Alexander Pope
Alexander Pope (Londres, 21 de mayo de 1688 – Londres, 30 de mayo de 1744), es uno de los poetas ingleses más reconocidos del siglo XVIII, destacando particularmente por sus traducciones de los textos de Homero y su poesía satírica.
Nacido en una familia Católica Romana en 1688, Pope fue educado principalmente en su casa, debido en parte a las leyes en vigor, que sostenían la posición de la Iglesia de Inglaterra como religión del estado. Desde su juventud sufrió de varios problemas de salud, incluyendo el Mal de Pott (una forma de tuberculosis que afecta la columna vertebral), que deformó su cuerpo y atrofió su crecimiento de modo que su estatura no superó 137 cm. Murió a la edad de 56 años en 1744.
Aunque había escrito poesía desde los 12 años, se considera que su primera contribución importante al mundo literario fue su Ensayo sobre la crítica, que publicó en 1711, a los 23 años de edad. A este siguió «El rizo robado» (1712, edición revisada en 1714), su poema más conocido; «Eloisa a Abelardo» y la «Elegía a la Memoria de una Dama» (1717). Escribió también varios trabajos más cortos, de los cuales los mejores quizás son las epístolas a Martha Blount. De 1715 a 1720, trabajó en la traducción de la Ilíada de Homero. Animado por la excelente recepción de ésta, Pope tradujo la Odisea (1725-1726) con William Broome y Elijah Fenton.
En su escrito de 1734 Pope realizó una importante consideración sobre la influencia de los pintores paisajistas en los proyectos de jardinería cuando escribió lo siguiente: "Todo el arte de los jardines depende de la pintura de paisajes[...] como si fuera un paisaje colgado" (all gardening is landscape painting [...]just like landscape hung up).
El éxito comercial de sus traducciones convirtió a Pope en el primer poeta inglés en poder vivir únicamente de las utilidades generadas por sus obras, “sin deudas a príncipe alguno u hombre para que viva”, como él mismo dijo. Durante este período Pope también publicó una edición de Shakespeare, que “regularizaba” su métrica de manera discreta.
También reescribió en varias partes el verso de su compatriota. Lewis Theobald y otros eruditos en el tema atacaron la edición de Pope. Aquello desató la furia del traductor e inspiró la primera versión de su sátira, «la Dunciada» (1728), primero de los poemas satíricos y morales de su período final. Otros de los poemas más significativos de aquella época fueron los «Ensayos sobre la moral» (1731 – 1735), «Imitaciones de Horacio» (1733-1738), la «Epístola a Arbuthnot» (1735), el «Ensayo sobre el hombre» (1734) y una edición extendida de «la Dunciada» (1742) en la cual Colley Cibber tomó el lugar de héroe que Theobald ocupaba.
Alexander Pope, circa 1727.
Pope trató directamente los problemas intelectuales, políticos y religiosos más importantes de su era. Fue él quien desarrolló el pareado heroico más allá de lo que ningún poeta había logrado anteriormente. Los grandes poetas que le siguieron lo usaron menos que aquellos que le precedieron, pues para ellos había disminuido su utilidad.
Pope escribió igualmente un epitafio, ahora famoso, para Sir Isaac Newton:
La naturaleza y sus leyes yacían ocultas en la noche;
Dijo Dios “que sea Newton” y todo se hizo luz.
(Nature and nature's laws lay hid in night;
God said 'Let Newton be' and all was light.)
A lo que Sir John Collings Squire agregó luego el pareado:
Pero esto no duró: pues el diablo exclamó:
“Que Einstein sea”, así el dilema restauró.
(It did not last: the devil, shouting “Ho.
Let Einstein be” restored the status quo.)
Jonathan Swift era su amigo y aliado. En 1720, Pope formó el Scriblerus Club junto con Swift y otros amigos (incluyendo a John Gay).
Obras
Obras mayores
1709: Pastorals
1711: An Essay on Criticism
1712: Messiah, poema en latín.
1712: The Rape of the Lock (alargado en 1714)
1713: Windsor Forest
1715-1720: Traducción de la Iliada de Homero
1717: De Eloísa a Abelardo
1717: Three Hours After Marriage, con otras.
1717: Elegy to the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady
1723-1725: The Works of Shakespeare, en seis volúmenes.
1725-1726: Traducción de la Odisea de Homero.
1727: Peri Bathous, Or the Art of Sinking in Poetry
1728: The Dunciad
1733-1734: Essay on Man
1735: The Prologue to the Satires
Otras obras
1700: Ode on Solitude
EL RIZO ROBADO
Canto I
Lo que ofensa cruel de amor causara,
Y los combates que el poder formara
Por un trivial asunto ahora yo canto.
