captains, such as, besides a thousand others, David, Adrian, Sophocles,
Germanicus, not only to favour poets, but to be poets; and of our
nearer times, can present for her patrons, a Robert, king of Sicily,
the great king Francis of France, King James of Scotland; such cardinals
as Bembus, and Bibiena; such famous preachers and teachers, as Beza
and Melancthon; so learned philosophers, as Fracastorius and Scaliger;
so great orators, as Pontanus and Muretus; so piercing wits as George
Buchanan; so grave counsellors, as besides many, but before all, that
Hospital [Footnote: Michel de l'Hospital, Chancellor of France
1560-1568, and the noble champion of tolerance in the evil days of
Charles IX. He narrowly escaped with his life at the massacre of S.
Bartholomew, and died a few months later] of France: than whom (I
think) that realme never brought forth a more accomplished judgment:
more firmly builded upon virtue; I say these, with numbers of others,
not only to read others' poesies, but to poetise for others' reading:
that poesy thus embraced in all other places, should only find, in our
time, a hard welcome in England, I think the very earth lamenteth it,
and therefore decketh our soil with fewer laurels than it was
accustomed; for heretofore, poets have in England also flourished; and
which is to be noted, even in those times, when the trumpet of Mars
did sound loudest. And now, that an over-faint quietness should seem
to strew the house [Footnote: pave the way.] for poets, they are almost
in as good reputation as the mountebanks at Venice. Truly even that,
as of the one side it giveth great praise to poesy, which like Venus
(but to better purpose) hath rather be troubled in the net with Mars,
than enjoy the homely quiet of Vulcan: so serves it for a piece of a
reason, why they are less grateful to idle England, which now can
scarce endure the pain of a pen. Upon this necessarily followeth, that
base men with servile wits undertake it: who think it enough, if they
can be rewarded of the printer. And so as Epaminondas is said, with
the honour of his virtue, to have made an office, by his exercising
it, which before was contemptible, to become highly respected: so
these, no more but setting their names to it, by their own
disgracefulness, disgrace the most graceful poesy. For now, as if all
the Muses were got with child, to bring forth bastard poets, without
any commission, they do post over the banks of Helicon, till they make
the readers more weary than post-horses: while in the mean time, they
_Queis meliore luto finxit procordia Titan_,
are better content, to suppress the outflowing of their wit, than by
publishing them to be accounted knights of the same order. But I, that
before ever I durst aspire unto the dignity am admitted into the company
of the paper-blurrers, do find the very true cause of our wanting
estimation, is want of desert: taking upon us to be poets, in despite
of Pallas. Now, wherein we want desert were a thank-worthy labour to
express: but if I knew, I should have mended myself. But I, as I never
desired the title, so have neglected the means to come by it. Only
overmastered by some thoughts, I yielded an inky tribute unto them.
Marry, they that delight in poesy itself should seek to know what they
do, and how they do; and especially, look themselves in an unflattering
glass of reason, if they be inclinable unto it. For poesy must not be
drawn by the ears, it must be gently led, or rather, it must lead.
Which was partly the cause, that made the ancient-learned affirm, it
was a divine gift, and no human skill: sith all other knowledges lie
ready for any that hath strength of wit: a poet no industry can make,
if his own genius be not carried unto it: and therefore is it an old
proverb, _orator fit; poeta nascitur_. Yet confess I always, that as
the fertilest ground must be manured, so must the highest-flying wit
have a Dadalus to guide him. That Dadalus, they say, both in this and
in other, hath three wings, to bear itself up into the air of due
commendation: that is, art, imitation, and exercise. But these, neither
artificial rules, nor imitative patterns, we much cumber ourselves
withal. Exercise indeed we do, but that, very fore-backwardly: for
where we should exercise to know, we exercise as having known: and so
is our brain delivered of much matter, which never was begotten by
knowledge. For, there being two principal parts, matter to be expressed
by words, and words to express the matter, in neither, we use art, or
imitation, rightly. Our matter is _quodlibet_ indeed, though wrongly
performing Ovid's verse,
_Quicquid conabar dicere versus erat:_
never marshalling it into an assured rank, that almost the readers
cannot tell where to find themselves.
Chaucer undoubtedly did excellently in his _Troilus and Cresseid_; of
whom, truly I know not whether to marvel more, either that he in that
misty time, could see so clearly, or that we in this clear age walk
so stumblingly after him. Yet had he great wants, fit to be forgiven,
in so reverent antiquity. I account the _Mirror of Magistrates_
[Footnote: A long series of Poems, published in the early part of
Elizabeth's reign. The two first, and best, pieces in it--The
_Induction_ and _Complaint of the Duke of Buckingham_--were by
Sackville, joint-author of the earliest English Tragedy, _Gorboduc_.]
meetly furnished of beautiful parts; and in the Earl of Surrey's
_Lyrics_, many things tasting of a noble birth, and worthy of a noble
mind. The _Shepherd's Calendar_ hath much poetry in his eclogues:
indeed worthy the reading, if I be not deceived. That same framing of
his style to an old rustic language I dare not allow, sith neither
Theocritus in Greek, Virgil in Latin, nor Sannazar in Italian, did
affect it. Besides these, do I not remember to have seen but few (to
speak boldly) printed, that have poetical sinews in them: for proof
whereof, let but most of the verses be put in prose, and then ask the
meaning; and it will be found that one verse did but beget another,
without ordering at the first, what should be at the last: which becomes
a confused mass of words, with a tingling sound of rhyme, barely
accompanied with reason.
Our tragedies and comedies, (not without cause cried out against,)
observing rules neither of honest civility nor of skilful poetry,
excepting _Gorboduc_, (again, I say, of those that I have seen,) which
notwithstanding as it is full of stately speeches, and well-sounding
phrases, climbing to the height of Seneca his style, and as full of
notable morality, which it doth most delightfully teach, and so obtain
the very end of poesy: yet in truth it is very defectious in the
circumstances; which grieveth me, because it might not remain as an
exact model of all tragedies. For it is faulty both in place and time,
the two necessary companions of all corporal actions. For where the
stage should always represent but one place, and the uttermost time
presupposed in it should be, both by Aristotle's precept and common
reason, but one day: there is both many days, and many places,
inartificially imagined. But if it be so in _Gorboduc_, how much more
in all the rest? where you shall have Asia of the one side, and Africa
of the other, and so many other under-kingdoms, that the player, when
he cometh in, must ever begin with telling where he is: or else, the
tale will not be conceived. Now ye shall have three ladies walk to
gather flowers, and then we must believe the stage to be a garden. By
and by, we hear news of shipwreck in the same place, and then we are
to blame, if we accept it not for a rock.
Upon the back of that, comes out a hideous monster, with fire and
smoke, and then the miserable beholders are bound to take it for a
cave. While in the meantime, two armies fly in, represented with four
swords and bucklers, and then what hard heart will not receive it for
a pitched field? Now, of time they are much more liberal, for ordinary
it is that two young princes fall in love. After many traverses, she
is got with child, delivered of a fair boy, he is lost, groweth a man,
falls in love, and is ready to get another child, and all this in two
hours' space: which how absurd it is in sense, even sense may imagine,
and art hath taught, and all ancient examples justified: and at this
day the ordinary players in Italy will not err in. Yet will some bring
in an example of _Eunuchus_ in Terence, that containeth matter of two
days, yet far short of twenty years. True it is, and so was it to be
played in two days, and so fitted to the time it set forth. And though
Plautus hath in one place done amiss, let us hit with him, and not
miss with him. But they will say, how then shall we set forth a story,
which containeth both many places, and many times? And do they not
know that a tragedy is tied to the laws of poesy, and not of history?
not bound to follow the story, but having liberty, either to feign a
quite new matter, or to frame the history to the most tragical
convenience. Again, many things may be told, which cannot be showed,
if they know the difference betwixt reporting and representing. As for
example, I may speak (though I am here) of Peru, and in speech digress
from that, to the description of Calicut: but in action, I cannot
represent it without Pacolet's horse: and so was the manner the ancients
took, by some _nuncius_ to recount things done in former time, or other
place. Lastly, if they will represent a history, they must not (as
Horace saith) begin _ab ovo_: but they must come to the principal point
of that one action, which they will represent. By example this will
be best expressed. I have a story of young Polydorus, delivered for
safety's sake, with great riches, by his father Priamus to Polymnestor,
king of Thrace, in the Trojan war time: he after some years, hearing
the overthrow of Priamus, for to make the treasure his own, murdereth
the child: the body is taken up by Hecuba: she the same day findeth
a slight to be revenged most cruelly of the tyrant: where now would
one of our tragedy writers begin, but with the delivery of the child?
Then should he sail over into Thrace, and so spend I know not how many
years, and travel numbers of places. But where doth Euripides?
