"This term I like not."--"'Tis approved by all." Thus, resolute not from one fault to fall, If there's a symbol as to which you doubt, 'Tis a sure reason not to blot it out. Yet still he says you may his faults confute, And over him your power is absolute. But of his feigned humility take heed: 'Tis a bait laid to make you hear him read; And when he leaves you, happy in his muse, Restless he runs some other to abuse.
And often finds; for in our scribbling times No fool can lack a fool to praise his rhymes; The flattest work has here within the court Met with some zealous ass for its support; And in all times a forward scribbling fop Has found some greater fool to cry him up.
THE PASTORAL, THE ELEGY, THE ODE, AND THE EPIGRAM From 'The Art of Poetry'
As A fair nymph, when rising from her bed, With sparkling diamonds dresses not her head, But without gold, or pearl, or costly scents, Gathers from neighboring fields her ornaments: Such, lovely in its dress, but plain withal, Ought to appear a perfect Pastoral. Its humble method nothing has of fierce, But hates the rattling of a lofty verse; There native beauty pleases and excites, And never with harsh sounds the ear affrights.
But in this style a poet, often spent In rage, throws by his rural instrument, And vainly, when disordered thoughts abound, Amidst the eclogue makes the trumpet sound; Pan flies alarmed into the neighboring woods, And frighted nymphs dive down into the floods.
Opposed to this, another, low in style, Makes shepherds speak a language low and vile; His writings, flat and heavy, without sound, Kissing the earth and creeping on the ground; You'd swear that Randal, in his rustic strains, Again was quavering to the country swains, And changing, without care of sound or dress, Strephon and Phyllis into Tom and Bess.
'Twixt these extremes 'tis hard to keep the right: For guides take Virgil and read Theocrite; Be their just writings, by the gods inspired, Your constant pattern, practiced and admired. By them alone you'll easy comprehend How poets without shame may condescend To sing of gardens, fields, of flowers and fruit, To stir up shepherds and to tune the flute;
Of love's rewards to tell the happy hour, Daphne a tree, Narcissus make a flower, And by what means the eclogue yet has power To make the woods worthy a conqueror; This of their writings is the grace and flight; Their risings lofty, yet not out of sight.