¡A Caryll, mi musa! debo este mi canto;
¡O si dado me fuera,
que Belinda también mis versos viera!
Pequeño es el asunto, mas la gloria
(Si ella dulce me inspira
Y con benignos ojos él los mira)
Y alabanza inmortal me da la historia.
Dime oh Diosa, el motivo que impulsara
A un Lord tan bien criado a asaltar fiero
A una noble beldad, y por qué fuera,
Con extraño desdén el más severo,
(Si es que está averiguado)
Un Señor a una hermosura desdeñó.
Por las cortinas de cendal nevado
Un tembloroso rayo el Sol envía
Y a brillantes ojos ha tocado
Que deben eclipsar la luz del día;
Sus perros falderos sacudiendo,
Y el insomne amado despierta fuera
A las doce cabales; y tres veces
Se oye de la campana el fiel sonido,
Y en tierra la chinela haciendo ruido;
Y la repetición resuena fino
El eco generoso y argentino.
Belinda estaba en su cojín mullido;
El silfo, su guardián, sabio y prudente,
Prolongaba el balsámico reposo;
Y al cuidadoso lecho silencioso
Ordenó que mandase blandamente
El matutino sueño, que volaba
Y la rociada frente rodeaba.
Un joven mas brillante que en su día
Un Dandi petimetre estar podía
(Que aún en sueño colora sus mejillas)
Con sus labios de miel hablar se oía,
Y le dice o decirle parecía.
«¡O tú de los mortales la más bella;
Distinguido cuidado
De habitantes mil del azulado
Cielo! Si alguna vez la suave huella
De nocturna visión tu infantil alma
Turbó la dulce calma,
De las que tu nodriza te contara
O el cura te enseñara,
De aéreos gnomos que en la oscuridad
Deja la luna ver con su luz pura
Con la plateada marca o verde cerco
O de vírgenes castas visitadas
Y por ángeles santos obsequiadas
Con guirnaldas y floridas coronas;
Escucha y cree!
Tu importancia sabe,
Que en terrena estrechez mirar no cabe
Hay verdades sagradas,
Al orgullo de sabios reservadas,
Que los niños y niñas solo entienden;
Que los doctos no creen ni defienden.
Y la sola inocencia
Es la poseedora de esta ciencia.
Entiende pues, de espíritus sin cuerpos,
Que giran en torno a ti cientos de cientos,
Que dirigen su vuelo
En toda la extensión del bajo cielo,
Aún que invisibles todos con sus alas
Vuelan sobre tu anillo y demás galas,
Piensa que un equipaje arriba tienes;
Tus pajes y tu silla y otros bienes
Con desprecio los miras;
Lo que vosotras sois un tiempo fuimos
Y el molde femenil también tuvimos;
Mas no creas que cuando abandonamos
La carcaza terrenal acá volamos,
Con la vida perdimos
Todas las vanidades que tuvimos;
Suceden que vanidades, conservamos
Esa inclinación primera;
Y si naipes amabas antes que mueras,
Si lo vez ahora, también contenta estuvieras;
Si ama dorados bucles cuando vive,
Sí el hechizó del tresillo, sobrevive
Esta misma afición que siempre agrada,
Y si la hermosa fuese arrebatada
Con la fuerza y poder de su hermosura
A su elemento primo, el alma gira
Con su fogoso espíritu de llama
De inquietud voladora y siempre pura,
Y entonces se le llama
Salamandra, que ardiendo nunca espira.
Almas suaves buscan la corriente
Del claro río y beben dulcemente
Grato té elemental; y orgullo fiero
En un Gnomo se sume muy severo,
Buscando acá en la tierra
El germen de discordia y cruda guerra.
La coqueta ligera en Sílfide vuela
Y en aire y campos retozar anhela.
Aún debes saber mas; la hermosa y casta,
Que los hombres desprecia, entre los brazos
De una sílfide vive; eso a espíritus le basta
Que libre de las leyes de mortales,
(Y unen débiles lazos)
Sexo y figura elijan celestiales;
Que guardan la pureza a las doncellas
En los bailes de cortes y en aquellas
Nocturnas mascaradas peligrosas,
De un amigo traidor, o los graciosos
Dandis que cautivan con palabras suaves
A las bellezas graves,
Que la ocasión ofrece y el deseo
Y danza y canto en loco devaneo;
Las sílfides las defienden poderoso
Mas que ese honor del mundo tan vidrioso.
Algunas ninfas hay bien persuadidas
De su gracia y finura
Y de rara hermosura
Aquí, mientras que vivan;
Su destino será que a un gnomo sigan.
