Epistle to a Friend Concerning Poetry (1700) and the Essay on Heroic Poetry (second edition, 1697) | Page 7

to be. ----But soft, my Friend! may we not copy well Tho
far th' Original our Art excel? Divine Perfection we our Pattern make
Th' Idea thence of Goodness justly take; But they who copy nearest,
still must fall 130 Immensely short of their _Original_;
[Sidenote: Converse.] But Wit and Genius, Sense and
Learning join'd,
Will all come short if crude and _unrefin'd_; 'Tis CONVERSE only
melts the stubborn Ore And polishes the Gold, too rough before: So
fierce the Natural Taste, 'twill ne'er b' endur'd, The Wine is strong, but
never righly _cur'd_.
[Sidenote: Style.] Style is the Dress of _Thought_; a modest Dress,
Neat, but not gaudy, will true Critics please: Not _Fleckno's Drugget_,
nor a worse Extream 140 All daub'd with Point and Gold at every Seam:
Who only Antique Words affects, appears Like old King _Harry's_
Court, all Face and Ears; Nor in a Load of Wig thy Visage shrowd, Like
_Hairy Meteors glimm'ring through a Cloud_: Happy are those who
here the Medium know, We hate alike a Sloven and a Beau. I would not
follow Fashion to the height Close at the Heels, not yet be _out of
Sight_: Words alter, like our Garments, every day, 150 Now thrive and
bloom, now wither and decay. Let those of greater Genius new invent,
Be you with those in Common Use content.

A different _Style's_ for Prose and Verse requir'd, Strong figures here,
Neat Plainness there desir'd: A different Set of Words to both belong;
What shines in Prose, is, flat and mean in Song. The Turn, the Numbers
must be vary'd here, And all things in a different Dress appear. This
every School Boy lash'd at Eaton knows, } 160 Yet Men of Sense forget
when they compose, } And Father DRYDEN's Lines are sometimes
Prose. } A _vary'd Stile_ do various Works require, This soft as Air,
and _tow'ring_ that as Fire. None than th' Epistle goes more humbly
drest, Tho neat 'twou'd be, and decent as the best. Such as th' ingenious
Censor may invite } Oft to return with eager _Appetite_; } So
HORACE wrote, and so I'd wish to write. } Nor creeps it always, but
can mount and rise, 170 And with bold Pinions sail along the Skies.
The self-same Work of different Style admits, Now soft, now loud, as
best the Matter fits: So Father THAMES from unexhausted Veins,
Moves clean and equable along the _Plains_; Yet still of different
Depth and Breadth is found, And humours still the Nature of the
Ground.
[Sidenote:
Reading.] READING will mend your Style and raise it
higher, And Matter find to feed th' _Immortal Fire_: But if you would
the Vulgar Herd excel, 180 And justly gain the Palm of Writing well,
Wast not your Lamp in scanning Vulgar Lines, Where groveling all, or
One in twenty shines; With Prudence first among the Antients chuse,
The noblest only, and the best peruse; Such HOMER is, such VIRGIL's
sacred Page, Which Death defie, nor yield to Time or _Age_; New
Beauties still their Vigorous Works display, Their Fruit still mellows,
but can ne'er decay. The Modern Pens not altogether slight, 190 Be
Master of your Language e'er you write! Immortal TILLOTSON with
Judgment scan, "That _Man of Praise, that something more than
Man_!" Ev'n those who hate his Ashes this advise, } As from black
Shades resplendent Lightning flies, } Unwilling Truths break through a
Cloud of Lies. } He Words and Things for mutual Aid design'd, Before
at Variance, in just Numbers join'd; He always soars, but never's out of
sight, He taught us how to Speak, and Think, and Write. 200
If English Verse you'd in Perfection see, ROSCOMMON read, and
Noble NORMANDY: We borrow all from their exhaustless Store, Or

little say they have not said before. Poor Insects of a Day, we toil and
strive To creep from Dust to Dust, and think we _live_; These weak
imperfect Beings scarce enjoy E'er _Death's_ rude Hand our blooming
Hopes destroy: With _Lynx's_ Eyes each others Faults we find, But to
our own how few who are not _blind_? 210 How long is Art, how short,
alas! our Time! } How few who can above the Vulgar climb, } Whose
stronger Genius reach the True Sublime! } With tedious Rules which
we our selves transgress, We make the Trouble more who strive to
make it less.
But meanly why do you your Fate deplore, Yet still write on?--Why do
a Thousand more, Who for their own or some Forefathers Crime Are
_doom'd_ to wear their Days in _beating Rhime_? But this a Noble
Patron will redress, 220 And make you better write, tho you _write
less_: Whate'er a discontented Mind pretends, _Distinguish'd Worth_
can rarely miss of _Friends_: Do but excel, and he'll