Horace's Art of Poetry (Roscommon)/Of the Art of Poetry

by Quintus Horatius Flaccus

For other versions of this work, see Ars Poetica (Horace).

 

HORACE

OF THE

Art of Poetry.

 

IF in a Picture (Piso) you should see,
A handsome Woman with a Fishes Tail,
Or a Man's Head upon a Horses Neck,
Or Limbs of Beasts of the most different kinds,
Cover'd with Feathers of all sorts of Birds,
Wou'd you not laugh, and think the Painter mad?
Trust me that Book is as ridiculous,
Whose incoherent Stile (like sick mens Dreams)
Varies all Shapes, and mixes all Extreams,
Painters and Poets have been still allow'd,
Their Pencils, and their Fancies unconfin'd,
This priviledge we freely give and take;
But Nature, and the Common-Laws of Sence,
Forbid to reconcile Antipathys,
Or make a Snake ingender with a Dove,
And hungry Tygers court the tender Lambs;
Some that at first have promis'd mighty things,
Applaud themselves, when a few florid Lines
Shine through th' insipid dulness of the rest;
Here they describe a Temple, or a Wood,
Or Streams that through delightful Medows run,
And there the Rainbow, or the rapid Rhyne,
But they misplace them all, and crowd them in,
And are as much to seek in other things,
As he that only can design a Tree,
Would be to draw a Shipwrack or a Storm;
When you begin with so much Pomp and Show,
Why is the end so little and so low?
Be what you will, so you be still the same.
Most Poets fall into the grossest faults,
Deluded by a seeming Excellence:
By striving to be short, they grow Obscure,
And when they would write smoothly they want strength,
Their Spirits sink; while others that affect,
A lofty Stile, swell to a Tympany;
Some timerous wretches start at every blast,
And fearing Tempests, dare not leave the Shore;
Others in love with wild variety,
Draw Boars in Waves, and Dolphins in a Wood;
Thus fear of Erring, joyn'd with want of Skill,
Is a most certain way of Erring still.
The meanest Workman in the Æmilian Square,
May grave the Nails, or imitate the Hair,
But cannot finish what he hath begun;
What is there more ridiculous than he?
For one or two good features in a Face
Where all the rest are scandalously ill,
Make it but more remarkably deform'd.
Let Poets march their Subject to their strength,
And often try what weight they can support,
And what their Shoulders are too weak to bear,
After a serious and judicious choice,
Method and Eloquence will never fail;
As well the Force as Ornament of Verse,
Consists in choosing a fit time for things,
And knowing when a Muse should be indulg'd
In her full flight, and when she should be curb'd:
Words must be chosen, and be plac'd with skill,
You gain your point, if your industrious Art
Can make unusual words easy and plain,
But (if you write of things Abstruse or New)
Some of your own Inventing may be us'd,
(So it be seldom and discreetly done)
But he that hopes to have new Words allow'd,
Must so derive them from the Græcian Spring,
As they may seem to flow without constraint;
Can an Impartial Reader discommend
In Varus, or in Virgil what he likes?
In Plautus or Cœcilius? Why should I
Be envy'd for the little I Invent,
When Ennius and Cato's copious Stile
Have so enrich'd, and so adorn'd our Tongue?
Men ever had, and ever will have leave,
To coin new words well suited to the age:
Words are like Leaves, some wither every year,
And every year a younger Race succeeds;
Death is a Tribute all things owe to Fate;
The Lucrine Mole (Cæsars stupendous Work)
Protects our Navys from the raging North;
And (since Cethegus drain'd the Pontin Lake)
We Plow and Reap where former ages row'd.
See how the Tyber (whose licentious Waves
So often overflow'd the neighbouring Fields,
Now runs a smooth and inoffensive Course,
Confin'd by our great Emperors Command;
Yet this and they, and all will be forgot;
Why then should Words challenge Eternity,
When greatest Men, and greatest Actions dye?
Use may revive the obsoletest Words,
And banish those that now are most in Vogue;
Use is the Judge, the Law, and rule of Speech.
Homer first taught the World in Epick Verse
(To write of great Commanders, and of Kings,
Elegies were at first design'd for Grief,
Though now we use them to express our Joy)
But to whose Muse we owe that sort of Verse,
Is Undecided by the Men of Skill.
Rage with Jambick's, arm'd Archilochus
Numbers for Dialogue and action fit
And favourites of the Dramatick Muse.
Fierce, lofty, Rapid, whose commanding sound
Awes the tumultuous noises of the Pit,
And whose peculiar Province is the Stage.
