220

The flesh he lives upon is rank and strong,
His meat and mistresses are kept too long.
But sure we all mistake this pious man,
Who mortifies his person all he can:
What we uncharitably take for sin,
Are only rules of this old capuchin;
For never hermit under grave pretense
Has liv'd more contrary to common sense;
And it is a miracle, we may suppose,
No nastiness offends his skilful nose,
Which from all stink can with peculiar art
Extract perfume and essence from a f-t:
Expecting supper is his great delight;
He toils all day but to be drunk at night;
Then o'er his cups this night bird chirping sits,
Till he takes Hewet and Jack Hall for wits.

Mean in each action, lewd in every limb,
Manners themselves are mischievous in him;
A proof that chance alone makes every creature
A very Killigrew without good nature.
For what a Bessus has he always liv'd,
And his own kickings notably contriv'd?
For (there's the folly that's still mix'd with
fear)

250

Cowards more blows than any hero bear;
Of fighting sparks some may their pleasures say,
But 't is a bolder thing to run away.
The world may well forgive him all his ill,
For every fault does prove his penance still;
Falsely he falls into some dangerous noose,
And then as meanly labors to get loose.
A life so infamous is better quitting,
Spent in base injury and low submitting.
I'd like to have left out his poetry,
Forgot by all almost as well as me.
Sometimes he has some humor, never wit;
And if it rarely, very rarely, hit,
'Tis under so much nasty rubbish laid,
To find it out 's the cinder-woman's trade,
Who for the wretched remnants of a fire
Must toil all day in ashes and in mire.
So lewdly dull his idle works appear,

260

The wretched texts deserve no comments here; Where one poor thought 's sometimes left all

WRITTEN IN FRENCH BY THE SIEUR DE
BOILEAU, MADE ENGLISH

[This translation of Boileau's Art Poétique was first published in 1683, with title as above, and with no indication of the translator's name. In 1708 Tonson reprinted it in the second edition of The Annual Miscellany for the Year 1694 (the Fourth Miscellany) with the following advertisement:

"This translation of Monsieur Boileau's Art of Poetry was made in the year 1680, by Sir William Soame of Suffolk, Bart.; who, being very intimately acquainted with Mr. Dryden, desir'd his revisal of it. I saw the manuscript lie in Mr. Dryden's hands for above six months, who made very considerable alterations in it, particularly the beginning of the fourth canto; and it being his opinion that it would be better to apply the poem to English writers than keep to the French names, as it was first translated, Sir William desir'd he would take the pains to make that alteration; and accordingly that was entirely done by Mr. Dryden.

"The poem was first publish'd in the year 1683; Sir William was after sent ambassador to Constantinople, in the reign of King James, but died in the voyage.

J. T."

The truth of Tonson's statement is confirmed by the remarkable agreement in substance of lines 101, 102 and 555-557 in the present translation with passages in Dryden's dedication to The Spanish Friar (Scott-Saintsbury edition, vi. 402-411). The general finish of the verse probably owes much to Dryden's correcting hand. Collins: Peerage of England, ed. Brydges, vol. iv, p. 475, mentions a "William Soames, Esq., of Thurlowe, in Suffolk, who was.. created a baronet." The present text follows that of 1683.]

CANTO I

RASH author, 't is a vain presumptuous crime
To undertake the sacred art of rhyme,
If at thy birth the stars that rul'd thy sense
Shone not with a poetic influence;

In thy strait genius thou wilt still be bound,
Find Phoebus deaf, and Pegasus unsound.

You then that burn with the desire to try The dangerous course of charming poetry; Forbear in fruitless verse to lose your time, Or take for genius the desire of rhyme; Fear the allurements of a specious bait, And well consider your own force and weight. Nature abounds in wits of every kind, And for each author can a talent find: One may in verse describe an amorous flame, Another sharpen a short epigram; Waller a hero's mighty acts extol, Spenser sing Rosalind in pastoral:

10

But authors that themselves too much esteem, Lose their own genius, and mistake their theme. Thus in times past Dubartas1 vainly writ,

1 Dubartas, translated by Sylvester.

21

Allaying sacred truth with trifling wit;
Impertinently, and without delight,
Describ'd the Israelites' triumphant flight,
And following Moses o'er the sandy plain,
Perish'd with Pharaoh in th' Arabian main.
Whate'er you write of pleasant or sublime,
Always let Sense accompany your Rhyme :
Falsely they seem each other to oppose;
Rhyme must be made with Reason's laws to
close;

40

50

And when to conquer her you bend your force,
The mind will triumph in the noble course;
To Reason's yoke she quickly will incline,
Which, far from hurting, renders her divine:
But, if neglected, will as easily stray,
And master Reason, which she should obey.
Love Reason then; and let whate'er you write
Borrow from her its beauty, force, and light.
Most writers, mounted on a resty Muse,
Extravagant and senseless objects choose;
They think they err, if in their verse they fall
On any thought that 's plain or natural:
Fly this excess; and let Italians be
Vain authors of false glitt'ring poetry.
All ought to aim at sense; but most in vain
Strive the hard pass and slipp'ry path to gain:
You drown, if to the right or left you stray;
Reason to go has often but one way.
Sometimes an author, fond of his own thought,
Pursues his object till it's overwrought:
If he describes a house, he shews the face,
And after walks you round from place to place;
Here is a vista, there the doors unfold,
Balconies here are baluster'd with gold;
Then counts the rounds and ovals in the halls,
The festoons, friezes, and the astragals.1
Tir'd with his tedious pomp, away I run,
And skip o'er twenty pages to be gone.
Of such descriptions the vain folly see,
And shun their barren superfluity.
All that is needless carefully avoid;
The mind once satisfied 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 obscure, for fear you should be long.
Some are not gaudy, but are flat and dry;
Not to be low, another soars too high.
Would you of every one deserve the praise?
In writing, vary your discourse and phrase;
A frozen style, that neither ebbs or flows,
Instead of pleasing, makes us gape and doze.
Those tedious authors are esteem'd by none,
Who tire us, humming the same heavy tone.
Happy, who in his verse can gently steer
From grave to light, from pleasant to severe;
His works will be admir'd wherever found,
And oft with buyers will be compass'd round.
In all you write, be neither low nor vile;
The meanest theme may have a proper style. 80
The dull burlesque appear'd with impudence,
And pleas'd by novelty, in spite of sense.
All, except trivial points, grew out of date;
Parnassus spoke the cant of Belinsgate :
Boundless and mad, disorder'd Rhyme was

60

70

Disguis'd Apollo chang'd to Harlequin.
This plague, which first in country towns began,
Cities and kingdoms quickly overran ;
The dullest scribblers some admirers found,
And The Mock-Tempest' was a while renown'd:
But this low stuff the town at last despis'd, 91
And scorn'd the folly that they once had priz'd;
Distinguish'd dull from natural and plain,
And left the villages to Flecknoe's reign.
Let not so mean a style your Muse debase,
But learn from Butler the buffooning grace;
And let burlesque in ballads be employ'd:
Yet noisy bumbast carefully avoid,
Nor think to raise, tho' on Pharsalia's plain,
Millions of mourning mountains of the slain:
Nor, with Dubartas, bridle up the floods,
And periwig with wool the baldpate woods."
Choose a just style; 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 easy numbers fix your happy choice;
Of jarring sounds avoid the odious noise:
The fullest verse and the most labor'd sense
Displease us, if the ear once take offense.
Our ancient verse (as homely as the times)
Was rude, unmeasur'd, only tagg'd with
rhymes;

