Nor ought a genius lefs than his that writ,
Attempt tranflation; for transplanted wit,
All the defects of air and foil doth fhare,
And colder brains like colder climates are:
In vain they toil, fince nothing can beget
A vital fpirit but a vital heat.
That fervile path thou nobly doft decline
Of tracing word by word, and line by line.
Those are the labour'd births of flavish brains,
Not the effect of poetry, but pains;
Cheap vulgar arts, whose narrowness affords
No flight for thoughts, but poorly fticks at words.
A new and nobler way thou doft pursue
To make tranflations and tranflators too.
They but preferve the afhes, thou the flame,
True to his fenfe, but truer to his fame.
Fording his current, where thou find ft it low,
Let'ft in thine own to make it rise and flow ;
Wifely reftoring whatsoever grace
It loft by change of times, or tongues, or place..
Nor fetter'd to his numbers and his times,
Betray'ft his mufic to unhappy rhymes.
Nor are the nerves of his compacted strength
Stretch'd and diffolv'd into unfinew'd length:
Yet, after all, (left we should think it thine)
Thy fpirit to his circle doft confine.
New names, new dreffings, and the modern caft,
Some scenes, fome persons alter'd, and out-fac'd
The world, it were thy work; for we have known
Some thank'd and prais'd for what was less their own.
From thence a thousand leffer poets fprung,
Like petty princes from the fall of Rome;
When Jonfon, Shakespeare, and thyself did fit,
And fway'd in the triumvirate of wit---
Yet what from Jonfon's oil and fweat did flow,
Or what more easy nature did bestow
On Shakespeare's gentler Mufe, in thee full grown
Their graces both appear, yet fo that none
Can fay here Nature ends, and Art begins,
But mixt like th' elements, and born like twins,
So interwove, fo like, fo much the fame,
None, this mere Nature, that mere Art can name : 'Twas this the ancients meant; Nature and Skill Are the two tops of their Parnaffus' hill.
TO SIR RICHARD FANSHAW,
Upon his Translation of
SUCH is our pride, our folly, or our fate,
That few but fuch as cannot write, tranflate.
But what in them is want of art or voice,
In thee is either modesty or choice.
While this great piece, reftor'd by thee, doth stand
Free from the blemish of an artlefs hand.
Secure of fame, thou justly doft esteem
Lefs honour to create, than to redeem.
Nor ought a genius lefs than his that writ,
Attempt tranflation; for transplanted wit,
All the defects of air and foil doth fhare,
And colder brains like colder climates are:
In vain they toil, fince nothing can beget
A vital fpirit but a vital heat.
That fervile path thou nobly doft decline
Of tracing word by word, and line by line.
Those are the labour'd births of flavish brains,
Not the effect of poetry, but pains ;
Cheap vulgar arts, whose narrowness affords
No flight for thoughts, but poorly sticks at words.
A new and nobler way thou doft pursue
To make translations and tranflators too.
They but preferve the afhes, thou the flame,
True to his fenfe, but truer to his fame.
Fording his current, where thou find'ft it low,
Let'ft in thine own to make it rise and flow;
Wifely reftoring whatsoever grace
It loft by change of times, or tongues, or place..
Nor fetter'd to his numbers and his times,
Betray'ft his music to unhappy rhymes.
Nor are the nerves of his compacted strength
Stretch'd and diffolv'd into unfinew'd length:
Yet, after all, (left we should think it thine)
Thy fpirit to his circle doft confine.
New names, new dreffings, and the modern caft,
Some fcenes, fome perfons alter'd, and out-fac'd
The world, it were thy work; for we have known
Some thank'd and prais'd for what was less their own.
That master's hand which to the life can trace
The airs, the lines, and features of the face,
May with a free and bolder stroke exprefs
A vary'd posture, or a flattering dress ;
He could have made thofe like, who made the reft,
But that he knew his own defign was beft.
POOL.O thee, dear Tom, myfelf addreffing,
Moft queremoniously confeffing,
That I of late have been compreffing.
Deftitute of my wonted gravity,
I perpetrated arts of pravity,
In a contagious concavity.
Making efforts with all my puiffance,
For fome venereal rejouiffance,
I got (as one may fay) a nuysance.
KIL. Come leave this fooling, coufin Pooly,
And in plain English tell us truly
Why under th' eyes you look so bluely ?
'Tis not your hard words will avail you,
Your Latin and your Greek will fail you,
Till you fpeak plainly what doth ail you.
When young, you led a life monaftic,
And wore a veft ecclefiaftic;
Now in your age you grow fantastic.
POOL. Without more preface or formality,
A female of malignant quality
Set fire on label of mortality.
The faces of which ulceration
Brought o'er the helm a distillation,
Through th' inftrument of propagation.
KIL. Then coufin, (as I guess the matter)
You have been an old fornicator,
And now are fhot 'twixt wind and water.
Your style has fuch an ill complexion,
That from your breath I fear infection,
That even your mouth needs an injection.
You that were once fo oeconomic,
Quitting the thrifty ftyle laconic,
Turn prodigal in makeronic.
Yet be of comfort, I fhall fend-a
Person of knowledge, who can mend-a
Disaster in your nether end-a---
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