Yet you must trivial accidents avoid, Nor imitate that fool, who, to describe The wondrous marches of the chosen tribe, Placed on the sides, to see their armies pass, The fishes staring through the liquid glass; Described a child, who, with his little hand, Picked up the shining pebbles from the sand. Such objects are too mean to stay our sight; Allow your work a just and nobler flight. Be your beginning plain; and take good heed Too soon you mount not on the airy steed; Nor tell your reader, in a thundering verse, "I sing the conqueror of the universe." What can an author after this produce? The labouring mountain must bring forth a mouse. Much better are we pleased with his address, Who, without making such vast promises, Says, in an easier style and plainer sense, "I sing the combats of that pious prince, Who from the Phrygian coasts his armies bore, And landed first on the Lavinian shore." His opening muse sets not the world on fire, And yet performs more than we can require: Quickly you'll hear him celebrate the fame, And future glory of the Roman name; Of Styx and Acheron describe the floods, And Cæsar's wandering in the Elysian woods; With figures numberless his story grace, And every thing in beauteous colours trace. At once you may be pleasing and sublime: I hate a heavy melancholy rhyme: I'd rather read Orlando's comic tale, Than a dull author always stiff and stale, Who thinks himself dishonoured in his style, If on his works the Graces do but smile. 'Tis said, that Homer, matchless in his art, Stole Venus' girdle to engage the heart: His works indeed vast treasures do unfold, And whatsoe'er he touches turns to gold: All in his hands new beauty does acquire; He always pleases, and can never tire. A happy warmth he every where may boast; Nor is he in too long digressions lost: His verses without rule a method find, And of themselves appear in order joined; All without trouble answers his intent; Each syllable is tending to the event. Let his example your endeavours raise; To love his writings is a kind of praise. A poem, where we all perfections find, Is not the work of a fantastic mind; There must be care, and time, and skill, and pains; Not the first heat of inexperienced brains. Yet sometimes artless poets, when the rage Of a warm fancy does their minds engage, Puffed with vain pride, presume they understand, And boldly take the trumpet in their hand: Their fustian muse each accident confounds; Nor can she fly, but rise by leaps and bounds, Till, their small stock of learning quickly spent, Their poem dies for want of nourishment. In vain mankind the hot-brained fool decries, No branding censures can unvail his eyes; With impudence the laurel they invade,