HORACE's EPISTLE TO THE PISOS

What if a Painter, in his art to shine, A human head and horse's neck should join; From various creatures put the limbs together, Cover'd with plumes, from ev'ry bird a feather; And in a filthy tail the figure drop, A fish at bottom, a fair maid at top: Viewing a picture of this strange condition, Would you not laugh at such an exhibition? Trust me, my Pisos, wild as this may seem, The volume such, where, like a sick-man's dream, Extravagant conceits throughout prevail, Gross and fantastick, neither head nor tail. " Poets and Painters ever were allow'd " Some daring flight above the vulgar croud." True: we indulge them in that daring flight, And challenge in our turn an equal right: But not the soft and savage to combine, Serpents to doves, to tigers lambkins join.

Oft works of promise large, and high attempt, Are piec'd and guarded, to escape contempt, With here and there a remnant highly drest, That glitters thro' the gloom of all the rest. Then Dian's grove and altar are the theme, Then thro' rich meadows winds the silver stream; The River Rhine, perhaps, adorns the lines, Or the gay Rainbow in description shines. These we allow have each their several grace; But each and several now are out of place.

A cypress you can draw; what then? you're hir'd, And from your art a sea-piece is requir'd; A shipwreck'd mariner, despairing, faint, (The price paid down) you are ordain'd to paint. On with your art! proceed as you begun! Why dwindle to a cruet from a tun? Simple be all you execute, and one!

Lov'd sire! lov'd sons, well worthy such a sire! Most bards are dupes to beauties they admire. Proud to be brief, for brevity must please, I grow obscure; the follower of ease Wants nerve and soul; the lover of sublime Swells to bombast; while he who dreads that crime, Too fearful of the whirlwind rising round, A wretched reptile, creeps along the ground. The bard, ambitious fancies who displays, And tortures one poor thought a thousand ways, Heaps prodigies on prodigies; in woods Pictures the dolphin, and the boar in stoods! Thus ev'n the fear of faults to faults betrays, Unless a master-hand conduct the lays.

An under workman of th' Aemilian class, Shall mould the nails, and trace the hair in brass, Bungling at last; because his narrow soul Wants room to comprehend a perfect whole. To be this man, would I a work compose, No more I'd wish, than for a horrid nose, With hair as black as jet, and eyes as black as sloes.

Select, all ye who write, a subject fit, A subject, not too mighty for your wit! And ere you lay your shoulders to the wheel, Weigh well their strength, and all their weakness feel! He, who his subject happily can chuse, Wins to his favour the benignant Muse; For him shall Eloquence her stores display, And beauteous Order trace and clear his way.

Order, I trust, may boast, nor boast in vain, These Virtues and these Graces in her train. What on the instant should be said, to say; Things, best reserv'd at present, to delay; Guiding the bard, thro' his continu'd verse, What to reject, and when; and what rehearse.

To words establish'd by long usage, true, With innovations, or adoptions, few, Happy your art, if by a cunning phrase To a new meaning a known word you raise: If calling from the dark abyss of time, " Things unattempted yet in prose or rhime," Oft stern necessity exacts some word, By the strait-lac'd Cethegi never heard; Take without blame, yet take with coyness too, The licence to your arduous subject due. New, or but recent, words shall have their course, If drawn discreetly from the Grecian source. What Plautus and Cecilius safely claim, Shall Rome in Virgil, and in Varius, blame? Or if myself should some few words explore, Shall I be envied for my little store? Cato, and Ennius, while our style was young, With many a sterling phrase enrich'd our tongue; And We, our Sires, and Sons, without a crime; May stamp on words the coinage of the time. As branching woods let fall, and change their leaves, Our language too a change of words receives: Year after year drop off the ancient race, While young ones bud and flourish in their place. Nor we, nor all we do, can death withstand; Whether the Sea, imprison'd in the land, A work imperial! takes a harbour's form, Where navies ride secure, and mock the storm; Whether the Marsh, within whose horrid shore Barrenness dwelt, and boatmen plied the oar, Now furrow'd by the plough, a laughing plain, Feeds all the cities round with fertile grain; Or if the River, by a prudent force, The corn once flooding, learns a better course. The works of mortal man shall all decay; And words are grac'd and honour'd but a day: Many shall wake reviv'd, that now lie dead; Many shall fade, and all their glories shed; Custom alone their rank and date can teach, Custom, the sov'reign, law, and rule of speech.

