HKB
closely to the Grecian Muse, Translate the words whose soul you should transfuse, Nor act the copyist's part, and work in chains Which, once put on by rashness, shame retains.
Don't open like the cyclic, with a burst: "Troy's war and Priam's fate are here rehearsed." What's coming, pray, that thus he winds his horn? The mountain labours, and a mouse is born. Far better he who enters at his ease, Nor takes your breath with empty nourishes: "Sing, Muse, the man who, after Troy was burned, Saw divers cities, and their manners learned." Not smoke from fire his object is to bring, But fire from smoke, a very different thing; Yet has he dazzling miracles in store, Cyclops, and Laestrygons, and fifty more. He sings not, he, of Diomed's return, Starting from Meleager's funeral urn, Nor when he tells the Trojan story, begs Attention first for Leda and her eggs. He hurries to the crisis, lets you fall Where facts crowd thick, as though you knew them all, And what he judges will not turn to gold Beneath his touch, he passes by untold. And all this glamour, all this glorious dream, Truth blent with fiction in one motley scheme, He so contrives, that, when 'tis o'er, you see Beginning, middle, end alike agree.
Now listen, dramatists, and I will tell What I expect, and all the world as well. If you would have your auditors to stay Till curtain-rise and plaudit end the play, Observe each age's temper, and impart To each the grace and finish of your art.
Note first the boy who just knows how to talk And feels his feet beneath him in his walk: He likes his young companions, loves a game, Soon vexed, soon soothed, and not two hours the same.
The beardless youth, at last from tutor freed, Loves playing-field and tennis, dog and steed: Pliant as wax to those who lead him wrong, But all impatience with a faithful tongue; Imprudent, lavish, hankering for the moon, He takes things up and lays them down as soon.
His nature revolutionized, the man Makes friends and money when and how he can: Keen-eyed and cool, though on ambition bent, He shuns all acts of which he may repent.
Grey hairs have many evils: without end The old man gathers what he dares not spend, While, as for action, do he what he will, 'Tis all half-hearted, spiritless, and chill: Inert, irresolute, his neck he cranes Into the future, grumbles, and complains, Extols his own young years with peevish praise, But rates and censures these degenerate days.
Years, as they come, bring blessings in their train; Years, as they go, take blessings back again: Yet haste or chance may blink the obvious truth, Make youth discourse like age, and age like youth: Attention fixed on life alone can teach The traits and adjuncts which pertain to each.
Sometimes an action on the stage is shown, Sometimes 'tis done elsewhere, and there made known. A thing when heard, remember, strikes less keen On the spectator's mind than when 'tis seen. Yet 'twere not well in public to display A business best transacted far away, And much may be secluded from the eye For well-graced tongues to tell of by and by. Medea must not shed her children's blood, Nor savage Atreus cook man's flesh for food, Nor Philomel turn bird or Cadmus snake, With people looking on and wide awake. If scenes like these before my eyes be thrust, They shock belief and generate disgust.
Would you your play should prosper and endure? Then let it have five acts, nor more nor fewer. Bring in no god save as a last resource, Nor make four speakers join in the discourse.