running and alternate Rhyme But above all those Licences deny'd Which in these Writings the lame Sence Supply'd Forbad an useless Line should find a place Or a repeated Word appear with grace A faultless Sonnet finish'd thus would be Worth tedious Volumes of loose Poetry A hundred Scribling Authors without ground Believe they have this only Phoenix found When yet th' exactest scarce have two or three Among whole Tomes from Faults and Censure free The rest but little read regarded less Are shovel'd to the Pastry from the Press Closing the Sence within the measur'd time 'T is hard to fit the Reason to the Rhyme Epigram The Epigram with little art compos'd Is one good sentence in a Distich clos'd These points that by Italians first were priz'd Our ancient Authors knew not or despis'd The Vulgar dazled with their glaring Light To their false pleasures quickly they invite But publick Favor so increas'd their pride They overwhelm'd Parnassus with their Tide The Madrigal at first was overcome And the proud Sonnet fell by the same Doom With these grave Tragedy adorn'd her flights And mournful Elegy her Funeral Rites A Hero never fail'd 'em on the Stage Without this point a Lover durst not rage The Amorous Shepherds took more care to prove True to their Point than Faithful to their Love Each word like Ianus had a double face And Prose as well as Verse allow'd it place The Lawyer with Conceits adorn'd his Speech The Parson without Quibling could not Preach At last affronted Reason look'd about And from all serious matters shut 'em out Declar'd that none should use 'em without Shame Except a scattering in the Epigram Provided that by Art and in due time They turn'd upon the Thought and not the Rhime Thus in all parts disorders did abate Yet Quiblers in the Court had leave to prate Insipid Jesters and unpleasant Fools A Corporation of dull Punning Drolls 'T is not but that sometimes a dextrous Muse May with advantage a turn'd Sence abuse And on a word may trifle with address But above all avoid the fond excess And think not when your Verse and Sence are lame With a dull Point to Tag your Epigram Each Poem his Perfection has apart The Brittish Round in plainness shows his Art The Ballad tho the pride of Ancient time Has often nothing but his humorous Rhyme The Madrigal may softer Passions move And breath the tender Ecstasies of Love Desire to show it self and not to wrong Arm'd Virtue first with Satyr in its Tongue Satyr Lucilius was the man who bravely bold To Roman Vices did this Mirror hold Protected humble Goodness from reproach Show'd Worth on foot and Rascals in the Coach Horace his pleasing Wit to this did add And none uncensur'd could be Fool or mad Unhappy was that Wretch whose name might be Squar'd to the Rules of their Sharp Poetry Persius obscure but full of Sence and Wit Affected brevity in all he writ And Iuvenal Learn'd as those times could be Too far did stretch his sharp Hyperbole Tho horrid Truths through all his labors shine In what he writes there 's something of Divine Whether he blames the Caprean Debauch Or of Sejanus Fall tells the approach Or that he makes the trembling Senate come To the stern Tyrant to receive their Doom Or Roman Vice in coursest Habits shews And paints an Empress reeking from the Stews In all he Writes appears a noble Fire To follow such a Master then desire Chaucer alone fix'd on this solid Base In his old Stile conserves a modern grace Too happy if the freedom of his Rhymes Offended not the method of our Times The Latin Writers Decency neglect But modern Readers challenge our respect And at immodest Writings take offence If clean Expression cover not the Sence I love sharp Satyr from obsceneness free Not Impudence that Preaches Modesty Our English who in Malice never fail Hence in Lampoons and Libels learnt to Rail Pleasant Detraction that by Singing goes From mouth to mouth and as it marches grows Our freedom in our Poetry we see That Child of Joy begot by Liberty But vain Blasphemer tremble when you chuse God for the Subject of your Impious Muse At last those Jeasts which Libertines invent Bring the lewd Author to just punishment Ev'n in a Song there must be Art and Sence Yet sometimes we have seen that Wine or Chance Have warm'd cold Brains and given dull Writers Mettle And furnish'd out a Scene for Mr. S But for one lucky Hit that made thee please Let not thy Folly grow to a Disease Nor think thy self a Wit for in our Age If a warm Fancy does some Fop ingage He neither eats or sleeps till he has Writ But plagues the World with his Adulterate Wit Nay 't is a wonder if in his dire rage He Prints not his dull Follies for the Stage And in the Front of all his Senceless Plays Makes David Logan Crown his head with Bayes End of the second Canto Canto III. Tragedy THere 's not a Monster bred beneath the Sky But well dispos'd by Art may please the Eye A curious Workman by his Skill Divine From an ill Object makes a good Design Thus to Delight as Tragedy in Tears For Oedipus provokes our Hopes and Fears For Parricide Orestes asks relief And to encrease our pleasure causes grief You then that in this noble Art would rise Come and in lofty Verse dispute the Prize Would you upon the Stage acquire renown And for your Judges summon all the Town Would you your Works for ever should remain And after Ages past be sought again In all you Write observe with Care and Art To move the Passions and incline the Heart If in a labour'd Act the pleasing Rage Cannot our Hopes and Fears by turns ingage Nor in our mind a feeling Pity raise In vain with Learned Scenes you fill your Plays Your cold Discourse can never move the mind Of a stern Critic natu'rally unkind Who justly tir'd with your Pedantic flight Or falls asleep or censures all you Write The Secret is Attention first to gain To move our minds and then to entertain That from the very op'ning of the Scenes The first may show us what the Author means I 'm tir'd to see an Actor on the Stage That knows not whether he 's to Laugh or Rage Who an Intrigue unravelling in vain Instead of pleasing keeps my mind in pain I 'de rather much the nauseous Dunce should say Downright my name is Hector in the Play Than with a Mass of Miracles ill joyn'd Confound my Ears and not instruct my Mind The Subject's never soon enough exprest Your place of Action must be fix'd and rest A Spanish Poet may with good event In one day's space whole Ages represent There oft the Hero of a wandring Stage Begins a Child and ends the Play of Age But we that are by Reason's Rules confin'd Will that with Art the Poem be design'd That unity of Action Time
discerning eyes All-changing Time does also change the mind And diff'rent Ages diff'rent pleasures find Youth hot and furious cannot brook delay By flattering Vice is eas'ly led away Vain in discourse inconstant in desire In Censure rash in pleasures all on fire The Manly age does steadier thoughts enjoy Pow'r and Ambition do his Soul employ Against the turns of Fate he sets his mind And by the past the future hopes to find Decrepit Age still adding to his Stores For others heaps the Treasure he adores In all his actions keeps a frozen pace Past Times extols the present to debase Incapable of pleasures Youth abuse In others blames what age does him refuse Your Actors must by Reason be control'd Let young men speak like young old men like old Observe the Town and study well the Court For thither various Characters resort Thus 't was great Iohnson purchas'd his renown And in his Art had born away the Crown If less desirous of the Peoples praise He had not with low Farce debas'd his Playes Mixing dull Buffoonry with Wit refin'd And Harlequin with noble Terence joyn'd When in the Fox I see the Tortois hist I lose the Author of the Alchymist The Comic Wit born with a smiling Air Must Tragic grief and pompous Verse forbear Yet may he not as on a Market-place With Baudy jests amuse the Populace With well-bred Conversation you must please And your Intrigue unravel'd be with ease Your Action still should Reason's Rules obey Nor in an empty Scene may lose its way Your humble Stile must sometimes gently rise And your Discourse Sententious be and Wise The Passions must to Nature be confin'd And Scenes to Scenes with Artful weaving joyn'd Your Wit must not unseasonably play But follow Bus'ness never lead the way Observe how Terence does this error shun A careful Father chides his Am'orous Son Then see that Son whom no advice can move Forget those Orders and pursue his Love 'T is not a well-drawn Picture we discover 'T is a true son a Father and a Lover â— like an Author that Reforms the Age And keeps the right Decorum of the Stage That alwayes pleases by just Reason's Rule But for a tedious Droll a Quibling Fool Who with low nauseous Baudry fills his Plays Let him begon and on two Tressels raise Some Smithfield Stage where he may act his Pranks And make Iack Puddings speak to Mountebanks End of the third Canto Canto IV. IN Florence dwelt a Doctor of Renown The Scourge of God and Terror of the Town Who all the Cant of Physick had by heart And never Murder'd but by rules of Art The Public mischief was his Private gain Children their slaughter'd Parents sought in vain A Brother here his poyson'd Brother wept Some bloodlessdy'd and some by Opium slept Colds at his presence would to Frenzies turn And Agues like Malignant Fevers