For deeds of kings and chiefs, and battles fought, What numbers are most fitting, Homer taught:

Couplets unequal were at first confin'd To speak in broken verse the mourner's mind. Prosperity at length, and free content, In the same numbers gave their raptures vent; But who first fram'd the Elegy's small song, Grammarians squabble, and will squabble long.

Archilochus, resentment's bitter rage Arm'd with his own Iambicks to engage: With these the humble Sock, and Buskin proud, Shap'd dialogue; and still'd the noisy croud; Embrac'd the measure, prov'd its ease and force, And found it apt for business or discourse.

Gods, and the sons of Gods, in Odes to sing, The Muse attunes her Lyre, and strikes the string; Victorious Boxers, Racers, mark the line, The cares of youthful love, and joys of wine.

The various outline of each work to fill, If nature gives no pow'r, and art no skill; If, marking nicer shades, I miss my aim, Why am I greet with a Poet's name? Or if, thro' ignorance, I can't discern, Why, from false modesty, forbear to learn?

A comick incident loaths tragick strains: Thy feast, Thyestes, lowly verse disdains; Familiar diction scorns, as base and mean, Touching too nearly on the comick scene. Each style allotted to its proper place, Let each appear with its peculiar grace! Yet Comedy at times exalts her strain, And angry Chremes storms in swelling vein: The tragick hero, plung'd in deep distress, Sinks with his fate, and makes his language less. Peleus and Telephus, poor, banish'd! each Drops his foot-half-foot words, and sounding speech; Or else, what bosom in his grief takes part, Which cracks the ear, but cannot touch the heart!

'Tis not enough that Plays are polish'd, chaste, Or trickt in all the harlotry of taste, They must have ppassion too; beyond controul Transporting where they please the hearer's soul. With those that smile, our face in smiles appears; With those that weep, our cheeks are bath'd in tears: To make me grieve, be first your anguish shown, And I shall feel your sorrows like my own. Peleus, and Telephus! unless your style Suit with your circumstance, I'll sleep, or smile. Features of sorrow mournful words require; Anger in menace speaks, and words of fire: The playful prattle in a frolick vein, And the severe affect a serious strain: For Nature first, to every varying wind Of changeful fortune, shapes the pliant mind; Sooths it with pleasure, or to rage provokes, Or brings it to the ground by sorrow's heavy strokes; Then of the joys that charm'd, or woes that wrung, Forces expression from the faithful tongue: But if the actor's words belie his state, And speak a language foreign to his fate, Romans shall crack their sides, and all the town Join, horse and foot, to laugh th' impostor down.

Just Dialogue, to every speaker fit, Their several rank and character should hit; Hero, or God; the Sire sedate and grave, Or the warm Youth to passion still a slave; Matron, or Nurse; the Merchant us'd to roam, Or Farmer ploughing his rich field at home: If Colchian, or Assyrian, fill the scene, Theban, or Argian, note the shades between!

Follow the Voice of Fame; or if you feign, The fabled plan consistently sustain! If Homer's hero you bring back to view, Shew your Achilles such as Homer drew; Active, warm, brave, impetuous, high of soul, Calling to arms! and brooking no controul: Fierce let Medea seem, in horrors clad; Perfidious be Ixion, Ino sad; Io a wand'rer, and Orestes mad!

Should you, advent'ring novelty, engage Some bold Original to tread the Stage, True to the parent mould in which 'twas cast, Sustain the character from first to last.

Yet hard the task to touch on untried facts: Safer the Iliad to reduce to acts, Than be the first new regions to explore, And dwell on themes unknown, untold before.

Quit but the vulgar, broad, and beaten round, The publick field becomes your private ground: Nor word for word too faithfully translate; Nor leap at once into a narrow strait, A copyist so close, that rule and line Curb your free march, and all your steps confine!

