Classic Poem

If any painter shou'd design
A human visage, and subjoin
A horse's neck with plumage swoln,
And limbs from various creatures stol'n,
Untill the figure, in th'event,
Which for a beauteous dame was meant,
At length most scandalously ends
In a black fish's tail — my friends!
Admitted to so strange a sight,
Wou'd not your laughter be outright?
Believe me, Pisos, that a book
Will just like such a picture look,
Whose matter, like a sick man's dreams,
Is form'd of vanities and whims;
Where such absurdities prevail,
You can make out nor head nor tail.
The painters and the bards, 'tis true,
Claim licence as of both their due.
'Tis a concession that I make,
And hence excuse we give and take:
But not so largely as to coop
The tame and savage in a groupe,
And snakes with turtle-doves to mate,
And lambs with tigers copulate.
In pompous proems, big with threat,
The usual pattern that is set
Is that they place, to make one stare,
A piece of patchwork full of glare.
As when the fane and sacred wood
Of Dian, or meand'ring flood
In pleasant fields, or copious flow
Of Rhine, or many-colour'd bow,
Are all describ'd — but in this case
The foppish trump'ry had no place.
Perhaps a cypress you can draw —
But does that signify a straw,
If he that buys what you perform,
Was to be made as in a storm?
The potter had a jar begun;
Why nothing but a pipkin done?
In short, the subject what it will,
Be simple and consistent still.
Most of us — (I the sire address,
And each good son, the sire express)
Are dup'd by things that seem aright:
I wou'd be brief with all my might,
And so become as dark as night!
He nerves and spirits must neglect,
Who strives to be extreme correct;
He's apt to swell, who wou'd be grand,
And he that dreads to leave the strand,
In terror of the fierce profound,
Is sure to run his ship aground:
And he that works a simple theme,
With monster, prodigy and dream,
Will paint the dolphin in the lawn,
While boars are upon ocean drawn;
A scape from error leads to vice,
If your discernment be not nice.
A sculptor near th'Emilian school,
Can skill to fashion with his tool
The nails, or flowing of the hair,
But not compleat the whole affair.
If I had anything to write
I wou'd no more be such a wight,
Than I wou'd chuse black hair and eyes,
With nose of most portentous size.
Your plan, whene'er you tune your lay,
Suit to your faculties, and weigh
How much they can or cannot bear;
He who selects his theme with care
Will find no want of flowing style,
With clear arrangement all the while.
But, if the thing I rightly trace,
This is the merit and the grace
Of disposition, that the bard
To time and place have just regard,
And mention what shou'd first be known,
But other things a while postpone.
The true professor of the muse
Shou'd know to take and to refuse;
Yet if new words he intersperse,
He shou'd be cautious in his verse
And choice — It is exceeding well
To give a common word the spell ,
To greet you as intirely new —
It is a point you must persue,
In modern language to confirm
Each strange and philosophic term,
Words you may use to ancient Rome
Unknown, yet modestly presume.
But new-coin'd words will ever be
Of more approv'd authority,
If from the Grecian fount they fall,
And their mutation be but small,
For why shou'd Rome Caecilius give
And Plautus a prerogative,
Which they to Virgil still deny,
And Varius? — Why may not ev'n I
Make some improvements if I can,
Nor suffer from th'invidious clan,
Since Ennius' and Cato's phrase
Their native tongue enrich and raise,
And terms exotic introduce —
All have, and must allow the use
To make a word, that cleanly chimes,
Stampt with th'impression of the times.
As when the leaves each fleeting year
Are chang'd — the earliest dis-appear
The first; our words in likewise fare,
The oldest perish, as it were,
And those new-coin'd are now in flow'r,
Like youths, in all their strength and pow'r.
Ev'n both must fail, our works and we;
Whether the sovereign of the sea,
Receiv'd far up into the land,
(A work with royal grandeur plann'd)
Our fleet from the North wind defends,
Or if a fertile tract extends,
Feeds neighbouring cities, feels the plough,
A lake and row'd upon but now —
Or tho' the river's made by force
Of Caesar's word to change his course,
And noxious to his former place
Must learn to run a better race —
Yet these as human acts must fail;
Then how much less shall we prevail
To keep the elegance and weight
Of language in a settl'd state.
