_Chamont_ says, in speaking of _Monimia_:
_You took her up a little tender Flower,
Just sprouted on a Bank, which the next Frost
Had nipt; and, with a careful loving Hand,
Transplanted her into your own fair Garden,
Where the Sun always shines: There long she flourish'd,
Grew sweet to Sense, and lovely to the Eye;
Till at the last, a cruel Spoiler came,
Cropt this fair Rose, and rifled all its Sweetness,
Then cast it, like a loathsome Weed, away._
This Thought has a prodigious Eclat: There's a great deal of Wit in
it, and even an Air of Simplicity that imposes upon one. We all see,
that these Verses, pronounced with the Art and Enthusiasm of a good
Actor never fail of Applause; but I think we may also see, that the
Tragedy of the _Orphan_ wrote entirely in this Taste would never have
lived long.
In effect, why should _Chamont_ make such a long-winded Simile almost
in the Height of Rage for the Ruin of his Sister? Is that natural?
Does not the Poet here quite hide his Hero to shew himself?
This brings into my Mind the absurd Custom of finishing the Acts of
almost all our modern Tragedies with a Simile; surely in a great
Crisis of Affairs, in a Council, in a violent Passion of Love or
Wrath, in a pressing Danger, Princes, Ministers, Heroes or Lovers,
should not make Poetical Comparisons.
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