Be not your opening fierce, in accents bold, Like the rude ballad-monger's chaunt of old; " The fall of Priam, the great Trojan King! " Of the right noble Trojan War, I sing!" Where ends this Boaster, who, with voice of thunder, Wakes Expectation, all agape with wonder? The mountains labour! hush'd are all the spheres! And, oh ridiculous! a mouse appears. How much more modestly begins HIS song, Who labours, or imagines, nothing wrong! " Say, Muse, the Man, who, after Troy's disgrace, " In various cities mark'd the human race!" Not flame to smoke he turns, but smoke to light, Kindling from thence a stream of glories bright: Antiphates, the Cyclops, raise the theme; Scylla, Charibdis, fill the pleasing dream. He goes not back to Meleager's death, With Diomed's return to run you out of breath; Nor from the Double Egg, the tale to mar, Traces the story of the Trojan War: Still hurrying to th' event, at once he brings His hearer to the heart and soul of things; And what won't bear the light, in shadow flings. So well he feigns, so well contrives to blend Fiction and Truth, that all his labours tend True to one point, persu'd from end to end.

Hear now, what I expect, and all the town, If you would wish applause your play to crown, And patient fitters, 'till the cloth goes down!

Man's several ages with attention view, His flying years, and changing nature too.

The Boy, who now his words can freely sound, And with a steadier footstep prints the ground, Places in playfellows his chief delight, Quarrels, shakes hands, and cares not wrong or right: Sway'd by each fav'rite bauble's short-liv'd pow'r, In smiles, in tears, all humours ev'ry hour.

The beardless Youth, at length from tutor free, Loves horses, hounds, the field, and liberty: Pliant as wax, to vice his easy soul, Marble to wholesome counsel and controul; Improvident of good, of wealth profuse; High; fond, yet fickle; generous, yet loose.

To graver studies, new pursuits inclin'd, Manhood, with growing years, brings change of mind: Seeks riches, friends; with thirst of honour glows; And all the meanness of ambition knows; Prudent, and wary, on each deed intent, Fearful to act, and afterwards repent.

Evil in various shapes Old Age surrounds; Riches his aim, in riches he abounds; Yet what he gain'd in fear, he fears to lose; And what he sought as useful, dares not use. Timid and cold in all he undertakes, His hand from doubt, as well as weakness, shakes; Hope makes him tedious, fond of dull delay; Dup'd by to-morrow, tho' he dies to-day; Ill-humour'd, querulous; yet loud in praise Of all the mighty deeds of former days; When he was young, good heavens, what glorious times! Unlike the present age, that teems with crimes!

Thus years advancing many comforts bring, And, flying, bear off many on their wing: Confound not youth with age, nor age with youth, But mark their several characters with truth!

Events are on the stage in act display'd, Or by narration, if unseen, convey'd. Cold is the tale distilling thro' the ear, Filling the soul with less dismay and fear, Than where spectators view, like standers-by, The deed submitted to the faithful eye. Yet force not on the stage, to wound the sight, Acts that should pass within, and shun the light! Many there are the eye should ne'er behold, But touching Eloquence in time unfold: Who on Medea's parricide can look? View horrid Atreus human garbage cook? If a bird's feathers I see Progne take, If I see Cadmus slide into a snake, My faith revolts; and I condemn outright The fool that shews me such a silly sight.

Let not your play have fewer acts than five, Nor more, if you would wish it run and thrive!

Draw down no God, unworthily betray'd, Unless some great occasion ask his aid!

Let no fourth person, labouring for a speech, Make in the dialogue a needless breach!

An actor's part the CHORUS should sustain, Gentle in all its office, and humane; Chaunting no Odes between the acts, that seem Unapt, or foreign to the general theme. Let it to Virtue prove a guide and friend, Curb tyrants, and the humble good defend! Loud let it praise the joys that Temperance waits; Of Justice sing, the real health of States; The Laws; and Peace, secure with open gates! Faithful and secret, let it heav'n invoke To turn from the unhappy fortune's stroke, And all its vengeance on the proud provoke!

The Pipe of old, as yet with brass unbound, Nor rivalling, as now, the Trumpet's sound, But slender, simple, and its stops but few, Breath'd to the Chorus; and was useful too: No crouded seats wedg'd close, and closer still, Then asking pow'rful blasts their space to fill; When the thin audience, pious, frugal, chaste, With modest mirth indulg'd their sober taste. But soon as the proud Victor spurns all bounds, And growing Rome a wider wall surrounds; When noontide revels, and the daylight bowl, Licence on holidays a flow of soul; A richer stream of melody is known, Numbers more copious, and a fuller tone. —For what, alas! could the unpractis'd ear Of rusticks, revelling o'er country cheer, A motley groupe! high, low; and froth, and scum; Distinguish but shrill squeak, and dronish hum?— The Piper, grown luxuriant in his art, With dance and flowing vest embellishes his part! Now too, its pow'rs increas'd, the Lyre severe With richer numbers smites the list'ning ear: Sudden bursts forth a flood of rapid song, Rolling a tide of eloquence along: Useful, prophetic, wise, the strain divine Breathes all the spirit of the Delphick shrine.

