How Comedy reflects this life of man, How true her portraiture of young and old; How subtle wit, polished in narrow span, And purest speech, and more too you behold; What grave consideration mixed with smiles, What seriousness, along with pleasant jest; Deceit of slaves; how woman oft beguiles How full of slyness is her treacherous breast; How silly, awkward swains to sadness run, How rare success, though all seems well begun, Let one hear with attention, and dispute not of the art; for in comedy everything will be found of such a sort that in listening to it everything becomes evident. (_Translated by William T. Brewster._) NOTES 1. The opening passage of Lope's poem is thus rendered into English verse by Lord Holland:-- Bright flow'rs of Spain, whose young academy Ere long shall that by Tully nam'd outvie; And match'd the Athenian porch where Plato taught, Whose sacred shades such throngs of sages sought,-- You bid me tell the art of writing plays Such as the crowd might please, and you might praise, The work seems easy--easy it might be To you who write not much, but not to me. For how should I the rules of art explain, I, whom nor art nor rule should e'er restrain? Not but I studied all the antient rules: Yes, God be praised, long since in grammar schools, Scarce ten years old, with all the patience due, The books that subject treat I waded through: My case was simple,--in these latter days, The truant authors of our Spanish plays So wide had wander'd from the narrow road Which the strict fathers of the drama trod, I found the stage with barbarous pieces stor'd:-- The critics censur'd; but the crowd ador'd. Nay more; these sad corrupters of the stage So blended taste, and so debauch'd the age, Who writes by rule must please himself alone, Be damn'd without remorse, and die unknown. Such force has habit--for the untaught fools, Trusting their own, despise the antient rules, Yet, true it is, I too have written plays, The wiser few, who judge with skill, might praise: But when I see how shew and nonsense, draws The crowd's, and, more than all, the fair's applause, Who still are forward with indulgent rage To sanction every monster of the stage. I, doom'd to write, the public taste to hit, Resume the barbarous dress 'twas vain to quit; I lock up every rule before I write, Plautus and Terence drive from out my sight, Lest rage should teach these injur'd wits to join, And their dumb books cry shame on works like mine. To vulgar standards then I square my play, Writing at ease; for, since the public pay, 'Tis just, methinks, I by their compass steer, And write the nonsense that they love to hear.