Muy satisfechas y de orgullo henchidas,
Desdeñan el amor que las convida.
Entonces las ideas mas groseras
Se agrupan, y en seguida,
En sus huecos celebres, vanidosas,
Mientras Pares y Duques en cuadrillo
Con bandas, con estrella y coronilla
Las saludan atentos y cumplidos
Y de excelencia llenan sus oídos;
Este dulce sonido.
Luego que fue sentido
Cautiva el sexo vano femenino;
Provoca a la coqueta al dulce juego;
De la tierna mejilla enciende el fuego;
Y el joven corazón salta sin tino
A la presencia de un Dandi brioso
Todo acaramelado y melindroso.
Con frecuencia en el mundo se imagina
Que el sexo en general se descamina,
Y una sílfide lo guiara,
Por el cerco brillante lo pasara;
Y si una impertinencia es necia y vieja,
Por otra nueva al punto se la deja;
Si un convite amenaza a una doncella,
¿No es un baile quien salva su querella?
Cuando Florido habla ¿quien resiste
Si Damón ( 2 ) a la virgen no la asiste,
Su mano oprimiendo?
_______________________________________
( 2 ) Damón y Fintias = dos amigos que llegaron a Siracusa y por hablar mal del rey, este condenó a muerte a Fintias; Fintias pide permiso al rey para despedirse de su familia y el rey acepta dejando que Damón tomar su lugar, Fintias parte donde su familia y por todos los medios trata de regresar ante de que ejecuten a su amigo, llegando en el último instante. Por tamaña amistad el rey perdono a ambos amigos la vida.
Vanidades variando y persiguiendo
Mueven su corazón como un juguete.
Peluca a otra peluca le arremete,
Y de espadas las borlas se combaten,
Los Dandys con los Dandys se debaten,
Y los coches se embisten
Y a otros coches furiosos se resisten;
Y el mortal engañado llama a prisa
Todo esto vanidad y ligereza;
Pero ciego no entiende, que estos males
Obra son de los silfos celestiales.
De éstos uno soy yo, que protegerte
Pretende, centinela diligente,
Contra peligro tanto defenderte.
Mi nombre es Ariel; tu amor constante;
Ha poco que pasaba
Y la azulada esfera rodeaba
Y en el luciente espejo de tu estrella
Yo vi cielos, yo vi que amenazara
Algún fatal suceso, y que en aquella
Tarde, y antes que el Sol su luz mostrara...
Pero el cielo no dijo cómo o cuándo;
Mas tu silfo, mi amor, te está avisando;
Su deber ha cumplido
Tu guardián entendido;
Tú de todo recela y no te asombre,
Que temas más que todo a cualquier hombre».
Así dijo, y Relindo, que pensara
Que su dueña bastante había dormido,
Con su lengua lamiendo el atrevido
Sus labios, a la hermosa despertara.
Belinda abre sus ojos y al momento
Sobre un billete dulce los clavara;
Heridas allí vio, celos, tormento;
Mas la visión en tanto desaparece
Y cual sutil vapor se desvanece.
Entonces, despojado de su velo
Se deja ver el tocador precioso,
De cándido metal el tren hermoso,
Con mística apariencia colocado;
Las ninfas bellas con ardiente celo,.
Con el ropaje de cendal nevado,
Descubierta la frente,
Y con aire devoto y reverente
La cosmética Diosa adoran todas.
En un bello cristal se retrataban
Las gracias de Belinda peregrina,
A de graciosa su mirar inclina.
Ya las sacerdotisas temerosas
Junto al altar principian respetuosas
Del orgullo los ritos mas sagrados;
Tesoros mil se abren que la tierra
En elegantes modos,
Y en varia ofrenda; y ella se parara
Con trabajo exquisito y ciencia rara
Los mas finos adornos delicados,
Que cada ofrenda encierra
Para adornar la diosa con brillantes
Despojos; de cabeza nunca hubiera
Visto un adorno tal el rojo oriente,
Que ilumina cual sol en occidente;
Su seno abre la Arabia ante sus ojos
Exhalando perfumes por despojos;
Con la tortuga el elefante unido
Un peine se transforma en nieve y oro;
Presentándose guardia a su decoro
Del brillante alfiler un regimiento;
Rizos, polvos, lunares, Biblias santas
Y amorosos billetes; al momento
La terrible deidad pone a sus plantas
Sus armas todas; sus encantos crecen;
Ya las dulces sonrisas aparecen;
Brilla el semblante con la gracia nueva;
Ya la mejilla y labio de carmín,
Y los ojos brillantes
Nuevos rayos disparan rutilantes.