He who the prize, a filthy goat, to gain, At first contended in the tragick strain, Soon too—tho' rude, the graver mood unbroke,— Stript the rough SATYRS, and essay'd a joke: For holiday-spectators, flush'd, and wild, With new conceits, and mummeries, were beguil'd. Yet should the Satyrs so chastise their mirth, Temp'ring the jest that gives their sallies birth; Changing from grave to gay, so keep the mean, That God or Heroe of the lofty scene, In royal gold and purple seen but late, May ne'er in cots obscure debase his state, Lost in low language; nor in too much care To shun the ground, grasp clouds, and empty air. With an indignant pride, and coy disdain, Stern Tragedy rejects too light a vein: Like a grave Matron, destin'd to advance On solemn festivals to join the dance, Mixt with the shaggy tribe of Satyrs rude, She'll hold a sober mien, and act the prude. Ne'er would I, Pisos, in the Sylvan scene, Use abject terms alone, and phrases mean; Nor of high Tragick colouring afraid, Neglect too much the difference of shade! Davus may jest, pert Pythias may beguile Simo of cash, in a familiar style; The same low strain Silenus would disgrace, Servant and guardian of the Godlike race.

Let me on subjects known my verse so frame, So follow it, that each may hope the same; Daring the same, and toiling to prevail, May vainly toil, and only dare to fail! Such virtues order and connection bring, From common arguments such honours spring.

The woodland Fauns their origin should heed, Take no town stamp, nor seem the city breed; Nor let them, aping young gallants, repeat Verses that run upon too tender feet; Nor fall into a low, indecent stile, Breaking dull jests to make the vulgar smile! For higher ranks such ribaldry despise, Condemn the Poet, and withhold the prize.

To a short Syllable a long subjoin'd Forms an Iambick foot; so light a kind, That when six pure Iambicks roll'd along, So nimbly mov'd, so trippingly the song, The feet to half their number lost their claim, And Trimeter Iambicks was their name. Hence, that the measure might more grave appear, And with a slower march approach the ear, From the fourth foot, and second, not displac'd, The steady spondee kindly it embrac'd; Then in firm union socially unites, Admitting the ally to equal rights. Accius, and Ennius lines, thus duly wrought, In their bold Trimeters but rarely sought: Yet scenes o'erloaded with a verse of lead, A mass of heavy numbers on their head, Speak careless haste, neglect in ev'ry part, Or shameful ignorance of the Poet's art.

" Not ev'ry Critick spies a faulty strain, And pardon Roman Poets should disdain." Shall I then all regard, all labour slight, Break loose at once, and all at random write? Or shall I fear that all my faults descry, Viewing my errors with an Eagle eye, And thence correctness make my only aim, Pleas'd to be safe, and sure of 'scaping blame? Thus I from faults indeed may guard my lays; But neither they, nor I, can merit praise.

Pisos! be Graecian models your delight! Night and day read them, read them day and night! " Well! but our fathers Plautus lov'd to praise, " Admir'd his humour, and approv'd his lays." Yes; they saw both with a too partial eye, Fond e'en to folly sure, if you and I Know ribaldry from humour, chaste and terse, Or can but scan, and have an ear for verse.

A kind of Tragick Ode unknown before, THESPIS, 'tis said, invented first, and bore Cart-loads of verse about; and with him went A troop begrim'd, to sing and represent. Next, AESCHYLUS, a Mask to shroud the face, A Robe devis'd, to give the peson grace; On humble rafters rais'd a Stage, and taught The buskin'd actor, with his spirit fraught, To breathe with dignity the lofty thought. To these succeeded, with no little praise The good OLD COMEDY of antient days; 'Till Liberty, grown rank and run to seed, Call'd for tho hand of Law to pluck the weed: The Statute past; the sland'rous Chorus, drown'd In shameful silence, lost the pow'r to wound.