Words shall revive that now are gone,
And some, which most are look'd upon,
Shall perish, if dame fashion will,
Who has in her dominion still
Supreme prescriptive pow'r to teach
All written and colloquial speech.
Homer has taught us in what verse
The deeds of kings we shou'd rehearse;
And heroes and contentions dire,
With what propriety and fire!
In numbers of unequal lines,
Were wrote at first the lover's whines,
But in a while were carried high'r
For bliss and fortunate desire.
But he who thought it worth his while
To sing first in so small a style,
Our critics have not yet found out,
So still the matter is in doubt.
Archilochus his wrathful heat
Made him strike out th'iambic feet:
The sock and stately buskin chose
This measure as the nearest prose,
Whence dialogue might aptly please,
And clamours of the mob appease,
Expressive or of mirth or rage,
Fit for the bus'ness of the stage.
The muse has giv'n us on the lyre
In praise divinely to aspire
To sing of Gods and sons of Gods,
And champions crown'd against the odds;
The winning steed and lover's care,
And gen'rous claret to declare.
If I'm unskilful to combine
The parts and colours I design,
Why am I hail'd, where'er I go,
As poet, since I nothing know:
Why falsely bashful be a fool
Rather than go again to school?
A comic subject will not hold
If 'tis in tragic measure told:
Besides, it wou'd an audience shock,
In verses fitter for the sock,
The Thyestean feast to tell:
Each kind of writing shall do well,
According to its proper place,
Arrang'd in seemliness and grace. —
But sometimes comedy will rage,
And angry Chremes shake the stage;
And sometimes in the tragic scene
You've wailings melancholy-mean.
Peleus and Telephus when poor,
And exiles will no more endure
Their rants and ravings ten feet high,
If they wou'd to the heart apply.
A poem cannot be compleat,
Tho' beautiful, if 'tis not sweet,
Till by its pathos it can seize
The soul, and bear her where it please.
Expressive or of joy or pain,
As human aspects smile again
Upon the smilers, so their eyes
Will with the tearful sympathise.
If you wou'd have me really weep,
Your own distresses must be deep;
Then, Telephus, your tragic part,
Or, Peleus, truly wound my heart.
But if you miserably spout
Your words, I sleep or else laugh out.
Things of a melancholy turn
Shou'd be express'd with much concern;
But if in wrath the person fret,
The aspect shou'd be big with threat.
In jest the looks shou'd pleasant be,
But serious in severity.
But first there is a sense innate
To every colour of our fate,
Which causes passion, gives relief,
Or weighs us to the ground with grief,
Till to the tongue the task's assign'd
To blaze the motions of the mind.
If what the characters shall say
Be foreign to the part they play,
The Roman knights and all the croud
Will titter and explode aloud.
It is a diff'rent matter quite
Shou'd Davus speak, or errant knight,
A grey old man approach the scene,
Or hot young rake, whose years are green,
A matron full of pomp and show,
Or nurse officious to and fro',
A merchant wont thro' seas to roam,
Or one who tills his ground at home,
Assyrian, Colchan, Theban bred
Or Argive on the stage shou'd tread.
If e'er you write or follow fame,
Or at such sort of stories aim,
As with themselves do best agree —
Homer's Achilles shall we see?
Courageous, enemy to sloth,
And most inexorably wroth,
Let him, denying human laws,
Claim all things by the sword he draws.
If e'er Medea fill the scene,
Fierce and ungovern'd be the queen.
Be Ino cast to make you cry,
Ixion of perfidious die,
Io be rambling drawn and mad,
Orestes most severely sad.
If to the stage you shall approach
With matter you're the first to broach,
— Let the new character you cast,
Be fairly kept up to the last.
'Tis arduous common things to say
In such a clean peculiar way,
Untill they fairly seem your own,
Wherefore more prudence will be shewn
To plan the Iliad out in acts,
Than your inventive pow'r to tax,
The first to speak upon the stage
Things known not to a former age.