Los Silfos amorosos dividían
Y en la espalda y el cuello repartían
La dorada melena, y otros vuelven
La manga sobrancera, y otros pliegan
El delicado traje y lo revuelven
Y lo que es obra suya
Consienten que a Belleza se atribuya.
An Essay on Criticism: Part 1
Si quid novisti rectius istis,
Candidus imperti; si non, his utere mecum
[If you have come to know any precept more correct than these, share it with me, brilliant one; if not, use these with me] (Horace, Epistle I.6.67)
PART 1
'Tis hard to say, if greater want of skill
Appear in writing or in judging ill;
But, of the two, less dang'rous is th' offence
To tire our patience, than mislead our sense.
Some few in that, but numbers err in this,
Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss;
A fool might once himself alone expose,
Now one in verse makes many more in prose.
'Tis with our judgments as our watches, none
Go just alike, yet each believes his own.
In poets as true genius is but rare,
True taste as seldom is the critic's share;
Both must alike from Heav'n derive their light,
These born to judge, as well as those to write.
Let such teach others who themselves excel,
And censure freely who have written well.
Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true,
But are not critics to their judgment too?
Yet if we look more closely we shall find
Most have the seeds of judgment in their mind;
Nature affords at least a glimm'ring light;
The lines, tho' touch'd but faintly, are drawn right.
But as the slightest sketch, if justly trac'd,
Is by ill colouring but the more disgrac'd,
So by false learning is good sense defac'd;
Some are bewilder'd in the maze of schools,
And some made coxcombs Nature meant but fools.
In search of wit these lose their common sense,
And then turn critics in their own defence:
Each burns alike, who can, or cannot write,
Or with a rival's, or an eunuch's spite.
All fools have still an itching to deride,
And fain would be upon the laughing side.
If Mævius scribble in Apollo's spite,
There are, who judge still worse than he can write.
Some have at first for wits, then poets pass'd,
Turn'd critics next, and prov'd plain fools at last;
Some neither can for wits nor critics pass,
As heavy mules are neither horse nor ass.
Those half-learn'd witlings, num'rous in our isle
As half-form'd insects on the banks of Nile;
Unfinish'd things, one knows not what to call,
Their generation's so equivocal:
To tell 'em, would a hundred tongues require,
Or one vain wit's, that might a hundred tire.
But you who seek to give and merit fame,
And justly bear a critic's noble name,
Be sure your self and your own reach to know,
How far your genius, taste, and learning go;
Launch not beyond your depth, but be discreet,
And mark that point where sense and dulness meet.
Nature to all things fix'd the limits fit,
And wisely curb'd proud man's pretending wit:
As on the land while here the ocean gains,
In other parts it leaves wide sandy plains;
Thus in the soul while memory prevails,
The solid pow'r of understanding fails;
Where beams of warm imagination play,
The memory's soft figures melt away.
One science only will one genius fit;
So vast is art, so narrow human wit:
Not only bounded to peculiar arts,
But oft in those, confin'd to single parts.
Like kings we lose the conquests gain'd before,
By vain ambition still to make them more;
Each might his sev'ral province well command,
Would all but stoop to what they understand.
First follow NATURE, and your judgment frame
By her just standard, which is still the same:
Unerring Nature, still divinely bright,
One clear, unchang'd, and universal light,
Life, force, and beauty, must to all impart,
At once the source, and end, and test of art.
Art from that fund each just supply provides,
Works without show, and without pomp presides:
In some fair body thus th' informing soul
With spirits feeds, with vigour fills the whole,
Each motion guides, and ev'ry nerve sustains;
Itself unseen, but in th' effects, remains.
Some, to whom Heav'n in wit has been profuse,
Want as much more, to turn it to its use;
For wit and judgment often are at strife,
Though meant each other's aid, like man and wife.
'Tis more to guide, than spur the Muse's steed;
Restrain his fury, than provoke his speed;
The winged courser, like a gen'rous horse,
Shows most true mettle when you check his course.
Those RULES of old discover'd, not devis'd,
Are Nature still, but Nature methodis'd;
Nature, like liberty, is but restrain'd
By the same laws which first herself ordain'd.
Hear how learn'd Greece her useful rules indites,
When to repress, and when indulge our flights:
High on Parnassus' top her sons she show'd,
And pointed out those arduous paths they trod;
Held from afar, aloft, th' immortal prize,
And urg'd the rest by equal steps to rise.
Just precepts thus from great examples giv'n,
She drew from them what they deriv'd from Heav'n.
The gen'rous critic fann'd the poet's fire,
And taught the world with reason to admire.
Then criticism the Muse's handmaid prov'd,
To dress her charms, and make her more belov'd;
But following wits from that intention stray'd;
Who could not win the mistress, woo'd the maid;
Against the poets their own arms they turn'd,
Sure to hate most the men from whom they learn'd.
So modern 'pothecaries, taught the art
By doctor's bills to play the doctor's part,
Bold in the practice of mistaken rules,
Prescribe, apply, and call their masters fools.
Some on the leaves of ancient authors prey,
Nor time nor moths e'er spoil'd so much as they:
Some drily plain, without invention's aid,
Write dull receipts how poems may be made:
These leave the sense, their learning to display,
And those explain the meaning quite away.
You then whose judgment the right course would steer,
Know well each ANCIENT'S proper character;
His fable, subject, scope in ev'ry page;
Religion, country, genius of his age:
Without all these at once before your eyes,
Cavil you may, but never criticise.
Be Homer's works your study and delight,
Read them by day, and meditate by night;
Thence form your judgment, thence your maxims bring,
And trace the Muses upward to their spring;
Still with itself compar'd, his text peruse;
And let your comment be the Mantuan Muse.
When first young Maro in his boundless mind
A work t' outlast immortal Rome design'd,
Perhaps he seem'd above the critic's law,
And but from Nature's fountains scorn'd to draw:
But when t' examine ev'ry part he came,
Nature and Homer were, he found, the same.
Convinc'd, amaz'd, he checks the bold design,
And rules as strict his labour'd work confine,
As if the Stagirite o'erlook'd each line.
Learn hence for ancient rules a just esteem;
To copy nature is to copy them.
Some beauties yet, no precepts can declare,
For there's a happiness as well as care.
Music resembles poetry, in each
Are nameless graces which no methods teach,
And which a master-hand alone can reach.
If, where the rules not far enough extend,
(Since rules were made but to promote their end)
Some lucky LICENCE answers to the full
Th' intent propos'd, that licence is a rule.
Thus Pegasus, a nearer way to take,
May boldly deviate from the common track.
Great wits sometimes may gloriously offend,
And rise to faults true critics dare not mend;
From vulgar bounds with brave disorder part,
And snatch a grace beyond the reach of art,
Which, without passing through the judgment, gains
The heart, and all its end at once attains.
In prospects, thus, some objects please our eyes,
Which out of nature's common order rise,
The shapeless rock, or hanging precipice.
But tho' the ancients thus their rules invade,
(As kings dispense with laws themselves have made)
Moderns, beware! or if you must offend
Against the precept, ne'er transgress its end;
Let it be seldom, and compell'd by need,
And have, at least, their precedent to plead.
The critic else proceeds without remorse,
Seizes your fame, and puts his laws in force.
I know there are, to whose presumptuous thoughts
Those freer beauties, ev'n in them, seem faults.
Some figures monstrous and misshap'd appear,
Consider'd singly, or beheld too near,
Which, but proportion'd to their light, or place,
Due distance reconciles to form and grace.
A prudent chief not always must display
His pow'rs in equal ranks, and fair array,
But with th' occasion and the place comply,
Conceal his force, nay seem sometimes to fly.
Those oft are stratagems which errors seem,
Nor is it Homer nods, but we that dream.
Still green with bays each ancient altar stands,
Above the reach of sacrilegious hands,
Secure from flames, from envy's fiercer rage,
Destructive war, and all-involving age.
See, from each clime the learn'd their incense bring!
Hear, in all tongues consenting pæans ring!
In praise so just let ev'ry voice be join'd,
And fill the gen'ral chorus of mankind!
Hail, bards triumphant! born in happier days;
Immortal heirs of universal praise!
Whose honours with increase of ages grow,
As streams roll down, enlarging as they flow!
Nations unborn your mighty names shall sound,
And worlds applaud that must not yet be found!
Oh may some spark of your celestial fire
The last, the meanest of your sons inspire,
(That on weak wings, from far, pursues your flights;
Glows while he reads, but trembles as he writes)
To teach vain wits a science little known,
T' admire superior sense, and doubt their own!
An Essay on Criticism: Part 2
Of all the causes which conspire to blind
Man's erring judgment, and misguide the mind,
What the weak head with strongest bias rules,
Is pride, the never-failing vice of fools.
Whatever Nature has in worth denied,
She gives in large recruits of needful pride;
For as in bodies, thus in souls, we find
What wants in blood and spirits, swell'd with wind;
Pride, where wit fails, steps in to our defence,
And fills up all the mighty void of sense!
If once right reason drives that cloud away,
Truth breaks upon us with resistless day;
Trust not yourself; but your defects to know,
Make use of ev'ry friend—and ev'ry foe.
A little learning is a dang'rous thing;
Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring:
There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain,
And drinking largely sobers us again.
Fir'd at first sight with what the Muse imparts,
In fearless youth we tempt the heights of arts,
While from the bounded level of our mind,
Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind,
But more advanc'd, behold with strange surprise
New, distant scenes of endless science rise!
So pleas'd at first, the tow'ring Alps we try,
Mount o'er the vales, and seem to tread the sky;
Th' eternal snows appear already past,
And the first clouds and mountains seem the last;
But those attain'd, we tremble to survey
The growing labours of the lengthen'd way,
Th' increasing prospect tires our wand'ring eyes,
Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise!
A perfect judge will read each work of wit
With the same spirit that its author writ,
Survey the whole, nor seek slight faults to find,
Where nature moves, and rapture warms the mind;
Nor lose, for that malignant dull delight,
The gen'rous pleasure to be charm'd with wit.
But in such lays as neither ebb, nor flow,
Correctly cold, and regularly low,
That shunning faults, one quiet tenour keep;
We cannot blame indeed—but we may sleep.
In wit, as nature, what affects our hearts
Is not th' exactness of peculiar parts;
'Tis not a lip, or eye, we beauty call,
But the joint force and full result of all.
Thus when we view some well-proportion'd dome,
(The world's just wonder, and ev'n thine, O Rome!'
No single parts unequally surprise;
All comes united to th' admiring eyes;
No monstrous height, or breadth, or length appear;
The whole at once is bold, and regular.
Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see,
Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be.
In ev'ry work regard the writer's end,
Since none can compass more than they intend;
And if the means be just, the conduct true,
Applause, in spite of trivial faults, is due.
As men of breeding, sometimes men of wit,
T' avoid great errors, must the less commit:
Neglect the rules each verbal critic lays,
For not to know such trifles, is a praise.
Most critics, fond of some subservient art,
Still make the whole depend upon a part:
They talk of principles, but notions prize,
And all to one lov'd folly sacrifice.
Once on a time, La Mancha's knight, they say,
A certain bard encount'ring on the way,
Discours'd in terms as just, with looks as sage,
As e'er could Dennis of the Grecian stage;
Concluding all were desp'rate sots and fools,
Who durst depart from Aristotle's rules.
Our author, happy in a judge so nice,
Produc'd his play, and begg'd the knight's advice,
Made him observe the subject and the plot,
The manners, passions, unities, what not?
All which, exact to rule, were brought about,
Were but a combat in the lists left out.
"What! leave the combat out?" exclaims the knight;
"Yes, or we must renounce the Stagirite."
"Not so by Heav'n" (he answers in a rage)
"Knights, squires, and steeds, must enter on the stage."
So vast a throng the stage can ne'er contain.
"Then build a new, or act it in a plain."
Thus critics, of less judgment than caprice,
Curious not knowing, not exact but nice,
Form short ideas; and offend in arts
(As most in manners) by a love to parts.
Some to conceit alone their taste confine,
And glitt'ring thoughts struck out at ev'ry line;
Pleas'd with a work where nothing's just or fit;
One glaring chaos and wild heap of wit.
Poets, like painters, thus, unskill'd to trace
The naked nature and the living grace,
With gold and jewels cover ev'ry part,
And hide with ornaments their want of art.
True wit is nature to advantage dress'd,
What oft was thought, but ne'er so well express'd,
Something, whose truth convinc'd at sight we find,
That gives us back the image of our mind.
As shades more sweetly recommend the light,
So modest plainness sets off sprightly wit.
For works may have more wit than does 'em good,
As bodies perish through excess of blood.
Others for language all their care express,
And value books, as women men, for dress:
Their praise is still—"the style is excellent":
The sense, they humbly take upon content.
Words are like leaves; and where they most abound,
Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found.
False eloquence, like the prismatic glass,
Its gaudy colours spreads on ev'ry place;
The face of Nature we no more survey,
All glares alike, without distinction gay:
But true expression, like th' unchanging sun,
Clears, and improves whate'er it shines upon,
It gilds all objects, but it alters none.
Expression is the dress of thought, and still
Appears more decent, as more suitable;
A vile conceit in pompous words express'd,
Is like a clown in regal purple dress'd:
For diff'rent styles with diff'rent subjects sort,
As several garbs with country, town, and court.
Some by old words to fame have made pretence,
Ancients in phrase, mere moderns in their sense;
Such labour'd nothings, in so strange a style,
Amaze th' unlearn'd, and make the learned smile.
