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On Paradife Loft.

Hen I beheld the Poet biind, yet bold,
In flender Book his vaft Design unfold,
Meffiah Crown'd, God's Reconcil❜d Decree,
Rebelling Angels, the Forbidden Tree,
Heav'n, Hell, Earth, Chaos, All; the Argument
Held me a while misdoubting his Intent,
That he would ruin (for I saw him strong)
The facred Truths to Fable and old Song.
(So Sampson groap❜d the Temple's pofts in spight)
The World o'erwhelming to revenge his fight.

Yet as I read, foon growing less severe,
Į lik'd his Project, the Success did fear;
Through that wide Field how he his way should find
O'er which lame Faith leads Understanding blind;
Left he Perplex'd the things he would Explain,
And what was Eafie he should render Vain.

Or if a Work so infinite he spann'd,
Jealous I was that fome lefs skilful hand
(Such as difquiet always what is well,
And by ill imitation would excell)

Might hence prefume the whole Creation's day
To change in Scenes, and show it in a Play.

Pardon me, mighty Poet, nor defpife
My causeless, yet not impious, furmise.
But I am now convinc'd, and none will dare
Within thy Labours to pretend a fhare.

Thou haft not miss'd one thought that could be fit,
And all that was improper doft omit :

So that no room is here for Writers left,
But to detect their Ignorance or Theft.

That Majefty which through thy Work doth reign Draws the Devout, deterring the Profane.

And things Divine thou treat'ft of in fuch state
As them preferves, and thee, inviolate.

At once delight and horror on us seise,
Thou fing'ft with fo much Gravity and Ease;
And above humane flight doft soar aloft
With Plume fo ftrong, so equal, and so soft:
The Bird nam'd from that Paradise you fing
So never flags, but always keeps on Wing.

Where couldft thou words of fuch a compass find?
Whence furnish such a vast expence of mind?
Juft Heav'n thee like Tirefias to requite
Rewards with Prophecy thy lofs of Sight.

Well might'ft thou fcorn thy Readers to allure
With tinkling Rhime, of thy own Sense secure ;
While the Town-Bayes writes all the while and fpells,
And like a Pack-horse tires without his Bells:
Their Fancies like our Bushy-points appear,
The Poets tag them, we for fashion wear,
I too tranfported by the Mode offend,

And while I meant to Praise thee, must Commend.
Thy Verse created like thy Theme fublime,

In Number, Weight and Measure, needs not Rhime,

Andrew Marvelt.

THE

THE

VERSE

THE Measure is English Heroic Verse

without Rhime, as that of Homer in Greek, and of Virgil in Latin; Rhime being no neceffary Adjunct or true Ornament of Poem or good Verfe, in longer Works efpecially, but the Invention of a barbarous Age, to Set off wretched Matter and lame Meeter; grac'd indeed fince by the use of fome famous modern Poets, carried away by Custom, but much to their own vexation, hindrance, and constraint to express many things otherwise, and for the most part worse than elfe they would have expreft them. Not without cause therefore fome, both Italian and Spanish Poets of prime note have rejected Rhime both in longer and shorter Works, as have alfo long fince our beft English Tragedies, as a thing of it. Self, to all judicious ears, trivial and of no true mufical delight; which confifts only in apt Numbers, fit quantity of Syllables, and the Sense variously drawn out from one Verse

AS

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into another, not in the jingling found of like endings, a fault avoided by the learned Ancients both in Poetry and all good Oratory. This neglect then of Rhime fo little is to be taken for a defect, though it may feem so perbaps to other Readers, that it rather is to be efteem'd an example fet, the firft in Englith, of ancient liberty recover'd to Heroic Poem from the troublefom and modern bondage of Rhimeing.

Para

This Firft Book propofes, firft in brief, the whole Subject. Man's Difobedience, and the Lofs thereupon of Paradife wherein he was plac'd. Then touches the prime Cause of his Fall, the Serpent or rather Satan in the Serpent; who revolting from God, and drawing to his fide many Legions of Angels, was by the Command of God driven out of Heaven with all his Crew into the great Deep. Which Action pafs'd over, the Poem hafts into the midst of Things, prefenting Satan with his Angels now fallen into Hell, defcrib'd here, not in the Center (for Heaven and Earth may be fuppos'd as yet not made, certainly not yet accurs'd) but in a Place of utter Darkness, fitlieft call'd Chaos: Here Satan with his Angels lying on the burning Lake, thunder-ftruck

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