I come now to Shakespear's Poems, the Publication of which
in one Volume, and of a-piece with the rest of the Works,
gave occasion to my Perusal of his other Writings, with so
much Attention, that I cou'd not easily be impos'd on by any
spurious Copy of that Poet. 'Tis true, there may perhaps be a
Michael Angelo found, who may copy the Antique so admirably, as to
puzzle the greatest Masters; but then the very Copy must have the Beauty
and Merit of an Original. Thus I am confident, that tho the Poems this
Volume contains are extremely distinguish'd in their Excellence and Value,
-- 442 --
yet there is not one of them that does not carry its Author's Mark
and Stamp upon it; not only the same manner of Thinking, the same
turn of Thought, but even the same Mode of Dress and Expression, the
Decompounds, his peculiar sort of Epithets, which distinguish his from
the Verses of all his Contemporaries or Successors, as in the Poems—
From off a Hill, whose concave Womb reworded
A plaintful Story from a Sistring Vale, &c.
And in his Plays this very Epithet we find particularly, That even her
Art sisters the natural Roses. But to compare all the Poems in this
manner would be an endless Work, and make almost as many Volumes
as his Plays; and it wou'd be perfectly unnecessary, since whoever knows
any thing of Shakespear, will find his Genius in every Epigram of these
Poems, in every particular I have mention'd, and the frequent Catachreses;
his Starts aside in Allegories, and in short his Versification, which is very
unequal; sometimes flowing smoothly but gravely like the Thames, at
other times down-right Prose. He never touches on an Image in any
of them, but he proves the Poem genuine.
But some, perhaps, who are for undervaluing what they have no share
in, may say, that granting them to be Shakespear's, yet they are not valuable
enough to be reprinted; as was plain by the first Editors of his
Works, who wou'd otherwise have join'd them all together.
To this I answer—That the Assertion is false; or were it not, it is
more than the Objector knows by his own Judgment and Understanding:
But to prove it false we need only consider, that they are much less imperfect
in their Kind, than even the best of his Plays, as will appear from
the Rules I shall lay down immediately: In the next Place, the first Editors
were Players, who had nothing to do with any thing but the Dramatic
Part, which yet they publish'd full of gross Mistakes, many of
which remain to this Day; nor were they by any means Judges of the
Goodness or Badness of the Beauties or Defects of either Plays or Poems.
There is next an Objection, That if these Poems had been Genuine,
they had been publish'd in the Life time of the Author, and by himself;
but coming out almost thirty Years after his Death, there is great Reason
to suspect that they are not Genuine.
To this I answer, That if nothing was to be thought his but what was
publish'd in his Life time, much the greater Number of his Plays wou'd
be as liable to this Objection as his Poems. Next, here is indeed no
Weight in the Objection; Is there any thing more common than the Publication
of Works of great Men after their Deaths? It is more than thirty
Years since the Death of the ingenious Butler; yet it is certain that
Mr. L&wblank;l of the Temple has a Manuscript of his in his Hands, perhaps
more valuable than his Hudibrass, and in the same kind of Verse, because the
-- 443 --
Subject wou'd afford greater Matter for so fine a Genius to work on; and if
this Gentleman shou'd be prevail'd upon to do the dead Author the Justice
to publish this to the World, cou'd this Objection rob his Memory of the
Work, and make it spurious? No, no, there is a likeness in one Man's
Children generally, which extends not beyond the Family; and in the
Children of the Brain it is always so, when they are begot by a Genius indeed.
Besides, these Poems being most to his Mistress, it is not at all unlikely,
that she kept them by her till they fell into her Executor's Hands,
or some Friend who wou'd not let them be any longer conceal'd. But after
all, there were more in proportion of these Poems in this Volume, printed
in his Life-time, than of his Plays, as is plain from his Venus and Adonis,
his Tarquin and Lucrece, and several Epigrams and Sonnets.
