PROLOGUE

SPOKEN AT THE

COURT AT WHITEHALL,

BEFORE

KING CHARLES II.

BY THE LADY ELIZABETH HOWARD.

WIT

IT has of late took up a trick t' appear Unmannerly, or at the beft, fevere: And poets share the fate by which we fall, When kindly we attempt to please you all. 'Tis hard your fcorn fhould against fuch prevail, Whofe ends are to divert you, though they fail. You men would think it an ill-natur'd jeft, Should we laugh at you when you do your best. Then rail not here, though you fee reason for 't If wit can find itself no better sport, Wit is a very foolish thing at court. Wit's business is to pleafe, and not to fright; 'Tis no wit to be always in the right; You'll find it none, who dare be fo to-night. Few fo ill-bred will venture to a play, To spy out faults in what we women say. For us, no matter what we fpeak, but how: How kindly can we fay-I hate you now! And for the men, if you'll laugh at them, do; They mind themselves so much, they'll ne'er mind

TO THE KING.

TO you (Great SIR) my meffage hither tends, From Youth and Beauty, your allies and friends; See my credentials written in my face,

They challenge your protection in this place;
And hither come with fuch a force of charms,
As may give check ev'n to your profperous arms.
Millions of Cupids hovering in the rear,
Like angels following fatal troops, appear:
All waiting for the flaughter which draws nigh,
Of thofe boid gazers who this night muft die.
Nor can you 'fcape our foft captivity,
From which old age alone must set you free.
Then tremble at the fatal confequence,

Since 'tis well known, for your own part, great

Prince,

'Gainft us you ftill have made a weak defence.
Be generous and wife, and take our part;
Remember we have eyes, and you a heart;
Elfe you may find, too late, that we are things
Born to kill vaffals, and to conquer kings.
But oh to what vain conqueft I pretend !
While Love is our commander, and your friend.
Our victory your empire more affurcs,
For Love will ever make the triumph yours..

E LE G. Y

ON THE

EARL OF ROCHESTER.

BY MRS. WHARTON,

DEEP waters filent roll; fo grief like mine

Tears never can relieve, nor words define. Stop then, ftop your vain fource, weak springs of grief,

Let tears flow from their eyes whom tears relieve. They from their heads fhew the light trouble there, Could my heart weep, its forrows 'twould declare: When drops of blood, my heart, thou'ft loft; thy pride,

The caufe of all thy hopes and fears, thy guide!
He would have led thee right in Wifdom's way,
And 'twas thy fault whene'er thou went'ft aftray:
And fince thou ft.ay'd'ft when guided and led on,
Thou wilt be furely loft now left alone.

It is thy Elegy I write, not his :
He lives immortal and in highest blifs,
But thou art dead, alas! my heart, thou 'rt dead:"
He lives, that lovely foul for ever fled,
But thou 'mongit crouds on earth are buried.
Great was thy lofs, which thou canft ne'er express,
Nor was th' infenfible dull nation's lefs;
He civiliz'd the rude, and taught the young,
Made fools grow wife; fuch artful magic hung
Upon his ufeful kind inftructing tongue.
His lively wit was of himself a part,
Not, as in other men, the work of art;
For, though his learning like his wit was great,
Yet fure all learning came below his wit;
As God's immediate gifts are better far
Than those we borrow from ear likeness here,
He was but I want words, and ne'er can tell,
Yet this I know, he did mankind excell.

He was what no man ever was before,
Nor can indulgent nature give us more,
For, to make him, the exhaufted all her ftore.

AN

ESS A Y

ON

TRANSLATED VERSE.

To fearch the treafures of the Roman ftore;
Or dig in Grecian mines for purer ore?
The nobleft fruits tranfplanted in our ifle
With early hope and fragrant bloffoms fmile.
Familiar Ovid tender thoughts inspires,
And Nature feconds all his foft defires:
Theocritus does now to us belong;
And Albion's rocks repeat his rural fong.
Who has not heard how Italy was blett,
Above the Medes, above the wealthy Eaft?
Or Gallus' fong, fo tender and fo true,
As ev'n Lycoris might with pity view!
When mourning nymphs attend their Daphnis'
hearfe,

Who does not weep that reads the moving verfe!
But hear, oh hear, in what exalted strains
Sicilian Muses through these happy plains
Proclaim Saturnian times-our own Apollo
reigns!

