John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series

by John Dryden

  Much less can that have any place,

  At which a Virgin hides her Face:

  Such dross the fire must purge away; ’tis just

  The Author blush, there, where the Reader must. 9

  Here indeed Mr. Cowley goes farther than the Essay; for he asserts plainly, that obscenity has no place in Wit: the other only says, ’tis a poor pretence to it, or an ill sort of Wit, which has nothing more to support it than bare-faced Ribaldry; which is both unmannerly in it self, and fulsome to the Reader. But neither of these will reach my case: For in the first place, I am only the Translatour, not the Inventor; so that the heaviest part of the censure falls upon Lucretius, before it reaches me; in the next place, neither he nor I have us’d the grossest words, but the cleanliest Metaphors we cou’d find, to palliate the broadness of the meaning; and, to conclude, have carried the Poetical part no farther, than the philosophical exacted. There is one mistake of mine which I will not lay to the Printer’s charge, who has enough to answer for in false pointings: ’tis in the word Viper: I wou’d have the verse run thus,

  The Scorpion, Love, must on the wound be bruis’d.

  10

  There are a sort of blundering half-witted people, who make a great deal of noise about a Verbal slip; though Horace wou’d instruct them better in true criticism: Non ego paucis Offendor maculis, quas aut incuria fudit; Aut humana parum cavit natura. True judgment in Poetry, like that in Painting, takes a view of the whole together, whether it be good or not; and where the beauties are more than the Faults, concludes for the Poet against the little Judge; ’tis a sign that malice is hard driven, when ’tis forc’d to lay hold on a Word or Syllable; to arraign a Man is one thing, and to cavil at him is another. In the midst of an ill natur’d Generation of Scriblers, there is always Justice enough left in Mankind to protect good Writers: And they too are oblig’d, both by humanity and interest, to espouse each other’s cause against false Criticks, who are the common Enemies. This last consideration puts me in mind of what I owe to the Ingenious and Learned translatour of Lucretius; I have not here design’d to rob him of any part of that commendation, which he has so justly acquir’d by the whole Author, whose Fragments only fall to my Portion. What I have now perform’d, is no more than I intended above twenty years ago: The ways of our Translation are very different; he follows him more closely than I have done, which became an Interpreter of the whole Poem: I take more liberty, because it best suited with my design, which was to make him as pleasing as I could. He had been too voluminous, had he us’d my method in so long a work; and I had certainly taken his, had I made it my business to Translate the whole. The preference then is justly his: and I joyn with Mr. Evelyn in the confession of it, with this additional advantage to him, that his Reputation is already establish’d in this Poet, mine is to make its Fortune in the World. If I have been any where obscure, in following our common Author, or if Lucretius himself is to be condemn’d, I refer my self to his excellent Annotations, which I have often read, and always with some new pleasure. 11

  My Preface begins already to swell upon me, and looks as if I were afraid of my Reader, by so tedious a bespeaking of him: and yet I have Horace and Theocritus upon my hands; but the Greek Gentleman shall quickly be dispatch’d, because I have more business with the Roman. 12

  That which distinguishes Theocritus from all other Poets, both Greek and Latin, and which raises him even above Virgil in his Eclogues, is the inimitable tenderness of his passions, and the natural expression of them in words so becoming of a Pastoral. A simplicity shines through all he writes: he shows his Art and Learning by disguising both. His Shepherds never rise above their Country Education in their complaints of Love: There is the same difference betwixt him and Virgil, as there is betwixt Tasso’s Aminta and the Pastor Fido of Guarini. Virgils Shepherds are too well read in the Philosophy of Epicurus and of Plato; and Guarini’s seem to have been bred in Courts: but Theocritus and Tasso have taken theirs from Cottages and Plains. It was said of Tasso, in relation to his similitudes, Mai esce del Bosco: That he never departed from the Woods, that is, all his comparisons were taken from the Country. The same may be said of our Theocritus; he is softer than Ovid, he touches the passions more delicately, and performs all this out of his own Fond, without diving into the Arts and Sciences for a supply. Even his Dorick Dialect has an incomparable sweetness in its Clownishness, like a fair Shepherdess in her Country Russet, talking in a Yorkshire Tone. This was impossible for Virgil to imitate; because the severity of the Roman Language denied him that advantage. Spencer has endeavour’d it in his Shepherds Calendar; but neither will it succeed in English; for which reason I forebore to attempt it. For Theocritus writ to Sicilians, who spoke that Dialect; and I direct this part of my Translations to our Ladies, who neither understand nor will take pleasure in such homely expressions. I proceed to Horace. 13

