Don’t open like the cyclic, with a burst: 
“Troy’s war and Priam’s fate are here rehearsed.” 
What’s coming, pray, that thus he winds his horn? 
The mountain labours, and a mouse is born. 
Far better he who enters at his ease,
Nor takes your breath with empty nourishes: 
“Sing, Muse, the man who, after Troy was burned,
Saw divers cities, and their manners learned.” 
Not smoke from fire his object is to bring,
But fire from smoke, a very different thing;
Yet has he dazzling miracles in store,
Cyclops, and Laestrygons, and fifty more. 
He sings not, he, of Diomed’s return,
Starting from Meleager’s funeral urn,
Nor when he tells the Trojan story, begs
Attention first for Leda and her eggs. 
He hurries to the crisis, lets you fall
Where facts crowd thick, as though you knew them all,
And what he judges will not turn to gold
Beneath his touch, he passes by untold. 
And all this glamour, all this glorious dream,
Truth blent with fiction in one motley scheme,
He so contrives, that, when ’tis o’er, you see
Beginning, middle, end alike agree.

Now listen, dramatists, and I will tell
What I expect, and all the world as well. 
If you would have your auditors to stay
Till curtain-rise and plaudit end the play,
Observe each age’s temper, and impart
To each the grace and finish of your art.

Note first the boy who just knows how to talk
And feels his feet beneath him in his walk: 
He likes his young companions, loves a game,
Soon vexed, soon soothed, and not two hours the same.

The beardless youth, at last from tutor freed,
Loves playing-field and tennis, dog and steed: 
Pliant as wax to those who lead him wrong,
But all impatience with a faithful tongue;
Imprudent, lavish, hankering for the moon,
He takes things up and lays them down as soon.

His nature revolutionized, the man
Makes friends and money when and how he can: 
Keen-eyed and cool, though on ambition bent,
He shuns all acts of which he may repent.

Grey hairs have many evils:  without end
The old man gathers what he dares not spend,
While, as for action, do he what he will,
’Tis all half-hearted, spiritless, and chill: 
Inert, irresolute, his neck he cranes
Into the future, grumbles, and complains,
Extols his own young years with peevish praise,
But rates and censures these degenerate days.

Years, as they come, bring blessings in their train;
Years, as they go, take blessings back again: 
Yet haste or chance may blink the obvious truth,
Make youth discourse like age, and age like youth: 
Attention fixed on life alone can teach
The traits and adjuncts which pertain to each.