Nothing have Roman Poets left untried, Nor added little to their Country's pride; Daring their Graecian Masters to forsake, And for their themes Domestick Glories take; Whether the Gown prescrib'd an air more mean, Or the Inwoven Purple rais'd the scene: Nor would the splendour of the Latian name From arms, than Letters, boast a brighter fame, Had they not, scorning the laborious file, Grudg'd time, to mellow and refine their style. But you, bright hopes of the Pompilian Blood, Never the verse approve and hold as good, 'Till many a day, and many a blot has wrought The polish'd work, and chasten'd ev'ry thought, By tenfold labour to perfection brought!

Because Democritus thinks wretched Art Too mean with Genius to sustain a part, To Helicon allowing no pretence, 'Till the mad bard has lost all common sense; Many there are, their nails who will not pare, Or trim their beards, or bathe, or take the air: For he, no doubt, must be a bard renown'd, That head with deathless laurel must be crown'd, Tho' past the pow'r of Hellebore insane, Which no vile Cutberd's razor'd hands profane. Ah luckless I, each spring that purge the bile! Or who'd write better? but 'tis scarce worth while: So as mere hone, my services I pledge; Edgeless itself, it gives the steel an edge: No writer I, to those that write impart The nature and the duty of their art: Whence springs the fund; what forms the bard, to know; What nourishes his pow'rs, and makes them grow; What's fit or unfit; whither genius tends; And where fond ignorance and dulness ends.

In Wisdom, Moral Wisdom, to excell, Is the chief cause and spring of writing well. Draw elements from the Socratick source, And, full of matter, words will rise of course; He who hath learnt a patriot's glorious flame; What friendship asks; what filial duties claim; The ties of blood; and secret links that bind The heart to strangers, and to all mankind; The Senator's, the Judge's peaceful care, And sterner duties of the Chief in war! These who hath studied well, will all engage In functions suited to their rank and age. On Nature's pattern too I'll bid him look, And copy manners from her living book. Sometimes 'twill chance, a poor and barren tale, Where neither excellence nor art prevail, With now and then a passage of some merit, And Characters sustain'd, and drawn with spirit, Pleases the people more, and more obtains, Than tuneful nothings, mere poetick strains.

The Sons of Greece the fav'ring Muse inspir'd, Inflam'd their souls, and with true genius fir'd: Taught by the Muse, they sung the loftiest lays, And knew no avarice but that of praise. The Lads of Rome, to study fractions bound, Into an hundred parts can split a pound. " Say, Albin's Hopeful! from five twelfths an ounce, " And what remains?"—"a Third."—"Well said, young Pounce! " You're a made man!—but add an ounce,—what then?" "A Half." "Indeed! surprising! good again!" From minds debas'd with such a sordid lust, Canker'd and eaten up with this vile rust, Can we a verse, that gives the Genius scope, Worthy the Cedar, and the Cypress, hope?

Instruction to convey or give delight, Or both at once to compass, Poets write.

Short be your precepts, and th' impression strong, That minds may catch them quick, and hold them long! The bosom full, and satisfied the taste, All that runs over will but run to waste.

Fictions, to please, like truths must meet the eye, Nor must the Fable tax our faith too high. Shall Lamia in our sight her sons devour, And give them back alive the self-same hour?

The Old, if Moral's wanting, damn the Play; And Sentiment disgusts the Young and Gay.

He who instruction and delight can blend, Please with his fancy, with his moral mend, Hits the nice point, and every vote obtains: His work a fortune to the Sosii gains; Flies over seas, and on the wings of Fame Carries from age to age the writer's deathless name.

Yet there are faults that we may pardon too: For ah! the string won't always answer true; But, spite of hand and mind, the treach'rous harp Will sound a flat, when we intend a sharp: The bow, not always constant and the same, Will sometimes carry wide, and lose its aim. But in the verse where many beauties shine, I blame not here and there a feeble line; Nor take offence at ev'ry idle trip, Where haste prevails, or nature makes a slip. What's the result then? Why thus stands the case. As the Transcriber, in the self-same place Who still mistakes, tho' warned of his neglect, No pardon for his blunders can expect; Or as the Minstrel his disgrace must bring, Who harps for ever on the same false string; From faults scarce ever free, the Poet thus Appears to me a very CHAERIBUS, Who twice or thrice, by some adventure rare, Stumbling on beauties, makes me smile and stare; Me, who am griev'd and vex'd to the extreme, If Homer seem to nod, or chance to dream: Tho' in a work of length o'erlabour'd sleep At intervals may, not unpardon'd, creep.