Gods, Heroes, Conquerers, Olympick Crowns
Loves pleasing Cares, and the free joys of Wine,
Are proper subjects for the Lyrick Song.
Why is he honour'd with a Poets Name,
Who neither knows, nor would observe a Rule?
And chuses to be Ignorant and Proud,
Rather than own his Ignorance, and Learn,
Let every thing have its due Place and Time.
A Comick Subject loves an Humble Verse,
Thyestes scorns a low and Comick Stile.
Yet Comedy sometimes may raise her voice,
And Chremes be allow'd to foam and rail:
Tragedians too, lay by their State to grieve;
Peleus and Telephus exil'd and poor,
Forget their swelling, and Gygantick Words.
He that would have Spectators share his Grief,
Must write not only well, but movingly,
And raise Mens Passions to what height he will,
We Weep and Laugh as we see others doe,
He only makes me sad who shews the way,
And first is sad himself, then (Telephus)
I feel the weight of your Calamities,
And fancy all your miseries my Own,
But if you Act them ill, I sleep or laugh:
Your looks must needs alter, as your Subject does
From kind to fierce, from wanton to severe,
For Nature forms, and softens us within,
And writes our fortunes changes in our face.
Pleasure enchants, impetuous Rage transports,
And grief dejects, and wrings the tortur'd Soul,
And these are all interpreted by Speech;
But he whose words and fortunes disagree,
Absurd, unpitied, growes a publick Jest.
Observe the Characters of those that speak,
Whether an honest Servant, or a Cheat,
Or one whose blood boils in his youthful, veins,
Or a grave Matron, or a busie Nurse,
Extorting Merchants, carefull Husbandmen,
Argives, or Thebans, Asians or Greeks.
Follow Report, or feign coherent things,
Describe Achilles, as Achilles was,
Impatient, rash, inexorable, proud,
Scorning all Judges, and all Law but Arms;
Medæa must be all Revenge and Blood,
Ino all Tears, Ixion all deceit,
Io must wander, and Orestes mourn:
If your bold Muse dare tread unbeaten Paths,
And bring new Characters upon the stage,
Be sure you keep them up to their first height.
New Subjects are not easily explain'd,
And you had better chuse a well known Theam,
Than trust to an Invention of your own;
For what originally others writ,
May be so well disguis'd, and so improv'd,
That with some Justice it may pass for yours
But then you must not Copy trivial things,
Nor word for word too faithfully Translate,
Nor (as some servile Imitators do)
Prescribe at first such strict uneasie rules,
As they must ever slavishly observe,
Or all the laws of decency renounce:
Begin not as th' old Poetaster did,
(Troys famous War, and Priams Fate, I sing)
In what will all this Ostentation end?
The laboring mountain scarce brings forth a mouse:
How far is this from the Meonian Stile?
Muse, speak the Man, who since the siege of Troy,
So many Towns, such change of Manners saw.
One with a flash begins, and ends in smoak,
The other out of smoak brings glorious light,
And (without raising Expectation high)
Surprizes us with darling miracles,
The bloody Lestrygons inhumane Feasts,
With all the Monsters, of the Land and Sea
How Scylla bark'd, and Polyphemus roard:
He doth not trouble Us with Leda's Eggs,
When he begins to write the Trojan War;
Nor writing the return of Diomed,
Go back as far as Meleagers Death:
Nothing is idle, each judicious Line
Insensibly acquaints Us with the Plot;
He chooses only what he can improve,
And Truth and Fiction are so aptly mix'd
That all seems Uniform, and of a piece.
Now hear what every Auditor expects;
If you intend that he should stay to hear
The Epilogue, and see the Curtain fall;
Mind how our tempers alter with our years,
And by those Rules form all your Characters:
One that hath newly learn'd to speak and go,
Loves childish Plays, is soon provok'd and pleas'd,
And changes every hour his wavering mind.
A Youth that first casts off his Tutors yoke,
Loves Horses, Hounds, and Sports, and Exercise,
Prone to all Vice, impatient of Reproof,
Proud, careless, fond, inconstant, and profuse.
Gain and Ambition rule our riper years,
And make us Slaves to interest and power:
Old Men are only walking Hospitals,
Where all defects, and all diseases croud
With restless pain, and more tormenting fear,
Lazy, morose, full of delays and hopes,
Opprest with Riches which they dare not use;
Ill-natur'd censors of the present Age,
And fond of all the follies of the past:
Thus all the treasure of our flowing Years,
Our ebb of life for ever takes away.
Boys must not have the ambitious cares of Men,
Nor Men the weak anxieties of Age;
Some things are acted, others only told;
But what we hear moves less than what we see;
Spectators only have their Eyes to trust,
But Auditors must trust their Ears and you;
Yet there are things improper for a Scene,
Which men of Judgment only will relate;
Mædœa must not draw her murthering knife,
And spill her childrens blood upon the Stage,
Nor Atreus there his horrid Feast prepare,
Cadmus's, and Prognes Metamorphosis,
(She to a Swallow turn'd, he to a Snake)
And whatsoever contradicts my Sense,
I hate to see, and never can believe,
Five Acts are the just measure of a Play.
Never presume to make a God appear,
But for a business worthy of a God,
And in one Scene no more than three should speak.
A Chorus should supply what Action wants,
And hath a generous and manly part;
Bridles wild rage, loves Rigid honesty,
And strict Observance of impartial Laws,
Sobriety, security and peace,
And begs the Gods to turn blind fortunes Wheel,
To raise the Wretched, and pull down the Proud.
(But nothing must be Sung between the Acts
But what some way conduces to the Plot.)
First the shrill sound of a small rural Pipe,
(Not loud like Trumpets, nor adorn'd as now)
Was entertainment for the Infant Stage.
And pleas'd the thin and bashfull Audience,
Of our well meaning frugal Ancestors.
But when our Walls and limits were enlarg'd,
And Men (grown wanton by prosperity)
Studied new Arts of Luxury and Ease,
The Verse, the Musick, and the Scene's improv'd;
For how should ignorance be judge of Wit,
Or men▪ of Sence applaud the Jests of Fools?
Then came rich Cloths and gracefull Action in,
Then instruments were taught more moving notes,
And Eloquence with all her pomp and charms
Foretold as useful and sententious Truths,
As those deliver'd by the Delphick God:
The first Tragedians, found that serious Stile
Too grave for their Uncultivated age,
And so brought wild and naked Satyrs in,
(Whose motion, words, and shape were all a Farce)
(As oft as decency would give them leave)
Because the mad ungovernable Rout,
Full of confusion, and the fumes of Wine,
Lov'd such Variety and antick Tricks.
But then they did not wrong themselves so much,
To make a God, a Hero, or a King,
(Stripp'd of his golden Crown and purple Robe)
Descend to a Mechanick Dialect,
Nor (to avoid such meanness) soaring high
With empty sound, and aiery notions fly;
For, Tragedy should blush as much to stoop
To the low Mimmick follies of a Farce,
As a grave Matron, would to dance with Girles:
You must not think that a Satyrick Stile
Allows of scandalous and brutish Words,
Or the confounding of your Characters.
Begin with Truth, then give Invention scope,
And if your Stile be natural and smooth,
All men will trie, and hope to write as well;
And (not without much pains) be undeceiv'd.
So much good Method and Connexion may
Improve the common and the plainest things.
A Satyr that comes staring from the Woods,
Must not at first speak like an Orator;
But, though his language should not be refin'd,
⟨It⟩ must not be Obscene, and Impudent,
The better Sort abhors scurrility,
And often censures, what the Rabble likes.
Unpolish'd Verses pass with many Men,
And Rome is too Indulgent in that Point;
But then, to write at a loose rambling rate,
In hope the World will wink at all our faults,
Is such a rash, ill-grounded confidence,
As men may pardon, but will never praise.
Consider well the Greek Originals,
Read them by day, and think of them by night;
But Plautus was admir'd in former time.
With too much patience (not to call it worse)
His harsh, unequal Verse, was Musick then,
And Rudeness had the Priviledge of Wit:
When Thespis first expos'd the Tragick Muse,
Rude were the Actors, and a Cart the Scene,
Where ghastly faces stain'd with lees of Wine,
Frighted the Children, and amus'd the Croud;
This Æschilus (with indignation) saw,
And built a Stage, found out a decent dress,
Brought Vizards in (a Civiler disguise)
And taught men how to speak, and how to Act;
Next Comedy appear'd with great applause,
Till her licentious, and abusive Tongue,
Wakened the Magistrates Coercive power,
And forc'd it to suppress her Insolence;
Our Writers have attempted every way,
And they deserve our praise, whose daring Muse,
Disdain'd to be beholden to the Greeks,
And found fit Subjects for her Verse at home.
Nor should we be less famous for our Wit,
Then for the force of our Victorious Arms;
But that the time and care, that are requir'd
To overlook, and file, and polish well,
Fright Poets from that necessary Toyl.