A tale however blown upon
Will as your property, come on,
If you shall not on trifles dwell,
How and ABOUT IT all to tell,
Nor be so faithfully absurd
As to translate it word for word,
Nor must you squeeze into a streight
While you too closely imitate,
From whence you can't so well recede
For shame, and for the plan agreed,
Nor yet begin in tumid sounds,
Like that old songster of the ROUNDS ,
" The fate of Priam , SING I SHALL
And many A NOBLE BOUT withal ."
What will the boaster bring about
With all this MOWTHING and this rout?
The mountain shall again be laid ,
The little mouse again display'd.
How much more to the purpose HE ,
The pattern of propriety —
" To me the man, O Muse! relate,
Which after Troy's determin'd fate,
By toil and actual review
The nations and their manners knew."
He does not meditate by trash,
To give you smoke from out a flash,
But chooses rather to procure
Illumination from th'obscure.
By striking out such strokes with ease,
That Scylla and Antiphates
And Cyclops and Charybdis please.
Nor will from Meleager's fate
Returning Diomedes date.
Nor dates the Trojan war " to wit
When Leda first began TO SIT ,"
But ever hastens to the goal,
And throws the reader's very soul
Into the center of th'affair,
As tho' he'd been an actor there.
But chuses certain things to leave
Unfit his polish to receive,
And with so much discretion lies ,
Blends truth and falshood in such wise ,
That the beginning, middle, end,
Do cleanly each on each depend.
Now hear what all the town with me
From you that write expect to see,
If you wou'd have th'applauder stay,
Attending till the actors say,
" Kind gentlemen, pray clap your hands:"
Mark how with every man it stands
For manners at a certain age;
And the decorum of the stage
Must be kept up with things assign'd
To time of life and turn of mind;
The boy who just can prattle plain,
And on the ground his tread sustain,
Loves with his play-fellows to 'bide,
And wrath contracts or lays aside
For nothing, changing every hour — .
The youth out of his guardian's pow'r
Delights in horses and in hounds,
And o'er the sunny champaign bounds,
Pliant as wax to vicious ways,
And harsh at what th'adviser says;
A slow provider for the best,
And spendthrift with a lofty crest,
Hot in pursuit of new amours,
And quick to leave what he procures.
From this, by shifting of the plan,
The age and spirit of the man
Seeks wealth and friendships and a name,
And dreads an action to his shame.
Sundry infirmities are found
Which man in his old-age surround,
Because he scrapes and yet abstains,
A wretch, that dreads to use his gains;
Or else because he acts when old,
All things too cautious and too cold,
Fain wou'd put off the evil day
And greedy in this world to stay;
Harsh, querelous, and loud of tongue
In praising things when he was young,
Censor and punisher too free
Of all who're not so old as he.
Our growing years, when we are strong,
Bring great advantages along,
And when we're going down the hill
We're more and more the losers still.
Then lest the parts that are of age,
Shou'd be assign'd to youthful rage,
Or those of youth be giv'n to years,
The strict propriety adheres
Upon those qualities to dwell,
Which suit respective ages well.
A scene we on the stage behold,
Or else we hear the story told;
But things which enter at the ear
Will not affect the mind so near
As what before the eyes is shewn,
And each spectator makes his own.
But yet you must not things disclose
Which done within we best suppose.
Some things from sight you'll take away,
Which clean description may display;
Nor let Medea's hand destroy
Before the gaping crowd, her boy;
Nor wicked Atreus, full in view,
A dish of human entrails stew,
Or Cadmus turn by change absurd
A snake, or Progne be a bird.
When thus your scenes you represent,
Disgust forbids me to assent. —
Let not a play you'd have us read,
And put upon the stock, exceed
Five acts — nor let a god be there,
Unless some intricate affair
Make you divine assistance seek,
Nor a fourth person strain to speak.
The chorus shou'd support with art
The duty of his manly part,
Nor let him sing amidst the acts
Ought forc'd or foreign to the facts.
Let him the men of worth defend,
And give good council to each friend,
Restrain the wroth, to them that hate
Offences be affectionate.