There is a Poem in this Book called the Passionate Shepherd, which
gives us a strong Proof of its being Shakespear's; for Sir Hugh the Welch
Levite, in the Merry Wives of Windsor, to appease his Choler or his
Fears, as he is waiting to fight Dr. Caius, repeats often some of the
Lines: as
By shallow Rivers, to whose Falls
Melodious Birds sing Madrigals,
There will I make our Peds of Roses,
And a thousand fragrant Posies.
This at least proves it a known and celebrated Song when Shakespear
wrote that Play, which was Years before his Death.
There is yet another Proof of the Poems being genuine, for there
is in them the Song which begins the fourth Act of Measure for Measure,
at length; whereas there is but one Stanza of it in the Play,
which is,
Take, oh! take those Lips away,
That so sweetly were forsworn,
And those Eyes the break of Day
Lights which do mislead the Morn.
But my Kisses bring again,
Seals of Love, tho seal'd in vain.
The Stanza, omitted in the Play, is,
Hide, O! hide those Hills of Snow,
Which thy frozen Bosom bears,
On whose Tops the Pinks that grow
Are of those that April wears;
-- 444 --
But my poor Heart first set free,
Bound in those Icy Charms by thee.
This leads me to a Book lately publish'd, containing only some few of
his Poems confusedly put together; for what is there call'd The Passionate
Pilgrim, is no more than a Medly of Shakespear's, thrown into a Heap
without any Distinction, tho they are on several and different Subjects:
As for Example, The first Stanza in these Poems is call'd, The False
Relief: the next Stanza is call'd, The Temptation; and on quite another
Subject, tho incorporated into one under that general Title of The Passionate
Pilgrim: the next Stanza is call'd, Fast and Loose, and still on
another Subject: the next Stanza, tho join'd as the rest as part of the
same Poem, is on a Subject vastly different from that of the former Stanza,
and is call'd, The Sweet Provocation: the same holds good of the next,
which is call'd, The Constant Vow.
I might go on with the rest of them, which confound the Reader, and
very much injure the Poet, by palming on his Memory such absurd Incoherences,
as none but such a wise Editor cou'd ever have stumbled on.
Again, the Poems are not only in that Book thus ridiculously blended
together in a preposterous Mixture, but some of them are lame and
imperfect; to instance in one, which is here call'd, The Passionate Shepherd.
The Answer to that, in the Book we mention, is not above six
or seven Lines; and here it is as long and as beautiful as the Shepherd's
Address, nay, in my opinion much better.
Tho Love and its Effects are often happily enough touch'd in many
of these Poems, yet I must confess that it is but too visible, that Petrarch
had a little infected his way of thinking on that Subject: yet who-ever
can admire Mr. Cowley's Mistress, has a thousand times more Cause of Admiration
of our Shakespear, in his Love Verses; because he has sometimes
such Touches of Nature as will make amends for those Points, those Epigrammatica
Acumina, which are not, or ever can be, the Product of a
Soul truly touch'd with the Passion of Love.
The Poem of Venus and Adonis has been much admir'd, since it has of
late come to be known to the Curious, and there are a great many very
beautiful Images and Lines in it. Bion, one of the Minor Greek Poets,
has wrote on the same Subject, with this difference: The British Bard
has taken more of the Story in; that is, he has given us a Draught of
the last Scenes of the amorous Essays of the Passion of Venus on the
Youth, as well as of his Death, and her Lamentations upon it; whereas
the Edyllium of Bion only laments his Death. However, this furnishes us
with an Opportunity of making a better Comparison betwixt our Poet and
the Antients, than that which Mr. Hales of Eton, my Lord Falkland
and the rest, took in opposition to Ben. Johnson. I the more willingly
-- 445 --
do this, because the right honourable the Earl of Winchelsea has translated
this very Piece with a great deal of Address, which I shall here give you
as I find it in Print.
Translated by the Right Honourable the Earl of [secondary verse]
Mourn all ye Loves! the fair Adonis dies!
The lovely Youth in Death's Embraces lies!
Rise wretched Venus, and to Mourning turn
The Tyrian Robes thy beauteous Limbs adorn:
Thy panting Bosom beat in wild Despair,
And pierce with thy Complaints the yielding Air.
Mourn all ye Loves! the fair Adonis dies!
The lovely Youth in Death's Embraces lies!
