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

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 Ruine and Disgrace. Weigh well each Thought if all be Just and Right, For those must clearly think who clearly write. Nothing obscure, equivocal, or mean, Much less what is or impious or _obscene_: Altho the tempting Serpent play his part, And wind in _glitt'ring Folds_ around thy _Heart_; Reject the _trait'rous Charmer_, tear