Let mod'rate fare have his applause
And wholesome justice and the laws,
And gen'ral peace, that loves to deal
In open ports — let him conceal
Things spoke in confidence, and pray
The Gods, that their propitious day
May to th'unfortunate return,
While haughty loftiness they spurn.
The flute was not at such a pass
Of yore, as to be girt with brass,
Till vying with the trump it roars,
But small and simple with few bores,
To help the chorus with its touch,
And fill the rows not throng'd too much:
While they cou'd the spectators hold
In numbers easy to be told,
Chaste, frugal, and not over-bold.
But when victorious Rome began
On all sides to extend her plan,
And when an ampler wall embrac'd
The city, and the god of taste
Was serv'd with festal wine by day,
With none the practice to gain-say,
New measures and more notes they found
Alike for poetry and sound.
For what degree of taste refin'd
Cou'd be in an unletter'd hind,
Loos'd with his oxen from the yoke,
And mix'd with the politer folk,
Where low-liv'd miscreants and base,
With men of honour took their place?
Thus did the master's skill impart,
New movements to the ancient art,
With all the luxury of air ,
And strutting like a pompous play'r,
Drew on the stage amongst the rest
A train deep-flowing from his vest:
Thus likewise did the sober lyre,
Up to new strings and strains aspire,
And an unusual flow of rage,
Rush'd all at once upon the stage;
So what they did of old design,
For things both useful and divine,
Is so far wrested from the mark,
That 'tis oracularly dark.
The bard (a filthy goat the prize)
Who first began to tragedize,
Brought on the fawns, a naked race,
Still joking with a serious face;
Because spectators full of wine,
And wild and tir'd with things divine,
Requir'd by novelty and show,
Their minds shou'd relaxation know;
But laughing satyrs we commend,
Provided they do not offend,
By turning earnest into jest,
So that a god, or king, that's drest
In gold and purple, do not bawl
The language of the cobler's stall,
Nor while they shun the groveling mire,
To mists and emptiness aspire.
Grave tragedy shou'd still disdain
All verses in a trivial strain,
And, tho' midst wanton satyrs plac'd,
Will yet with decency be grac'd,
Like some grave matron whom the priest
Commands to dance upon a feast.
As satirist I do not praise
The bald, unornamented phrase,
And common cant, nor shall I try
To break the rules of tragedy,
So as to make no odds between
A Davus talking in the scene,
Or Pythias putting to the worse
Th'old hunks, and making of a purse,
Or Liber's guardian wont to wait
Upon his pupil god, in state.
So wou'd I make a tale my own,
Tho' taken from a thing well known,
That any man might think to do
The same, but when he once set to
Wou'd sweat and vex himself in vain,
And never to the point attain.
So much effect is in the art,
Of clean disposing every part,
And so much novelty and grace,
In common topics, may take place.
The wood-land fawns shou'd have a care,
(If one may judge in this affair)
Lest they shou'd speak as born in town,
And ev'n like them that wear the gown;
Or lest too much they be inclin'd
To verses of infantine kind,
Or ev'n to be too grossly free
With ignominious ribaldry:
For every man of rank, or sense,
Or family, will take offence;
Nor things that with the mob go down,
Will such hands or excuse or crown.
When a long syllable is join'd
Unto a short, and plac'd behind,
The quick iambic foot we frame,
Whence trimeter deriv'd its name;
With only six iambic feet,
Consisting of itself compleat:
But to the ear not long ago,
That it might come more grave and slow,
The sober spondee was took in,
As to a league and of a kin,
But not to quit the second place,
Or fourth, or last, in any case.
However this is very scarce,
In Accius's applauded farce,
And in the verses Ennius wrote —
All bungling lines, like theirs, when brought
Upon the stage, with heavy weight,
Convict them as precipitate,
And wanting care — or, what is worse,
Most grossly ignorant of verse.
It is not every judge can see
The negligence of harmony,
And Roman bards in this abuse
Have met with far too much excuse:
But shall a man for this discharge
All method, and transgress at large?
Or shall I not suppose the more,
The world will all my faults explore?