Ah! how his Breast seems lovely to the Sight!
The Tusk that wounded him is not so white.
The sparkling Lustre now forsakes his Eyes,
And from his Lips the rich Carnation flies;
The charming Youth lies breathless on the Plain,
And Cytherea's Kisses are in vain.
Mourn all ye Loves! the fair Adonis dies!
The lovely Youth in Death's Embraces lies!
Tho wide the Wound upon his Thigh appears,
The tender Goddess' Breast a larger bears.
Close by his Side his faithful Dogs attend,
And howling o'er the Corps, the Skies they rend.
The Mountain Nymphs their sad Distraction show,
But Venus' Griefs no Limits will allow.
Bare-footed to the Desart she repairs,
With looks disorder'd, and neglected Hair,
And her soft Flesh the cruel Brambles tear.
Mourn all ye Loves! the fair Adonis dies!
The lovely Youth in Death's Embraces lies!
-- 446 --
The Rocks and Floods lament his hapless Fate,
Adonis, still Adonis, they repeat.
The Flowers a universal Sorrow shew,
And weep his Fall in pearly Drops of Dew.
But Venus o'er the pathless Mountain flies,
And Hills and Vallies eccho to her Cries.
Mourn all ye Loves! the fair Adonis dies!
The lovely Youth in Death's Embraces lies!
Who can the Cyprian Queen's sad Story know,
Without lamenting her disastrous Woe?
With Arms out-stretch'd she grasps the fleeting Air,
And cries, Adonis stay! stay, lovely Fair!
At length I've found thee! fly not my Embrace,
My glowing Kiss shall warm thy bloodless Face.
With eager Lips I'll draw thy parting Breath,
Receive thy Soul, and suck thy Love in Death.
This farewel Kiss I never will resign,
And tho you leave me, that shall still be mine.
Far off you fly Adonis, and must go
To visit the remorseless King below.
But as a Goddess far more wretched, I
Immortally am curs'd, and cannot die.
Mourn all ye Loves! the fair Adonis dies!
The lovely Youth in Death's Embraces lies!
The Queen of Love assumes a widow'd State,
And round her little Loves unactive wait!
She blames thee, too rash Youth! alone to dare
Encounter savage Beasts, himself so fair.
Mourn all ye Loves! the fair Adonis dies!
The lovely Youth in Death's Embraces lies!
As many Tears fair Venus' Eyes supply
As Drops of Blood fell from Adonis' Thigh;
From which successively were seen to rise
From Blood the Rose, from Tears Anemonies.
Mourn all ye Loves! the fair Adonis dies!
The lovely Youth in Death's Embraces lies!
Fair Cytherea, from the Woods retire;
No longer there lament your lost Desire.
-- 447 --
The Nuptial Bed for your cold Love prepare,
Who looks (as sleeping) charming still, and fair.
On golden Bolsters raise his heavy Head,
So let him lie tho pale his Looks, and dead!
In his rich Garments lay him gently down,
The same that us'd thy happy Nights to crown.
Let Flow'rs and Garlands o'er the Corps be spread;
But they, since he's no more, will quickly fade.
With fragrant Essences perfume the Air,
Since he is gone, who was all sweet, and fair.
Now deckt in Purple soft Adonis lies;
The little Loves attend with weeping Eyes,
And strive by different Ways their Grief to show,
This tramples on his Dart, that breaks his Bow;
A third i'th' Air his useless Quiver throws;
A fourth th' embroider'd Slipper wou'd unloose.
In golden Cups another Water bears,
One washes off the Blood his Thigh besmears.
Another beats officiously the Air,
And with soft Pinions fanns the breathless Fair.
All Hymen's Torches on the Threshold lie
Extinguish'd, and the Marriage Garland by.
Hymen's no longer sung, but all around
Adonis is become the mournful Sound.
The pitying Graces in the Confort move,
And mourn th' unhappy Cytherea's Love.
Her boundless Grief the fatal Sisters share,
Endeavour to recall the beauteous Fair,
But cruel Proserpine is deaf to Prayer.