John Sheffield duke of Buckinghamshire.

}

Her excellent tranflators made her own:
And Europe till confiderably gains,
Both by their good example and their pains.
From hence our generous emulation came,
We undertook, and we perform'd the fame.
But now, we fhew the world a nobler way,
And in tranflated verfe do more than they;
Serene and clear, harmonious Horace flows,
With sweetness not to be expreft in profe:
Degrading profe explains his meaning ill,
And fhews the ftuff, but not the workman's fkill:
I (who have ferv'd him more than twenty years)
Scarce know my mafter as he there appears.
Vain are our neighbours hopes, and vain their

cares,

The fault is more their language's than theirs:
'Tis courtly, florid, and abounds in words
Of fofter found than ours perhaps affords;
But who did ever in French authors fee
The comprehenfive English energy?
The weighty bullion of one fterling line,
Drawn to French wire, would through whole pages
fhine.

I fpeak my private, but impartial fense,
With freedom, and (I hope) without offence;
For I'll recant, when France can fhew me wit,
As ftrong as ours, and as fuccinctly writ.
'Tis true, composing is the nobler part,
But good tranflation is no eafy art.

For though materials have long fince been found,
Yet both your fancy and your hands are bound
And by improving what was writ before,
Invention labours lefs, but judgment more.

4 [D] #

The foil intended for Pierian feeds Must be well purged from rank pedantic weeds. Apollo ftarts, and all Parnaffus thakes, At the rude rumbling Baralipton makes. For none have been with admiration read, But who (befide their learning) were well bred. The first great work (a tafk perform'd by few) Is, that yourself may to yourself be true: No mak, no tricks, no favour, no reserve; Diffect your mind, examine every nerve. Whoever vainly on his ftrength depends, Begins like Virgil, but like Mævius ends. That wretch (in fpite of his forgotten rhymes) Condemn'd to live to all fucceeding times, With pompous nonsense and a bellowing found Sung lofty Ilium, tumbling to the ground. And (if my Mufe can through past ages fee) That noify, naufeous, gaping fool was he; Exploded, when with univerfal fcorn, The mountains labour'd and a moufe was born. Learn, learn, Crotona's brawny wrestler cries, Audacious mortals, and be timely wife! 'Tis I that call, remember Milo's end, Wedg'd in that timber, which he ftrove to rend. Each poet with a different talent writes, One praises, one infructs, another bites. Horace did ne'er afpire to Epic bays, Nor lofty Maro ftoop to Lyric lays. Examine how your humour is inclin'd, And which the ruling paflion of your mind; Then, feek a poet who your way does bend, And choose an author as you choose a friend, United by this fympathetic bond,

You grow familiar, intimate, and fond; Your thoughts, your words, your ftyles, your fouls agree,

No longer his interpreter, but he.

With how much eafe is a young Mufe betray'd! How nice the reputation of the maid! Your early, kind, paternal care appears, By chafte inftruction of her tender years. The first impreffion in her infant-breast Will be the deepeft, and fhould be the best. Let not aufterity breed fervile fear, No wanton found offend her virgin ear. Secure from foolish pride's affected state, And fpecious flattery's more pernicious bait, Habitual innocence adorns her thoughts, But your neglect muft anfwer for her faults. Immodeft words admit of no defence; For want of decency is want of fenfe. What moderate fop would rake the Park or ftews, Who among troops of faultlefs nymphs may choose?

Variety of fuch is to be found:

Take then a fubject proper to expound:
But moral, great, and worth a poet's voice,
For men of fenfe defpife a trivial choice:
And fuch applause it mutt expect to meet,
As would fome painter bufy in a firect,
To copy bulls and bears, and every fign,
That calls the ftaring fots to nafty wine.