Nor shall my spirit be so poor
As merely pardon to procure;
For tho' I 'scape all brand and blame,
I cannot therefore merit fame.
The Grecian patterns, ye that write,
Peruse by day, peruse by night;
But spite of these, our sires thought fit
To praise the verses and the wit
Of Plautus (fools I will not say)
But far too patient at his play:
That is, if either you or I
Have comprehension to descry
True repartee from coarser jeers,
And have our fingers and our ears.
Thespis the first (they say) found out
The tragedy, and bore about
His poems in theatric cart,
Which all his actors got by heart,
And play'd in faces daub'd with lees:
Then Eschylus too, by degrees,
Invented masque and decent pall,
And made a little stage withal,
Learnt them to aggrandise their talk
And in the tragic buskin stalk.
To these, with no small share of praise,
Th'old comedy in after days
Succeeded, but its free excess
Forc'd pow'r such licence to suppress.
Accordingly a law was fram'd,
And when the right, the Chorus claim'd,
Of personal abuse, was o'er,
He wholly to his shame forbore.
Our poets have not left a part
Untried, in all their various art,
Nor do they least applause deserve,
Who from the Grecian models swerve,
And our domestic facts rehearse,
In tragic or in comic verse;
Nor wou'd our Latium more excel
In feats of arms, than writing well,
Did not her poets in their stile
Disgust the toilsome, tedious file.
Do you, my noble friends, reject
All poetry for its defect,
Which many a blot, and many days
Have not chastis'd to perfect phrase.
Because Democritus contends,
That Genius sorry art transcends;
And bars from Helicon each wight,
That has his understanding right,
The greater number of our herd,
Nor pare their nails, nor shave their beard,
But walk alone in secret paths,
And keep away from public baths,
And he shall get the name and prize
Of all poetic mysteries,
Whose head, beyond all hopes of cure,
Will not the barber's touch endure.
O how unfortunate am I,
Which in the spring to drugs apply!
No man shou'd write a finer style,
But since that's scarcely worth one's while,
I'll do the duty of an hone,
And give an edge, tho' I have none.
I will (not writing of a line)
The office of a bard define,
Whence his materials he may gain,
How form, and how improve his vein,
What graces, and what must offend,
Where excellence and error tend.
In taste and wisdom to excel
Is the main spring of writing well,
And subjects you may best explore,
Deduc'd from the Socratic lore;
And when you once have plan'd the scheme,
The words will come with ease extream.
The writer, who the duty knows,
Which he his friends and country owes,
And how he may endear the best,
A father, brother, or a guest,
By what behaviour he may grace
A senator's or Praetor's place,
Or how his character sustain,
When sent to make the great campaign,
Such skill as his compleatly suits
Each person with just attributes.
The learned copyist shou'd look
At life and manners, as a book,
And from the language most in use,
His style and dialogue deduce.
Sometimes a play, that shines at starts,
With moral matter for good hearts,
Tho' without music, weight or ease,
Will more the Roman people please,
And better on their mem'ry dwells,
Than tuneful toys or senseless bells.
The Muse has Greece with genius crown'd,
They turn the rolling periods round,
Nor can such spirit and such fire,
Ought equal to applause desire.
The Roman youths with pain and pride
A pound divide and subdivide,
" If from five ounces you take one,
How much remains, my little son,"
— " One third part of a pound." — " O rare!
You'll for yourself take special care —
An ounce is added — what's the whole?"
" Why half a pound" — this rust of soul
And hankering after wealth ingrim'd,
The verse harmonious and well-tim'd
Can we expect from sordid elves
With cedar ting'd on cypress shelves?
If poets use their talents right,
'Tis to instruct or to delight,
And in the moral page to plan
The pleasures and concerns of man.
Whate'er you teach be brief and plain,
That they conceive you and retain.
When masters make too much a rout,
O'ercharg'd instructions will flow out.
Each fancy-piece for pleasure feign'd,
Shou'd near the truth be still sustain'd,
Nor let your tale at any hand,
Exaction of belief demand,
Nor from the witch's belly rive
The boy she din'd upon alive.
