A ftrong Perfume, as in his Car he rode,
Of Affa Fœtida proclaim'd the God.
Their Feuds forgot, the Doctors, with Amaze And rev'rent Awe, on the Proceffion gaze.
V. 106. A ftrong Perfume, as in his Car be rode,
Of Affa Foetida proclaim'd the God.
Affa Fætida, vulgarly called Devil's Dung; Abundance of which is found about the Peak in DerbyPire. [See Cotton's Natural History of that Place.]
by Robert Lloyd. M. A.
Nil Admirari.
Quod fi tam Graijs, Novitas invisa fuisset,
Quam nobis, quid nunc effèt vetus? Idem.
HANKS to much Industry and Pains,
Much Twisting of the Wit and Brains,
flation has unlock'd the Store,
spread abroad the Grecian Lore,
e Sophocles his Scenes are grown,
as familiar as our own.
more shall Taste presume to speak,
■ its Enclosures in the Greek;
all its Fences broken down,
t the Mercy of the Town.
itic, I hear thy Torrent rage,
Blasphemy against that Stage,
nich Æschylus his Warmth design'd,
ripides his Taste refm'd,
d Sophocles his laft Direction,
mp'd with the Signet of Perfection.'
rfection's but a Word ideal,
bears about it nothing real,
Excellence was never hit
e first Effays of Man's Wit.
ancient Worth, or ancient Fame
ude the Modern's from their Claim?
Muft they be Blockheads, Dolts, and Fools,
Who write not up to Grecian Rules?
Who tread in Bufkins or in Socks,
Must they be damn'd as Hetorodox,
Nor Merit of good Works prevail,
Except within the claffic Pale?
'Tis Stuff that bears the Name of Knowledge,
Not current half a Mile from College;
Where half their Lectures yield no more
(Befure I fpeak of Times of Yore)
Than just a niggard Light, to mark
How much we all are in the Dark.
As Rushlights in a spacious Room,
Just burn enough to form a Gloom.
When Shakespeare leads the Mind a Dance,
From France to England, hence to France,
'Talk not to me of Time and Place;
I own I'm happy in the Chace.
Whether the Drama's here or there,
'Tis Nature, Shakespeare every where.
The Poet's Fancy can create,
Contract, enlarge, annihilate,
Bring paft and present close together,
In Spite of Distance, Seas, or Weather.
And shut up in a fingle Action,
What coft whole Years in its Transaction.
So, Ladies at a Play, or Rout,
Can flirt the Universe about,
Whofe geographical Account
Is drawn and pictur'd on the Mount.
Yet, when they please, contract the Plan,
And shut the World up in a Fan.
True Genius, like Armida's Wand,
Can raise the Spring from barren Land.
While all the Art of Imitation,
Is pilf'ring from the first Creation;
Transplanting Flowers with useless Toil,
"Which wither in a foreign Soil.
As Confcience often sets us right,
By its interior active Light,
Without th' Assistance of the Laws
So combat in the moral Cause;
To Genius, of itself difcerning,
Without the mystic Rules of Learning,
Can from its present Intuition,
Strike at the Truth of Compofition.
Yet those who breathe the claffic Vein,
Enlisted in the mimic Train,
Who ride their Steed with double Bit,
Not run away with by their Wit,
Delighted with the Pomp of Rules,
The Specious Pedantry of Schools;
(Which Rules, like Crutches, ne'er became
Of any Ufe but to the Lame)
Pursue the Method set before 'em,
Talk much of Order and Decorum,
Of Probability of Fiction,
Of Manners, Ornament, and Diction,
And with a Jargon of hard Names,
(A Privilege which Dulness claims)
And merely us'd by way of Fence,
To keep out plain and common Sense,
Extol the Wit of antient Days,
The fimple Fabric of their Plays ;
Then from the Fable, all fo chaste,
Trick'd up in antient-modern Taste,
So mighty gentle all the While,
In such a sweet descriptive Stile,
While Chorus marks the fervile Mode
With fine Reflexion, in an Ode,
Present you with a perfect Piece,
Form'd on the Model of old Greece.
Come, prithee Critic, fet before us,
The Ufe and Office of a Chorus.
What! filent! Why then, I'll produce
Its Services from antient Ufe,
'Tis to be ever on the Stage, Attendants upon Grief or Rage, To be an arrant Go-between, Chief-Mourner at each dismal Scene; Shewing its Sorrow, or Delight, By shifting Dances, left and right. Not much unlike our modern Notions, Adagio or Allegro Motions; To watch upon the deep Distress, And Plaints of Royal Wretchedness; And when, with Tears, and Execration, They've pour'd out all their Lamentation, And wept whole Cataracts from their Eyes, To call on Rivers for Supplies, And with their Hais and Hees and Hoes To make a Symphony of Woes.
Doubtless the Antients want the Art To ftrike at once upon the Heart. Or why their Prologues of a Mile In fimple - call it - humble Stile, In unimpaffion'd Phrafe to fay • 'Fore the beginning of this Play, • I, hapless Polydore, was found • By Fishermen, or others, drown'd!
Or, I, a Gentleman, did wed, • The Lady I wou'd never bed, • Great Agamemnon's royal Daughter, • Who's coming hither to draw Water." Or need the Chorus to reveal Reflexions, which the Audience feel; And jog them, left Attention fink, To tell them how and what to think? Oh, where's the Bard, who at one View,
Cou'd look the whole Creation through,
Who travers'd all the human Heart,
Without Recourse to Grecian Art?
He scorn'd the Modes of Imitation,
Of Altering, Pilfering, and Tranflation,
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