Yet 'tis not all to have a fubject good,
It must delight us when 'tis understood.
He that brings fulfome objects to my view,
(As many old have done, and many new)

With nauseous images my fancy fills,
And all goes down like oxymel of fquills.
Inftruct the liftening world how Maro fings
Of useful fubjects and of lofty things.
Thefe will fuch true, such bright ideas raise,
As merit gratitude, as well as praise:
But foul defcriptions are offensive still,
Either for being like, or being ill.

For who, without a qualm, hath ever look'd
On holy garbage, though by Homer cook'd?
Whofe railing heroes, and whofe wounded Goda
Makes fome fufpect he fnores, as well as nods.
But I offend-Virgil begins to frown,
And Horace looks with indignation down;
My blushing Mufe with confcious fear retires,
And whom they like, implicitly admires.

On fure foundations let your fabric fife,
And with attractive majefty surprise,
Not by affected meretricious arts,
But ftrict harmonious fymmetry of parts;
Which through the whole infenfibly must pass,
With vital heat to animate the mafs:

A pure, an active, an aufpicious flame,
And bright as heaven, from whence the bling

came;

But few, oh few fouls, præordain'd by fate, The race of Gods, have reach'd that envy's height.

No Rebel-Titan's facrilegious crime,

By heaping hills on hills can hither climb:.
The grizly ferryman of hell deny’d
Aneas entrance, till he knew his guide:
How juftly then will impions mortals fall,
Whofe pride would foar to heaven without
call!

Pride (of all others the most dangerous fault)
Proceeds from want of fenfe, or want of thought.
The men, who labour and digeft things meft,
Will be much apter to defpond than boast:
For if your author be profoundly good,
"Twill coft you dear before he's understood.
How many ages fince has Virgil writ!
How few are they who understand him yet!
Approach his altars with religious fear,
No vulgar deity inhabits there:

Heaven fhakes not more at Jove's imperial ned, Than poets fhould before their Mantuan God, Hail mighty Maro! may that facred name Kindle my breaft with thy celeftial flame; Sublime ideas and apt words infufe,

The Muse inftru&t my voice, and thou infpire the Mufe!

What I have inftanc'd only in the best, Is, in proportion, true of all the rest. Take pains the genuine meaning to explore, There fweat, there ftrain, tug the laborious car; Search every comment that your care can find, Some here, fome there, may hit the poet's mind; Yet be not blindly guided by the throng; The multitude is always in the wrong. When things appear unnatural or hard, Confult your author, with himself compar'd; Who knows what bleffing Phœbus may bestow, And future ages to your labour owe? Such fecrets are not easily found out, But, once discover'd, leave no room for doubt.

Truth ftamps conviction in your ravish'd breast, And peace and joy attend the glorious guest.

Truth ftill is one; truth is divinely bright, No cloudy doubts obscure her native light; While in your thoughts you find the least debate, You may confound, but never can translate. Your ftyle will this through all disguises show, For none explain more clearly than they know. He only proves he understands a text Whofe expofition leaves it unperplex'd. They who too faithfully on names infift, Rather create than diffipate the mist; grow unjust by being over-nice, (For fuperftitious virtue turns to vice.) Let Craffus's ghost and Labienus tell How twice in Parthian plains their legions fell. Since Rome hath been fo jealous of her fame. That few know Pacorus' or Monæfes' name.

And

}

Th' Ænean Muse, when the appears in flate,
Makes all Jove's thunder on her verses wait.
Yet writes fometimes as foft and moving things
As Venus fpeaks, or Philomela fings.
Your author always will the beft advife,
Fall when he falls, and when he rifes rise.
Affected noife is the most wretched thing,
That to contempt can empty feriblers bring.
Vowels and accents, regularly plac'd,
On even fyllables (and still the last).
Though grofs innumerable faults abound,
In spite of nonfenfe, never fail of found.
But this is meant of even verfe alone,
As being moft harmonious and most known :
For if you will unequal numbers try,
There accents on odd fyllables must lie.
Whatever sister of the learned Nine
Does to your fuit a willing ear incline,
Lirge your success, deserve a lasting name,
She'll crown a grateful and a constant fiame.
But, if a wild uncertainty prevail,

And turn your veering heart with every gale,
You lose the fruit of all your former care,
For the fad prospect of a just despair.