burn Hated at last his Practice gives him o'er One Friend unkill'd by Drugs of all his Store In his new Country-house affords him place 'T was a rich Abbot and a Building Ass Here first the Doctor 's Talent came in play He seems Inspir'd and talks like Wren or May Of this new Portico condemns the Face And turns the Entrance to a better place Designs the Stair-case at the other end His Friend approves does for his Mason send He comes the Doctor 's Arguments prevail In short to finish this our hum'rous Tale He Gaien's dang'erous Science does reject And from ill Doctor turn good Architect In this Example we may have our part Rather be Mason 't is an useful Art Than a dull Poet for that Trade accurst Admits no mean betwixt the Best and Worst In other Sciences without disgrace A Candidate may fill a second place But Poetry no Medium can admit No Reader suffers an indiff'rent Wit The ruin'd Stationers against him baul And Herringman degrades him from his Stall Burlesque at least our Laughter may excite But a cold Writer never can delight The Counter-Scuffle has more Wit and Art Than the stiff Formal Stile of Gondibert Be not affected with that empty praise Which your vain Flatterers will sometimes raise And when you read with Ecstasie will say The finisd'd Piece The admirable Play Which when expos'd to Censure and to Light Cannot indure a Critic's piercing sight A hundred Authors Fates have been foretold And Sh-le's Works are Printed but not Sold. Hear all the World consider every Thought A Fool by chance may stumble on a Fault Yet when Apollo does your Muse inspire Be not impatient to expose your Fire Nor imitate the Settles of our Times Those Tuneful Readers of their own dull Rhymes Who seize on all th' Acquaintance they can meet And stop the Passengers that walk the Street There is no Sanctuary you can chuse For a Defence from their pursuing Muse. I 've said before Be patient when they blame To alter for the better is no shame Yet yield not to a Fool 's Impertinence Sometimes conceited Sceptics void of Sence By their false taste condemn some finish'd part And blame the noblest flights of Wit and Art In vain their fond Opinions you deride With their lov'd Follies they are satisfy'd And their weak Judgment void of Sence and Light Thinks nothing can escape their feeble sight Their dang'rous Counsels do not cure but wound To shun the Storm they run your Verse aground And thinking to escape a Rock are drown'd Chuse a sure Judge to Censure what you Write Whose Reason leads Knowledge gives you light Whose steady hand will prove your Faithful Guide And touch the darling follies you would hide He in your doubts will carefully advise And clear the Mist before your feeble eyes 'T is he will tell you to what noble height A generous Muse may sometimes take her flight When too much fetter'd with the Rules of Art May from her stricter Bounds and Limits part But such a perfect Judge is hard to see And every Rhymer knows not Poetry Nay some there are for Writing Verse extol'd Who know not Lucan's Dross from Virgil's Gold Would you in this great Art acquire Renown Authors observe the Rules I here lay down In prudent Lessons every where abound With pleasant joyn the useful and the sound A Sober Reader a vain Tale will slight He seeks as well Instruction as Delight Let all your Thoughts to Virtue be confin'd Still off'ring noble Figures to our Mind I like not those loose Writers who employ Their guilty Muse good Manners to destroy Who with false Colours still deceive our Eyes And show us Vice dress'd in a fair Disguise Yet do I not their sullen Muse approve Who from all modest Writings banish Love That strip the Play-house of its chief Intrigue And make a Murderer of Roderigue The lightest Love if decently exprest Will raise no Vitious motions in our brest Dido in vain may weep and ask relief I blame her Folly whil'st I share her Grief A Virtuous Author in his
Sence Displease us if ill English give offence A barb'rous Phrase no Reader can approve Nor Bombast Noise or Affectation Love In short without pure Language what you Write Can never yield us Profit or Delight Take time for thinking never work in hast And value not your self for writing fast A rapid Poem with such fury writ Shews want of Judgment not abounding Wit More pleas'd we are to see a River lead His gentle Streams along a flow'ry Mead Than from high Banks to hear loud Torrents roar With foamy Waters on a Muddy Shore Gently make haste of Labour not afraid A hundred times consider what you 've said Polish repolish every Colour lay And sometimes add but oft'ner take away T is not enough when swarming Faults are writ That here and there are scattered Sparks of Wit