Let all your precepts be succinct and clear,
That ready wits may comprehend them soon,
And faithful memories retain them long.
All superfluities are soon forgot.
Never be so conceited of your parts,

To think you may persuade us what you please,
Or venture to bring in a child alive,

That cannibals have murder'd and devour'd.
Old age explodes all but morality;
Austerity offends aspiring youths;
But he that joins instruction with delight,
Profit with pleasure, carries all the votes.
These are the volumes that enrich the shops,
These pass with admiration through the world,
And bring their author to eternal fame.

Be not too rigidly censorious,

A string may jar in the best master's hand,
And the most skilful archer miss his aim;
But in a poem elegantly writ,

I would not quarrel with a slight mistake,
Such as our nature's frailty may excuse;
But he that hath been often told his fault,
And still persists, is as impertinent
As a musician that will always play,
And yet is always out at the same note:
When such a positive abandon'd fop
(Among his numerous absurdities)
Stumbles upon some tolerable line,
I fret to see them in such company,
And wonder by what magic they came there.
But in long works sleep will sometimes surprise;
Homer himself hath been observ'd to nod.

Poems, like pictures, are of different sorts,
Some better at a distance, others near,
Some love the dark, some choose the clearest light,
And boldly challenge the most piercing eye;
Some please for once, some will for ever please.
But Piso, (though your knowledge of the world,
Join'd with your father's precepts, make you wise)
Remember this as an important truth,
Some things admit of mediocrity;
A counsellor, or pleader at the bar,
May want Messala's powerful eloquence,
Or be less read than deep Cascellius;
Yet this indifferent lawyer is esteem'd;
But no authority of gods nor men
Allow of any mean in poesy.

As an ill concert, and a coarse perfume,

Disgrace the delicacy of a feast,

And might with more discretion have been spar'd;
So poesy, whose end is to delight,

Admits of no degrees, but must be still
Sublimely good, or despicably ill.

In other things men have some reason left,
And one that cannot dance, or fence, or run,
Despairing of success, forbears to try;
But all (without consideration) write;
Some thinking that th' omnipotence of wealth
Can turn them into poets when they please.
But, Piso, you are of too quick a sight
Not to discern which way your talent lies,
Or vainly with your genius to contend;
Yet if it ever be your fate to write,
Let your productions pass the strictest hands,
Mine and your father's, and not see the light
Till time and care have ripen'd every line.

What you keep by you you may change and mend;
But words once spoke can never be recall'd.

Orpheus, inspir'd by more than human power,
Did not, as poets feign, tame savage beasts,
But men as lawless and as wild as they,
And first dissuaded them from rage and blood.
Thus, when Amphion built the Theban wall,
They feign'd the stones obey'd his magic lute:
Poets, the first instructors of mankind,
Brought all things to their proper, native use;
Some they appropriated to the Gods,

And some to public, some to private ends:
Promiscuous love by marriage was restrain'd,
Cities were built, and useful laws were made:
So great was the divinity of verse,
And such observance to a poet paid.
Then Homer's and Tyrtæus' martial Muse
Waken'd the world, and sounded loud alarms.
To verse we owe the sacred oracles,
And our best precepts of morality:
Some have by verse obtain'd the love of kings,
(Who with the Muses ease their wearied minds.)
Then blush not, noble Piso, to protect
What Gods inspire, and kings delight to hear.
Some think that poets may be form'd by art;
Others maintain that Nature makes them so:
I neither see what art without a vein,
Nor wit without the help of art can do ;
But mutually they crave each other's aid.
He that intends to gain th' Olympic prize,
Must use himself to hunger, heat, and cold,
Take leave of wine and the soft joys of love;
And no musician dares pretend to skill,
Without a great expense of time and pains:
But every little busy scribbler now
Swells with the praises which he gives hintself,
And, taking sanctuary in the crowd,
Brags of his impudence, and scorns to mend.
A wealthy poet takes more pains to hire
A flattering audience, than poor tradesmen do
To persuade customers to buy their goods.
"Tis hard to find a man of great estate,
That can distinguish flatterers from friends.
Never delude yourself, nor read your book
Before a brib'd and fawning auditor;
For he'll commend and feign an ecstasy,
Grow pale or weep, do any thing to please.
True friends appear less mov'd than counterfeit ;
As men that truly grieve at funerals,

Are not so loud as those that cry for hire.
Wise were the kings who never chose a friend,
Till with full cups they had unmask'd his soul,
And seen the bottom of his deepest thoughts.
You cannot arm yourself with too much care
Against the smiles of a designing knave.

Quintilius (if his advice were ask'd)
Would freely tell you what you should correct,
Or, if you could not, bid you blot it out,
And with more care supply the vacancy;
But if he found you fond and obstinate
(And apter to defend than mend your faults),
With silence leave you to admire yourself,
And without rival hug your darling book.
The prudent care of an impartial friend
Will give you notice of each idle line,

Show what sounds harsh, and what wants ornament,

Or where it is too lavishly bestow'd;
Make you explain all that he finds obscure,
And with a strict inquiry mark your faults;
Nor for these trifles fear to lose your love.
Those things which now seem frivolous and slight,
Will be of a most serious consequence,
When they have made you once ridiculous.

A poetaster, in his taging fit,
(Follow'd and pointed at by fools and boys)
Is dreaded and proscrib'd by men of sense:
They make a lane for the polluted thing,
And fly as from th' infection of the plague,
Or from a man whom, for a just revenge,
Fanatic frenzy sent by Heaven pursues.
If (in the raving of a frantic Muse)
And minding more his verses than his way,
Any of these should drop into a well,

Though he might burst his lungs to call for help,
No creature would assist or pity him,
But seem to think he fell on purpose in.

Hear how an old Sicilian poet dy'd;
Empedocles, mad to be thought a god,
In a cold fit leap'd into Etna's flames.
Give poets leave to make themselves away;
Why should it be a greater sin to kill,
Than to keep men alive against their will?
Nor was this chance, but a deliberate choice;
For if Empedocles were now reviv'd,
He would be at his frolic once again,
And his pretensions to divinity.
'Tis hard to say, whether for sacrilege,
Or incest, or some more unheard-of crime,
The rhyming fiend is sent into these men:
But they are all most visibly possest,
And like a baited bear when he breaks loose,
Without distinction seize on all they meet:
None ever 'scap'd that came within their reach,
Sticking like leeches, till they burst with blood;
Without remorse insatiably they read,

And never leave till they have read men dead.

THE CHOICE.

IF Heaven the grateful liberty would give,
That I might choose my method how to live;
And all those hours propitious Fate should lend,
In blissful ease and satisfaction spend:

Near some fair town I'd have a private seat,
Built uniform, not little, nor too great;
Better, if on a rising ground it stood;

On this side fields, on that a neighbouring wood.
It should within no other things contain
But what are useful, necessary, plain:
Methinks 'tis nauseous, and I'd ne'er endure
The needless pomp of gaudy furniture.
A little garden, grateful to the eye;
And a cool rivulet run murmuring by:
On whose delicious banks a stately row
Of shady limes, or sycamores, should grow.
At th' end of which a silent study plac'd,
Should be with all the noblest authors grac'd:
Horace and Virgil, in whose mighty lines
Immortal wit, and solid learning, shines;
Sharp Juvenal, and amorous Ovid too,
Who all the turns of love's soft passion knew:
He that with judgment reads his charming lines,
In which strong art with stronger nature joins,
Must grant his fancy does the best excel;
His thoughts so tender, and express'd so well.
With all those moderns, men of steady sense,
Esteem'd for learning, and for eloquence.
In some of these, as fancy should advise,
I'd always take my morning exercise:
For sure no minutes bring us more content,
Than those in pleasing useful studies spent.

I'd have a clear and competent estate,
That I might live genteelly, but not great:
As much as I could moderately spend;
A little more, sometimes t' oblige a friend.
Nor should the sons of poverty repine
Too much at fortune, they should taste of mine;
And all that objects of true pity were,
Should be reliev'd with what my wants could spare;
For that our Maker has too largely given,
Should be return'd in gratitude to Heaven.
A frugal plenty should my table spread;
With healthy, not luxurious, dishes spread;
Enough to satisfy, and something more,
To feed the stranger, and the neighbouring poor.
Strong meat indulges vice, and pampering food
Creates diseases, and inflames the blood.
But what's sufficient to make nature strong,
And the bright lamp of life continue long,
I'd freely take; and, as I did possess,
The bounteous Author of my plenty bless.

I'd have a little vault, but always stor'd
With the best wines each vintage could afford.
Wine whets the wit, improves its native force,
And gives a pleasant flavour to discourse;
By making all our spirits debonair,
Throws off the lees, the sediment of care.
But as the greatest blessing Heaven lends
May be debauch'd, and serve ignoble ends;
So, but too oft, the grape's refreshing juice
Does many mischievous effects produce.
My house should no such rude disorders know,
As from high drinking consequently flow;
Nor would I use what was so kindly given,
To the dishonour of indulgent Heaven.

SONG

Written at Sea, in the first Dutch War 1665, the Night before the Engagement.

To all you ladies now at land,

We men, at sea, indite;

But first would have you understand How hard it is to write;

The Muses now, and Neptune too, We must implore to write to you. With a fa, la, la, la, la.

For though the Muses should prove kind,
And fill our empty brain;

Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind
To wave the azure main,
Our paper, pen, and ink, and we,
Roll up and down our ships at sea.
With a fa, &c.

Then if we write not by each post,
Think not we are unkind;
Nor yet conclude your ships are lost
By Dutchmen, or by wind;
Our tears we'll send a speedier way,
The tide shall bring them twice a-day.
With a fa, &c.

The king with wonder and surprise,
Will swear the seas grow bold;
Because the tides will higher rise

Than e'er they used of old:
But let him know, it is our tears
Bring floods of grief to Whitehall stairs.
With a fa, &c.

Should foggy Opdam chance to know
Our sad and dismal story;

The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe,

And quit their fort at Goree :

For what resistance can they find

From men who've left their hearts behind! With a fa, &c.

Let wind and weather do its worst,

Be you to us but kind;

Let Dutchmen vapour, Spaniards curse, No sorrow we shall find:

"Tis then no matter how things go,

Or who's our friend, or who's our foe. With a fa, &c.

To pass our tedious hours away, We throw a merry main;

Or else at serious ombre play;
But, why should we in vain
Each other's ruin thus pursue?
We were undone when we left you.
With a fa, &c.

But now our fears tempestuous grow,
And cast our hopes away;
Whilst you, regardless of our woe,
Sit careless at a play:

Perhaps permit some happier man
To kiss your hand, or flirt your fan.
With a fa, &c.

When any mournful tune you hear,
That dies in every note;

As if it sigh'd with each man's care
For being so remote;

Think how often love we've made

To you, when all those tunes were play'd. With a fa, &c.

In justice you cannot refuse

To think of our distress; When we for hopes of honour lose Our certain happiness;

All those designs are but to prove Ourselves more worthy of your love. With a fa, &c.

And now we've told you all your loves,
And likewise all our fears;

In hopes this declaration moves
Some pity from your tears;
Let's hear of no inconstancy,
We have too much of that at sea.
With a fa, &c.

KNOTTING.

AT noon, in a sunshiny day,
The brighter lady of the May,
Young Chloris innocent and gay,
Sat knotting in a shade:

Each slender finger play'd its part,
With such activity and art,
As would inflame a youthful heart,

And warm the most decay'd.

Her favourite swain, by chance, came by,
He saw no anger in her eye;

Yet when the bashful boy drew nigh,
She would have scem'd afraid.

She let her ivory needle fall,
And hurl'd away the twisted ball:
And straight gave Strephon such a call,
As would have rais'd the dead.

Dear gentle youth, is't none but thee?
With innocence I dare be free;
By so much truth and modesty

No nymph was e'er betray'd.

Come, lean thy head upon my lap;

While thy smooth cheeks I stroke and clap, Thou mayst securely take a nap;

Which he, poor fool, obey'd. ·

She saw him yawn, and heard him snore,
And found him fast asleep all o'er;
She sigh'd, and could endure no more,
But starting up, she said,

Such virtue shall rewarded be:
For this thy dull fidelity,

I'll trust you with my flocks, not me,
Pursue thy grazing trade;

Go, milk thy goats, and shear thy sheep,
And watch all night thy flocks to keep;
Thou shalt no more be lull'd asleep
By me, mistaken maid.