Democritus was so in love with wit,
And some Mens Natural impulse to write,
That he despis'd the help of Art and Rules,
And thought none Poets till their Brains were crack'd;
And this hath so Intoxicated some
That (to appear incorrigibly mad)
They cleanliness and Company renounce;
For Lunacy beyond the Cure of art,
With a long Beard, and Ten long dirty Nails,
Pass currant for Apollo's Livery.
O my unhappy Stars! If in the Spring,
Some Physick had not cur'd me of the spleen,
None would have writ with more success than I;
But I am satisfied to keep my sense,
And only serve to whet that Wit in you,
To which I willingly resign my claim.
Yet without writing I may teach to write,
Tell what the duty of a Poet is;
Wherein his Wealth and Ornament consist,
And how he may be form'd, and how improv'd,
Whats fit, what not, what excellent or ill,
Sound judgment is the ground of Writing well:
And when Philosophy directs your choice
To proper Subjects rightly understood,
Words from your Pen will naturally flow;
He only gives the proper Characters,
Who knows the duty of all Ranks of Men,
And what we owe to Countrey, Parents, Friends,
How Judges, and how Senators should act,
And what becomes a General to do;
Those are the likest Copies which are drawn,
By the Original of human life.
Sometimes in rough and undigested Plays
We meet with such a lucky Character,
As being humor'd right and well persu'd,
Succeeds much better, than the shallow Verse,
And chiming Trifles, of more studious Pens;
Greece had a Genious, Greece had Eloquence,
For her ambition and her end was Fame;
Our Roman Youth is bred another way,
And taught no arts but those of Usury;
And the glad Father glories in his Child,
When he can subdivide a Fraction:
Can Souls, who by their Parents from their birth
Have been devoted thus to rust and gain,
Be capable of high and generous thoughts?
Can Verses writ by such an Author live?
But you (brave Youth) wise Numa's worthy Heir,
Remember of what weight your Judgment is,
And never venture to commend a Book,
That has not pass'd all Judges and all Tests.
A Poet should instruct, or please, or both;
Let all your precepts be succinct and clear,
That ready wits may comprehend them soon,
And faithfull memories retain them long;
For 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 Canibals have murther'd and devour'd;
Old age explodes all but Morality;
Austerity offends aspiring Youths,
But he that joyns instructions 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 an Eternal fame.
Be not too rigidly Censorious,
A string may jarr in the best Masters hand,
And the most skilfull Archer miss his aim;
But in a Poem elegantly writ,
I will not quarrel with a slight mistake,
Such as our Natures 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 Fopp,
(Among his numerous Absurdities)
Stumbles upon some tolerable Lines,
I fret to see them in such company,
And wonder by what Magick they came there.
But in long Works, Sleep will sometimes surprize,
Homer himself hath been observ'd to nodd.
Poems (like Pictures) are of different Sorts,
Some better at a distance, others near,
Some love the dark, some chuse the clearest light,
And boldly challenge the most piercing Eye,
Some please for once, some will for ever please;
But Piso (tho your own Experience,
Join'd with your Fathers precepts make you wise)
Remember this as an important truth;
Some things admit of Mediocrity,
A Counsellor or Pleader at the Bar,
May want Messalas powerfull Eloquence,
Or be less read than deep Cassellius;
