Epistle to a Friend Concerning Poetry (1700) and the Essay on Heroic Poetry (second edition, 1697) | Page 9

the Sponge should strike. Chuse to be absent when
your Cause is try'd, Lest Favour should the partial Judge misguide;
Not others Thoughts implicitly prefer, Your _Friend's_ a
Mortal, and
like you, may err. Upon the last Appeal let Reason sit, And here, let all
Authority submit. Divest your self of self whate'er you can, And think
the Author now some other Man. A thousand trivial
_Lumber-Thoughts_ will come, 330 A thousand _Fagot-Lines_ will
crowd for room; Reform your Troops, and no Exemption grant, You'll
gain in Strength, what you in Numbers want. Nor yet Infallibility
pretend; He still errs on who thinks he ne'er can _mend_: Reject that
hasty, that presumptuous Thought! None e'er but VIRGIL wrote
without a _Fault_; (Or none he has, or none that I can find, Who,
dazzled with his Beauties, to his Moles am blind.) Who has the least is
happiest, he the best, 340 Who owns and mends where he has once
transgrest. Nor will good Writers smaller Blots despise, Lest those
neglected should to Crimes arise; Such Venial Sins indulg'd will mortal
prove, At least they from Perfection far remove. Nor Critical Exactness
here deride, It looks like Sloth or Ignorance, or _Pride_; Good Sense is
spoild in Words unapt exprest, And Beauty pleases more when 'tis well
drest.

[Sidenote: Method.] Forget not METHOD if the Prize you'd gain, 350
'Twill cost you Thought, but richly pays the _Pain_; What first, what
second, or what last to place, What here will shine, and there the Work
disgrace.
Before you build, your MODEL justly lay, And ev'ry Part in Miniature
survey; Where airy Terraces shall threat the Skies, Where Columns
tow'r, or neat Pilasters rise; Where cool Cascades come roaring down
the Hill, Or where the Crystal Nymph a mossie Bason fill: What Statues
are to grace the Front design'd, 360 And how to throw the meaner
Rooms behind. Draw the Main Strokes at first, 'twill shew your Skill,
_Life-Touches_ you may add whene'er you will. Ev'n Chance will
sometimes all our Art excel, The angry Foam we ne'er can hit so well.
A sudden Thought, all beautiful and bright, Shoots in and stunns us
with _amazing Light_; Secure the happy Moment e'er 'tis past, Not
Time more swift, or Lightning flies so fast.
All must be free and easie, or in vain 370 You whip and spur, and the
_wing'd Courser_ strain: When foggy Clouds hang bellying in the Skies,
Or fleety Boreas through th' Horizon flies; He then, whose Muse
produces ought that's
fine, His Head must have a stronger Turn than
mine: Like Sybils Leaves the Train of Thoughts are rang'd, Which by
rude Winds disturb'd, are nothing if they're chang'd. Or are there too in
_Writing softer Hours_? Or is't that Matter nobler Mind o'erpow'rs,
Which boasts her native Liberty in vain, 380 In Mortal Fetters and a
_Slavish Chain_? Death only can the Gordian Knot divide, } Tho by
what secret wondrous Bands 'tis ty'd, } Ev'n _Reason's_ self must own
she can't decide: } For as the rapid Tides of Matter turn } We're fann'd
with Pleasure or with Anger burn, } We Love and Hate again, we Joy
and Mourn. } Now the swift Torrent high and headstrong grows,
Shoots through the Dykes, and all the Banks _o'erflows_; Strait the
capricious Waters backward fly, The Pebbles rake and leave the
Bottom _dry_; 390 Watch the kind Hour and seize the rising Flood,
Else will your dreggy Poem taste of Mud. Hence old and batter'd
Hackneys of the Stage, By long Experience render'd Wise and Sage,
With pow'rful Juices restive Nature urge, Or else with Bays of old, they
bleed and _purge_; Thence, as the Priestess from her Cave inspir'd,

When to his Cell the rancid God retir'd, Double Entendres their fond
Audience blin'd, Their boasted Oracles abuse Mankind: 400 False Joys
around their Hearts in Slumbers play, And the warm tingling Blood
steals fast away; The Soul grows dizzy, lost in Senses Night, And melts
in pleasing Pain and vain Delight.
Not that the sowrest Critick can reprove The soft the moving Scenes of
_Virtuous Love_: _Life's Sunny Morn_, which wears, alas! too fast;
Pity it e'er should hurt, or should not always last! Has Bankrupt Nature
then no more to give, Or by a Trick persuades Mankind to _live_? 410
No--when with Prudence join'd 'tis still the same } Or ripens into
_Friendship's_ nobler Name, } The Matter pure, immortal is the
Flame. } No Fool, no Debauchee could ever prove The _honest Luxury
of Virtuous Love_; Then _curs'd_ are those who that fair Name abuse,
And holy _Hymen's_ sacred Fillets loose; Who poison Fountains, and
infect the Air, Ruine the Witty, and debauch the _Fair_; With nauseous
Images their Scenes debase 420 At once their Country's