[Footnote: In his _Hecuba_.] Even with the finding of the body, leaving
the rest to be told by the spirit of Polydorus. This need no further
to be enlarged, the dullest wit may conceive it. But besides these
gross absurdities, how all their plays be neither right tragedies, nor
right comedies: mingling kings and clowns, not because the matter so
carrieth it, but thrust in clowns by head and shoulders, to play a
part in majestical matters, with neither decency nor discretion. So
as neither the admiration and commiseration, nor the right sportfulness,
is by their mongrel tragi-comedy obtained. I know Apuleius [Footnote:
In his Latin Romance, the _Metamorphoses_, or the _Golden Ass_.] did
somewhat so, but that is a thing recounted with space of time, not
represented in one moment: and I know, the ancients have one or two
examples of tragi-comedies, as Plautus hath _Amphitryo_: but if we
mark them well, we shall find, that they never, or very daintily, match
hornpipes and funerals. So falleth it out, that having indeed no right
comedy, in that comical part of our tragedy, we have nothing but
scurrility, unworthy of any chaste ears: or some extreme show of
doltishness, indeed fit to lift up a loud laughter, and nothing else:
where the whole tract of a comedy should be full of delight, as the
tragedy should be still maintained in a well-raised admiration. But
our comedians think there is no delight without laughter, which is
very wrong; for though laughter may come with delight, yet cometh it
not of delight, as though delight should be the cause of laughter; but
well may one thing breed both together: nay, rather in themselves,
they have as it were a kind of contrariety: for delight we scarcely
do, but in things that have a convenience to ourselves, or to the
general nature: laughter almost ever cometh of things most
disproportioned to ourselves and nature. Delight hath a joy in it,
either permanent, or present. Laughter hath only a scornful tickling.
For example, we are ravished with delight to see a fair woman, and yet
are far from being moved to laughter. We laugh at deformed creatures,
wherein certainly we cannot delight. We delight in good chances, we
laugh at mischances; we delight to hear the happiness of our friends,
or country; at which he were worthy to be laughed at, that would laugh;
we shall contrarily laugh sometimes, to find a matter quite mistaken,
and go down the hill against the bias, in the mouth of some such men,
as for the respect of them one shall be heartily sorry, yet he cannot
choose but laugh; and so is rather pained, than delighted, with
laughter. Yet deny I not, but that they may go well together; for as
in Alexander's picture well set out we delight without laughter, and
in twenty mad antics we laugh without delight: so in Hercules, painted
with his great beard, and furious countenance, in woman's attire,
spinning at Omphale's commandment, it breedeth both delight and
laughter. For the representing of so strange a power in love, procureth
delight: and the scornfulness of the action stirreth laughter. But I
speak to this purpose, that all the end of the comical part be not
upon such scornful matters as stir laughter only: but mixed with it,
that delightful teaching which is the end of poesy. And the great fault
even in that point of laughter, and forbidden plainly by Aristotle,
is that they stir laughter in sinful things; which are rather execrable
than ridiculous: or in miserable, which are rather to be pitied than
scorned. For what is it to make folks gape at a wretched beggar, or
a beggarly clown? or, against law of hospitality, to jest at strangers,
because they speak not English so well as we do? what do we learn,
sith it is certain
_Nil habet infelix paupertas durius in se,
Quam quod ridiculos homines facit:_
but rather a busy-loving courtier; a heartless threatening Thraso; a
self-wise-seeming schoolmaster; an awry-transformed traveller? These
if we saw walk in stage names, which we play naturally, therein were
delightful laughter, and teaching delightfulness: as in the other, the
tragedies of Buchanan do justly bring forth a divine admiration. But
I have lavished out too many words of this play-matter. I do it because,
as they are excelling parts of poesy, so is there none so much used
in England, and none can be more pitifully abused. Which like an
unmannerly daughter, showing a bad education, causeth her mother poesy's
honesty to be called in question. Other sorts of poetry almost have
we none, but that lyrical kind of songs and sonnets: which Lord, if
he gave us so good minds, how well it might be employed, and with how
heavenly fruit, both private and public, in singing the praises of the
immortal beauty, the immortal goodness of that God, who giveth us hands
to write, and wits to conceive, of which we might well want words, but
never matter, of which we could turn our eyes to nothing, but we should
ever have new budding occasions. But truly many of such writings, as
come under the banner of un-resistible love, if I were a mistress,
would never persuade me they were in love: so coldly they apply fiery
speeches, as men that had rather read lovers' writings, and so caught
up certain swelling phrases, which hang together, like a man which
once told me, the wind was at north, west, and by south, because he
would be sure to name winds enough, than that in truth they feel those
passions, which easily (as I think) may be betrayed by that same
forcibleness, or _energeia_ (as the Greeks call it) of the writer. But
let this be a sufficient, though short note, that we miss the right
use of the material point of poesy.
Now, for the outside of it, which is words, or (as I may term it)
diction, it is even well worse. So is that honey-flowing matron
eloquence apparelled, or rather disguised, in a courtezan-like painted
affectation: one time with so far-fetched words, they may seem monsters,
but must seem strangers to any poor Englishman; another time, with
coursing of a letter, as if they were bound to follow the method of
a dictionary: another time, with figures and flowers, extremely
winter-starved. But I would this fault were only peculiar to versifiers,
and had not as large possession among prose-printers; and (which is
to be marvelled) among many scholars; and (which is to be pitied) among
some preachers. Truly I could wish, if at least I might be so bold to
wish in a thing beyond the reach of my capacity, the diligent imitators
of Tully and Demosthenes (most worthy to be imitated) did not so much
keep _Nizolian_ [Footnote: Nizolius, the compiler of a lexicon to the
works of Cicero.] paper-books of their figures and phrases, as by
attentive translation (as it were) devour them whole, and make them
wholly theirs: for now they cast sugar and spice upon every dish that
is served to the table; like those Indians, not content to wear earrings
at the fit and natural place of the ears, but they will thrust jewels
through their nose and lips because they will be sure to be fine.
Tully, when he was to drive out Catiline, as it were with a thunderbolt
of eloquence, often used that figure of repetition, _Vivit? Vivit;
immo in Senatum venit_, &c. Indeed, inflamed with a well-grounded rage,
he would have his words (as it were) double out of his mouth: and so
do that artificially, which we see men do in choler naturally. And we,
having noted the grace of those words, hale them in sometime to a
familiar epistle, when it were to too much choler to be choleric. Now
for similitudes, in certain printed discourses, I think all herbarists,
all stories of beasts, fowls, and fishes, are rifled up, that they
come in multitudes, to wait upon any of our conceits: [Footnote: An
allusion to the style of Lyly and the Euphuists.] which certainly is
as absurd a surfeit to the ears as is possible: for the force of a
similitude, not being to prove anything to a contrary disputer, but
only to explain to a willing hearer, when that is done, the rest is
a most tedious prattling: rather over-swaying the memory from the
purpose whereto they were applied, than any whit informing the judgment,
already either satisfied, or by similitudes not to be satisfied. For
my part, I do not doubt, when Antonius and Crassus, the great
forefathers of Cicero in eloquence, the one (as Cicero testifieth of
them) pretended not to know art, the other, not to set by it: because
with a plain sensibleness they might win credit of popular ears; which
credit is the nearest step to persuasion: which persuasion is the chief
mark of oratory; I do not doubt (I say) but that they used these tracks
very sparingly, which who doth generally use, any man may see doth
dance to his own music: and so be noted by the audience more careful
to speak curiously, than to speak truly.
Undoubtedly (at least to my opinion undoubtedly), I have found in
divers smally learned courtiers a more sound style, than in some
professors of learning: of which I can guess no other cause, but that
the courtier, following that which by practice he findeth fittest to
nature, therein (though he know it not) doth according to art, though
not by art: where the other, using art to show art, and not to hide
art (as in these cases he should do), flyeth from nature, and indeed
abuseth art.
But what? methinks I deserve to be pounded, for straying from poetry
to oratory: but both have such an affinity in this wordish
consideration, that I think this digression will make my meaning receive
the fuller understanding: which is not to take upon me to teach poets
how they should do, but only finding myself sick among the rest, to
show some one or two spots of the common infection, grown among the
most part of writers: that, acknowledging ourselves somewhat awry, we
may bend to the right use both of matter and manner; whereto our
language giveth us great occasion, being indeed capable of any excellent
exercising of it. I know, some will say it is a mingled language. And
why not so much the better, taking the best of both the other?