  Take him in parts, and he is chiefly to be consider’d in his three different Talents, as he was a Critick, a Satyrist, and a Writer of Odes. His Morals are uniform, and run through all of them; For let his Dutch Commentatours say what they will, his Philosophy was Epicurean; and he made use of Gods and providence only to serve a turn in Poetry. But since neither his Criticisms (which are the most instructive of any that are written in this Art) nor his Satyrs (which are incomparably beyond Juvenals, if to laugh and rally is to be preferr’d to railing and declaiming), are no part of my present undertaking, I confine my self wholly to his Odes. These are also of several sorts: some of them are Panegyrical, others Moral, the rest Jovial, or (if I may so call them) Bacchanalian. As difficult as he makes it, and as indeed it is, to imitate Pindar, yet in his most elevated flights, and in the sudden changes of his Subject with almost imperceptible connexions, that Theban Poet is his Master. But Horace is of the more bounded Fancy, and confines himself strictly to one sort of Verse, or Stanza, in every Ode. That which will distinguish his Style from all other Poets, is the Elegance of his Words, and the numerousness of his Verse; there is nothing so delicately turn’d in all the Roman Language. There appears in every part of his diction, or, (to speak English) in all his Expressions, a kind of noble and bold Purity. His Words are chosen with as much exactness as Virgils; but there seems to be a greater Spirit in them. There is a secret Happiness attends his Choice, which in Petronius is called Curiosa Felicitas, and which I suppose he had from the Feliciter audere of Horace himself. But the most distinguishing part of all his Character seems to me to be his Briskness, his Jollity, and his good Humour: and those I have chiefly endeavour’d to Coppy; his other Excellencies, I confess, are above my Imitation. One Ode, which infinitely pleas’d me in the reading, I have attempted to translate in Pindarique Verse: ’tis that which is inscribd to the present Earl of Rochester, to whom I have particular Obligations, which this small testimony of my gratitude can never pay. ’Tis his Darling in the Latine, and I have taken some pains to make it my Master-piece in English: for which reason I took this kind of verse, which allows more Latitude than any other. Every one knows it was introduced into our Language, in this age, by the happy Genius of Mr. Cowley. The seeming easiness of it has made it spread; but it has not been considerd enough, to be so well cultivated. It languishes in almost every hand but his, and some very few, (whom to keep the rest in countenance) I do not name. He, indeed, has brought it as near Perfection as was possible in so short a time. But if I may be allowed to speak my Mind modestly, and without Injury to his sacred Ashes, somewhat of the Purity of the English, somewhat of more equal Thoughts, somewhat of sweetness in the Numbers, in one Word, somewhat of a finer turn and more Lyrical Verse is yet wanting. As for the Soul of it, which consists in the Warmth and Vigor of Fancy, the masterly Figures, and the copiousness of Imagination, he has excelld all others in this kind. Yet, if the kind it self be capable of more Perfection, though rather in the Ornamental parts of it, than the Essential, what Rules of Morality or respect have I broken, in naming the defects, that they may hereafter be amended? Imitation is a nice p
oint, and there are few Poets who deserve to be Models in all they write. Miltons Paradice Lost is admirable; but am I therefore bound to maintain, that there are no flats amongst his Elevations, when ’tis evident he creeps along sometimes, for above an Hundred lines together? cannot I admire the height of his Invention, and the strength of his expression, without defending his antiquated words, and the perpetual harshness of their sound? ’Tis as much commendation as a Man can bear, to own him excellent; all beyond it is Idolairy. Since Pindar was the Prince of Lyrick Poets, let me have leave to say, that in imitating him, our numbers shou’d, for the most part, be Lyrical: For variety, or rather where the Majesty of thought requires it, they may be stretch’d to the English Heroick of five Feet, and to the French Alexandrine of Six. But the ear must preside, and direct the Judgment to the choice of numbers: Without the nicety of this, the Harmony of Pindarick Verse can never be compleat: the cadency of one line must be a rule to that of the next; and the sound of the former must slide gently into that which follows; without leaping from one extream into another. It must be done like the shadowings of a Picture, which fall by degrees into a darker colour. I shall be glad, if I have so explain’d my self as to be understood; but if I have not, quod nequeo dicere, & sentio tantùm, must be my excuse. There remains much more to be said on this subject; but, to avoid envy, I will be silent. What I have said is the general Opinion of the best Judges, and in a manner has been forc’d from me, by seeing a noble sort of Poetry so happily restor’d by one Man, and so grossly copied by almost all the rest: A musical eare, and a great genius, if another Mr. Cowley cou’d arise, in another age may bring it to perfection. In the mean time,

