Of Poetry.
I OWN the Augustan age to have been that of excellent Poets; but it follows not, that it was that of sound Judgment. Poetry requires a peculiar Genius, that agrees not overmuch with good sense. It is sometimes the language of Gods, sometimes of Buffoons; rarely that of a Gentleman. It delights in figures and fictions, always beside the reality of things, tho it be that only, that can satisfy a sound Understanding.
Not but that there is something noble in making agreeable Verses; but we must have a great command of our genius, otherwise the mind is possess'd with something foreign, which hinders it from the free management of it self. He's a Blockhead, says the Spaniard, that can't make two Verses, and a Fool that makes four. I own, if this Maxim prevail'd over all the world, we should want a thousand fine works, the reading of which gives us a very delicate pleasure; but this saying respects men of business, rather than profess'd Poets. Besides, those that are capacitated for such great performances, will not resist the force of their Genius, for what I can say; and it is certain, that amongst Authors, those only will write few Verses, who find themselves more cramp'd by their own barrenness, than by my reasons.
Excellent Poets are as requisite for our entertainment, as great Mathematicians for our use: but it is sufficient for us to be acquainted with their works, and not to engage our selves in the solitary Enthusiasm of the one, or to exhaust our spirits in Meditation, like the other.
