No More Learning

He is translation's thief that addeth more,
As much as he that taketh from the store
Of the first author. Here he maketh blots,
That mends ; and added beauties are but spots.

C^LIA whose English doth more richly flow
Than Tagus, purer than dissolved snow.



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OP MARVELL. 103

And sweet as are her lips that speak it, she

Now learns the tongues of France and Italy ;

But she is C^elia still ; no other grace

But her own smiles commend that lovely face ;

Her native beauty's not Italianated,

Nor her chaste mind into the French translated ;

Her thoughts are English, tl>ough her speaking

wit
With other language doth them featly fit.

Translators, learn of her : but stay, I slide
Down into error with the vulgar tide ;
Women must not teach here : the doctor doth
Stint them to cordials, almond-milk, and broth.
Now I reform, and surely so will all
Whose happy eyes on thy translation fall.
I see the people hastening to thy book.
Liking themselves the worse the more they look.
And so disliking, that they nothing see
Now worth the liking, but thy book and thee.
And (if I judgment have) 1 censure right,
For something guides mj hand that I must

write;
You have translation's statutes best fulfilled,
That handUng neither sully nor would gild.



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104 THE rOKMS



ON MILTON'S PARADISE LOST.

When IH)eheld the poet blind, yet bold,
In slender book his vast design unfold,
Messiah crowned, God*s reconciled decree,
Rebelling angels, the forbidden tree,
Heaven, hell, earth, chaos, all ; the argument
Held me awhile misdoubting his intent,
That he would ruin (for I saw him strong)
The sacred truths to fable and old song ;
So Samson groped the temple's posts in spite.
The world o'erwhelming to revenge his sight

Yet as I read, soon growing less severe,
I liked his project, the success did fear ;
Through that wide field how he his way should

find,
O'er which lame faith leads understanding blind ;
Lest he'd perplex the things he would explain.
And what was easy he should render vain.
Or if a work so infinite he spanned,
Jealous I was that some less skilful hand



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OF MARVELL. 105

(Such as disquiet always what is well,
And by ill imitating would excel)
Might hence presume the whole creation's day
To change in scenes, and show it in a play.

Pardon me, mighty poet, nor despise
My causeless, yet not impious, surmise.
But I am now convinced, and none will dare
Within thy labours to pretend a share.
Thou hast not missed one thought that could

befit,
And all that was improper dost omit ;
So that no room is here for writers lefl,
But to detect their ignorance or theft.

That majesty which through thy work doth
reign
Draws the devout, deterring the profane ;
And things divine thou treat'st of in such state
As them preserves, and thee, inviolate.
At once delight and horror on us seize,
Thou sing'st with so much gravity and ease.
And above human fiight dost soar aloft,
With plume so strong, so equal, and so soft :
The bird named from that paradise you sing
So never flags, but always keeps on wing.
Where couldst thou words of such a compass find ?
Whence furnish such a vast expanse of mind ?
Just heaven thee, like Tiresias, to requite,
Rewards with prophecy thy loss of sight.



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106 THE POEMS

Well might thou scorn thy readers to allure
With tinkling rhyme, of thy own sense secure.
While the Town-Bay es writes all the while «nd

spells^
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, transported by the mode, offend,
And while I meant to praise thee, must commend ;
Thy verse created like thy theme sublime.
In number, weight, and measure, needs not
rhyme.