The tribe of seniors will decry
All verse in which no fruit they spy;
And the young noblemen will sneer,
And slight all writings too austere;
He wins most votes and makes most friends,
That use and entertainment blends,
At once delighting all that read,
And urging them to take good heed.
This book brings money to the trade,
By this the longest voyage is made,
And its fam'd author must procure
A long memorial to endure.
But there are failings of the muse
We shou'd be ready to excuse;
Nor in the strings we always find,
Sounds answering to the hand and mind;
For oftentimes they will not suit,
And sound a grave for an acute .
The archer's bow, tho' aim'd aright,
Will not for ever hit the white .
But verses shining in the main
I'll not for a few faults disdain,
Which either from a want of heed,
Or human frailty may proceed.
What therefore shall we hence deduce?
As a transcriber wants excuse,
If oft he err, tho' oft forewarn'd,
And as a harper's justly scorn'd,
By whom one note is always marr'd,
So each incorrigible bard
Becomes a Choerilus to me;
In whom if three good lines I see
I smile and wonder — but am wroth,
At Homer's slumbers and his sloth;
But 'tis allowable, perhaps,
If in long works the author naps.
With painting poetry agrees,
And some things will the rather please,
If nearly view'd — but you'll be took
With others at a distant look.
That loves the dark, this will endure
The light, nor dread the connoisseur.
This piece has pleas'd, one time explor'd,
But this ten thousand times encor'd.
O youth! the elder of the two,
Tho' from your father you persue
The right, and of yourself are wise,
Yet hear the thing that I advise:
Respecting life in many a scene,
The tolerable and the mean
We bear; a lawyer in his room,
Or pleader, who cannot presume
With great Messala's worth to vie,
Nor can be seen with Aulus by,
Yet still may be in some request —
But with regard to bards profest,
Nor Gods nor men nor rubric post
Can bear them when they're middlemost.
As musick at an handsome treat,
If bad, will all the joy defeat;
And essence thick, where poppies blend
With Sardian honey-comb, offend;
Because these things might have been spar'd,
So verse, to sooth the soul, prepar'd;
If short of true perfection found,
They lose all worth, and sink aground.
He that cannot the weapons play,
Will from the ring keep far away,
And one unskill'd in quoit or troque,
Forbear, lest he the laugh provoke
Of gaping crowds, at his expence —
But poets all our fools commence. —
Why not! the gentleman is free,
Of such estate and family,
Is rated at th'equestrian fine,
And has no sinister design.
But thou shalt nothing say or do,
Save what Minerva prompts you to;
Such is your judgment, such your will:
But if you e'er assume the quill,
Let Metius your production see,
Who is a judge — your sire — and me. —
Nine years your verses be suppress'd,
For while you're of your work possess'd,
You still may blot th'unpublish'd strain,
Which gone, you will recal in vain.
Orpheus, the Gods own seer and priest,
Wild mortals from th'inhuman feast
And savage ways deterr'd, from thence
Inferr'd, upon a fair pretence,
Tygers to tame and lions fell.
Amphion, by his tuneful shell,
Was said to build the Theban wall
With stones that heard the charmer's call.
It was the wisdom of their song
Of old, to sever right and wrong,
The public weal from private gain,
And things religious from profane;
Promiscuous Venus to abate,
And institute the marriage state;
Towns and communities to plan,
And write the laws of God and Man.
'Twas thus an honour and a name
On bards divine and verses came.
To worthies as sublime as these,
Succeeded great Maeonides:
Tyrtaeus too, by pow'r of verse,
To make the combatants more fierce.
In verse the oracles are made,
Th'oeconomy of life display'd;
And by the soft Pierian strain,
The royal favour we obtain;
For these were giv'n th'Olympic bay,
And sports to sooth the toilsome day.
Hear this lest you in scorn refuse
Sweet Phoebus, and the tuneful muse.
It is a question they contest,
If nature or if art be best,
To form the bard — I do not see,
What without parts mere industry
Can profit, — nor can I devise
How unform'd Genius shou'd suffice.
