There's not a monster bred beneath the sky, But well-disposed by art, may please the eye: A curious workman by his skill divine, From an ill object makes a good design. Thus to delight us, Tragedy, in tears For Œdipus, provokes our hopes and fears; For parricide Orestes asks relief, And, to encrease our pleasure, causes grief. You then that in this noble art would rise, Come, and in lofty verse dispute the prize. Would you upon the stage acquire renown, And for your judges summon all the town? Would you your works for ever should remain, And after ages past be sought again? In all you write, observe with care and art To move the passions, and incline the heart. If in a laboured act, the pleasing rage Cannot our hopes and fears by turns engage, Nor in our mind a feeling pity raise, In vain with learned scenes you fill your plays: Your cold discourse can never move the mind Of a stern critic, naturally unkind, Who, justly tired with your pedantic flight, Or falls asleep, or censures all you write. The secret is, attention first to gain; To move our minds, and then to entertain; That from the very opening of the scenes, The first may show us what the author means. I'm tired to see an actor on the stage, That knows not whether he's to laugh or rage; Who, an intrigue unravelling in vain, Instead of pleasing keeps my mind in pain. I'd rather much the nauseous dunce should say Downright, my name is Hector in the play; Than with a mass of miracles, ill-joined, Confound my ears, and not instruct my mind. The subject's never soon enough exprest; Your place of action must be fixed, and rest. A Spanish poet may with good event, In one day's space whole ages represent; There oft the hero of a wandering stage Begins a child, and ends the play of age: But we, that are by reason's rules confined, Will, that with art the poem be designed; That unity of action, time, and place, Keep the stage full, and all our labours grace.[70] Write not what cannot be with ease conceived; Some truths may be too strong to be believed. A foolish wonder cannot entertain; My mind's not moved if your discourse be vain. You may relate what would offend the eye: Seeing, indeed, would better satisfy; But there are objects that a curious art Hides from the eyes, yet offers to the heart. The mind is most agreeably surprised, When a well-woven subject, long disguised, You on a sudden artfully unfold, And give the whole another face and mould. At first the Tragedy was void of art; A song, where each man danced and sung his part, And of God Bacchus roaring out the praise, Sought a good vintage for their jolly days: Then wine and joy were seen in each man's eyes, And a fat goat was the best singer's prize.