On the other hand, the poem is attributed to Lord Mulgrave in A New Collection of Poems relating to State Affairs, 1705. More important, Mulgrave positively denied Dryden's authorship, in a passage of his own Essay on Poetry, first published in 1682. (For notice of publication, see the Term Catalogue for Michaelmas Term (November) of that year: this first edition of the Essay has not been accessible to the present editor.) In the second edition of the Essay on Poetry, 1691, he made the denial more emphatic by adding sidenotes: passage and notes are as follows:

The Laureat here [in satire] may justly claim our Praise,
Crown'd by Mac-Fleckno with immortal Bays;
Tho prais'd and punish'd for another's Rhimes,
His own deserve as great Applause sometimes;
But once his Pegasus has born dead Weight,
Rid by some lumpish Minister of State.

Mr. D-n. A famous Satyrical Poem of his. A Libel, for which he was both applauded and wounded, tho intirely innocent of the whole matter.

In a later edition, 1713, of the Essay on Poetry (included by Tonson in one volume with Poems by the Earl of Roscomon, 1717), the last note becomes :

A Copy of Verses, call'd An Essay on Satyr, for which Mr. Dryden was both Applauded and Beaten, tho' not only Innocent but Ignorant, of the whole matter.

Finally, the Essay upon Satire appears in Mulgrave's Works, 1723.

Thus the evidence for Dryden's having a share in the authorship of the Essay upon Satire is extremely slender. The ascriptions of authorship in Poems on Affairs of State doubtless rested only on current gossip, and are of no authority. Lockier's testimony is emphatically at secondhand; moreover, the first part of it seems inconsistent with the conclusion. Still, Mulgrave's vanity would lead him to minimize any aid he may have received from Dryden; and even his footnote of 1713 does not state that Dryden was "ignorant " of the poem as a whole, but only of the attack on Rochester contained in it. The present editor, however, thinks it certain that Mulgrave was the real author of this poem, which is here reprinted because of its bearing on Dryden's biography, and because of the possibility that some parts of it may have been his work.]

How dull, and how insensible a beast
Is man, who yet would lord it o'er the rest!
Philosophers and poets vainly strove
In every age the lumpish mass to move:
But those were pedants, when compar'd with
these,

Who know not only to instruct, but please.
Poets alone found the delightful way,
Mysterious morals gently to convey

11

In charming numbers; so that as men grew
Pleas'd with their poems, they grew wiser too.
Satire has always shone among the rest,
And is the boldest way, if not the best,
To tell men freely of their foulest faults;
To laugh at their vain deeds, and vainer
thoughts.

In satire too the wise took different ways,
To each deserving its peculiar praise.
Some did all folly with just sharpness blame,
Whilst others laugh'd and scorn'd them into
shame;

But of these two, the last succeeded best,
As men aim rightest when they shoot in jest. 20
Yet, if we may presume to blame our guides,
And censure those who censure all besides,
In other things they justly are preferr'd;
In this alone methinks the ancients err'd':

Against the grossest follies they declaim;
Hard they pursue, but hunt ignoble game.
Nothing is easier than such blots to hit,
And 't is the talent of each vulgar wit:
Besides, 't is labor lost; for who would preach
Morals to Armstrong, or dull Aston teach? »
'Tis being devout at play, wise at a ball.
Or bringing wit and friendship to Whitehall.
But with sharp eyes those nicer faults to find,
Which lie obscurely in the wisest mind;
That little speck which all the rest does spoil,
To wash off that would be a noble toil,
Beyond the loose-writ libels of this age,
Or the fore'd scenes of our declining stage:
Above all censure, too, each little wit
Will be so glad to see the greater hit;
Who, judging better, tho' concern'd the most,
Of such correction will have cause to boast.
In such a satire all would seek a share,
And every fool will fancy he is there.
Old story-tellers too must pine and die,
To see their antiquated wit laid by ;
Like her who miss'd her name in a lampoon,
And griev'd to find herself decay'd so soon.
No common coxcomb must be mention'd here,
Nor the dull train of dancing sparks appear, »
Nor fluttering officers who never fight:

Of such a wretched rabble who would write?
Much less half wits: that's more against our

rules;

For they are fops, the other are but fools.
Who would not be as silly as Dunbar;
As dull as Monmouth, rather than Sir Carr?
The cunning courtier should be slighted too,
Who with dull knavery makes so much ado;
Till the shrewd fool, by thriving too too fast,
Like Esop's fox becomes a prey at last.
Nor shall the royal mistresses be nam'd,
Too ugly, or too easy to be blam'd;
With whom each rhyming fool keeps such a
pother,

They are as common that way as the other: Yet sauntering Charles between his beastly) brace

Meets with dissembling still in either place,
Affected humor, or a painted face.

In loyal libels we have often told him,
How one has jilted him, the other sold him :
How that affects to laugh, how this to weep; a
But who can rail so long as he can sleep?
Was ever prince by two at once misled,
False, foolish, old, ill-natur'd, and ill-bred?
Earnely and Ayles-y, with all that race
Of busy blockheads, shall have here no place;
At council set as foils on D-by's score,
To make that great false jewel shine the more;
Who all that while was thought exceeding wise,
Only for taking pains and telling lies.