Thus one requires the other still,
And friendly mingles force and skill.
Whoe'er attempts with all his soul,
To run so as to reach the goal,
Has from a child endur'd much pain,
From wine and women must abstain,
And sweat and freeze, and sweat again.
The man that hymns the Pythian God,
Was once at school and fear'd the rod:
Nor will it hold for one to cry,
" My wondrous verse is very high,
A murrain seize the hindmost bard,
'Tis shame if ought my course retard,
Or that I shou'd be force'd to own,
That what's untaught to me's unknown!"
As auctioneers with voice aloud,
To buy their goods collect a crowd;
Thus bards with money and with land,
Will hire an assentatious band;
But if 'tis one that can afford
To deck with elegance his board;
Or any of the poor to bail,
And save from law-suits, and a jail;
I wonder if he yet can know
A friend distinguish'd from a foe.
For making, or intent to make,
A gift of ought for friendship's sake,
Do not lead forth the honour'd boy
To read your verse while big with joy:
For then he certainly will roar,
O rare, O bravo, and encore!
Pale at some parts, at some he'll weep,
At some he'll jump about and leap:
As those that wail a corpse for pelf
Do more than real grief itself,
By word and deed — so friends that jeer,
Out-act the candid and sincere.
Kings certain men are said to ply,
With frequent cups their strength to try,
That they may see into their heart,
If it can act a friendly part.
Thus, when the verse you make and show,
Learn caution from the fox and crow.
Quintilius, if to him you read
Your poems, with great frankness said;
" Pray alter this and that review:"
Which if you urg'd you cou'd not do,
Endeav'ring sundry times in vain,
He'd bid you blot it out again,
And to the anvil yet restore
Bald verses to be hammer'd o'er.
If you chose rather to defend
Your fault, than own it and amend,
He wou'd not waste another word
On one resolv'd to be absurd,
But rivalless you might admire
Yourself, and your poetic fire.
A good man judging as he ought,
Will censure numbers void of thought,
Condemn the harsh, nor will be brook
The incorrect, but cross the book:
Ambitious ornaments he'll pare,
And to th'obscure give light and air;
Ambiguous diction he will spurn,
Mark what shou'd have another turn:
In short, he will to thine and thee,
Another Aristarchus be —
Nor will he say, " I'll not offend,
In trivial matters any friend;"
Such trifles sometimes cause offence,
And are of serious consequence
To one expos'd and ill-receiv'd,
Thro' folly not to be retriev'd.
As one thro' phrenzy wild and vague,
Whom scurvy and King's evil plague,
Dreading his touch, each man that's wise,
From the mad-headed poet flies;
The boys attack him in the street;
Some fellow, who are less discreet.
He, while he roves about to cant
His verses with extatic rant,
If like a fowler while he eyes,
Intent upon the bird that flies,
Into some ditch or well shou'd fall,
Tho' for a long time he might bawl,
" Help, O my Countrymen!" not one,
To take him out, an inch wou'd run.
But shou'd some man his help afford,
And fairly let him down a cord,
I wou'd object, " how can you prove,
This person chuses to remove!"
And then to make the matter clear,
I'd quote the fam'd Sicilian seer,
Empedocles, what time he schem'd,
Ev'n as a god to be esteem'd;
And in cold fit too fond of fame,
Leapt into Etna's burning flame.
Then let these men of great renown,
Have privilege to hang or drown,
For such as save them 'gainst their will,
Are next akin to those that kill.
And often has he thus behav'd,
Nor, shou'd he by mere force be sav'd,
Wou'd he (as man) his lot abide,
And scorn the shame of suicide.
Nor is the principle yet known,
Why he shou'd try at verse alone;
Whether he did of old presume
To stale upon his father's tomb,
Or e'er remov'd with black intent,
The vengeful thunder's monument.
He's mad, howe'er, by all the fates,
And like a bear that's broke the grates,
Learn'd and unlearn'd, as he recites,
He chaces bitterly and frights;
But those he overtakes at last,
With tooth and tongue he holds right fast,
And sticks unto them, like a leach,
Till glutted in all parts of speech.