And what can more be hop'd, since that divine Free filling spirit takes its flight with thine?
Men may have fury, but no raptures now,
Like witches charm, yet not know whence, nor how,
And through distemper grown not strong, but fierce,
Instead of writing, only rave in verse *;
Which when by thy laws judg'd, 'twill be confess'd
'Twas not to be inspir'd, but be possess'd.
Where shall we find a Muse like thine, that can
So well present, and show man unto man,
That each one finds his twin, and thinks thy art
Extends not to the gestures, but the heart?
Where one so showing life to life, that we
Think thou taught'st custom, and not custom thee;
Manners were themes, and to thy scenes still flow
In the same stream, and are their comments now;
These times thus living o'er thy models, we
Think them not so much wit, as prophecy;
And though we know the character, nay and swear
A sybil's finger hath been busy there.
Things common thou speak'st proper†, which though known
For public, stamp'd by thee, grow thence thine own;
Thy thought's so ordered, so express'd, that we
Conclude that thou didst not discourse, but see:
Language so master'd that thy numerous feet
Laden with genuine words do always meet
Each in his art, nothing unfit doth fall,
Showing the poet, like the wise men, all.
* Instead of writing, only rave in verse.] This is what Pope calls "rhyming with all the rage of impotence." Essay on Criticism, 1. 612.
+ Things common thou speak'st proper.] A very difficult branch of the art to manage with dexterity, which Horace has remarked:
Difficile est propriè communia dicere. De Art. Poet. 128.
Thine equal skill thus wresting nothing, made
Thy pen seem not so much to write, as trade.
That life, that Venus of all things *, which we
Conceive or show, proportion'd decency,
Is not found scatter'd in thee here or there,
But like the soul is wholly every where;
No strange perplexed maze doth pass for plot,
Thou always dost untie, not cut the knot:
Thy labyrinth's doors are open'd by one thread,
Which ties and runs through all that's done or said;
No power comes down with learned hat or rod,
Wit only and contrivance is thy god.
"Tis easy to gild gold, there's small skill spent
Where e'en the first rude mass is ornament;
Thy Muse took harder metals, purg'd and boil'd,
Labour'd and try'd, heated and beat, and toil'd,
Sifted the dross, fil'd roughness, then gave dress,
Vexing rude subjects into comeliness;
Be it thy glory then that we may say,
Thou run'st where the foot was hind'red by the way.
Nor dost thou pour out, but dispense thy vein,
Skill'd when to spare, and when to entertain;
Not like our wits, who into one piece do
Throw all that they can say and their friends too:
Pumping themselves for one term's noise so dry
As if they made their wills in poetry.
And such spruce compositions press the stage
When men transcribe themselves, and not the age;
Both sorts of plays are thus like pictures shown,
Thine of the common life, theirs of their own.
That life, that Venus of all things.] Probably immediately taken from Horace :
Ordinis hæc virtus erit et Venus.
Thy models yet are not so fram'd as we
May call them libels, and not imag'ry;
No name on any basis; 'tis thy skill
To strike the vice, but spare the person still:
As he who, when he saw the serpent wreath'd
About his sleeping son, and as he breath'd,
Drink in his soul, did so the shoot contrive,
To kill the beast, but keep the child alive;
So dost thou aim thy darts, which even when
They kill the poisons, do but wake the men.
Thy thunders thus but
purge, and we endure
Thy lancings better than another's cure;
And justly too, for th' age grows more unsound
From the fool's balsam, than the wise man's wound †.
No rotten talk breaks for a laugh; no page
Commenc'd man by th' instructions of thy stage;
No bargaining line there; no provoc❜tive verse;
Nothing but what Lucretia might rehearse;
No need to make good count'nance ill, and use
The plea of strict life for a looser Muse;
No woman rul'd thy quill: we can descry
No verse born under any Cynthia's eye;
*As he who, when he saw the serpent wreath'd, &c.] The name of the archer here alluded to is Alcon. The following is Servius's note in a folio edition of Virgil, printed at Paris, 1500. See Eclogue xi. 5. "Alcon is Cretensis est Sagittarius: et cum draco ejus puerum complexus est, adeo suâ arte temperavit ictum sagittæ, ut in dracone transfixo consisteret, neque ad puerum perveniret." According to the common Delphin edition, the child's name was Phaleris. But this story cannot, without the utmost absurdity, be applied to the shepherd in Virgil, called Alcon, which, without doubt, was a common-place proper name for a pastoral character. See an Epigram on this story in Brunck's Analecta, Vol. I. p. 167.
........the age grows more unsound
From the fool's balsam, than the wise man's wound.] See Pope's Essay on Criticism, from line 575 to 580.
Thy star was judgment only and right sense,
Thyself being to thyself an influence:
Stout beauty is thy grace; stern pleasures do
Present delights, but mingle horrors too:
Thy Muse doth thus like Jove's fierce girl appear,
With a fair hand, but grasping of a spear.
Where are they now that cry thy lamp did drink
More oil than th' author wine while he did think?
We do embrace their slander; thou hast writ
Not for dispatch, but fame; no market wit;
"Twas not thy care that it might pass and sell,
But that it might endure, and be done well;
Nor would'st thou venture it unto the ear,
Until the file would not make smooth, but wear:
Thy verse came season'd hence, and would not give;
Born not to feed the author, but to live:
Whence 'mong the choicer judges rose a strife,
To make thee read a classic in thy life,
Those that do hence applause, and suffrage beg,
Cause they can poems form upon one leg,
Write not to time, but to the poet's day;
There's difference between fame and sudden pay :
These men sing kingdoms false, as if that Fate
Us'd the same force to a village and a state;
These serve Thyestes' bloody supper in,
As if it only had a salad been;
Their Catilines are but fencers, whose fights rise
Not to the fame of battle but of prize.
But thou still put'st true passions on; dost write
With the same courage that try'd captains fight;
Giv'st the right blush and colour unto things;
Low without creeping *, high without loss of wings;
* Low without creeping, &c.] Thus Denham, in his popular lines, addressing the Thames :
Smooth, yet not weak, and by a thorough care,
Big without swelling, without painting, fair;
They, wretches, while they cannot stand to fit,
Are not wits, but materials of wit.
What though thy searching Muse did rake the dust
Of time, and purge old metals of their rust?
Is it no labour, no art, think they, to
Snatch shipwrecks from the deep as divers do?
And rescue jewels from the covetous sand,
Making the sea's hid wealth adorn the land?
What though thy culling Muse did rob the store
Of Greek and Latin gardens, to bring o'er
Plants to thy native soil? their virtues were
Improv'd far more, by being planted here:
If thy still to their essence doth refine
So many drugs, is not the water thine?
Thefts thus become just works; they and their grace
Are wholly thine; thus doth the stamp and face
Make that the king's that's ravish'd from the mine;
In others then 'tis ore, in thee 'tis coin.
Bless'd life of authors, unto whom we owe
Those that we have, and those that we want too;
Thou art all so good, that reading makes thee worse,
And to have writ so well's thine only curse;
Secure then of thy merit, thou didst hate
That servile base dependence upon Fate;
O could I flow like thee! and make thy stream
My great example, as it is my theme;
Though deep, yet clear; though gentle, yet not dull;
Strong, without rage; without o'erflowing, full.
See an excellent parody of these lines in the Dunciad, Book iii.
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