Classic Poem

As when great Kings with petty Princes joyn,
They more their Conquest than their Aid design;
Thus, while to write with me you condescend,
'Tis more to vanquish, than assist your Friend
Then not by writing will I strive in vain
More Sense to prove, or greater Praise to gain;
But shew my Sense by giving yours its Due,
And only seek for Praise by praising you.
Whose Wit, like Heav'n from whence it sprung, repays
To us in Glory what we give in Praise.

Your clear, unerring, universal Sense,
Cheers like the Sun with gen'ral Influence:
New Wonders still profusely does display,
And drives the Darkness of the Mind away.
But your enlight'ning comprehensive Mind
Not to a single Sphere can be confin'd:
In Comic, Tragic, or Heroic Strain,
You your vast Genius can alike maintain;
Their diff'rent Talents other Wits pursue,
But All submit in their own Kind to You
Whether you mourn, make love, applaud, or blame,
You still can charm us, and are still the same.
With the same Art, in Joy or Grief engage
Your passive Audience, and your active Stage,
With your feign'd Love, and true poetic Rage.

Others, in Spight of all their noisy Wit,
Find the Stage silenc'd by the louder Pit;
They make us laugh to see their Actors cry,
In some sad Farce, or merry Tragedy.
But never you our Passion, or our Sense,
With Art against our Nature influence:
You make us Silence ev'n in Laughter keep,
And ev'n divert us, while you cause to weep.
Your moving Scenes, at once, with various Art,
Harden the soft, and melt the hardest Heart:
With Love give Grief, with Horror can delight
And please the Mind, yet terrify the Sight.

But when the vulgar Vice employs your Pen,
How we despise our selves in other Men!
At once we grow more merry, yet more wise,
Pleas'd and instructed with your Comedies.
You can our Follies without Fooling show,
And prove your Skill, by making others grow
Ridiculous, without becoming so:
Your Sense, your Humour, and satyrick Rage,
At once can teach, delight, and lash the Age.
The greatest Art is sure your Art alone,
Of pleasing all Men in your sparing none:
Charm'd with your Wit, tho' it their Scandal grows,
Their Follies please them, which you thus expose.
Your graceful Muse so well becomes her Rage,
That ev'n her Scorn must every Heart engage;
As angry Beauties but more charming prove,
And force their Foes to Wonder and to Love.

Your Subjects, tho' they are but Fictions all,
Seem, for your Art, more true and natural:
No strange, absurd, new Miracles you feign,
More to perplex the Mind, than entertain;
Nor Truths incredible relate, or shew,
To make us wonder less at them, than you.
What Satisfaction can our Sense receive
From Tales, or Accidents, it can't believe?
'Tis the too bold Improbability,
That makes ridiculous the labour'd Lye,
And Lyar too; no Shame is undergone
More for a Lye, than Truth that looks like One.
No matter what Poetic Stories are,
Or false, or true, so true they but appear;
None just, or fit, can their Invention call,
If 'tis not easie, free, and natural.

Your Plot, tho' seeming intricate, is plain,
And gives us Pleasure, keeping us in Pain;
Begets our Wonder first, then clears our Doubt;
Hard to conceive, as easie when found out:
Wit, Fancy, Judgment, and Invention too,
(Which seldom meet in Others) join in You;
In you each regularly plays its Part
Your Art seems Nature, and your Nature Art.

You represent no Characters so low,
As make our Loathing our Diversion grow;
When Nature, in Simplicity's Excess,
Becomes itself too natural to please.
No witty Lovers in your Scenes we see,
Who sigh by Rule, and take less Care to be
True to their Mistress, than their Simile.
No formal Fools endeavour to make known
Their Sense, when Passion only should be shown;
Passion is want of Sense, and what will prove
Oft more perswasive far than Wit in Love;
For Love, and Wit, as seldom at one Time
Together meet, as good Sense with good Rhime;
You thwart not Nature with Poetic Arts,
Nor think your Lovers with their Head's good Parts,
More than their Bodies, can take Female Hearts.
You Rhime for Reason on them ne'er obtrude,
For Argument a false Similitude;
Nor make them e'er to wound their Ladies aim
With sharp Conceit, or pointed Epigram,
Or fire them only with the Poet's Flame.
Yet all your Thoughts are chast as is your Stile,
You, without Guilt, can make the Modest smile;
Virgins your Love without a Blush may hear,
Which strikes their Heart, yet never wounds the Ear.

