Parent of gods and men, propitious Jove,
And you bright synod of the powers above;
On this my son your gracious gifts bestow;
Grant him to live, and great in arms to grow,
To reign in Troy, to govern with renown,
To shield thy people, and assert the crown:
That when hereafter he from wars shall come,
And bring his Trojans peace and triumph
home,

Some aged man, who lives this act to see,
And who in former times remember'd me,
May say, The son in fortitude and fame
Outgoes the mark, and drowns his father's

He, wiping her fair eyes, ird ilg'd her grief,
And eas'd her sorrows with this last relief.

My wife and mistress, drive thy fears away,
Nor give so bad on omen to the day;
Think not it lies in any Grecian's power
To take my life before the fatal hour.
When that arrives, nor good nor bad can fly
The irrevocable doom of destiny.

Return, and, to divert thy thoughts at home,
There task thy maids, and exercise the loom,
Employ'd in works that womankind become.
The toils of war, and feats of chivalry
Belong to men, and most of all to me.

At this, for new replies he did not stay,
But lac'd his crested helm, and strode away.
His lovely consort to her house return'd,
And looking often back in silence mourn'd:
Home when she came, her secret wo she

vents,

And fills the palace with her loud laments; These loud laments her echoing maids restore, And Hector, yet alive, as dead deplore.

CANTO I.

ADVERTISMENT.

This translation of Monsieur Boileau's Art of Poetry was made in the year 1680, by Sir William Soame of Suffolk, Baronet; who being very intimately acquainted with Mr. Dryden, desired 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 desired he would take the pains to make that altera. tion; and accordingly that was entirely done by Mr. Dryden.

The poem was first published 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.

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 desiro 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:
But authors that themselves too much esteem,
Lose their own genius, and mistake their theme;
Thus in times past Dubartas vainly writ,
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 Pharoah in the Arabian main.

Whate'er you write of pleasant or sublime, Always let sense accompany your rhyme : Falsely they seem cach other to oppose; Rhyme must be made with reason's laws to

close:

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.

There is a kind of writer pleas'd with sound, Whose fustian head with clouds is compass'd round,

No reason can disperse them with its light:
Learn then to think ere you pretend to write.
As your idea 's clear, or else obscure,
The expression follows perfect or impure:
What we conceive with ease we can express :
Words to the notions flow with readiness.

Observe the language well in all you write,
And swerve not from it in your loftiest flight.
The smoothest verse and the exactest sense
Displease us, if ill English give offence:
A barbarous phrase no reader can approve;
Nor bombast, noise, 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 such fury writ,
Shows want of judgment, not abounding wit.
More pleas'd we are to see a river lead
His gentle streams along a flow'ry mead,
Than from high banks to hear loud torrents roar,
With foamy waters on a muddy shore.
Gently make haste, of labour not afraid;
A hundred times consider what you've said:
Polish, repolish, every colour lay,

And sometimes add, but oftener take away.
"T is 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 corresponding grace:
Till by a curious art dispos'd, we find
One perfect whole, of all the pieces join'd.
Keep to your subject close in all you say;
Nor for a sounding sentence ever stray.
The public censure 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 seems to like, but means not what he
says;

Embrace true counsel, but suspect false praise.
A sycophant will every thing admire:
Each verse, each sentence sets his soul on fire:
All is divine! there's not a word amiss!
He shakes with joy, and weeps with tenderness,
He overpowers you with his mighty praise.
Truth never moves in those impetuous ways:
A faithful friend is careful of your fame,
And freely will your heedless errors blame;
He cannot pardon a neglected line,
But verse to rule and order will confine.

Reprove of words the too affected sound;
Here the sense flags, and your expression'
round,

Your fancy tires, and your discourse grows vain
Your terms improper, make them just and plain.
Thus, 't is a faithful friend will freedom use;
But authors, partial to their darling muse,
Think to protect it they have just pretence,
And at your friendly counsel take offence.
Said you of this, that the expression's flat?
Your servant, Sir, you must excuse me that,
He answers you. This word has here no grace,
Pray leave it out: That, Sir, 's the properest

place.

This turn I like not; "T is approv'd by all.
Thus, resolute not from one fault to fall,
If there's a syllable of which you doubt,
'Tis a sure reason not to blot it out.
Yet still he says you may his faults confute,
And over him your power is absolute:
But of his feign'd humility take heed;
"T is a bait laid to make you hear him read.
And when he leaves you happy in his muse,
Restless he runs some other to abuse,
And often finds; for in our scribbling times
No fool can want a sot to praise his rhymes;
The flattest work has ever in the court
Met with some zealous ass for his support;
And in all times a forward scribbling fop
Has found some greater fool to cry him up.

