WHATEVER predecessors taught us, I have a great esteem for Plautus,
And think your boys may gather there-hence More wit and humour than from Terence;
But as to comic Aristophanes,
The rogue too bawdy and too profane is. I went in vain to look for Eupolis,
Down in the Strand, just where the New Pole is; For I can tell you one thing, that I can, You will not find it in the Vatican. He and Cratinus used, as Horace says, To take the greatest grandees for asses: Poets, in those days, used to venture high; But these are lost full many a century. Thus you may see, dear friend! ex pede hence My judgment of the old comedians. Proceed to tragies. First, Euripides (An author where I sometimes dip a-days) Is rightly censured by the Stagirite, Who says his numbers do not fadge aright. A friend of mine that author despises So much, he swears the very best piece is, For aught he knows, as bad as Thespis's ; And that a woman in those tragedies, Commonly speaking, but a sad jade is:
At least I'm well assured that no folk lays The weight on him they do on Sophocles: But above all I prefer Eschylus,
Whose moving touches, when they please, kill us. And now I find my Muse but ill able To hold out longer in trisyllable.
I chose these rhymes out for their difficulty; Will you return as hard ones if I call t' ye?
To you, whose virtues, I must own With shame, I have too lately known; To you, by Art and Nature taught To be the man I long have sought, Had not ill Fate, perverse and blind, Placed you in life too far behind; Or, what I should repine at more, Placed me in life too far before;
you the Muse this verse bestows, Which might as well have been in prose: No thought, no fancy, no sublime, But simple topics told in rhyme. Talents for conversation fit,
Are humour, breeding, sense, and wit: The last, as boundless as the wind, Is well conceived, though not defined; For, sure, by wit is chiefly meant Applying well what we invent. What humour is not, all the tribe Of logic-mongers can describe;
Here Nature only acts her part, Unhelp'd by practice, books, or art; For wit and humour differ quite; That gives surprise, and this delight. Humour is odd, grotesque, and wild, Only by affectation spoil'd: 'Tis never by invention got; Men have it when they know it not.
Our conversation to refine,
Humour and wit must both combine: From both we learn to rally well, Wherein, sometimes, the French excel. Voiture, in various lights, displays That irony which turns to praise : His genius first found out the rule For an obliging ridicule : He flatters with peculiar air The brave, the witty, and the fair; And fools would fancy he intends A satire where he most commends. But as a poor pretending beau, Because he fain would make a show, Nor can arrive at silver lace, Takes up with copper in the place; So the pert dunces of mankind, Whene'er they would be thought refined, As if the difference lay abstruse Twixt raillery and gross abuse,
To show their parts will scold and rail, Like porters o'er a pot of ale.
Such is that clan of boisterous bears, Always together by the ears;
Shrewd fellows and arch wags! a tribe That meet for nothing but to gibe;
Who first run one another down, And then fall foul on all the town; Skill'd in the horse-laugh and dry rub, And call'd by excellence The Club; I mean your Butler, Dawson, Car, All special friends, and always jar.
The mettled and the vicious steed Differ as little in their breed; Nay, Voiture is as like Tom Lee As rudeness is to repartee.
If what you said I wish unspoke, "Twill not suffice it was a joke; Reproach not, though in jest, a friend For those defects he cannot mend; His lineage, calling, shape, or sense, If named with scorn, gives just offence. What use in life to make men fret, Part in worse humour than thy met? Thus all society is lost,
Men laugh at one another's cost; And half the company is teased, That came together to be pleased; For all buffoons have most in view To please themselves by vexing you. You wonder now to see me write So gravely on a subject light. Some part of what I here design Regards a friend of yours and mine, Who, neither void of sense nor wit, Yet seldom judges what is fit, But sallies oft beyond his bounds, And takes unmeasurable rounds.
When jests are carried on too far, And the loud laugh begins the war, You keep your countenance for shame, Yet still you think your friend's to blame : For though men cry they love a jest, "Tis but when others stand the test; And, would you have their meaning known, They love a jest that is their own.
You must, although the point be nice, Bestow your friend some good advice : One hint from you will set him right, And teach him how to be polite. Bid him, like you, observe with care Whom to be hard on, whom to spare; Nor, indistinctly, to suppose
All subjects like Dan Jackson's nose; To study the obliging jest
By reading those who teach it best. For prose I recommend Voiture's, For verse (I speak my judgment) yours. He'll find the secret out from thence, To rhyme all day without offence, And I no more shall then accuse The flirts of his ill-manner'd Muse.
If he be guilty, you must mend him ; If he be innocent, defend him.
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