Observing how few the persons be you introduce in the beginning, and how in the course of the actions of these, the number increasing, after several confluences, they run all at last into the two principal streams of your poem, Gondibert and Oswald, methinks the fable is not much unlike the theatre. For so, from several and far distant sources, do the lesser brooks of Lombardy, flowing into one another, fall all at last into the two main rivers, the Po and the Adige. It hath the same resemblance also with a man’s veins, which proceeding from different parts, after the like concourse, insert themselves at last into the two principal veins of the body. But when I considered that also the actions of men, which singly are inconsiderable, after many conjunctures, grow at last either into one great protecting power, or into two destroying factions, I could not but approve the structure of your poem, which ought to be no other than such as an imitation of human life requireth.
In the streams themselves I find nothing but settled valour, clean honour, calm counsel, learned diversion, and pure love; save only a torrent or two of ambition, which, though a fault, has somewhat heroic in it, and therefore must have place in an heroic poem. To shew the reader in what place he shall find every excellent picture of virtue you have drawn, is too long. And to show him one, is to prejudice the rest; yet I cannot forbear to point him to the description of love in the person of Bertha, in the seventh canto of the second book. There has nothing been said of that subject, neither by the ancient nor modern poets, comparable to it. Poets are painters; I would fain see another painter draw so true, perfect, and natural a love to the life, and make use of nothing but pure lines, without the help of any the least uncomely shadow, as you have done. But let it be read as a piece by itself: for in the almost equal height of the whole, the eminence of parts is lost.
There are some that are not pleased with fiction, unless it be bold; not only to exceed the work, but also the possibility of nature; they would have impenetrable armours, enchanted castles, invulnerable bodies, iron men, flying horses, and a thousand other such things, which are easily feigned by them that dare. Against such I defend you, without assenting to those that condemn either Homer or Virgil; by dissenting only from those that think the beauty of a poem consisteth in the exorbitancy of the fiction. For as truth is the bound of historical, so the resemblance of truth is the utmost limit of poetical liberty. In old time amongst the heathen, such strange fictions and metamorphoses were not so remote from the articles of their faith, as they are now from ours, and therefore were not so unpleasant. Beyond the actual works of nature a poet may now go; but beyond the conceived possibility of nature, never. I can allow a geographer to make in the sea, a fish or a ship, which by the scale of his map would be two or three hundred miles long, and think it done for ornament, because it is done without the precincts of his undertaking: but when he paints an elephant so, I presently apprehend it as ignorance, and a plain confession of terra incognita.
As the description of great men and great actions is the constant design of a poet; so the descriptions of worthy circumstances are necessary accessions to a poem, and being well performed, are the jewels and most precious ornaments of poesy. Such in Virgil are the funeral games of Anchises, the duel of Æneas and Turnus, &c. And such in yours, are the Hunting, the Battle, the City Mourning, the Funeral, the House of Astragon, the Library and the Temple; equal to his, or those of Homer whom he imitated.
There remains now no more to be considered but the expression, in which consisteth the countenance and colour of a beautiful Muse; and is given her by the poet out of his own provision, or is borrowed from others. That which he hath of his own, is nothing but experience and knowledge of nature, and specially human nature; and is the true and natural colour. But that which is taken out of books, the ordinary boxes of counterfeit complexion, shows well or ill, as it hath more or less resemblance with the natural; and are not to be used without examination unadvisedly. For in him that professes the imitation of nature, as all poets do, what greater fault can there be, than to betray an ignorance of nature in his poem; especially, having a liberty allowed him, if he meet with any thing he cannot master, to leave it out?
That which giveth a poem the true and natural colour, consisteth in two things; which are, to know well, that is, to have images of nature in the memory distinct and clear; and to know much. A sign of the first is perspicuity, propriety, and decency; which delight all sorts of men, either by instructing the ignorant, or soothing the learned in their knowledge. A sign of the latter is novelty of expression, and pleaseth by excitation of the mind; for novelty causeth admiration, and admiration curiosity, which is a delightful appetite of knowledge.
There be so many words in use at this day in the English tongue, that, though of magnific sound, yet like the windy blisters of troubled waters, have no sense at all, and so many others that lose their meaning by being ill coupled; that it is a hard matter to avoid them. For having been obtruded upon youth in the schools, by such as make it, I think, their business there, as it is expressed by the best poet
“With terms to charm the weak and pose the wise,”
Gondibert, Book ii. Canto 5, verse 44.
they grow up with them, and gaining reputation with the ignorant, are not easily shaken off.