Here, as in all things elfe, is most unfit,
Bare ribaldry, that poor pretence to wit;
Such nauseous fongs by a late author made,
Call an unwilling cenfure on his fhade.

Not that warm thoughts of the tranfporting joy
Can fhock the chafteft, or the nicest cloy;
But words obfcene, too grofs to move defire,
Like heaps of fuel, only choak the fire.
On other themes he well deserves our praise;
But palls that appetite he meant to raise.

Next, ELEGY, of fweet, but folemn voice,
And of a fubject grave, exacts the choice;
The praise of beauty, valour, wit contains;
And there too oft despairing love complains:
In vain, alas! for who by wit is mov'd?
That Phenix-fhe deferves to be belov'd;
But noify nonfenfe, and fuch fops as vex
Mankind, take most with that fantastick fex.
This to the praife of those who better knew;
The many raise the value of the few.
But here (as all our fex 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, or want of wit;

But should this muse harmonious numbers yield,
And ev'ry couplet be with fancy fill'd;
If yet a juft coherence be not made

Between each thought; and the whole model laid
So right, that ev'ry line may higher rise,
Like goodly mountains, till they reach the skies:

The E. of R.

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 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 boast 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 wisest 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 fo 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 sharpeft thoughts in smootheft words convey'd.
Some think, if fharp enough, they cannot fail,
As if their only bus'ness was to rail:
But human frailty nicely to unfold,
Diftinguishes a fatyr from a fcold.

Rage you must hide, and prejudice lay down;
A fatyr's fmile is fharper than his frown;
So while you seem to flight fome rival youth,
Malice itself may pafs fometimes for truth.
The * LAUREAT here may justly claim our praise,
Crown'd by + MACK-FLECKNO with immortal bays;
Yet once his PEGASUS 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.
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 feas fhe is to foar,
Doubts her own ftrength so far, and justly fears
That lofty road of airy travellers;

But yet incited by fome bold defign,

That does her hopes beyond her fears incline,
Prunes ev'ry feather, views herself with care,
At laft, refolv'd, fhe cleaves the yielding air;
Away fhe flies, fo strong, so high, so fast,
She leffens to us, and is lost at last:

L

Mr. Dryden. † A famous fatirical poem of his.
A poem called THE HIND AND PANTHER.

So (tho' too weak for fuch a weighty thing)
The mufe infpires a fharper note to fing.
And why should truth offend, when only told
To guide the ignorant, and warn the bold?
On then, my mufe, adventroufly engage
To give instructions that concern the STAGE.
The unities of action, time, and place,
'Which, if observ'd, give plays so 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,
Lefs obvious errors of the English stage.

First then, SOLILOQUIES had need be few,
Extremely fhort, 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 trust a friend, only to tell it us:
Th' occafion fhould as naturally fall,
As when BELLAR IO confeffes all.

FIGURES of speech, which poets think fo fine,
(Art's needlefs varnish to make nature shine)
Are all but paint upon a beauteous face,
And in descriptions only claim a place:
But, to make rage declaim, and grief discourse,
From lovers in defpair fine things to force,
Muft needs fucceed: for who can chufe but pity
A dying hero, miferably witty?

But oh! the DIALOGUES, where jeft and mock
Is held like a rest at fhittle-cock!

up

* In PHILASTER, a play of BEAUMONT and FLETCHER.

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 deserve
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 muft look within, to find
Those SECRET TURNS of nature in the mind:
Without this part, in vain would be the whole,
And but a body all, without a foul.

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 ourselves we juftice muft allow,
SHAKESPEARE and FLETCHER are the wonders now:
Confider them, and read them o'er and o'er ;
Go see them play'd; then read them as before;
For tho' in many things they grofly fail,
Over our paffions ftill they fo 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 giv'n fuccefs to plays.