A SONG.

Hloris, 'twill be for either's Reft,

Breaft &

I'll make th' obfcureft Part of mine
Transparent as I would have thine.

If you will deal but fo with me,'
We foon fhall part, or soon agree.

II.

Know then, though you were twice as fair,
If it could be, as now you are;

And though the Graces of your Mind
With a resembling Luftre fhin'd:

Yet if you love me not, you'll fee
I'll value thofe as you do me.

HI.

Though I a thousand times had sworn
My Paffion fhould tranfcend your Scorn,
And that your bright triumphant Eyes
Create a Flame that never dies;

Yet if to me you prov'd untrue,
Thofe Oaths fhould turn as false to you

IV.

If I vow'd to pay Love for Hate,
'Twas, I confefs, a meer Deceit ;
Or that my Flame fhould deathless prove,
'Twas but to render fo your Love :
brag'd as Cowards ufe to do
Of dangers they'll ne'er run into.

V.

And now my Tenents I have show'd,
If thou think them too great & Load;
T'attempt your Change, were but in vain,
The Conqueft not being worth the Pain.

With them I'll other Nymphs fubdue;
'Tis too much to lofe time, and you.

And Revis'd and Alter'd, by

Mr. JOHN DRY DE N.

Printed in the Year MDCCXVI.

ADVERTISEMENT.

T

HIS Tranflation of Monfieur Boileau's Art of Poetry was made in the Year 1680, by Sir William Soame of Suffolk, Baronet; who being very intimately acquainted with Mr. Dryden, defired his Revifal of it. I saw the Manuscript lye in Mr. Dryden's Hands for above fix Months, who made very confiderable Alterations in it, particularly, the beginning of the Fourth Canto; and it being his Opinion that it would be better to apply the Poem to English Writers, than keep to the French Names, as it was firft Tranflated, Sir William defired he wou'd take the Pains to make that Alteration, and accordingly that was entirely done by Mr. Dryden.

The Poem was first Published in the Year 1683; Sir William was after sent Ambassador to Conftantinople, in the Reign of King James, but Died in the Voyage.

J. T.

C ANT O I.

R

ASH Author, 'tis a vain presumptu

ous Crime

To undertake the Sacred Art of
Rhyme:

If at thy Birth the Stars that rul'd
thy Senfe

Shone not with a Poetic Influence;
In thy ftrait Genius thou wilt ftill be bound,
Find Phabus deaf, and Pegasus unfound.

You then, that burn with the defire to try
The dangerous Courfe of charming Poetry;
Forbear in fruitless Verfe to lose your time,
Or take for Genius the defire of Rhyme:
Fear the Allurements of a specious Bait,
And well confider your own Force and Weight.
Nature abounds in Wits of ev'ry kind,

And for each Author can a Talent find:

One may in Verse describe an am'rous Flame,
Another sharpen a fhort Epigram:

Waller a Hero's mighty Acts extol;

Spencer Sing Rofalind in Paftoral:

But Authors that themselves too much efteem,
Lose their own Genius, and mistake their Theme;
Thus in times paft * Dubartas vainly writ,
Allaying Sacred Truth with trifling Wit,
Impertinently, and without delight,
Defcrib'd the Ifraelites Triumphant Flight,
And following Mofes o'er the Sandy Plain,
Perish'd with Pharoah in th' Arabian Main.

What-e'er you write of Pleasant or Sublime,
Always let Sense accompany your Rhyme:

Dubaxtas Translated by Silvester,

Falfely they feem each other to oppofe;

Rhyme must be made with Reason's Laws to close
And when to conquer her you bend your Force,
The Mind will Triumph in the Noble Course;
To Reason's Yoke fhe quickly will incline,
Which, far from hurting, renders her Divine:
But, if neglected, will as easily ftray,

And mafter Reason, which the should obey.
Love Reason then; and let whate'er you Write
Borrow from her its Beauty, Force, and Light.
Moft Writers, mounted on a refty Muse,
Extravagant and fenfelefs Objects chufe;
They think they err, if in their Verse they fall
On any Thought that's Plain, or Natural:
Fly this Excels; and let Italians be
Vain Authors of false glitt'ring Poetry.
All ought to aim at Senfe; but most in vain
Strive the hard Pass, and flipp'ry Path to gain :
You drown, if to the right or left you ftray;
Reason to go has often but one way.

Sometimes an Author, fond of his own Thought,
Purfues his Object 'till it's over-wrought:
If he describes a Houfe, he fhews the Face,
And after walks you round from place to place;
Here is a Vifta, there the Doors unfold,
Balconies here are Balluftred with Gold;
Then counts the Rounds and Ovals in the Halls,
The Feftoons, Freezes, and the Aftragals:
Tir'd with his tedious Pomp, away I run,
And skip o'er twenty Pages to be gone.
Of fuch Defcriptions the vain Folly fee,
And fhun their barren Superfluity.
All that is needlefs carefully avoid ;
The Mind once fatisfy'd, is quickly cloy'd:

He cannot Write, who knows not to give o'er;
To mend one Fault, he makes a hundred more:

Verfe of Scudery,