CANTO II.

PASTORAL.

As a fair nymph, when rising from her bed,
With sparkling diamonds dresses not her head,
But without gold, or pearl, or costly scents,
Gathers from neighb'ring fields her ornaments;
Such, lovely in its dress, but plain withal,
Ought to appear a perfect Pastoral:
Its humble method nothing has of fierce,
But hates the rattling of a lofty verse:
There native beauty pleases, and excites,
And never with harsh sounds the ear affrights.
But in this style a poet often spent,
In rage throws by his rural instrument,
And vainly, when disorder'd thoughts abound,
Amidst the Eclogue makes the trumpet sound:
Pan flies alarm'd into the neighbouring woods,
And frighted nymphs dive down into the floods,
Oppos'd to this another, low in style,
Makes shepherds speak a language base and
vile:

His writings, flat and heavy, without sound,
Kissing the earth, and creeving or the ground;

You 'a swear that Randal, in his rustic strains,
Again was quavering to the country swains,
And changing without care of sound or dress,
Strephon and Phyllis, into Tom and Bess.
'Twixt these extremes, 't is hard to keep the
right;

For guides take Virgil, and read Theocrite:
Be their just writings, by the gods inspir'd,
Your constant pattern practis'd and admir'd.
By them alone you'll easily comprehend
How poets, without shame, may condescend
To sing of gardens, fields, of flower, and fruit,
To stir up shepherds, and to tune the flute;
Of love's rewards to tell the happy hour,
Daphne a tree, Narcissus made a flower,
And by what means the Eclogue yet has power
To make the woods worthy a conqueror :
This of their writings is the grace and flight;
Their risings lofty, yet not out of sight.

ELEGY.

The Elegy that loves a mournful style,
With unbound hair weeps at a funeral pile,
It paints the lovers' torments and delights,
A mistress flatters, threatens, and invites:
But well these raptures, if you 'll make us see,
You must know love as well as poetry.
I hate those lukewarm authors, whose forc'd fire
In a cold style describes a hot desire,
That sigh by rule, and raging in cold blood
Their sluggish muse whip to an amorous mood:
Their feign'd transports appear but flat and vain;
"hey always sigh, and always hug their chain,
Adore their prison, and their sufferings bless,
Make sense and reason quarrel as they please.
'I was not of old in this affected tone,
That smooth Tibullus made his amorous moan;
Nor Ovid, when instructed from above,
By nature's rules he taught the art of love.
The heart in Elegios forms the discourse.

ODE.

The Ole is bolder, and has greater force.
Mounting to heaven in her ambitious flight,
Amongst the gods and heroes takes delight;
Of Pisa's wrestlers tells the sinewy force,
And sings the dusty conqueror's glorious

course:

To Simois' streams does fierce Achilles bring, And makes the Ganges bow to Britain's king. Sometimes she flies like an industrious bee, And robs the flowers by nature's chymistry, Describes the sheperd's dances, feasts, and bliss,

And boasts from Phyllis to surprise a kiss, When gently she resists with feign'd remorse, That what she grants may seem to be by force:

Her generous style at random oft will part,
And by a brave disorder shows her art.
Unlike those fearful poets, whose cold rhyme
In all their raptures keep exactest time,
That sing the illustrious hero's mighty praise
(Lean writers!) by the terms of weeks and
days;

And dare not from least circumstances part,
But take all towns by strictest rules of art:
Apollo drives those fops from his abode ;
And some have said that, once the humorous
god

Resolving all such scribblers to confound,
For the short Sonnet order'd this strict bound:
Set rules for the just measure, and the time,
The easy running and alternate rhyme ;
But above all, those licenses denied
Which in these writings the lame sense sup
plied;

Forbad a useless line should find a place,
Or a repeated word appear with grace.
A faultless Sonnet, finish'd thus, would be
Worth tedious volumes of loose poetry.
A hundred scribbling authors, without ground,
Believe they have this only phoenix found:
When yet the exactest scarce have two of
three,

Among whole tomes, from faults and censure

free.

The rest but little read, regarded less,
Are shovell'd to the pastry from the press.
Closing the sense within the measur'd time,
T is hard to fit the reason to the rhyme

EPIGRAM.

