Page:Poems upon Several Occasions.djvu/133

Poets are Limners of another kind,
To copy out Ideas in the Mind,
Words are the Paint by which their Thoughts are shown,
And Nature is their Object to be drawn;
The written Picture we applaud, or blame,
But as the just Proportions are the same.
Who, driven with ungovernable Fire,
Or, void of Art, beyond these Bounds aspire,
Gigantick Forms and monstrous Births alone
Produce, which Nature shock'd disdains to own.
By true Reflection I wou'd see my Face,
Why brings the Fool a magnifying Glass?
"But Poetry in Fiction takes Delight,$\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,}$
And mounting in bold Figures out of Sight,
Leaves Truth behind, in her audacious Flight:
Fables, and Metaphors, that always lie,$\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,}$
And rash Hyperboles, that soar so high,
And ev'ry Ornament of Verse, must die."
Mistake me not: No Figures I exclude,
And but forbid Intemperance, not Food.
Who wou'd with Care some happy Fiction frame,
So mimicks Truth, it looks the very same,
Not rais'd to force, or feign'd in Nature's Scorn,
But meant to grace, illustrate, and adorn:
Important Truths still let your Fables hold,
And moral Mysteries with Art unfold;
Ladies and Beaus, to please, is all the Task,
But the sharp Critick will Instruction ask: