait appears, but who can Fate withstand?
Too late alas, to hold his hafty Hand,
That just has given himself the cruel Stroke!
At which his very Rival's Heart is broke:
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