I need not transcribe that of Shakespear, since by turning to the Page
you may find it. The particular Complaint of Venus in Bion begins,
&lblank; &grM;&gre;&gric;&grn;&gro;&grn; &grA;&grd;&grw;&grn;&gri;,
&grD;&grua;&grs;&grp;&gro;&grt;&grm;&gre; &grm;&gre;&gric;&grn;&gro;&grn; &grA;&grd;&grw;&grn;&gri;, &c.
The Similies in Shakespear are generally very good, as that,
Ev'n as an empty Eagle sharp by Fast,
Tires with her Beak on Feathers, Flesh, and Bone, &c.
And that in the next Stanza but one.
-- 448 --
Look how a Bird lies tangled in a Net,
So fasten'd, &c.
But it wou'd be tedious to refer to all the Similies, since there is a scarce a
Page but has one or more very well adapted, to the heightning of the Subject.
Venus's Speeches to Adonis, allowing now and then for some Petrarchisms,
are natural and pathetick enough, expressing her Eagerness of
Desire.
Oh! Pity, 'gan she cry, flint-hearted Boy, &c.
The Description of the Horse of Adonis, and all that passes from the
Jennet's coming out of the Coppice, is very lively; her Speech to him likewise.
Oh! fairest Mover on this mortal Round! &c.
And her Reply to him.
What canst thou talk (quoth she) hast thou a Tongue?
Her Description of the Terrors of the Boar, and her Dissuasions from
hunting are very good. But she seems something too long and particular in
her Persuasion to his coursing or hunting the timerous Hare. Shakespear
was at least a young Poet when he wrote this, it being as he tells his
Patron in his Billet Dedicatory his first Essay; I suppose he means in this
Kind, for certainly some of his Plays were wrote before it, being infinitely
less perfect in the Diction and Versification. Her chiding of Death, expresses
that Terror in lively Colours.
Besides the Similies and pathetick Speeches, there are scatter'd up and
down some Topics well express'd, as
On Love.
Love is a Spirit all compact of Fire,
Not gross to sink, but light, and will aspire.
And,
On Love and Lust.
Call it not Love, for Love to Heaven is fled,
Since sweating Lust on Earth usurps his Name, &c.
-- 449 --
There is also something fine of the Power of Love.
The next Poem is upon the Rape of Lucrece by Tarquin. I have
ventur'd to make this Edition differ from the former; because those few
Notes that us'd to be printed with it, are very childish, and superfluous,
and doubtless not design'd to be committed to the Press by the Author;
they being only to point out in Prose to the Reader, what he has before
his Eye in Verse. This Poem in my Opinion is much inferior to the
former, tho a much better Subject for a Poem. Lucrece is too talkative
and of too wanton a Fancy for one in her Condition, and of her Temper;
yet there are many good Lines, and some very good Topics, tho a
little too far spread; as those of Night, Opportunity, and Time.
Oh! Comfort-killing Night! Image of Hell,
Dim Register, and Notary of Shame, &c.
And,
Oh! Opportunity, thy Guilt is great!
'Tis thou, that execut'st the Traitor's Treason, &c.
And,
Mishapen Time, Copesmate of ugly Night,
Swift subtle Post, Carrier of grisly Care, &c.
These, tho they express a great many Properties and Effects of the
Topics, are yet too curious and too long to entertain a Lady in so desperate
a Condition as Lucrece was: and the same will hold good of several
things, before she gives herself the fatal Wound.
There are some other common Places in this Poem, worth minding: As
of the Avaritious, tho brought in by way of Simile.
Those that much covet, are of Gain so fond,
That oft they have not that which they possess, &c.
Which is the Sense of this Latin Saying, Tam deest avaro quod habet,
quam quod non habet. And on the same Subject.
The aged Man that coffers up his Gold, &c.
-- 450 --
There are two Verses very like this of Claudian:
Regis ad Exemplum totus componitur Orbis.
For Princes are the Glass, the School, the Book,
Where Subjects Eyes do learn, do read, do look.