  —— Fungar vice cotis, acutum

  Reddere quæ ferrum valet, expers ipsa secandi.

  14

  I hope it will not be expected from me, that I shou’d say any thing of my fellow undertakers in this Miscellany. Some of them are too nearly related to me, to be commended without suspicion of partiality: Others I am sure need it not; and the rest I have not perus’d. 15

  To conclude, I am sensible that I have written this too hastily and too loosely: I fear I have been tedious, and, which is worse, it comes out from the first draught, and uncorrected. This I grant is no excuse; for it may be reasonably urg’d, why did he not write with more leisure, or, if he had it not (which was certainly my case), why did he attempt to write on so nice a subject? The objection is unanswerable; but in part of recompense, let me assure the Reader, that, in hasty productions, he is sure to meet with an Authors present sence, which cooler thoughts would possibly have disguisd. There is undoubtedly more of spirit though not of judgment, in these uncorrect Essays, and consequently, though my hazard be the greater, yet the Readers pleasure is not the less.

  John Dryden. 16

  Amaryllis; Or, the Third Idyllium of Theocritus, paraphras’d

  TO Amaryllis Love compells my way,

  My browzing Goats upon the Mountains stray:

  O Tityrus, tend them well, and see them fed

  In Pastures fresh, and to their watring led;

  And ‘ware the Ridgling with his butting head. 5

  Ah, beauteous Nymph, can you forget your Love,

  The conscious Grottos, and the shady Grove;

  Where stretcht at ease your tender Limbs were laid,

  Your nameless Beauties nakedly display’d?

  Then I was call’d your darling, your desire, 10

  With Kisses such as set my Soul on fire:

  But you are chang’d, yet I am still the same;

  My heart maintains for both a double Flame;

  Griev’d, but unmov’d, and patient of your scorn:

  So faithfull I, and you so much forsworn! 15

  I dye, and Death will finish all my pain;

  Yet e’er I dye, behold me once again:

  Am I so much deform’d, so chang’d of late?

  What partial Judges are our Love and Hate!

  Ten Wildings have I gather’d for my Dear; 20

  How ruddy like your Lips their streaks appear!

  Far off you view’d them with a longing Eye

  Upon the topmost branch (the Tree was high;)

  Yet nimbly up, from bough to bough I swerv’d,

  And for to Morrow have Ten more reserv’d. 25

  Look on me Kindly, and some pity shew,

  Or give me leave at least to look on you.

  Some God transform me by his Heavenly pow’r

  Ev’n to a Bee to buzz within your Bow’r,

  The winding Ivy-chaplet to invade, 30

  And folded Fern, that your fair Forehead shade.

  Now to my cost the force of Love I find;

  The heavy hand he bears on humane kind.