Poems and Pictures are adjudg'd alike; Some charm us near, and some at distance strike: This loves the shade; this challenges the light, Daring the keenest Critick's Eagle sight; This once has pleas'd; this ever will delight.

O THOU, MY PISO's ELDER HOPE AND PRIDE! THO' WELL A FATHER's VOICE THY STEPS CAN GUIDE; THO' INBRED SENSE WHAT's WISE AND RIGHT CAN TELL, REMEMBER THIS FROM ME, AND WEIGH IT WELL! In certain things, things neither high nor proud, Middling and passable may be allow'd. A moderate proficient in the laws, A moderate defender of a cause, Boasts not Messala's pleadings, nor is deem'd Aulus in Jurisprudence; yet esteem'd: But middling Poets, or degrees in Wit, Nor men, nor Gods, nor rubrick-posts admit. At festivals, as musick out of tune, Ointment, or honey, rank, disgust us soon, Because they're not essential to the guest, And might be spar'd, unless the very best; Thus Poetry, so exquisite of kind, Of Pleasure born, to charm the soul design'd, If it fall short but little of the first, Is counted last, and rank'd among the worst.

The Man, unapt for sports of fields and plains, From implements of exercise abstains; For ball, or quoit, or hoop, without the skill, Dreading the croud's derision, he sits still; For Poetry he boasts no spark of fire, And yet to Poetry he dares aspire: And why not? he's a Gentleman, with clear Good forty thousand sesterces a year; A freeman too; and all the world allows, " As honest as the skin between his brows!"

Nothing, in spite of Genius, YOU'LL, commence; Such is your judgment, such your solid sense! But if hereafter you should write, the verse To Metius, to your Sire, to me, rehearse. Let it sink deep in their judicious ears! Weigh the work well; and keep it back nine years! Papers unpublish'd you may blot or burn: A word, once utter'd, never can return.

The barb'rous natives of the shaggy wood From horrible repasts, and acts of blood, ORPHEUS, a priest, and heav'nly teacher, brought, And all the charities of nature taught: Whence he was said fierce tigers to allay, And sing the Savage Lion from his prey. Within the hollow of AMPHION's shell Such pow'rs of sound were lodg'd, so sweet a spell! That stones were said to move, and at his call, Charm'd to his purpose, form'd the Theban Wall.

The love of Moral Wisdom to infuse These were the Labours of THE ANCIENT MUSE. " To mark the limits, where the barriers stood " 'Twixt Private Int'rest, and the Publick Good; " To raise a pale, and firmly to maintain " The bound, that sever'd Sacred from Profane; " To shew the ills Promiscuous Love should dread, " And teach the laws of the Connubial Bed; " Mankind dispers'd, to Social Towns to draw; " And on the Sacred Tablet grave the Law." Thus fame and honour crown'd the Poet's line; His work immortal, and himself divine!

Next lofty HOMER, and TYRTAEUS strung Their Epick Harps, and Songs of Glory sung; Sounding a charge, and calling to the war The Souls that bravely feel, and nobly dare.

In Verse the Oracles their sense make known, In Verse the road and rule of life is shewn; Verse to the Poet royal favour brings, And leads the Muses to the throne of Kings; Verse too, the varied Scene and sports prepares, Brings rest to toil, and balm to all our cares. DEEM THEN WITH REV'RENCE OF THE HALLOW'D FIRE, BREATH'D BY THE MUSE, THE MISTRESS OF THE LYRE! BLUSH NOT TO OWN HER POW'R, HER GLORIOUS FLAME; NOR THINK APOLLO, LORD OF SONG, THY SHAME!

Whether good verse of Nature is the fruit, Or form'd by Art, has long been in dispute. But what can Labour in a barren soil, Or what rude Genius profit without toil? The wants of one the other must supply; Each finds in each a friend and firm ally. Much has the Youth, who pressing in the race Pants for the promis'd goal and forermost place, Suffer'd and done; borne heat, and cold's extremes, And Wine and Women scorn'd as empty dreams. The Piper, who the Pythian Measure plays, In fear of a hard master learnt the lays: But if to desp'rate verse I would apply, What needs instruction? 'tis enough to cry, " I can write Poems, to strike wonder blind! " Plague take the hindmost! Why leave me behind! " Or why extort a truth, so mean and low, " That what I have not learnt, I cannot know?"

As the sly Hawker, who a sale prepares, Collects a crowd of bidders for his wares, The Poet, warm in land, and rich in cash, Assembles flatterers, brib'd to praise his trash. But if he keeps a table, drinks good wine, And gives his hearers handsomely to dine; If he'll stand bail, from suits poor debtors draw Entangled in the cobwebs of the law; Much shall I praise his luck, his sense commend, If he discern the flatterer from the friend. Is there a man to whom you've given aught? Or mean to give? let no such man be brought To hear your verses! for at every line, Bursting with joy, he'll cry, "Good! rare? divine!" The blood will leave his cheek; his eyes will fill With tears, and soon the friendly dew distill: He'll leap with extacy, with rapture bound; Clap with both hands; with both feet beat the ground. As mummers, at a funeral hir'd to weep, More coil of woe than real mourners keep, More mov'd appears the laughter in his sleeve, Than those who truly praise, or smile, or grieve. Kings have been said to ply repeated bowls, Urge deep carousals, to unlock the souls Of those, whose loyalty they wish'd to prove, And know, if false, or worthy of their love: You then, to writing verse if you're inclin'd, Beware the Spaniel with the Fox's mind!

Quintilius, when he heard you ought recite, Cried, "prithee, alter this! and make that right!" But if your pow'r to mend it you denied, Swearing that twice and thrice in vain you tried; " Then blot it out! (he cried) it must be terse: " Back to the anvil with your ill-turn'd verse!" Still if you chose the error to defend, Rather than own, or take the pains to mend, He said no more; no more vain trouble took; But left you to admire yourself and book.

The Man, in whom Good Sense and Honour join, Will blame the harsh, reprove the idle line; The rude, all grace neglected or forgot, Eras'd at once, will vanish at his blot: Ambitious ornaments he'll lop away; On things obscure he'll make you let in day; Loose and ambiguous terms he'll not admit, And take due note of ev'ry change that's fit. A very ARISTARCHUS he'll commence; Not coolly say—"Why give my friend offence? These are but trifles!"—No; these trifles lead To serious mischiefs, if he don't succeed; While the poor friend in dark disgrace sits down, The butt and laughing-stock of all the town.

As one, eat up by Leprosy and Itch, Moonstruck, Possess'd, or hag-rid by a Witch, A Frantick Bard puts men of sense to flight; His slaver they detest, and dread his bite: All shun his touch; except the giddy boys, Close at his heels, who hunt him down with noise. While with his head erect he threats the skies, Spouts verse, and walks without the help of eyes; Lost as a blackbird-catcher, should he pitch Into some open well, or gaping ditch; Tho' he call lustily "help, neighbours, help!" No soul regards him, or attends his yelp. Should one, too kind, to give him succour hope, Wish to relieve him, and let down a rope; Forbear! (I'll cry) for aught that you can tell, By sheer design he jump'd into the well. He wishes not you should preserve him, Friend! Know you the old Sicilian Poet's end? Empedocles, ambitious to be thought A God, his name with Godlike honours sought, Holding a worldly life of no account, Leap'd coldly into Aetna's burning mount.— Let Poets then with leave resign their breath, Licens'd and privileg'd to rush on death! Who forces life on man against his will, Murders the man, as much as those who kill. 'Tis not once only he hath done this deed; Nay, drag him forth! your kindness wo'n't succeed: Nor will he take again a mortal's shame, And lose the glory of a death of fame. Nor is't apparent, why with verse he's wild: Whether his father's ashes he defil'd: Whether, the victim of incestuous love, The Blasted Monument he striv'd to move: Whate'er the cause, he raves; and like a Bear, Burst from his cage, and loose in open air, Learn'd and unlearn'd the Madman puts to flight, They quick to fly, he bitter to recite! What hapless soul he siezes, he holds fast; Rants, and repeats, and reads him dead at last: Hangs on him, ne'er to quit, with ceaseless speech, Till gorg'd and full of blood, a very Leech!