The Epigram, with little art compos'd,
Is one good sentence in a distich clos'd.
These points that by Italians first were priz'd,
Our ancient authors knew not, or despis'd:
The vulgar dazzled with their glaring light,
To their false pleasures quickly they invite,
But public favour so increas'd their pride,
They overwhelm'd Parnassus with their tide.
The Madrigal at first was overcome,
And the proud Sonnet fell by the same doom;
With these grave Tragedy adorn'd her flights,
And mournful Elegy her funeral rites:
A hero never fail'd them on the stage,
Without his point a lover durst not rage;
The amorous shepherds took more care to
prove

True to his point, than faithful to their love.
Each word like Janus had a double face:
And prose, as well as verse, allow'd it place:
The lawyer with conceits adorn'd his speech.
The parson without quibbling could not preach.
At last affronted reason look'd &bout,

And from all serious matters shut them out

shame,

Except a scattering in the Epigram;
Provided that by art, and in due time

They turn'd upon the thought and not the rhyme.
Thus in all parts disorders did abate :
Yet quibblers in the court had leave to prate;
Insipid jesters, and unpleasant fools,
A corporation of dull punning drolls.

'T is not, but that sometimes a dexterous muse
May with advantage a turn'd sense abuse,
And on a word may trifle with address;
But above all avoid the fond excess; [lame,
And think not, when your verse and sense are
With a dull point to tag your Epigram.

Each poem his perfection has apart;
The British round in plainness shows his art.
The Ballad, though the pride of ancient time,
Has often nothing but his humorous rhyme;
The Madrigal may softer passions move,
And breathe the tender ecstasies of love.
Desire to show itself, and not to wrong,
Arm'd Virtue first with Satire in its tongue.

SATIRE.

Lucilius was the man who, bravely bold,
To Roman vices did this mirror hold,
Protected humble goodness from reproach,
Show'd worth on foot, and rascals in the coach,
Horace his pleasing wit to this did add,
And none uncensur'd could be fool or mad:
Unhappy was that wretch, whose name might be
Squar'd to the rules of their sharp poetry.
Persius obscure, but full of sense and wit,
Affected brevity in all he writ:

And Juvenal, learn'd as those times could be,
Too far did stretch his sharp hyperbole ;
Though horrid truths through all his labours
shine,

In what he writes there's something of divine,
Whether he blames the Caprean debauch,
Or of Sejanus' fall tells the approach,
Or that he makes the trembling senate come
To the stern tyrant to receive their doom;
Or Roman vice in coarsest habits shows,
And paints an empress reeking from the stews :
Imall he writes appears a noble fire:
To follow such a master then desire.
Chaucer alone, fix'd on this solid base,
In his old style conserves a modern grace:
Too happy, if the freedom of his rhymes
Offended not the method of our times.
The Latin writers decency neglect ;
But modern authors challenge our respect,
And at immodest writings take offence,
If clean expression cover not the sense.
I love sharp Satire, from obsceneness free;
Not impudence that preaches modesty:

Hence in lampoons and libels learn to rail;
Pleasant detraction, that by singing goes
From mouth to mouth, and as it marches grows
Our freedom in our poetry we see,
That child of joy begot by liberty.

But, vain blasphemer, tremble when you choose
God for the subject of your impious muse:
At last, those jests which libertines invent,
Bring the lewd author to just punishment.
Even in a song there must be art and sense :
Yet sometimes we have seen that wine, or
chance,
[mettle,
Have warm'd cold brains, and given dull writers
And furnish'd out a scene for Mr. Settle.
But for one lucky hit that made thee please,
Let not thy folly grow to a discase,
Nor think thyself a wit: for in our age
If a warm fancy does some fop engage,
He neither eats nor sleeps till he has writ,
But plagues the world with his adulterate wit.
Nay'tis a wonder,if in his dire rage

He prints not his dull follies for the stage ;
And in the front of all his senseless plays,
Makes David Logan crown his head with bays.

CANTO III.

TRAGEDY.

THERE's not a monster bred beneath the sky, But, well-dispos'd by art, may please the eye: A curious workman by his skill divine, From an ill object makes a good design. Thus to delight us, Tragedy, in tears For Edipus, provokes our hopes and fears: For parricide Orestes asks relief; And to increase our pleasure causes grief. You then that in this noble art would rise, Come; and in lofty verse dispute the prize. Would you upon the stage acquire renown, And for your judges summon all the town? Would you your works for ever should remain, And after ages past be sought again? In all you write, observe with care and art To move the passions and incline the heart. If in a labour'd act, the pleasing rage Cannot our hopes and fears by turns engage, Nor in our mind a feeling pity raise ; In vain with learned scenes you fill your plays Your cold discourse can never move the mind Of a stern critic, naturally unkind; Who justly tir'd with your pedantic flight, Or falls asleep, or censures all you write. The secret is, attention first to gain; To move our minds, and then to entertain: