But in this style a poet, often spent
     In rage, throws by his rural instrument,
     And vainly, when disordered thoughts abound,
     Amidst the eclogue makes the trumpet sound;
     Pan flies alarmed into the neighboring woods,
     And frighted nymphs dive down into the floods.

     Opposed to this, another, low in style,
     Makes shepherds speak a language low and vile;
     His writings, flat and heavy, without sound,
     Kissing the earth and creeping on the ground;
     You’d swear that Randal, in his rustic strains,
     Again was quavering to the country swains,
     And changing, without care of sound or dress,
     Strephon and Phyllis into Tom and Bess.

     ’Twixt these extremes ’tis hard to keep the right: 
     For guides take Virgil and read Theocrite;
     Be their just writings, by the gods inspired,
     Your constant pattern, practiced and admired. 
     By them alone you’ll easy comprehend
     How poets without shame may condescend
     To sing of gardens, fields, of flowers and fruit,
     To stir up shepherds and to tune the flute;

     Of love’s rewards to tell the happy hour,
     Daphne a tree, Narcissus make a flower,
     And by what means the eclogue yet has power
     To make the woods worthy a conqueror;
     This of their writings is the grace and flight;
     Their risings lofty, yet not out of sight.

     The Elegy, that loves a mournful style,
     With unbound hair weeps at a funeral pile;
     It paints the lover’s torments and delights,
     A mistress flatters, threatens, and invites;
     But well these raptures if you’ll make us see,
     You must know love as well as poetry.

     I hate those lukewarm authors, whose forced fire
     In a cold style describes a hot desire;
     That sigh by rule, and raging in cold blood,
     Their sluggish muse whip to an amorous mood. 
     Their transports feigned appear but flat and vain;
     They always sigh, and always hug their chain,
     Adore their prisons and their sufferings bless,
     Make sense and reason quarrel as they please. 
     ’Twas not of old in this affected tone
     That smooth Tibullus made his amorous moan;
     Nor Ovid, when, instructed from above,
     By nature’s rule he taught the art of love. 
     The heart in elegies forms the discourse.

     The Ode is bolder and has greater force;
     Mounting to heaven in her ambitious flight,
     Amongst the gods and heroes takes delight;
     Of Pisa’s wrestlers tells the sinewy force,
     And sings the lusty conqueror’s glorious course;
     To Simois’s streams does fierce Achilles bring,
     And makes the Ganges bow to Britain’s king. 
     Sometimes she flies like an industrious bee,
     And robs the flowers by nature’s chemistry;