Unlucky, as Fungoso in the play,
These sparks with awkward vanity display
What the fine gentleman wore yesterday!
And but so mimic ancient wits at best,
As apes our grandsires, in their doublets dress'd.
In words, as fashions, the same rule will hold;
Alike fantastic, if too new, or old;
Be not the first by whom the new are tried,
Not yet the last to lay the old aside.
But most by numbers judge a poet's song;
And smooth or rough, with them is right or wrong:
In the bright Muse though thousand charms conspire,
Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire,
Who haunt Parnassus but to please their ear,
Not mend their minds; as some to church repair,
Not for the doctrine, but the music there.
These equal syllables alone require,
Tho' oft the ear the open vowels tire,
While expletives their feeble aid do join,
And ten low words oft creep in one dull line,
While they ring round the same unvaried chimes,
With sure returns of still expected rhymes.
Where'er you find "the cooling western breeze",
In the next line, it "whispers through the trees":
If "crystal streams with pleasing murmurs creep",
The reader's threaten'd (not in vain) with "sleep".
Then, at the last and only couplet fraught
With some unmeaning thing they call a thought,
A needless Alexandrine ends the song,
That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.
Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes, and know
What's roundly smooth, or languishingly slow;
And praise the easy vigour of a line,
Where Denham's strength, and Waller's sweetness join.
True ease in writing comes from art, not chance,
As those move easiest who have learn'd to dance.
'Tis not enough no harshness gives offence,
The sound must seem an echo to the sense.
Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows,
And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows;
But when loud surges lash the sounding shore,
The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar.
When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw,
The line too labours, and the words move slow;
Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain,
Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the main.
Hear how Timotheus' varied lays surprise,
And bid alternate passions fall and rise!
While, at each change, the son of Libyan Jove
Now burns with glory, and then melts with love;
Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury glow,
Now sighs steal out, and tears begin to flow:
Persians and Greeks like turns of nature found,
And the world's victor stood subdu'd by sound!
The pow'r of music all our hearts allow,
And what Timotheus was, is Dryden now.
Avoid extremes; and shun the fault of such,
Who still are pleas'd too little or too much.
At ev'ry trifle scorn to take offence,
That always shows great pride, or little sense;
Those heads, as stomachs, are not sure the best,
Which nauseate all, and nothing can digest.
Yet let not each gay turn thy rapture move,
For fools admire, but men of sense approve;
As things seem large which we through mists descry,
Dulness is ever apt to magnify.
Some foreign writers, some our own despise;
The ancients only, or the moderns prize.
Thus wit, like faith, by each man is applied
To one small sect, and all are damn'd beside.
Meanly they seek the blessing to confine,
And force that sun but on a part to shine;
Which not alone the southern wit sublimes,
But ripens spirits in cold northern climes;
Which from the first has shone on ages past,
Enlights the present, and shall warm the last;
(Though each may feel increases and decays,
And see now clearer and now darker days.)
Regard not then if wit be old or new,
But blame the false, and value still the true.
Some ne'er advance a judgment of their own,
But catch the spreading notion of the town;
They reason and conclude by precedent,
And own stale nonsense which they ne'er invent.
Some judge of authors' names, not works, and then
Nor praise nor blame the writings, but the men.
Of all this servile herd, the worst is he
That in proud dulness joins with quality,
A constant critic at the great man's board,
To fetch and carry nonsense for my Lord.
What woeful stuff this madrigal would be,
In some starv'd hackney sonneteer, or me?
But let a Lord once own the happy lines,
How the wit brightens! how the style refines!
Before his sacred name flies every fault,
And each exalted stanza teems with thought!
The vulgar thus through imitation err;
As oft the learn'd by being singular;
So much they scorn the crowd, that if the throng
By chance go right, they purposely go wrong:
So Schismatics the plain believers quit,
And are but damn'd for having too much wit.
Some praise at morning what they blame at night;
But always think the last opinion right.
A Muse by these is like a mistress us'd,
This hour she's idoliz'd, the next abus'd;
While their weak heads, like towns unfortified,
Twixt sense and nonsense daily change their side.
Ask them the cause; they're wiser still, they say;
And still tomorrow's wiser than today.
We think our fathers fools, so wise we grow;
Our wiser sons, no doubt, will think us so.
Once school divines this zealous isle o'erspread;
Who knew most Sentences, was deepest read;
Faith, Gospel, all, seem'd made to be disputed,
And none had sense enough to be confuted:
Scotists and Thomists, now, in peace remain,
Amidst their kindred cobwebs in Duck Lane.
If Faith itself has different dresses worn,
What wonder modes in wit should take their turn?