[Footnote: Both the Teutonic and the Romance elements.] Another will
say it wanteth grammar. Nay, truly, it hath that praise, that it wanteth
not grammar; for grammar it might have, but it needs it not; being so
easy of itself, and so void of those cumbersome differences of cases,
genders, moods, and tenses, which I think was a piece of the Tower of
Babylon's curse, that a man should be put to school to learn his
mother-tongue. But for the uttering sweetly and properly the conceits
of the mind, which is the end of speech, that hath it equally with any
other tongue in the world: and is particularly happy, in compositions
of two or three words together, near the Greek, far beyond the Latin:
which is one of the greatest beauties can be in a language.
Now, of versifying there are two sorts, the one ancient, the other
modern: the ancient marked the quantity of each syllable, and according
to that framed his verse: the modern, observing only number (with some
regard of the accent), the chief life of it standeth in that like
sounding of the words, which we call rhyme. Whether of these be the
most excellent, would bear many speeches. The ancient (no doubt) more
fit for music, both words and tune observing quantity, and more fit
lively to express divers passions, by the low and lofty sound of the
well-weighed syllable. The latter likewise, with his rhyme, striketh
a certain music to the ear: and in fine, sith it doth delight, though
by another way, it obtains the same purpose: there being in either
sweetness, and wanting in neither majesty. Truly the English, before
any other vulgar language I know, is fit for both sorts: for, for the
ancient, the Italian is so full of vowels, that it must ever be cumbered
with elisions. The Dutch, [Footnote: Sidney probably means what we
should call German.] so of the other side with consonants, that they
cannot yield the sweet sliding fit for a verse. The French, in his
whole language, hath not one word, that hath his accent in the last
syllable saving two, called _Antepenultima_, and little more hath the
Spanish: and therefore, very gracelessly may they use _Dactyls_. The
English is subject to none of these defects.
Now, for the rhyme, though we do not observe quantity, yet we observe
the accent very precisely: which other languages either cannot do, or
will not do so absolutely. That _Caesura_, or breathing place in the
midst of the verse, neither Italian nor Spanish have; the French, and
we, never almost fail of. Lastly, even the very rhyme itself, the
Italian cannot put in the last syllable, by the French named the
masculine rhyme, but still in the next to the last, which the French
call the female, or the next before that, which the Italians termed
_Sdrucciola_. [Footnote: Hence the Italian verse is always of eleven,
not ten, syllables.] The example of the former, is _Buono_, _Suono_;
of the _Sdrucciola_, _Femina_, _Semina_. The French, on the other side,
hath both the male, as _Bon_, _Son_, and the female, as _Plaise_,
_Taise_. But the _Sdrucciola_ he hath not: where English hath all
three, as _Due_, _True_, _Father_, _Rather_, _Motion_, _Potion_ with
much more which might be said, but that I find already, the triflingness
of this discourse is much too much enlarged. So that sith the
ever-praiseworthy poesy is full of virtue-breeding delightfulness, and
void of no gift, that ought to be in the noble name of learning: sith
the blames laid against it are either false, or feeble: sith the cause
why it is not esteemed in England, is the fault of poet-apes, not
poets: sith lastly, our tongue is most fit to honour poesy, and to be
honoured by poesy, I conjure you all, that have had the evil luck to
read this ink-wasting toy of mine, even in the name of the nine Muses,
no more to scorn the sacred mysteries of poesy: no more to laugh at
the name of poets, as though they were next inheritors to fools: no
more to jest at the reverend title of a rhymer: but to believe with
Aristotle, that they were the ancient treasurers of the Grecians'
Divinity. To believe with Bembus, that they were first bringers in of
all civility. To believe with Scaliger, that no philosopher's precepts
can sooner make you an honest man, than the reading of Virgil. To
believe with Clauserus, the translator of Cornutus, that it pleased
the heavenly Deity, by Hesiod and Homer, under the veil of fables, to
give us all knowledge, logic, rhetoric, philosophy, natural and moral,
and _Quid non?_ To believe with me, that there are many mysteries
contained in poetry, which of purpose were written darkly, lest by
profane wits it should be abused. To believe with Landin, that they
are so beloved of the Gods, that whatsoever they write proceeds of a
divine fury. Lastly, to believe themselves, when they tell you they
will make you immortal, by their verses.
Thus doing, your name shall flourish in the printers' shops; thus
doing, you shall be of kin to many a poetical preface; thus doing, you
shall be most fair, most rich, most wise, most all, you shall dwell
upon superlatives. Thus doing, though you be _libertino patre natus_,
you shall suddenly grow _Herculis proles_:
_Si quid mea carmina possunt._