But, fince men will believe more than they need,
And every man will make himself a creed,
In doubtful queftions 'tis the fafeft way
To learn what unfufpected ancients say:
Far 'tis not likely we fhould higher foar
In fearch of heaven, than all the church before:
Nor can we be deceiv'd, unless we fee
The fcripture and the fathers difagree.
If after all they ftand fufpected still,
For no man's faith depends upon his will;
'Tis fome relief, that points not clearly known
Without much hazard may be let alone :
names, as it was firft tranflated, Sir Williar defired he would take the pains to make that alteration; and accordingly that was entirely done by Mr. Dryden.
THIS tranflation of monfieur Boileau's Art of Poetry was made in the year 1680, by Sir William Soame of Suffolk, Baronet; who being very intimately acquainted with Mr. Dryden, defired his revifal of it. I faw the manufcript lie in Mr. The poem was first published in the year 1683; Dryden's hands for above fix months, who made | Sir William was after fent ambaffador to Convery confiderable alterations in it, particularly ftantinople, in the reign of king James, but died the beginning of the fourth Canto: and it being in the voyage. his opinion that it would be better to apply the poem to English writers, than keep to the French
RAS author, 'tis a vain prefumptuous crime,
To undertake the facred art of rhyme;
at thy birth the ftars that rul'd thy fenfe Shone not with a poetic influence;
In the ftrait genius thou wilt ftill be bound,
Find Phoebus deaf, and Pegasus unfound,
You then that burn with the defire to try
The dangerous courfe of charming poetry;
Forbear in fruitless verfe to lose your time,
Or take for genius the defire of rhyme :
Fear the allurements of a fpacious bait,
Ard well confider your own force and weight.
Narure abounds in wits of every kind,
And for each author can a talent find:
Oce may in verfe defcribe an amorous flame,
Another sharpen a fhort epigram:
Waller a hero's mighty acts extol,
Spenfer fing Rofalind in paftoral:
But authors that themselves too much esteem,
Lofe their own genius, and mistake their theme;
Thus in times past Dubartas vainly writ,
Allaying facred truth with trifling wit,
Impertinently, and without delight,
Befarib'd the Ifraelites triumphant flight,
And following Mofes o'er the fandy plain,
Perifh'd with Pharaoh in th' Arabian main,
Whate'er you write of pleafant or fublime,
Always let fenfe accompany your rhyme :
Fafely they feem each other to oppofe;
Rhyme must be made with reafon's laws to clofe:
And when to conquer her you bend your force,
The mind will triumph in the noble course;
To reafon's yoke the quickly will incline,
Which, far from hurting, renders her divine:
But if neglected, will as easily stray,
Aud matter reafon which the fhould obey.
Love reafon then; and let whate'er you write
Borrow from her its beauty, force, and light.
Moft writers mounted on a refty Muse,
Extravagant and fenfelefs objects choose;
They think they err, if in their verse they fall
On any thought that's plain or natural :
Fly this excefs, and let Italians be
Vain authors of falfe glittering poetry.
All ought to aim at fenfe; but most in vain
Strive the hard pass and slippery path to gain :
You drown, if to the right or left you stray;
Reafon to go has often but one way.
Sometimes an author, fond of his own thought,
Purfues its objects till 'tis over-wrought:
If he describes a houfe, he fhews the face,
And after walks you round from place to place;
Here is a vifta, there the doors unfold,
Balconies here are ballaftred with gold;
Then counts the rounds and ovals in the halls,
"The feftoons, freezes, and the aftragals:"
Tir'd with his tedious pomp, away I run,
And skip o'er twenty pages to be gone.
Of fuch defcriptions the vain folly see,
And fhun their barren fuperfluity.
All that is needlefs carefully avoid;
The mind once fatisfy'd is quickly cloy'd:
He cannot write who knows not to give o'er;
To mend one fault, he makes a hundred more:
A verse was weak; you turn it, much too strong,
And grow obfcure for fear you fhould be long.
Some are not gaudy, but are flat and dry;
Not to be low, another foars too high.
Would you of every one deferve the praise?
In writing, vary your discourse and phrase :
A frozen ftile that neither ebbs nor flows,
Inflead of pleafing, makes us gape and doze,
Thofe tedious authors are esteem'd by none
Who tire us, humming the fame heavy tone.
Happy who in his verfe can gently steer,
From grave to light, from pleasant to severe;
His works will he admir'd wherever found,
And oft with buyers will be compast round.
In all you write, be neither low nor vile :
The meaneft theme may have a proper ftile.
The dull burlefque appear'd with impudence,
And pleas'd by novelty in spite of fenfe.
All, except trivial points, grew out of date;
Parnaffus fpoke the cant of Billingsgate :
Boundlefs and mad, disorder'd rhyme was feen:
Difguis'd Apollo chang'd to Harlequin.
This plague, which first in country towns began,
Cities and kingdoms quickly over-ran :
The dulleft fcribblers fome admirers found,
And the Mock Tempest was a while renown'd:
But this low ftuff the town at laft defpis'd,
And fcorn'd the folly that they once had priz'd;
Diftinguifh'e dull from natural and plain,
And left the villages to Fleckno's reign.