Oft, leaving what is natural and fit,
The current folly proves the ready wit;
And authors think their reputation safe
Which lives as long as fools are pleased to laugh.
Some valuing those of their own side or mind,
Still make themselves the measure of mankind;
Fondly we think we honour merit then,
When we but praise ourselves in other men.
Parties in wit attend on those of state,
And public faction doubles private hate.
Pride, Malice, Folly, against Dryden rose,
In various shapes of Parsons, Critics, Beaus;
But sense surviv'd, when merry jests were past;
For rising merit will buoy up at last.
Might he return, and bless once more our eyes,
New Blackmores and new Milbourns must arise;
Nay should great Homer lift his awful head,
Zoilus again would start up from the dead.
Envy will merit, as its shade, pursue,
But like a shadow, proves the substance true;
For envied wit, like Sol eclips'd, makes known
Th' opposing body's grossness, not its own.
When first that sun too powerful beams displays,
It draws up vapours which obscure its rays;
But ev'n those clouds at last adorn its way,
Reflect new glories, and augment the day.
Be thou the first true merit to befriend;
His praise is lost, who stays till all commend.
Short is the date, alas, of modern rhymes,
And 'tis but just to let 'em live betimes.
No longer now that golden age appears,
When patriarch wits surviv'd a thousand years:
Now length of Fame (our second life) is lost,
And bare threescore is all ev'n that can boast;
Our sons their fathers' failing language see,
And such as Chaucer is, shall Dryden be.
So when the faithful pencil has design'd
Some bright idea of the master's mind,
Where a new world leaps out at his command,
And ready Nature waits upon his hand;
When the ripe colours soften and unite,
And sweetly melt into just shade and light;
When mellowing years their full perfection give,
And each bold figure just begins to live,
The treacherous colours the fair art betray,
And all the bright creation fades away!
Unhappy wit, like most mistaken things,
Atones not for that envy which it brings.
In youth alone its empty praise we boast,
But soon the short-liv'd vanity is lost:
Like some fair flow'r the early spring supplies,
That gaily blooms, but ev'n in blooming dies.
What is this wit, which must our cares employ?
The owner's wife, that other men enjoy;
Then most our trouble still when most admir'd,
And still the more we give, the more requir'd;
Whose fame with pains we guard, but lose with ease,
Sure some to vex, but never all to please;
'Tis what the vicious fear, the virtuous shun;
By fools 'tis hated, and by knaves undone!
If wit so much from ign'rance undergo,
Ah let not learning too commence its foe!
Of old, those met rewards who could excel,
And such were prais'd who but endeavour'd well:
Though triumphs were to gen'rals only due,
Crowns were reserv'd to grace the soldiers too.
Now, they who reach Parnassus' lofty crown,
Employ their pains to spurn some others down;
And while self-love each jealous writer rules,
Contending wits become the sport of fools:
But still the worst with most regret commend,
For each ill author is as bad a friend.
To what base ends, and by what abject ways,
Are mortals urg'd through sacred lust of praise!
Ah ne'er so dire a thirst of glory boast,
Nor in the critic let the man be lost!
Good nature and good sense must ever join;
To err is human; to forgive, divine.
But if in noble minds some dregs remain,
Not yet purg'd off, of spleen and sour disdain,
Discharge that rage on more provoking crimes,
Nor fear a dearth in these flagitious times.
No pardon vile obscenity should find,
Though wit and art conspire to move your mind;
But dulness with obscenity must prove
As shameful sure as impotence in love.
In the fat age of pleasure, wealth, and ease,
Sprung the rank weed, and thriv'd with large increase:
When love was all an easy monarch's care;
Seldom at council, never in a war:
Jilts ruled the state, and statesmen farces writ;
Nay wits had pensions, and young Lords had wit:
The fair sat panting at a courtier's play,
And not a mask went unimprov'd away:
The modest fan was lifted up no more,
And virgins smil'd at what they blush'd before.
The following licence of a foreign reign
Did all the dregs of bold Socinus drain;
Then unbelieving priests reform'd the nation,
And taught more pleasant methods of salvation;
Where Heav'n's free subjects might their rights dispute,
Lest God himself should seem too absolute:
Pulpits their sacred satire learned to spare,
And Vice admired to find a flatt'rer there!
Encourag'd thus, wit's Titans brav'd the skies,
And the press groan'd with licenc'd blasphemies.
These monsters, critics! with your darts engage,
Here point your thunder, and exhaust your rage!
Yet shun their fault, who, scandalously nice,
Will needs mistake an author into vice;
All seems infected that th' infected spy,
As all looks yellow to the jaundic'd eye.
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