A quack (too fcandaloufly mean to name)
Had, by man-midwifery, got wealth and fame:
As if Lucina had forgot her trade,
The labouring wife invokes his furer aid.
Well-feafon'd bowls the golip's fpirits raife,
Who, while he guzzles, chats the doctor's praife;
And largely, what the wants in words, supplies,
With maudlin-eloquence of trickling eyes.
But what a thoughtless animal is man!
How very adive in his own trepan !)

* Hor. 3 Od. vi,

For, greedy of physicians frequent fees,
From female mellow praise he takes degrees;
Struts in a new unlicens'd gown, and then
From faving women falls to killing men.
Another fuch had left the nation thin,
In fpite of all the children he brought in.
His pills as thick as hand-granadoes flew;
And where they fell, as certainly they flew;
His name ftruck every where as great a damp,
As Archimedes through the Roman camp.
With this, the doctor's pride began to cool;
For fmarting foundly may convince a fool.
But now repentance came too late for grace;
And meagre Famine flar'd him in the face:
Fain would he to the wives be reconcil'd,
But found no hufband left to own a child.
The friends, that got the brats, were poifon'd

too;

In this fad cafe, what could our vermin do?
Worry'd with debts and past all hope of bail,
Th' unpity'd wretch lies rotting in a jail:
And there with basket-alms, fearce kept alive,
Shews how mistaken talents ought to thrive.
I pity, from my foul, unhappy men,
Compell'd by want to prostitute their pen;
Who muft, like lawyers, either starve or plead,
And follow, right or wrong, where guineas lead!
But you, Pompilian, wealthy, pamper'd heirs,
Who to your country owe your fwords and cares,
Let no vain hope your eafy mind feduce,
For rich ill poets are without excufe.

'Tis very dangerous, tampering with a Muse,
The profit 's fmall, and you have much to lofe;
For though true wit adorns your birth or place,
Degenerate lines degrade th' attainted race.
No poet any pailion can excite,

But what they feel tranfport them when they write,

Have you been led through the Cumaan cave,
And heard th' impatient maid divinely rave?
I hear her now; I fee her rolling eyes:
And panting; Lo! the god, the god, the cries;
With words not hers, and more than human found
She makes th' obedient gholts peep trembling
through the ground.

But, though we must obey when heaven commands,

And man in vain the facred call withstands,
Beware what spirit rages in your breast;
For ten infpir'd, ten thousand are pofleft.
Thus make the proper use of each extreme,
And write with fury, but correct with phlegm.
As when the cheerful hours too freely pafs,
And fparkling wine fmiles in the tempting glass,
Your pulfe advifes, and begins to beat
Through every fwelling vein a loud retreat;
So when a Mufe propitiously invites,
Improve her favours, and indulge her flights;
But when you find that vigorous heat abate,
Leave off, and for another fummons wait.
Before the radiant fun, a glimmering lamp,
Adulterate metals to the fterling stamp,
Appear not meaner, than mere human lines,
Compar'd with those whose inspiration shines;
Thele nervous, bold; thofe languid and remifs;
There, cold falutes; but here a lover's kifs.

Thus have I feen a rapid headlong tide,
With foaming waves the paffive Soane divide;
Whose lazy waters without motion lay,

While he, with eager force, urg'd his impetuous

way.

The privilege that ancient poets claim,
Now turn'd to licence by too just a name,
Belongs to none but an establish'd fame,
Which scorns to take it→→→→→→

Abfurd expreffions, crude, abortive thoughts,
All the lewd legion of exploded faults,
Bafe fugitives to that asylum fly,
And facred laws with infolence defy.
Not thus our heroes of the former days,
Deferv'd and gain'd their never-fading bays;
For I mistake, or far the greatest part
Of what fome call neglect, was study'd art.
When Virgil feems to trifle in a line,

"Tis like a warning-piece, which gives the fign
To wake your fancy, and prepare your fight,
To reach the noble height of fome unusual flight.
I lofe my patience, when with faucy pride,
By untun'd ears I hear his numbers try'd.
Reverse of nature! fhall fuch copies then
Arraign th' originals of Maro's pen!
And the rude notions of pedantic schools
Blafpheme the facred founder of our rules!
The delicacy of the nicest ear

Finds nothing harsh or out of order there.
Sublime or low, unbended or intenfe,
The found is ftill a comment to the fenfe.