Yet this indifferent Lawyer is esteem'd;
But no authority of Gods nor Men,
Allow of any mean in Poesie.
As an ill consort, and a course perfume,
Disgrace the Delicacy of a Feast,
And might with more discretion have been spar'd,
So Poesie, 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 struggle with your Genius;
Yet if it ever be your fate to Write,
Let your Productions pass the strictest Hands,
Mine and your Fathers, and not see the light,
Till time and care have ripned every Line.
What you keep by you, you may change, & mend,
But words once spoke can never be recall'd.
Orpheus inspir'd by more than humane power,
Did not (as Poets feign) tame savage Beasts,
But Men as lawless, and as wild as they,
And first disuaded them from rage and bloud;
Thus when Amphion built the Theban Wall,
They feign'd the Stones obey'd his Magick Lute;
Poets the first Instructers of Mankind,
Brought all things to their proper, native Use;
Some they appropriated to the Gods,
And some to publick, some to private ends:
Promiscuous love by marriage was restrain'd
Cities were built, and usefull Laws were made;
So ancient is the pedigree of Verse,
And so divine a Poets function.
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 need each others aid.
He that intends to gain th' Olympick 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 Expence of time and pains;
But every little busie Scribler now
Swells with the praises which he gives himself;
And taking Sanctuary in the Croud,
Brags of his impudence, and scorns to mend.
A wealthy Poet, takes more pains to hire,
A flatring 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 your self, nor read your Book
Before a brib'd and fawning Auditor;
For hee'l commend and feign an Extasie,
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 your self 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 silenc leave you to admire your self,
And without Rival hugg your darling Book.
The prudent care of an Impartial friend,
Will give you notice of each idle Line,
Shew what sounds harsh, & what wants ornament,
Or where it is too lavishly bestowed;
Make you explain all that he finds Obscure,
And with a strict Enquiry mark your faults;
Nor for these trifles fear to loose your love;
Those things, which now seem frivolous, & slight,
Will be of serious consequence to you,
When they have made you once Ridiculous.
A Mad Dogs foam, the infection of the Plague,
And all the Judgments of the angry Gods,
We are not all more heedfully to shun,
Then Poetasters in their raging fits,
Follow'd and pointed at by Fools and Boys;
But dreaded and proscrib'd by Men of sense:
If (in the Raving of a frantick Muse)
And minding more his Verses than his Way,
Any of these should drop into a Well,
Tho he might burst his lungs to call for help,
No Creature would assist or pitty him,
But seem to think he fell on purpose in.
Hear how an old Sicilian Poet died;
Empedocles, mad to be thought a God,
In a cold fit leap'd into Ætna's flames.
Give Poets leave to make themselves away,
Why should it be a greater sin to kill,
Then 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 Frolick once again,
And his pretensions to Divinity:
Tis hard to say whether for Sacrilege
Or Incest, or some more unhear'd 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 Leaches till they burst with blood,
Without remorse insatiably they read,
And never leave till they have read Men dead.

 

FINIS.

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