But there's no meddling with such nauseous

90

Yet he will laugh at his best friends, and be
Just as good company as Nokes and Lee.
But when he aims at reason or at rule,
He turns himself the best in ridicule.
Let him at business ne'er so earnest sit,
Shew him but mirth, and bait that mirth with
wit;

100

That shadow of a jest shall be enjoy'd,
Tho' he left all mankind to be destroy'd.
So cat transform'd sat gravely and demure,
Till mouse appear'd, and thought himself secure;
But soon the lady had him in her eye,
And from her friend did just as oddly fly.
Reaching above our nature does no good;
We must fall back to our old flesh and blood;
As by our little Machiavel we find, [E. of S-y.
That nimblest creature of the busy kind.
His limbs are crippled and his body shakes;
Yet his hard mind, which all this bustle makes,
No pity of its poor companion takes.
What gravity can hold from laughing out,
To see him drag his feeble legs about?
Like hounds ill-coupled, Jowler lugs him still
Thro' hedges, ditches, and thro' all that's ill. 110
"T were crime in any man but him alone,
To use a body so, tho' 't is one's own:
Yet this false comfort never gives him o'er,
That whilst he creeps his vigorous thoughts can

soar.

Alas! that soaring, to those few that know,
Is but a busy groveling here below.
So men in rapture think they mount the sky,
Whilst on the ground th' intranced wretches

lie:

So modern fops have fancied they could fly,
Whilst 't is their heads alone are in the air, 120
And for the most part building castles there;
As the new earl, with parts deserving (E. of E-x.
praise,

And wit enough to laugh at his own ways;
Yet loses all soft days and sensual nights,
Kind nature checks, and kinder fortune slights;
Striving against his quiet all he can,
For the fine notion of a busy man.

129

And what is that at best, but one whose mind
Is made to tire himself and all mankind?
For Ireland he would go; faith, let him reign;
For if some odd fantastic lord would fain
Carry in trunks, and all my drudgery do,
I'll not only pay him but admire him too.
But is there any other beast that lives,
Who his own harm so wittily contrives?
Will any dog that hath his teeth and stones
Refin'dly leave his bitches and his bones,
To turn a wheel? and bark to be employ'd,
While Venus is by rival dogs enjoy'd?
Yet this fond man, to get a statesman's name,
Forfeits his friends, his freedom, and his fame.
Tho' satire nicely writ no humor stings
But those who merit praise in other things;
Yet we must needs this one exception make,
And break our rules for folly Tropos' sake;
Who was too much despis'd to be accus'd,
And therefore scarce deserves to be abus'd,
Rais'd only by his mercenary tongue,
From railing smoothly, and from reasoning

wrong.

139

170

Knave on the woolsack, fop at council table.
These are the grievances of such fools as would
Be rather wise than honest, great than good.
Some other kind of wits must be made known,
Whose harmless errors hurt themselves alone;
Excess of luxury they think can please,
And laziness call loving of their ease:
To live dissolv'd in pleasures still they feign,
Tho' their whole life's but intermitting pain:
So much of surfeits, headaches, claps are seen,
We scarce perceive the little time between:
Well-meaning men, who make this gross mis-
take,

180

And pleasure lose only for pleasure's sake.
Each pleasure has its price, and when we pay
Too much of pain, we squander life away.
Thus D-et, purring like a thoughtful cat,
Married, but wiser puss ne'er thought of that:
And first he worried her with railing rhyme,
Like Pembroke's mastives at his kindest time;
Then for one night sold all his slavish life,
A teeming widow, but a barren wife.
Swell'd by contact of such a fulsome toad,
He lugg'd about the matrimonial load;
Till Fortune, blindly kind as well as he,
Has ill restor'd him to his liberty;
Which he would use in all his sneaking way, 190
Drinking all night and dozing all the day;
Dull as Ned Howard, whom his brisker times
Had fam'd for dulness in malicious rhymes.
Mul-ve had much ado to scape the snare,
Tho' learn'd in those ill arts that cheat the fair:
For after all his vulgar marriage mocks,
With beauty dazzled, Numps was in the stocks;
Deluded parents dried their weeping eyes,
To see him catch his Tartar for his prize;
Th' impatient town waited the wish'd-for
change,

200

And cuckolds smil'd in hopes of sweet revenge;
Till Petworth plot made us with sorrow see,
As his estate, his person too was free.
Him no soft thoughts, no gratitude could move;
To gold he fled from beauty and from love;
Yet failing there, he keeps his freedom still,
Forc'd to live happily against his will:
'Tis not his fault, if too much wealth and pow'r
Break not his boasted quiet every hour.

And little Sid, for simile renown'd,
Pleasure has always sought but never found;
Tho' all his thoughts on wine and women fall,
His are so bad, sure he ne'er thinks at all.

210

290

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 't 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.

230

Rochester I despise for 's want of wit, Tho' thought to have a tail and cloven feet; For while he mischief means to all mankind, Himself alone the ill effects does find; And so like witches justly suffers shame, Whose harmless malice is so much the same. False are his words, affected is his wit; So often he does aim, so seldom hit; To every face he cringes while he speaks, But when the back is turn'd, the head he breaks:

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

alone

I, who have all this while been finding fault,
Even with my masters who first satire taught,
And did by that describe the task so hard,
It seems stupendous and above reward,
Now labor with unequal force to climb
That lofty hill, unreach'd by former time:
'Tis just that I should to the bottom fall,
Learn to write well, or not to write at all.

THE ART OF POETRY

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 Miscel lany 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 Dubartas' vainly writ,

1 Dubartas, translated by Sylvester.

91

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;

30

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; 70
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

seen;

1 Verse of Scudéry,

60

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;

4

101

110

Number and cadence, that have since been shown,

6

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;

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