A fkilful ear in numbers fhould prefide,
And all difputes without appeal decide.
This ancient Rome and elder Athens found,
Before mistaken ftops debauch'd the found.
When, by impulfe from heaven, Tyrtæus fung,
In drooping foldiers a new courage fprung;
Reviving Sparta now the fight maintain'd,
And what two generals loft a poet gain'd.
By fecret influence of indulgent skies,
Empire and poefy together rife.
True poets are the guardians of a state,
And, when they fail, portend approaching fate,
For that which Rome to conqueft did infpire,
Was not the Vestal, but the Mufes' fire;
Heaven joins the bleflings: No declining age
E'er felt the raptures of poetic rage.

Of many faults, rhyme is (perhaps) the cause; Too ftrict to rhyme, we flight more ufeful laws, For that, in Greece or Rome, was never known, Till by barbarian deluges o'erflown: Subdued, undone, they did at last obey, And change their own for their invaders' way. I grant that from fome mofly, idol oak, In double rhymes our Thor and Woden spoke; And by fucceffion of unlearned times, As Bards began, fo Monks rung on the chimes.

But now that Phoebus and the facred Nine, With all their beams on our bleft ifland fhine, Why should not we their ancient rites restore, And be, what Rone or Athens were before?

Have we forgot how Raphael's numerous ' profe

• Led our exalted fouls through heavenly campt, And mark'd the ground where proud apoftate ' thrones

'Defy'd Jehovah! Here, 'twixt hoft and heft, (A narrow, but a dreadful interval) Portentous fight! before the cloudy van 'Satan with vaft and haughty ftrides advanc'd, Came towering arm'd in adamant and gold. 'There bellowing engines, with their fiery tubes, Difpers'd æthereal forms, and down they fell By thousands, angels on archangels roll'd; Recover'd, to the hills they ran, they flew, Which (with their ponderous load, rocks, waten, woods)

·

From their firm feats torn by the fhaggy tops They bore like fhields before them through the • air,

'Till more incens'd they hurl'd them at their fort, All was confufion, heaven's foundation fhook, Threatning no less than univerfal wreck, For Michael's arm main promontories flung, And over-preft whole legions weak with fin: Yet they blafphem'd and struggled as they bay, 'Till the great ensign of Meffiah blaz'd, · And (arm'd with vengeance) God's viĉteriou

• Son

(Effulgence of paternal deity)

Grafping ten thoufand thunders in his hand, Drove th' old original rebels headlong dowa, And fent them flaming to the vast abyss."

O may I live to hail the glorious day, And fing loud pans through the crouded way, When in triumphant ftate the British Mufe, True to herself, fhall barbarous aid refuse, And in the Roman majesty appear,

Which none know better, and none come fo near.

TO THE

EARL OF ROSCOMMON,

ON HIS ESSAY ON TRANSLATED VERSE,

BY DR. CHETWOOD, 1684.

AS when by labouring ftars new kingdoms riút,

The mighty mafs in rade confufion lies, A court unform'd, diforder at the bar, And ev'n in peace the rugged mien of war, Till fome wife ftatefman into method draws The parts, and animates the frame with laws; Such was the cafe when Chaucer's early toil Founded the Mufes' empire in our foil. Spenfer improv'd it with his painful hand, But loft a noble Mufe in Fairy-land. Shakspeare faid all that Nature could impart, And Jonfon added Industry and Art. Cowley and Denham gain'd immortal praife; And fome, who merit as they wear the bays, Search'd all the treasuries of Greece and Rome, And brought the precious fpoils in triumph hott

B. VI.

Our flights were often high, but feldom juft.