Each Object must be fix'd in the due place And diff'ring parts have Corresponding Grace Till by a curious Art dispos'd we find One perfect whole of all the pieces join'd Keep to your Subject close in all you say Nor for a sounding Sentence ever stray The publick Censure for your Writings fear And to your self be Critic most severe Fantastic Wits their darling Follies love But find You faithful Friends that will reprove That on your Works may look with careful Eyes And of your Faults be zealous Enemies Lay by an Author's Pride and Vanity And from a Friend a Flatterer descry Who seems to like but means not what he says Embrace true Counsel but suspect false Praise A Sycophant will every thing admire Each Verse each Sentence sets his Soul on Fire All is Divine there 's not a Word amiss He shakes with Joy and weeps with Tenderness He over-pow'rs you with his mighty Praise Truth never moves in those impetuous ways A Faithful Friend is careful of your Fame And freely will your heedless Errors blame He cannot pardon a neglected Line But Verse to Rule and Order will confine Reproves of words the too affected sound Here the Sence flags and your expression's round Your Fancy tires and your Discourse grows vain Your Terms improper make them just and plain Thus 't is a faithful Friend will freedom use But Authors partial to their Darling Muse Think to protect it they have just pretence And at your Friendly Counsel take offence Said you of this that the Expression's flat Your Servant Sir you must excuse me that He answers you This word has here no grace Pray leave it out That Sir 's the proper'st place This Turn I like not 'T is approv'd by all Thus resolute not from a fault to fall If there 's a Syllable of which you doubt 'T is a sure Reason not to blot it out Yet still he says you may his Faults confute And over him your pow'r is absolute But of his feign'd Humility take heed 'T is a Bait lay'd to make you hear him read And when he leaves you happy in his Muse Restless he runs some other to abuse And often finds for in our scribling times No Fool can want a Sot to praise his Rhymes The flattest work has ever in the Court Met with some Zealous Ass for its support And in all times a forward Scribling Fop Has found some greater Fool to cry him up End of the first Canto Canto II. Pastoral AS a fair Nymph when Rising from her bed With sparkling Diamonds dresses not her head But without Gold or Pearl or costly Scents Gathers from neighb'ring Fields her Ornaments Such lovely in its dress but plain withal Ought to appear a Perfect Pastoral It s humble method nothing has of fierce But hates the ratling of a lofty Verse There Native beauty pleases and excites And never with harsh Sounds the Ear affrights But in this stile a Poet often spent In rage throws by his Rural Instrument And vainly when disorder'd thoughts abound Amid'st the Eclogue makes the Trumpet Sound Pan flyes Alarm'd into the neighb'ring Woods And frighted Nymphs dive down into the Floods Oppos'd to this another low in stile Makes Shepherds speak a Language base and vile His Writings flat and heavy without Sound Kissing the Earth and creeping on the ground You 'd swear that Randal in his Rustick Strains Again was quav'ring to the Country Swains And changing without care of Sound or Dress Strephon and Phyllis into Tom and Bess. Twixt these extreams 'tis hard to keep the right For Guides take Virgil and read Theocrite Be their just Writings by the Gods inspir'd Your constant Pattern practis'd and admir'd By them alone you 'l easily comprehend How Poets without shame may condescend To sing of Gardens Fields of Flow'rs and Fruit To stir up Shepherds and to tune the Flute Of Love's rewards to tell the happy hour Daphne a Tree Narcissus made a Flower And by what means the Eclogue yet has pow'r To make the Woods worthy a Conqueror This of their Writings is the grace and flight Their risings lofty yet not out of Sight Elegy The Elegy that loves a mournful stile With unbound hair weeps at a Funeral Pile It paints the Lovers Torments and Delights A Mistress Flatters Threatens and Invites But well these Raptures if you 'l make us see You must know Love as well as Poetry I hate those Lukewarm Authors whose forc'd Fire In a cold stile describes a hot Desire That sigh by Rule and raging in cold blood Their sluggish Muse whip to an Amorous mood Their feign'd Transports appear but flat and vain They always sigh and alwayes hug their Chain Adore their Prison and their Suff'rings bless Make Sence and Reason quarrel as they please 'T was not of old in this affected Tone That Smooth Tibullus made his Amorous moan Nor Ovid when Instructed from above By Nature's Rules he