'TIS hard, my Friend, to write in such an Age As damns not only Poets, but the Stage. That sacred art, by Heav'n itself infus'd, Which @3Moses, David, Salomon@1 have us'd, Is now to be no more: The Muses' Foes Wou'd sink their Maker's Praises into Prose. Were they content to prune the lavish Vine Of straggling Branches, and improve the Wine, Who but a mad Man wou'd his Faults defend? All wou'd submit, for all but Fools will mend. But, when to common sense they give the Lie, And turn distorted Words to Blasphemy, @3They@1 give the Scandal; and the Wise discern Their Glosses teach an Age, too apt to learn. What I have loosly, or profanely writ, Let them to Fires (their due desert) commit: Nor, when accus'd by me, let @3them@1 complain: Their Faults, and not their Function, I arraign. Rebellion, worse than Witchcraft, they pursu'd: The Pulpit preach'd the Crime, the People ru'd. The Stage was silenc'd; for the Saints wou'd see In fields perform'd their plotted Tragedy. But let us first reform: and then so live, That we may teach our Teachers to forgive. Our Desk be plac'd below their lofty Chairs, Ours be the Practice, as the Precept theirs. The moral Part at least we may divide, Humility reward and punish Pride; Ambition, Int'rest, Avarice, accuse; These are the Province of the Tragic Muse. These hast thou chosen; and the public Voice Has equall'd thy Performance with thy choice. Time, Action, Place, are so preserv'd by thee That ev'n @3Corneille@1 might with Envy see Th' Alliance of his tripled Unity. Thy Incidents, perhaps, too thick are sown; But so much Plenty is thy Fault alone: At least but two, can that good Crime commit, Thou in Design, and @3Wycherley@1 in Wit Let thine own @3Gauls@1 condemn thee, if they dare; Contented to be thinly regular. Born there, but not for them, our fruitful Soil With more Increase rewards thy happy Toil. Their Tongue, infeebl'd, is refin'd so much; That like pure Gold, it bends at ev'ry Touch: Our sturdy @3Teuton@1 yet will Art obey, More fit for manly Thought, and strengthen'd with Allay. But whence art thou inspir'd, and Thou alone, To flourish in an Idiom, not thy own? It moves our Wonder, that a foreign Guest Shou'd overmatch the most, and match the best. In underpraising thy Deserts, I wrong; Here, find the first deficience of our Tongue: Words, once my stock, are wanting to commend So Great a Poet and so Good a Friend. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO A CAPTIOUS CRITIC by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR CA' THE YOWES TO THE KNOWES' by ISOBEL (ISABEL) PAGAN A SONNET by JAMES KENNETH STEPHEN THE CATERPILLAR by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD THE BIRD FANCIER by WILLIAM ROSE BENET |