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CANTO I.

RASH author, 'tis a vain presumptuous crime,
To undertake the facred art of rhyme;

If at thy birth the stars that rul'd thy fenfe
Shone not with a poetic influence;

In thy ftrait genius thou wilt ftill be bound,
Find Phoebus deaf, and Pegafus unfound.

You then that burn with the defire to try
The dangerous courfe of charming poetry;
Forbear in fruitlefs verfe to lofe your time,
Or take for genius the defire of rhyme;
Fear the allurements of a fpecious bait,
And well confider your own force and weig.it.
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 fhort epigram :
Waller a hero's mighty acts extol,
Spenfer fing Rofalind in paftoral:

But authors that themselves too much efteem,
Lofe their own genius, and mistake their theme;
Thus in times paft Dubartas vainly writ,
Allaying facred truth with trifling wit,
Impertinently, and without delight,
Defcrib'd the Ifraelites' triumphant flight,

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And following Mofes o'er the fandy plain,
Perish'd with Pharaoh in the Arabian main.
Whate'er you write of pleasant or fublime,
Always let fenfe accompany your rhyme :
Falfely they seem each other to oppose;
Rhyme must be made with reason'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 fhe quickly will incline,
Which, far from hurting, renders her divine:
But if neglected will as easily stray,
And mafter reafon which the fhould obey.
Love reason 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 chufe;
They think they err, if in their verfe 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 sense; but most in vain
Strive the hard pass and slippery 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,
Purfues its object till it's over-wrought:

If he describes a house, he fhews the face,
And after walks you round from place to place;
Here is a vifta, there the doors unfold,
Balconies here are balluftred with gold;

Then counts the rounds and ovals in the halls, "The feftoons, freezes, and the aftragals:"

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Tir'd with his tedious pomp away I run,
And skip o'er twenty pages to be gone.
Of fuch defcriptions the vain folly fee,
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 deserve the praise,
In writing vary your discourse and phrase;
A frozen style that neither ebbs nor flows,
Inftead 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 verse can gently steer,
From grave to light; from pleasant to fevere:
His works will be admir'd wherever found,
And oft with buyers will be compafs'd round,
In all you write be neither low nor vile :
The meaneft theme may have a proper ftyle.
The dull burlefque appear'd with impudence,
And pleas'd by novelty in spite of sense.
All, except trivial points, grew out of date;
Parnaffus fpoke the cant of Billingsgate:
Boundless and mad, diforder'd rhyme was feen:
Difguis'd Apollo chang'd to Harlequin.
This plague which firft in country towns began,
Cities and kingdoms quickly over-ran ;

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The dulleft fcribblers fome admirers found,
And the Mock Tempeft 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;
Diftinguish'd dull from natural and plain,
And left the villages to Fleckno's reign.
Let not fo mean a ftyle your mufe debase;
But learn from Butler the buffooning grace:
And let burlefque in ballads be employ'd;
Yet noify bombaft carefully avoid,

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Nor think to raife, though on Pharfalia's plain,
"Millions of mourning mountains of the flain:" 100
Nor with Dubartas bridle up the floods,

And perriwig with wool the baldpate woods.
Chufe a just style; be grave without constraint,
Great without pride, and lovely without paint!
Write what your reader may be pleas'd to hear: 105
And for the measure have a careful ear.

On easy numbers fix your happy choice;
Of jarring founds avoid the odious noise:
The fulleft verfe and the most labor'd sense
Difpleafe us, if the ear once take offence.
Our ancient verfe, as homely as the times,

Was rude, unmeafur'd, overclogg'd with rhimes;
Number and cadence, that have fince 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;
Spenfer did next in Paftorals excel,

And taught the noble art of writing well:
To stricter rules the ftanza did restrain,

And found for poetry a richer vein.

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Then D'Avenant came; who, with a new-found art,
Chang'd all, fpoil'd all, and had his way a-part:
His haughty mufe all others did despise,
And thought in triumph to bear off the prize,
"Till the sharp-fighted critics of the times,

In their Mock-Gondibert, expos'd his rhimes;
The laurels he pretended did refuse,
And dafh'd the hopes of his afpiring mufe.
This headstrong writer falling from on high,
Made following authors take less liberty.
Waller came laft, but was the first whose 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 easy words with pleafing numbers join:
His verfes to good method did apply,
And chang'd hard difcord to foft harmony.

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All own'd his laws; which, long approv'd and try'd,
To prefent authors now may be a guide.
Tread boldly in his steps, 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 discourse I turn my mind,
Nor fearch an author troublesome to find.
There is a kind of writer pleas'd with found,
Whose fuftian head with clouds is compafs'd round,
No reafon can difpcrfe them with its light;
Learn then to think ere you pretend to write.
As your idea's clear, or elfe obfcure,
The expreffion follows perfect or impure:

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