taught the Art of Love The Heart in Elegies forms the Discourse Ode The Ode is bolder and has greater force Mounting to Heav'n in her Ambitious flight Amongst the Gods and Heroes takes delight Of Pisa's Wrestlers tells the Sin'ewy force And sings the dusty Conqueror's glorious Course To Simois streams does fierce Achilles bring And makes the Ganges bow to Britan's King Somtimes she flies like an Industrious Bee And robs the Flow'rs by Nature's Chymistry Describes the Shepherds Dances Feasts and Bliss And boasts from Phyllis to surprise a Kiss When gently she resists with feign'd remorse That what she grants may seem to be by force Her generous stile at random oft will part And by a brave disorder shows her Art Unlike those fearful Poets whose cold Rhyme In all their Raptures keep exactest time That sing th' Illustrious Hero's mighty praise Lean Writers by the terms of Weeks and Dayes And dare not from least Circumstances part But take all Towns by strictest Rules of Art Apollo drives those Fops from his abode And some have said that once the humorous God Resolving all such Scriblers to confound For the short Sonnet order'd this strict bound Set Rules for the just Measure and the Time The easy
here I mean to Judge his Cause Yet tho our Age has so extoll'd his name His Works had never gain'd immortal Fame If holy Godfrey in his Ecstasies Had only Conquer'd Satan on his knees If Tancred and Armida's pleasing form Did not his melancholy Theme adorn 'T is not that Christian Poems ought to be Fill'd with the Fictions of Idolatry But in a common Subject to reject The Gods and Heathen Ornaments neglect To banish Tritons who the Seas invade To take Pan's Whistle or the Fates degrade To hinder Charon in his leaky Boat To pass the Shepherd with the Man of Note Is with vain Scruples to disturb your mind And search Perfection you can never find As well they may forbid us to present Prudence or Justice for an Ornament To paint old Ianus with his front of Brass And take from Time his Scythe his Wings and Glass And every where as 't were Idolatry Banish Descriptions from our Poetry Leave 'em their pious Follys to pursue But let our Reason such vain fears subdue And let us not amongst our Vanities Of the true God create a God of Lyes In Fable we a thousand pleasures see And the smooth names seem made for Poetry As Hector Alexander Helen Phillis Vlysses Agamemnon and Achilles In such a Crowd the Poet were to blame To chuse King Chilp'eric for his Hero's name Sometimes the name being well or ill apply'd Will the whole Fortune of your Work decide Would you your Reader never should be tir'd Choose some great Hero fit to be admir'd In Courage signal and in Virtue bright Letev'n his very failings give delight Let his great Actions our attention bind Like Caesar or like Scipio frame his mind And not like Oedipus his perjur'd Race A common Conqueror is a Theme too base Chuse not your Tale of Accidents too full Too much variety may make it dull Achilles rage alone when wrought with skill Abundantly does a whole Iliad fill Be your Narrations lively short and smart In your Descriptions show your noblest Art There 't is your Poetry may be employ'd Yet you must trivial Accidents avoid Nor imitate that Fool who to describe The wondrous Marches of the Chosen Tribe Plac'd on the sides to see their Armyes pass The Fishes staring through the liquid Glass Describ'd a Child who with his little hand Pick'd up the shining Pebbles from the sand Such objects are too mean to stay our sight Allow your Work a just and nobler flight Be your beginning plain and take good heed Too soon you mount not on the Airy Steed Nor tell your Reader in a Thund'ring Verse I sing the Conqueror of the Vniverse What can an Author after this produce The lab'ring Mountain must bring forth a Mouse Much better are we pleas'd with his Address Who without makingsuch vast promises Sayes in an easier Stile and plainer Sence I Sing the Combats of that pious Prince Who from the Phrygian Coast his Armies bore And landed first on the Lavinian shore His op'ning Muse sets not the World on fire And yet performs more than we can require Quickly you 'l hear him celebrate the fame And future glory of the Roman Name Of Styx and Acheron describe the Floods And Caesars wandring in th' Elysian Woods With Figures numberless his Story grace And every thing in beauteous Colours trace At once you may be pleasing and sublime I hate a heavy melancholy Rhyme I 'de rather read Orlando's Comic Tale Than a dull Author always stiff and stale Who thinks himself dishonour'd in his stile If on his Works the Graces do but smile 'T is said that Homer Matchless in his Art Stole Venus Girdle to ingage the Heart His Works indeed vast Treasures do unfold And whatsoe're he touches turns to Gold All in his hands new beauty does acquire He always pleases and can never tire A happy Warmth he every where may boast Nor is he in too long Digressions lost His Verses without Rule a method find And of themselves appear in order joyn'd All without trouble answers his intent Each Syllable is tending to th' Event Let his example your indeavours raise To love his Writings is a kind of praise A Poem where we all perfections find Is not the work of a Fantastick mind There must be Care and Time and Skill and Pains Not the first heat of unexperienc'd Brains Yet sometimes Artless Poets when the rage Of a warm Fancy does their minds ingage Puff'd with vain pride presume they understand And boldly take the Trumpet in their hand Their Fustian Muse each Accident confounds Nor can she fly but rise by leaps and bounds Till their small stock of Learning quickly spent Their Poem dyes for want of nourishment In vain Mankind the hot-brain'd fools decryes No branding Censures can unveil his eyes With Impudence the Laurel they invade Resolv'd to like the Monsters they have made Virgil compar'd to them is flat and dry And Homer understood not Poetry Against their merit if this Age Rebel To future times for Justice they appeal But waiting till Mankind shall do 'em right And bring their Works Triumphantly to Light Neglected heaps we in by-corners lay Where they become to Worms and Moths a prey Forgot in Dust and Cobwebs let 'em rest Whilst we return from whence we first digrest The great Success which Tragic Writers found In Athens first the Comedy renown'd Th'abusive Grecian there by pleasing wayes Dispers'd his natu'ral malice in his Playes Wisdom and Virtue Honor Wit and Sence Were Subject to Buffooning insolence Poets were publickly approv'd and sought That Vice extol'd and Virtue set at naught And Socrates himself in that loose Age Was made the Pastime of a Scoffing Stage At last the Public took in hand the Cause And cur'd this Madness by the pow'r of Laws Forbad at any time or any place To name the Person or describe the Face The Stage its ancient Fury thus let fall And Comedy diverted without Gall By mild reproofs recover'd minds diseas'd And sparing Persons innocently pleas'd Each one was nicely shown in this new Glass And smil'd to think He was not meant the Ass A Miser oft would laugh the first to find A faithful Draught of his own sordid mind And Fops were with such care and cunning writ They lik'd the Piece for which themselves did sit You then that would the Comic Lawrels wear To study Nature be your only care Who e're knows man and by a curious art Discerns the hidden secrets of the heart He who observes and naturally can Paint The Jealous Fool the fawning Sycophant A Sober Wit an enterprising Ass A humorous Otter or a Hudibras May safely in these noble Lists ingage And make 'em Act and Speak upon the Stage Strive to be natural in all you Write And paint with Colours that may please the Sight Nature in various Figures does abound And in each mind are diff'rent Humors found A glance a touch discovers to the wise But every man has not
Charming Art To please the Sense needs not corrupt the Heart His heat will never cause a guilty Fire To follow Virtue then be your desire In vain your Art and Vigor are exprest Th'obscene expression shows th' Infected breast But above all base Jealousies avoid In which detracting Poets are employ'd A noble Wit dares lib'rally commend And scorns to grudge at his deserving Friend Base Rivals who true Wit and Merit hate Caballing still against it with the Great Maliciously aspire to gain Renown By standing up and pulling others down Never debase your self by Treacherous ways Nor by such abject methods seek for praise Let not your only bus'ness be to Write Be Virtuous Just and in your Friends delight 'T is not enough your Poems be admir'd But strive your Conversation be desir'd Write for immortal Fame nor ever chuse Gold for the object of a gen'erous Muse. I know a noble Wit may without Crime Receive a lawful Tribute for his time Yet I abhor those Writers who despise Their Honor and alone their Profit prize Who their Apollo basely will degrade And of a noble Science make a Trade Before kind Reason did her Light display And Government taught Mortals to obey Men like wild Beasts did Nature's Laws pursue They fed on Herbs and drink from Rivers drew Their Brutal force on Lust and Rapine bent Committed Murders without Punishment Reason at last by her all-conquering Arts Reduc'd these Savages and Tun'd their hearts Mankind from Bogs and Woods and Caverns calls And Towns and Cities fortifies with