Happy who in his verse can gently steer,
From grave to light; from pleasant to severe :
His works will be admir'd where-ever found,
And oft with buyers will be compass'd round.
In all you write be neither low nor vile :
The meaneft theme may have a proper ftyle.
The dull burlesque 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All, except trivial points, grew out of date;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:

Difguis'd Apollo chang'd to Harlequin.

This plague which firft 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 last despis'd,
And scorn'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 burlesque in ballads be employ'd;
Yet noify bombaft carefully avoid,

Nor think to raise, tho on Pharfalia's plain, "Millions of mourning mountains of the flain :" 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 ;
And for the measure have a careful ear.
On eafy numbers fix your happy choice;
Of jarring founds avoid the odious noise:
The fullest verse and the most labor'd sense,
Displease us, if the ear once take offence.
Our ancient verse, as homely as the times,
Was rude, unmeafur'd, only tagg'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;

Spencer did next in Paftorals excel,

And taught the noble art of writing well:
To ftricter rules the stanza did restrain,

And found for poetry a richer vein.

Then D'Avenant came; who, with a new-found

art,

Chang'd all, fpoil'd all, and had his way a-part:

His haughty muse 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 aspiring muse.
This headstrong writer falling from on high,
Made following authors take lefs liberty.
Waller came laft, but was the first whofe art
Just 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 difcord to foft harmony.
Allown'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 fenfe 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,
Whofe fuftian head with clouds is compafs'd round,

No reason can disperse them with its light: Learn then to think ere you pretend to write. your idea's clear, or else obscure,

As

The expreffion follows perfect or impure:
What we conceive with ease we can express;
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 smootheft verfe and the exactest sense
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 or delight.

Take time for thinking; never work in haste ; And value not yourself 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

roar,

With foamy waters on a muddy fhore.
Gently make hafte, of labor not afraid;
A hundred times confider what you've said :

;

Polish, repolish, every color lay,
And fometimes add, but oftener take away.
'Tis not enough when swarming faults are writ,
That here and there are scatter'd sparks of wit
Each object must be fix'd in the due place,
And differing parts have correfponding grace:
Till by a curious art difpos'd, we find
One perfect whole, of all the pieces join'd.
Keep to your subject close in all you say;
Nor for a founding fentence ever ftray.
The public cenfure 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 feems to like, but means not what he fays:
Embrace true counfel, but fufpect false praise.
A fycophant will every thing admire :

Each verfe, each fentence fets his foul on fire:
All is divine! there's not a word amifs!

He shakes with joy, and weeps with tenderness,
He overpow'rs you with his mighty praise.
Truth never moves in thofe impetuous ways: