Selected quad for the lemma: mind_n

Word A	Word B	Word C	Word D	Occurrence	Frequency Band	MI	MI Band	Prominent
mind_n	heart_n	know_v	see_v	4,380	5	3.2933	3	true

Text snippets containing the quad

ID	Title	Author	Corrected Date of Publication (TCP Date of Publication)	STC	Words	Pages
A28571	The art of poetry written in French by the Sieur de Boileau ; made English.; Art poétique. English	Boileau Despréaux, Nicolas, 1636-1711.; Soames, William, Sir.; Dryden, John, 1631-1700.	1683 (1683)	Wing B3464; ESTC R3959	16,988	70

running and alternate Rhyme But above all those Licences deny'd Which in these Writings the lame Sence Supply'd Forbad an useless Line should find a place Or a repeated Word appear with grace A faultless Sonnet finish'd thus would be Worth tedious Volumes of loose Poetry A hundred Scribling Authors without ground Believe they have this only Phoenix found When yet th' exactest scarce have two or three Among whole Tomes from Faults and Censure free The rest but little read regarded less Are shovel'd to the Pastry from the Press Closing the Sence within the measur'd time 'T is hard to fit the Reason to the Rhyme Epigram The Epigram with little art compos'd Is one good sentence in a Distich clos'd These points that by Italians first were priz'd Our ancient Authors knew not or despis'd The Vulgar dazled with their glaring Light To their false pleasures quickly they invite But publick Favor so increas'd their pride They overwhelm'd Parnassus with their Tide The Madrigal at first was overcome And the proud Sonnet fell by the same Doom With these grave Tragedy adorn'd her flights And mournful Elegy her Funeral Rites A Hero never fail'd 'em on the Stage Without this point a Lover durst not rage The Amorous Shepherds took more care to prove True to their Point than Faithful to their Love Each word like Ianus had a double face And Prose as well as Verse allow'd it place The Lawyer with Conceits adorn'd his Speech The Parson without Quibling could not Preach At last affronted Reason look'd about And from all serious matters shut 'em out Declar'd that none should use 'em without Shame Except a scattering in the Epigram Provided that by Art and in due time They turn'd upon the Thought and not the Rhime Thus in all parts disorders did abate Yet Quiblers in the Court had leave to prate Insipid Jesters and unpleasant Fools A Corporation of dull Punning Drolls 'T is not but that sometimes a dextrous Muse May with advantage a turn'd Sence abuse And on a word may trifle with address But above all avoid the fond excess And think not when your Verse and Sence are lame With a dull Point to Tag your Epigram Each Poem his Perfection has apart The Brittish Round in plainness shows his Art The Ballad tho the pride of Ancient time Has often nothing but his humorous Rhyme The Madrigal may softer Passions move And breath the tender Ecstasies of Love Desire to show it self and not to wrong Arm'd Virtue first with Satyr in its Tongue Satyr Lucilius was the man who bravely bold To Roman Vices did this Mirror hold Protected humble Goodness from reproach Show'd Worth on foot and Rascals in the Coach Horace his pleasing Wit to this did add And none uncensur'd could be Fool or mad Unhappy was that Wretch whose name might be Squar'd to the Rules of their Sharp Poetry Persius obscure but full of Sence and Wit Affected brevity in all he writ And Iuvenal Learn'd as those times could be Too far did stretch his sharp Hyperbole Tho horrid Truths through all his labors shine In what he writes there 's something of Divine Whether he blames the Caprean Debauch Or of Sejanus Fall tells the approach Or that he makes the trembling Senate come To the stern Tyrant to receive their Doom Or Roman Vice in coursest Habits shews And paints an Empress reeking from the Stews In all he Writes appears a noble Fire To follow such a Master then desire Chaucer alone fix'd on this solid Base In his old Stile conserves a modern grace Too happy if the freedom of his Rhymes Offended not the method of our Times The Latin Writers Decency neglect But modern Readers challenge our respect And at immodest Writings take offence If clean Expression cover not the Sence I love sharp Satyr from obsceneness free Not Impudence that Preaches Modesty Our English who in Malice never fail Hence in Lampoons and Libels learnt to Rail Pleasant Detraction that by Singing goes From mouth to mouth and as it marches grows Our freedom in our Poetry we see That Child of Joy begot by Liberty But vain Blasphemer tremble when you chuse God for the Subject of your Impious Muse At last those Jeasts which Libertines invent Bring the lewd Author to just punishment Ev'n in a Song there must be Art and Sence Yet sometimes we have seen that Wine or Chance Have warm'd cold Brains and given dull Writers Mettle And furnish'd out a Scene for Mr. S But for one lucky Hit that made thee please Let not thy Folly grow to a Disease Nor think thy self a Wit for in our Age If a warm Fancy does some Fop ingage He neither eats or sleeps till he has Writ But plagues the World with his Adulterate Wit Nay 't is a wonder if in his dire rage He Prints not his dull Follies for the Stage And in the Front of all his Senceless Plays Makes David Logan Crown his head with Bayes End of the second Canto Canto III. Tragedy THere 's not a Monster bred beneath the Sky But well dispos'd by Art may please the Eye A curious Workman by his Skill Divine From an ill Object makes a good Design Thus to Delight as Tragedy in Tears For Oedipus provokes our Hopes and Fears For Parricide Orestes asks relief And to encrease our pleasure causes grief You then that in this noble Art would rise Come and in lofty Verse dispute the Prize Would you upon the Stage acquire renown And for your Judges summon all the Town Would you your Works for ever should remain And after Ages past be sought again In all you Write observe with Care and Art To move the Passions and incline the Heart If in a labour'd Act the pleasing Rage Cannot our Hopes and Fears by turns ingage Nor in our mind a feeling Pity raise In vain with Learned Scenes you fill your Plays Your cold Discourse can never move the mind Of a stern Critic natu'rally unkind Who justly tir'd with your Pedantic flight Or falls asleep or censures all you Write The Secret is Attention first to gain To move our minds and then to entertain That from the very op'ning of the Scenes The first may show us what the Author means I 'm tir'd to see an Actor on the Stage That knows not whether he 's to Laugh or Rage Who an Intrigue unravelling in vain Instead of pleasing keeps my mind in pain I 'de rather much the nauseous Dunce should say Downright my name is Hector in the Play Than with a Mass of Miracles ill joyn'd Confound my Ears and not instruct my Mind The Subject's never soon enough exprest Your place of Action must be fix'd and rest A Spanish Poet may with good event In one day's space whole Ages represent There oft the Hero of a wandring Stage Begins a Child and ends the Play of Age But we that are by Reason's Rules confin'd Will that with Art the Poem be design'd That unity of Action Time

and Place Keep the Stage full and all our Labors grace Write not what cannot be with ease conceiv'd Som Truths may be too strong to be believ'd A foolish Wonder cannot entertain My mind 's not mov'd if your Discourse be vain You may relate what would offend the Eye Seeing indeed would better satisfy But there are objects that a curious Art Hides from the Eyes yet offers to the Heart The mind is most agreably surpris'd When a well-woven Subject long disguis'd You on a sudden artfully unfold And give the whole another face and mould At first the Tragedy was void of Art A Song where each man Danc'd and Sung his Part And of God Bacchus roaring out the praise Sought a good Vintage for their Jolly dayes Then Wine and Joy were seen in each man's Eyes And a fat Goat was the best Singer's prize Thespis was first who all besmear'd with Lee Began this pleasure for Posterity And with his Carted Actors and a Song Amus'd the People as he pass'd along Next Aeschylus the diff'rent Persons plac'd And with a better Masque his Players grac'd Upon a Theater his Verse express'd And show'd his Hero with a Buskin dress'd Then Sophocles the Genius of his Age Increas'd the Pomp and Beauty of the Stage Ingag'd the Chorus Song in every part And polish'd rugged Verse by Rules of Art He in the Greek did those perfections gain Which the weak Latin never could attain Our pious Fathers in their Priest-rid Age As Impious and Prophane abhorr'd the Stage A Troop of silly Pilgrims as 't is said Foolishly zealous scandalously Play'd Instead of Heroes and of Love's complaints The Angels God the Virgin and the Saints At last right Reason did his Laws reveal And show'd the Folly of their ill-plac'd Zeal Silenc'd those Nonconformists of the Age And rais'd the lawful Heroes of the Stage Only th' Athenian Masque was lay'd aside And Chorus by the Musick was supply'd Ingenious Love inventive in new Arts Mingled in Playes and quickly touch'd our Hearts This Passion never could resistance find But knows the shortest passage to the mind Paint then I 'm pleas'd my Hero be in Love But let him not like a tame Shepherd move Let not Achilles be like Thyrsis seen Or for a Cyrus show an Artamen That strugling oft his Passions we may find The Frailty not the Virtue of his mind Of Romance Heroes shun the low Design Yet to great Hearts some Human frailties joyn Achilles must with Homer's heat ingage For an affront I 'm pleas'd to see him rage Those little Failings in your Hero's heart Show that of Man and Nature he has part To leave known Rules you cannot be allow'd Make Agamemnon covetous and proud Aeneas in Religious Rites austere Keep to each man his proper Character Of Countryes and of Times the humors know From diff'rent Climates diff'ring Customs grow And strive to shun their fault who vainly dress An Antique Hero like some modern Ass Who make old Romans like our English move Show Cato Sparkish or make Brutus Love In a Romance those errors are excus'd There 't is enough that Reading we 're amus'd Rules too severe would then be useless found But the strict Scene must have a juster bound Exact Decorum we must always find If then you form some Hero in your mind Be sure your Image with it self agree For what he first appears he still must be Affected Wits will nat'urally incline To paint their Figures by their own design Your Bully Poets Bully Heroes write Chapman in Bussy D'Ambois took delight And thought perfection was to Huff and Fight Wise Nature by variety does please Cloath diff'ring Passions in a diff'ring Dress Bold Anger in rough haughty words appears Sorrow is humble and dissolves in Tears Make not your Hecuba with fury rage And show a Ranting grief upon the Stage Or tell in vain how the rough Tanais bore His seven-fold Waters to the Euxine Shore These swoln expressions this affected noise Shows like some Pedant that declaims to Boys In sorrow you must softer methods keep And to excite our tears your self must weep Those noisy words with which ill Plays abound Come not from hearts that are in sadness drown'd The Theatre for a young Poet's Rhymes Is a bold venture in our knowing times An Author cannot eas'ly purchase Fame Critics are always apt to hiss and blame You may be Judg'd by every Ass in Town The Priviledge is bought for half a Crown To please you must a hundred Changes try Sometimes be humble then must soar on high In noble thoughts must every where abound Be easy pleasant solid and profound To these you must surprising Touches joyn And show us a new wonder in each Line That all in a just method well design'd May leave a strong Impression in the mind These are the Arts that Tragedy maintain The Epic. But the Heroic claims a Loftier Strain In the Narration of some great Design Invention Art and Fable all must joyn Here Fiction must employ its utmost grace All must assume a Body Mind and Face Each Virtue a Divinity is seen Prudence is Pallas Beauty Paphos Queen 'T is not a Cloud from whence swift Lightnings fly But Iupiter that thunders from the Sky Nor a rough Storm that gives the Sailor pain But angry Neptune plowing up the Main Echo's no more an empty Airy Sound But a fair Nymph that weeps her Lover drown'd Thus in the endless Treasure of his mind The Poet does a thousand Figures find Around the work his Ornaments he pours And strows with lavish hand his op'ning Flow'rs 'T is not a wonder if a Tempest bore The Trojan Fleet against the Libyan Shore From faithless Fortune this is no surprise For every day 't is common to our eyes But angry Iuno that she might destroy And overwhelm the rest of ruin'd Troy That Aeolus with the fierce Goddess joyn'd Op'ned the hollow Prisons of the Wind 'Till angry Neptune looking o're the Main Rebukes the Tempest calms the Waves again Their Vessels from the dang'rous quick-sands steers These are the Springs that move our hopes and fears Without these Ornaments before our Eyes Th'unsinew'd Poem languishes and dyes Your Poet in his art will always fail And tell you but a dull insipid Tale. In vain have our mistaken Authors try'd These ancient Ornaments to lay aside Thinking our God and Prophets that he sent Might Act like those the Poets did invent To fright poor Readers in each Line with Hell And talk of Satan Ashtaroth and Bel The Mysteries which Christians must believe Disdain such shifting Pageants to receive The Gospel offers nothing to our thoughts But penitence or punishment for faults And mingling falshoods with those Mysteries Would make our Sacred Truths appear like Lyes Besides what pleasure can it be to hear The howlings of repining Lucifer Whose rage at your imagin'd Hero flyes And oft with God himself disputes the prize Tasso you 'l say has done it with applause It is not