  The Milk of Tygers was his Infant food,

  Taught from his tender years the tast of blood; 35

  His Brother whelps and he ran wild about the wood.

  Ah nymph, train’d up in his Tyrannick Court,

  To make the suff’rings of your Slaves your sport!

  Unheeded Ruine! treacherous delight!

  O polish’d hardness, soften’d to the sight! 40

  Whose radiant Eyes your Ebon Brows adorn,

  Like Midnight those, and these like break of Morn!

  Smile once again, revive me with your Charms:

  And let me dye contented in your Arms.

  I would not ask to live another Day, 45

  Might I but sweetly Kiss my Soul away.

  Ah, why am I from empty Joys debarr’d?

  For Kisses are but empty, when Compar’d!

  I rave, and in my raging fit shall tear

  The Garland which I wove for you to wear, 50

  Of Parsley with a wreath of Ivy bound,

  And border’d with a Rosie edging round.

  What pangs I feel, unpity’d and unheard!

  Since I must dye, why is my Fate deferr’d!

  I strip my Body of my Shepherds Frock: 55

  Behold that dreadfull downfall of a Rock,

  Where yon old Fisher views the Waves from high!

  ’Tis that Convenient leap I mean to try.

  You would be pleas’d to see me plunge to shoar,

  But better pleas’d if I should rise no more. 60

  I might have read my Fortune long agoe,

  When, seeking my success in Love to know,

  I try’d th’ infallible Prophetique way,

  A Poppy leaf upon my palm to lay;

  I struck, and yet no lucky crack did follow, 65

  Yet I struck hard, and yet the leaf lay hollow.

  And, which was worse, if any worse cou’d prove

  The withring leaf foreshew’d your withring Love.

  Yet farther (Ah, how far a Lover dares!)

  My last recourse I had to Seive and Sheeres; 70

  And told the Witch Agreo my disease,

  (Agreo, that in Harvest us’d to lease;

  But Harvest done, to Chare-work did aspire;

  Meat, drink, and Tow-pence was her daily hire;)

  To work she went, her Charms she mutter’d o’er, 75

  And yet the resty Seive wagg’d ne’er the more;

  I wept for Woe, the testy Beldame swore,

  And foaming with her God, foretold my Fate;

  That I was doom’d to Love, and you to Hate.

  A milk-white Goat for you I did provide; 80

  Two milk-white Kids run frisking by her side,

  For which the Nut-brown Lass, Erithacis,

  Full often offer’d many a savoury Kiss.

  Hers they shall be, since you refuse the price,

  What madman would o’erstand his Market twice! 85

  My right Eye itches, some good-luck is near,

  Perhaps my Amaryllis may appear;

  I’ll set up such a Note as she shall hear.

  What Nymph but my melodious Voice would move?

  She must be Flint, if she refuse my Love. 90

  Hippomenes, who ran with Noble strife


  To win his Lady, or to lose his Life,

  (What shift some men will make to get a Wife!)

  Threw down a Golden Apple in her way;

  For all her haste she could not chuse but stay: 95

  Renown said run; the glitt’ring Bribe cry’d hold;

  The Man might have been hang’d, but for his Gold.

  Yet some suppose ’twas Love (some few indeed,)

  That stopt the fatal fury of her Speed:

  She saw, she sigh’d; her nimble Feet refuse 100

  Their wonted Speed, and she took pains to lose.

  A Prophet some, and some a Poet cry,

  (No matter which, so neither of them lye)

  From steepy Othrys top to Pylus drove

  His herd; and for his pains enjoy’d his Love: 105

  If such another Wager shou’d be laid,

  I’ll find the Man, if you can find the Maid.

  Why name I Men, When Love extended finds

  His pow’r on high, and in Celestial Minds?

  Venus the Shepherd’s homely habit took, 110

  And manag’d something else besides the Crook;

  Nay, when Adonis dy’d, was heard to roar,

  And never from her heart forgave the Boar.

  How blest is fair Endymion with his Moon,