101

110

Number and cadence, that have since been shown,

To those unpolish'd writers were unknown.
Fairfax was he, who, in that darker age,
By his just rules restrain'd poetic rage.
Spenser did next in pastorals excel,
And taught the noble art of writing well;
To stricter rules the stanza did restrain,
And found for poetry a richer vein.
Then Davenant came; who, with a new-found

art,

120

130

Chang'd all, spoil'd all, and had his way apart:
His haughty Muse all others did despise,
And thought in triumph to bear off the prize,
Till the sharp-sighted critics of the times,
In their mock Gondibert, expos'd his rhymes;
The laurels he pretended did refuse,
And dash'd the hopes of his aspiring Muse.
This headstrong writer, falling from on high,
Made following authors take less liberty.
Waller came last, but was the first whose art
Just weight and measure did to verse impart ;
That of a well-plac'd word could teach the force,
And shew'd for poetry a nobler course.
His happy genius did our tongue refine,
And easy words with pleasing numbers join;
His verses to good method did apply,
And chang'd harsh discord to soft harmony.
All own'd his laws; which, long approv'd and
tried,

To present authors now may be a guide.
Tread boldly in his steps, secure from fear,
And be, like him, in your expressions clear.
If in your verse you drag, and sense delay,
My patience tires, my fancy goes astray;

2 The Mock-Tempest, a play written by Mr. Duffet.
3 Hudibras.
4 Verse of Brébeuf.

5 Verse of Dubartas.

6 Fairfax in his translation of Godfrey of Bullen.

140

160

Observe the language well in all you write, And swerve not from it in your loftiest flight. The smoothest verse and the exactest sense Displease us, if ill English give offense: 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 haste; And value not yourself 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

And sometimes add, but oft'ner take away. 'Tis not enough, when swarming faults are writ,

180

190

That here and there are scatter'd 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 public censure for your writings fear,
And to yourself 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
Embrace true counsel, but suspect false praise.
A sycophant will everything 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 overpow'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; 200
He cannot pardon a neglected line,
But verse to rule and order will confine;
Reproves of words the too affected sound:
Here the sense flags, and your expression's

round;

says:

Your fancy tires, and your discourse grows vain, Your terms improper - make them just and

plain.

219

Thus 't is a faithful friend will freedom use;
But authors, partial to their darling Muse,
Think to protect it they have just pretense,
And at your friendly counsel take offense.
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." ""Tis approv'd by all."

220

Thus, resolute not from a fault to fall,
If there's a syllable of which you doubt,
'Tis 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;
'Tis a bait laid 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 scribbling 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, scribbling fop
Has found some greater fool to cry him up. 230

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.

241

Its humble method nothing has of fierce,
But hates the rattling of a lofty verse:
There native beauty pleases, and excites,
And never with harsh sounds the ear affrights.
But in this style a poet often spent,
In rage throws by his rural instrument,'
And vainly, when disorder'd thoughts abound,
Amidst the Eclogue makes the trumpet sound:
Pan flies, alarm'd, into the neighb'ring woods,
And frighted nymphs dive down into the floods.
Oppos'd to this, another, low in style,
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 rustic strains,
Again was quav'ring to the country swains, 252
And changing, without care of sound or dress,
Strephon and Phyllis into Tom and Bess.
'Twixt these extremes '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, practic'd and admir'd.
By them alone you'll easily comprehend
How poets, without shame, may condescend 260
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,

1 Flute pipe.

Daphne a tree, Narcissus made a flow'r,
And by what means the Eclogue yet has pow'r
To make the woods worthy a conqueror:1
This of their writings is the grace and flight;
Their risings lofty, yet not out of sight.

ELEGY

The Elegy, that loves a mournful style, With unbound hair weeps at a funeral pile; 270 It paints the lover's torments and delights; A mistress flatters, threatens, and invites: But well these raptures if you 'll make us see, You must know love as well as poetry.