Your Wit is just, as still in Season shown,
Since Ostentation makes some pass for none;
And as good Breeding, so the best good Sense,
In the wrong Place, becomes Impertinence.
You ne'er disgrac'd your true and Sterling Wit,
By putting off the viler Dross with it;
Which, like true Coin, must for suspected pass,
When mix'd with what is Counterfeit, or Base:
False Wit is of the Want of true the Sign,
As the false Money of the Dearth of Coin.

Our Fools of Fancy scarce a Thought refuse,
Only because they know not which to chuse.
Your Sense distinguishes the just and fit,
And scorns the forc'd Impertinence of Wit;
But you still shun an Artifice so mean,
As with forc'd Pleasantry to load your Scene;
Make the low Farce to sprightly Wit give way,
And scorn to keep the dull Buffoon in Play.
No strange, or far-fetch'd Episode obtrude,
Nor leave your Tale for a dull Interlude.
No pompous Fustian in your Plays we find,
More to confound, than to surprize the Mind;
To make us less conceive, the more we hear,
Or stun each Head by puzz'ling eve'ry Ear.
Your Sense, clear is, as are your Numbers sweet,
Takes Refuge in no mystical Deceit;
No Double-meanings on your Pit you pass,
Which stain our Honour, and our Wit debase:
Sense, seeming double, oft proves none at all,
And is, like Love, more false, as general;

Strong is your Judgment, as your Reason sound,
Your Wit as piercing, as your Sense profound;
Your Fancy copious, fluent, clear and high,
Yet without barren Superfluity;
Nor from the Fulness of your fruitful Head,
Are crude, and undigested Humours bred.

Your Judgment has no Fault, but too much Wit;
And you to heighten, and illustrate it,
To mix inferior Thoughts should condescend,
As meaner Foils the Diamond's Lustre mend.
Pure Sense, like Gold, will best our Art obey,
When mix'd, and strengthen'd, with its just Allay:
So skilful Artists first cement their Gold
With the gross Mixture of a meaner Mold;
Then, with rich Workmanship, the Loss restore,
And raise the Worth, while they debase the Ore.

Some value Wit, like Coin, because 'tis old,
And judge the lightest is the purest Gold;
As much by others 'tis despis'd of late,
And worn by Time, seems crack'd, and out of date;
Or from its Age suspected in its Weight.
But like the new-mill'd Coin appears your Wit,
Which none can lessen, or can counterfeit;
Which, like true Gold, can ev'ry Test endure,
At once is weighty, solid, bright and pure;
Tho' late-coin'd, current; tho' untry'd, is fine,
Out-weighs their Old, and does our New out-shine.

Such is your Sense, which you so well express,
The brightest Beauty has the richest Dress.
Nor in your Verse does Sense submit to Sound,
As oft, in Songs, 'tis for the Musick drown'd:
Rhimes, with most others, Reason's Fetters are,
To stop their Pegasus in full Career;
Their Fancy's Tramels, which retard the Race,
And check his Swiftness, while they smooth his Pace:
With you they guide him, and improve his Course,
In Smoothness, Measure, Majesty and Force;
A safe, tho' high; a swift, yet easie Flight;
Discreet, tho' daring; lofty, yet in Sight.

Thus, in all Kinds, your matchless Art is shown,
And thus, the whole Poetic World's your own;
Fame is engross'd by you, and what remain'd
For All t' attempt, by One has been obtain'd.
Who writes with you, in hopes his Fame to raise,
Aspires (at best) to eminent Disgrace.
Your Reason's Light wou'd my dark Sense out-shine,
And your Poetick Flame extinguish mine.

So when bright Phaebus 's purer Rays conspire,
To mix with Smoak, and dull Material Fire;
The Fire, that shone with mod'rate Light before,
O'ercome by too much Lustre, shines no more.