Epistle to a Friend Concerning Poetry (1700) and the Essay on Heroic Poetry (second edition, 1697) | Page 5

much better order'd, had they themselves stood by and directed the_ Architect. _They'll tell you the_ Errors of Nature are every where plain and visible, all monstrous, here too much and there too little; _or, as_ one of their own Poets,
Here she's too sparing, there profusely vain.
_What would these Men have, or why can't they be content to sink_ single into the bottomless Gulph, _without dragging so much Company thither with 'em? Can they grapple_ Omnipotence, or are they sure they can be too hard for Heaven? Can they Thunder with a Voice like God, and cast abroad the Rage of their Wrath? _Cou'd they_ annihilate _Hell, indeed, or did it only consist of such_ painted Flames _as they'd fain believe it, they might make a shift to be tolerably happy, more quietly rake through the World, and_ sink into Nothing. _There's too great reason to apprehend, that this_ Infection is spred among Persons of almost all Ranks and Qualities; _and that tho' some may think it_ decent to keep on the Masque, _yet if they were search'd to the_ bottom, all their Religion _wou'd be found that which they most blasphemously assert of_ Religion in general, only a State Engin to keep the World in Order. This is Hypocrisie _with a Witness; the_ basest and meanest of Vices; and how come Men to fall into these damnable Errors _in Faith, but by_ Lewdness _of Life? The Cowards wou'd not believe a God because they_ dare _not do it, for Woe be to 'em if there be one, and consequently any_ Future Punishments. _From such as these, I desire no Favour, but that of their_ Ill Word, as their Crimes must expect none _from me, whose_ Character obliges me to declare an eternal War against Vice and Infidelity, _tho' at the same time heartily to_ pity thosen who are infected _with it. If I cou'd be_ ambitious of a Name _in the World, it shou'd be that I might_ sacrifice it in so glorious a Cause as that of Religion and Virtue: If none but Generals must fight in this sacred War, when there are such infernal Hosts _on the other side, they cou'd never prevail without one of the_ antient Miracles: If little People can but well discharge the Place of a private Centinel, _'tis all that's expected from us. I hope I shall never let the_ Enemies of God and my Countrey come on without Fireing, _tho' it serve but to give the_ Alarm, and if I dye without quitting my Post, I desire no greater Glory. _I have endeavour'd to shew that I had no_ Personal Pique against any whose Characters _I may have given in this Poem, nor think the worse of them for their_ Thoughts _of me. I hope I have every where done 'em_ Justice, _and as well as I cou'd, have given 'em_ Commendation _where they deserve it; which may also, on the other side, acquit me of_ Flattery with all Impartial Judges; _for 'tis not only the_ Great whose Characters _I have here attempted. And if what I have written may be any ways_ useful, or innocently diverting to the virtuous and ingenious Readers, _he has his End, who is_
Their Humble Servant
S. WESLEY.

AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND CONCERNING POETRY.
As Brother Pryme of old from Mount Orgueil, So I to you from Epworth and the _Isle_: Harsh Northern Fruits from our cold Heav'ns I send, Yet, since the best they yield, they'll please a Friend.
You ask me, What's the readiest way to Fame, And how to gain a _Poet's_ sacred Name? For Saffold send, your Choice were full as just, When burning Fevers fry your Limbs to Dust! Yet, lest you angry grow at your Defeat, } And me as ill as that fierce Spark should treat } 10 Who did the Farrier into Doctor _beat_; } You to my little Quantum, Sir, are free, Which I from HORACE glean or NORMANDY; These with some grains of Common Sensee unite, Then freely think, and as I think I write.
First poize your Genius, nor presume to write If Phoebus smile not, or some Muse invite: Nature refuses Force, you strive in vain, She will not drag, but struggling breaks the Chain. How bright a Spark of _Heav'nly Fire_ must warm! 20 What Blessings meet a _Poet's Mind_ to form! How oft must he for those _Life-Touches_ sit, _Genius, Invention, Memory, Judgment, Wit_? There's here no _Middle-State_, you must excel; Wit has no _Half-way-House_ 'twixt _Heav'n_ and Hell All cannot All things, lest you mourn too late, Remember _Phaeton_'s unhappy Fate! Eager to guide the Coursers of the Day, } Beneath their Brazen Hoofs he trampled lay, } And his bright Ruines mark'd their flaming Way. } 30
[Sidenote: Genius.] You'll ask, What GENIUS is, and