I hate those lukewarm authors, whose forc'd fire

In a cold style 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 ;

279

They always sigh, and always hug their chain,
Adore their prison, and their suff'rings bless,
Make sense and reason quarrel as they please.
'Twas 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; 290 Of Pisa's wrestlers tells the sinewy force, And sings the dusty conqueror's glorious

course;

To Simois' streams does fierce Achilles bring,
And makes the Ganges bow to Britain's king.
Sometimes 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 style at random oft will part, 301
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

days,

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,

310

Resolving all such scribblers to confound,
For the short Sonnet order'd this strict bound:
Set rules for the just measure, and the time,
The easy running, and alternate rhyme;
But, above all, those licenses denied
Which in these writings the lame sense sup-
plied;

1 Virgil, Eclogue IV.

320

Forbade 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 scribbling 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 sense within the measur'd time,
'Tis hard to fit the reason to the rhyme.

EPIGRAM

330

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, dazzled with their glaring light, To their false pleasures quickly they invite; But public 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 his point a lover durst not rage; The amorous shepherds took more care to prove

340

True to their point, than faithful to their

love.

Each word, like Janus, 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 quibbling could not preach. At last affronted reason look'd about,

And from all serious matters shut 'em out; 350 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 rhyme.

Thus in all parts disorders did abate;
Yet quibblers in the court had leave to prate :
Insipid jesters, and unpleasant fools,

A corporation of dull punning drolls.

360

'Tis not, but that sometimes a dext'rous Muse
May with advantage a turn'd sense abuse,
And on a word may trifle with address;
But above all avoid the fond excess,

And think not, when your verse and sense are lame,

With a dull point to tag your Epigram.

Each poem his perfection has apart; The British Round in plainness shows his art. The Ballad, tho' the pride of ancient time, Has often nothing but his humorous rhyme; The Madrigal2 may softer passions move, And breathe the tender ecstasies of love: Desire to show itself, and not to wrong, Arm'd Virtue first with Satire in its tongue.

370

2 An old way of writing, which began and ended with the

same measure.

390

And Juvenal, learn'd as those times could be,
Too far did stretch his sharp hyperbole;
Tho' horrid truths thro' 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 coarsest 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 style 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 offense,
If clean expression cover not the sense.
I love sharp satire, 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 choose
God for the subject of your impious Muse;
At last, those jests which libertines invent,
Bring the lewd author to just punishment.
Ev'n in a song there must be art and sense;
Yet sometimes we have seen that wine or
chance

400

410

Have warm'd cold brains, and given dull writers mettle,

-.

420

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 thyself 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 senseless plays,
Makes David Logan' crown his head with bays.

CANTO III

TRAGEDY

THERE's not a monster bred beneath the sky, But, well-dispos'd by art, may please the eye; 430

1 D. Logan, a graver.

A curious workman, by his skill divine,
From an ill object makes a good design.
Thus, to delight us, Tragedy, in tears
For Edipus, 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? 440
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 labor'd act, the pleasing rage
Cannot our hopes and fears by turns ingage,
Nor in our mind a feeling pity raise,

450

In vain with learned scenes you fill your plays:
Your cold discourse can never move the mind
Of a stern critic, nat'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 unraveling in vain,
Instead of pleasing, keeps my mind in pain. 460
I'd rather much the nauseous dunce should say
Downright: "My name is Hector in the play;
Than with a mass of miracles, ill-join'd,
Confound my ears and not instruct my mind.
The subject's never soon enough express'd;
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 wand'ring 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, and place,
Keep the stage full, and all our labors grace.
Write not what cannot be with ease conceiv'd;
Some truths may be too strong to be believ’d.
A foolish wonder cannot entertain:
My mind 's not mov'd, if your discourse be vain.
You may relate what would offend the eye:
Seeing, indeed, would better satisfy;
But there are objects that a curious art
Hides from the eyes, yet offers to the heart.
The mind is most agreeably surpris'd,
When a well-woven subject, long disguis'd,
You on a sudden artfully unfold,

3

670

480

And give the whole another face and mold.
At first the Tragedy was void of art;
A song, where each man danc'd and sung his