Walls Thus fear of Justice made proud Rapine cease And shelter'd Innocence by Laws and Peace These benefits from Poets we receiv'd From whence are rais'd those Fictions since believ'd That Orpheus by his soft Harmonious strains Tam'd the fierce Tigers of the Thracian Plains Amphion's Notes by their melodious pow'rs Drew Rocks Woods and rais'd the Theban Tow'rs These Miracles from numbers did arise Since which in Verse Heav'n taught his Mysteries And by a Priest possess'd with rage Divine Apollo spoke from his Prophetick Shrine Soon after Homer the old Heroes prais'd And noble minds by great Examples rais'd Then Hesiod did his Graecian Swains incline To till the Fields and prune the bounteous Vine Thus useful Rules were by the Poets aid In easy numbers to rude men convey'd And pleasingly their Precepts did impart First Charm'd the Ear and then ingag'd the Heart The Muses thus their Reputation rais'd And with just Gratitude in Greece were prais'd With pleasure Mortals did their Wonders see And Sacrific'd to their Divinity But Want at last base Flatt'ry entertain'd And old Parnassus with this Vice was stain'd Desire of gain dazling the Poets Eyes 〈◊〉 VVorks were fill'd with fulsome flatteries Thus needy Wits a vile revenue made And Verse became a mercenary Trade Debase not with so mean a Vice thy Art If Gold must be the Idol of thy heart Fly fly th' unfruitful Heliconian strand Those streams are not inrich'd with Golden Sand Great Wits as well as Warriors only gain Laurels and Honors for their Toyl and Pain But what an Author cannot live on Fame Or pay a Reck'ning with a lofty Name A Poet to whom Fortune is unkind Who when he goes to bed has hardly din'd Takes little pleasure in Parnassus Dreams Or relishes the Heliconian streams Horace had Ease and Plenty when he writ And free from cares for money or for meat Did not expect his dinner from his wit 'T is true but Verse is cherish'd by the Great And now none famish who deserve to eat What can we fear when Virtue Arts and Sence Receive the Stars propitious Influence When a sharp-sighted Prince by early Grants Rewards your Merits and prevents your Wants Sing then his Glory Celebrate his Fame Your noblest Theme is his immortal Name Let mighty Spencer raise his reverend head Cowley and Denham start up from the dead Waller his age renew and Off'rings bring Our Monarch's praise let bright-ey'd Virgins sing Let Dryden with new Rules our Stage refine And his great Models form by this Design But where 's a Second Virgil to Rehearse Our Hero's Glories in his Epic Verse What Orpheus sing his Triumphs o'er the Main And make the Hills and Forests move again Show his bold Fleet on the Batavian shore And Holland trembling as his Canons roar Paint Europe's Balance in his steady hand Whilst the two Worlds in expectation stand Of Peace or War that wait on his Command But as I speak new Glories strike my Eyes Glories which Heav'n it Self does give and prize Blessings of Peace that with their milder Rayes Adorn his Reign and bring Saturnian Dayes Now let Rebellion Discord Vice and Rage That have in Patriots Forms debauc h'd our Age Vanish with all the Ministers of Hell His Rayes their poys'nous Vapors shall dispel 'T is He alone our safety did create His own firm Soul secur'd the Nation 's Fate Oppos'd to all the boutfeaus of the State Authors for Him your great indeavours raise The loftiest Numbers will but reach his praise For me whose Verse in Satyr has been bred And never durst Heroic Measures tread Yet you shall see me in that famous Field With Eyes and Voice my best assistance yield Offer you Lessons that my Infant Muse Learnt when the Horace for her Guide did chuse Second your Zeal with Wishes Heart and Eyes And afar off hold up the glorious Prize But pardon too if Zealous for the Right A strict observer of each Noble slight From the fine Gold I separate th' Allay And show how hasty Writers sometimes stray Apter to blame than knowing how to mend A sharp but yet a necesary Friend FINIS ERRATA PAge 2. line 13 for or read of p. 22. l. 8. for their r. his p. 29. l. 7. for as r. us p. 53. l. 7. for licke r I like * Dubartas Translated by Sylvester * Verse of Scudery * The Mock-Tempest a Play written by Mr. Duffet †Hudebrass †Verse of Brebeuf * Verse of Dubartas * Fairfax in his Translation of Godfrey of Bullen * Flute Pipe * Virg. Eclog. 4. †An old way of Writing which began and ended with the same Measure * D. Logan a Graver * Writ by Mr. Dryden * The beginning and progress of Tragedies * Artamen the name of Cyrus in Scuderies Romance * Seneca Trag. * St. Amant †The first line of Scuderies Alaric * Virgils Eneids * The Kings Archetects * The Cid Translated into English