Let not fo mean a ftile your Mufe debafe;
But learn from Butler the bufooning grace;
And let burlesque in ballads be employ'd;
Yet noify bombaft carefully avoid,
Nor think to raise, though on Pharsaliah's plain,
"Millions of mourning mountains of the flain :"
Nor with Dubartas bridle up the floods,
And periwig with wool the baldpate woods.
Choose a juft ftile, be grave without constraint,
Great without pride, and lovely without paint :
Write what your reader may be pleas'd to hear;
And for the measure have a careful ear.
On eafy numbers fix your happy choice:
Of jarring founds avoid the odious noife:
The fullest verse and the most labour'd sense,
Difpleafe us, if the ear once take offence.
Our ancient verfe, as homely as the times,
Was rude, unmeafur'd, only tagg'd with rhymes;
Number and cadence that have fince been fhewn,
To thofe unpolish'd writers were unknown.
Fairfax was he, who, in that darker age,
By his juft rules reftrain'd poetic rage;
Spenfer did next in paftorals excel,
And taught the nobler art of writing well;
To ftricter rules the stanza did retrain,
And found for poetry a richer vein.
Then Davenant came, who, with new-found art,
Chang'd all, fpoil'd all, and had his way apart;
His haughty Mufe all others did despise,
And thought in triumph to bear off the prize,
Till the fharp-fighted critics of the times
In their Mock-Gondibert expos'd his rhymes;
The laurels he pretended did refufe,
And dafh'd the hopes of his afpiring Muse.
This headstrong writer falling from on high,
Made following authors take lefs liberty.
Waller came laft, but was the first whofe art,
Juft weight and measure did to verse impart;
That of a well-plac'd word could teach the force,
And fhew'd for poetry a nobler course :
His happy genius did our tongue refine,
And eafy words with pleafing numbers join:
His verfes to good method did apply,
And chang'd hard discord to soft harmony.
All own'd his laws; which, long approv'd and
try'd,
To prefent authors now may be a guide.
Tread boldly in his fteps, fecure from fear,
And be, like him, in your expreffions clear.
If in your verse you drag, and sense delay,
My patience tires, my fancy goes aftray;
And from your vain difcourfe I turn my mind,
Nor fearch an author troublefome to find.
There is a kind of writer pleas'd with found,
Whofe fuftian head with clouds is compafs'd
round,
No reafon can difperfe them with its light,
Learn then to think e'er you pretend to write.
As your idea's clear, or else obfcure,
Th
expreflion follows perfect or impure:
What we conceive with eafe we can exprefs;
Words to the notions flow with readiness.
Obferve the language well in all you write,
And fwerve not from it in your loftiest flight.
The fmootheft verfe and the exacteft fenfe
Displease us, if ill English give offence;
A barbarous phrase no reader can approve;
Nor bombaft, noife, or affectation love.
In short, without pure language, what you write
Can never yield us profit nor delight.
Take time for thinking; never work in hafte;
And value not your felf for writing fast.
A rapid poem, with fuch fury writ,
Shews want of judgment, not abounding wit.
More pleas'd we are to fee a river lead
His gentle streams along a flowery mead,
Than from high banks to hear loud torrents roa
With foamy waters on a muddy shore.
Gently make hafte, of labour not afraid :
A hundred times confider what you've faid:
Polish, repolish, every colour lay,
And fometimes add, but oftener take away.
'Tis not enough when fwarming faults are writ,
That here and there are fcatter'd fparks of wit
Each object must be fix'd in the due place,
And differiug parts have corresponding grace:
Till, by a curious art difpos'd, we find
One perfect whole, of all the pieces join'd.
Keep to your fubject close in all you fay;
Nor for a founding fentence ever ftray.
The public cenfure for your writings fear,
And to yourself be critic moft severe.
Fantastic wits their darling follies love;
But find you faithful friends that will approve,
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 defcry,
Who feems to like, but means not what he fays
Embrace true counsel, but fufpect falfe praife.
A fycophant will every thing admire :
Each verfe, each fentence, fets his foul on fire:
All is divine! there's not a word amiss!
He fhakes with joy, and weeps with tenderness,
He overpowers you with his mighty praise.
Truth never moves in thofe impetuous ways:
A faithful friend is careful of your fame,
And freely will your heedlefs errors blame;
He cannot pardon a neglected line,
But verfe to rule and order will confine.
Reprove of words the too affected found;
Here the sense flags, and your expreffion's round,
Your fancy tires, and your discourse grows vain,
Your terms improper, make them just and plain.
Thus 'tis a faithful friend will freedom use;
But authors, partial to their darling Mufe,
Think to protect it they have just pretence,
And at your friendly counfel take offence.
Said you of this, that the expreffion's flat?
Your fervant, Sir, you must excufe me that,
He anfwers you. This word has here no grace,
Pray leave it out: That, Sir, 's the propereft place.
VOL. VI.
This turn I like not : 'Tis a approv'd by all.
Thus, refolute not from one fault to fall,
If there's a fyllable of which you doubt,
'Tis a fure reafon not to blot it out,
Yet ftill he fays you may his faults confute,
And over him your power is abfolute :
But of his feign'd humility take heed;
'Tis a bait laid to make you hear him read.
And when he leaves you happy in his Muse,
Restless he runs fome other to abuse,
And often finds; for in our fcribbling times
No fool can want a fot to praise his rhymes :
The flatteft work has ever in the court
Met with fome zealous afs for its fupport:
And in all times a forward fcribbling fop
Has found fome greater fool to cry him up.
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