I urge not this to charge him with Plagiarism, but only to shew
that if the Similitude of Thought may be a Proof of his having read the
Classics, as well as the finding no such, an Argument that he had not;
these and various other Instances, which I might give from both his Poems
and Plays, wou'd prove that he was not so unacquainted with them, as
some Gentlemen wou'd persuade us. There are in this Poem, as well as
in the former, a great many fine Similes.
There is besides in this Poem, I think, a Proof of his knowing Virgil;
for he has painted Sinon, as Virgil has done before him. I do not mean
totidem Verbis, but has given him the same Character, and so plainly,
that this is visibly taken from that.
All that I have to say of the Miscellaneous Poems, is, that they are generally
Epigrams, and those perfect in their kind, according to the best
Rules that have been drawn from the Practice of the Ancients, by Scaliger,
Lillius Giraldus, Minturnus, Robertellus, Gorræus, Possevinus,
Pontanus, Raderus, Donatus, Vossius, and Vavassor the Jesuit; at least
as far as they agree: but it is not to be suppos'd, that I should give you
here all, that has been said of this sort of Poesy by all these Authors; for
that would it self make a Book in Folio: I shall therefore here only give
you some concise Rules for this and some other Parts of the lesser Poetry,
on which Shakespear has touch'd in these Poems; for he has something
Pastoral in some, Elegiac in others, Lyric in others, and Epigrammatic in
most. And when the general Heads of Art are put down in all these, it
will be no hard matter to form a right Judgment on the several Performances.
I shall begin with those excellent Rules in the present Duke of Buckingham's
Essay on Poetry; of which he says justly:
'Tis not a flash of Fancy, which sometimes
Dazling our Minds, sets off the slightest Rhymes;
Bright as a Blaze, yet in a Moment done:
True Wit is everlasting, as the Sun;
Which, tho sometimes behind a Cloud retir'd,
Breaks out again, and is by all admir'd.
-- 451 --
Number, and Rhyme, and that harmonious Sound,
Which never does the Ear with harshness wound,
Are very necessary, yet but vulgar Arts;
For all in vain these superficial Parts
Contribute to the Structure of the whole,
Without a Genius too; for that's the SOUL:
A Spirit, which inspires the Work throughout,
As that of Nature moves the World about;
A Heat, that glows in every Word that's writ;
'Tis something of Divine, and more than Wit:
It self unseen, yet all things by it shown;
Describing all Men, but describ'd by none.
As all is Dullness, where the Fancy's bad,
So without Judgment Fancy is but mad.
And Judgment has a boundless Influence,
Not only in the Choice of Words, but Sense,
But on the World, on Manners, and on Men,
Fancy is but the Feather of the Pen:
Reason is that substantial useful Part,
Which gains the Head, while t'other wins the Heart.
First then of Songs, which now so much abound:
Without his Song, no Fop is to be found;
A most offensive Weapon, which he draws
On all he meets, against Apollo's Laws.
Tho nothing seems more easy, yet no part
Of Poetry requires a nicer Art.
For as in Rows of richest Pearl there lies
Many a Blemish, which escapes our Eyes,
The least of which Defects is plainly shown,
In some small Ring, and brings the Value down;
So Songs shou'd be to just Perfection wrought,
Yet where can we see one without a Fault?
Exact Propriety of Words, and Thought,
Expression easy, and the Fancy high;
Yet this not seem to creep, nor that to fly;
No Words transpos'd, but in such Order all,
As tho hard wrought, may seem by Chance to fall.
Next Elegy, of sweet but solemn Voice,
And of a Subject grave exacts the Choice.
The praise of Valour, Beauty, Wit contains,
And there too oft despairing Love complains.
-- 452 --
Their greatest Fault, who in this kind have writ,
Is not defect of Words, or want of Wit.
But should this Muse harmonious Numbers yield,
* noteAnd every Couplet be with Fancy fill'd;
If yet a just Coherence be not made
Between each Thought, and the whole Model laid
So right, that every Step may higher rise,
Like goodly Mountains, till they reach the Skies;
Trifles like such perhaps of late have past,
And may be lik'd a while, but never last.
'Tis Epigram, 'tis Point, 'tis what you will;
But not an Elegy, nor writ with Skill,
No Panegyric, nor a Cooper's-Hill.
A higher Flight, and of a happier Force,
Are † noteOdes, the Muses most unruly Horse;
That bounds so fierce, the Rider has no Rest,
But foams at Mouth, and moves like one possest.
The Poets here must be indeed inspir'd
With Fury too, as well as Fancy fir'd.
Cowley might boast to have perform'd his Part,
Had he with Nature join'd the Rules of Art:
But ill Expression gives sometimes Allay
To that rich Fancy that can ne'er decay;
Tho all appear in Heat and Fury done,
The Language still must soft and easy run.
These Laws may seem a little too severe,
But Judgment yields, and ‡ note
Fancy governs here,
And makes the Work much easier than it seems.
-- 453 --
I shall only add a few Words of the Epigram, which his Grace has not touch'd upon.
Vavassor defines it in his Treatise on this Subject, thus: An Epigram is a
short Copy of Verses, with Beauty and Point, treating of one only thing,
and concluding with a more beautiful Point. It is defin'd much to this
purpose by another Author—An Epigram is a short and simple Poem,
deducing something of some one Thing, Person and Fact.
So that its Parts (says Vavassor) are but two, the expressing or reciting
the Subject, and the Conclusion; and its Beauties are Brevity, and Acumen,
which I term Point.
As to the Length of an Epigram, the Number of Verses are not agreed
on among the Critics. Some say it must not exceed two Lines, others allow
four at most; asserting, that all above that Number are Excrescency
and vicious. But since in Catullus we sometimes find above fifty Verses,
we may excuse our selves for not yielding our Assent to their Dogmatic
Rule. 'Tis true, that Martial but once in all his Epigrams reaches to
twenty six Lines, and another Time to twenty, confining himself in all
his other Poems to five or six Distichs; so that we should (says the Jesuit)
rather keep within the Compass, that Martial by his Practice prescrib'd,
than venture to the larger Number of Catullus. But since Catullus
has by all been prefer'd to the latter, we have no Reason to prefer the
Practice of Martial to his.
The way to attain Brevity, is, not to aim at many things in the whole
Epigram; then to express even that little as concisely as possible, and in such
Words, that, to extend it into more, wou'd enervate and loose the Force
and Strength of the Thought, and the Point, or Acumen.
The next Quality is Beauty, that is, an exact and harmonious Formation
of the Whole, and the apt Agreement of all the Parts of the Poem from
the Beginning to the End, with a certain sort of Sweetness, as of a natural
Colour, without any Fucus on the one hand, and yet without any thing
-- 454 --
low and mean on the other; and tho it be plain and rude Nature, yet not
a mere rustic Simplicity, void of all Art, but that which is agreeable to
a Court-Conversation, and the Language of the Polite. The Beauty of the
Epigram must always be accompanied with Sweetness: And this varies according
to the Subject. If that be delicate, soft, tender, amorous, &c.
those Qualities will arise from the well expressing the Nature of the Subject,
that will give Beauty and Sweetness. In the Language, we ought rather
to avoid that which is harsh, or an Enemy to Sweetness, than to
study too much to find out that which may help and increase it. The
Point is, what the Epigrammatical Critics stand much upon, which is chiefly
in the Conclusion, by ending with something unexpected, or biting.
All things are the allow'd Subject of the Epigram; as long as they are
treated of with Brevity, Point, and Beauty.
How far Shakespear has excell'd in this Way, is plain from his Poems
before us; but this must be allow'd him, that much of the Beauty and
Sweetness of Expression, which is so much contended for, is lost by the
Injury of Time, and the great Change of our Language since his Time;
and yet there is a wonderful Smoothness in many of them, that makes
the Blood dance to his Numbers.
This Abridgement of the Rules of this sort of Poetry must serve for
this time, since I have already run out beyond the Bounds prescrib'd. I
may hereafter be a little more accurate on this Head, if ever there be
any Prospect, that our great Men will grow weary of Trifles and Gawds,
to use one of Shakespeare's Words, and have the Relish of Art, and good
Poetry, and good Sense.
