The Author answers his Friend, who blames him for not singing, when desired, he contradict the Third Satyr of Horace, beginning with Omnibus hoc vitium est Cantoribus inter Amicos, &c. He defends Tigellius, and proves that Horace had no actual Skill in Vocal Musick.

The Author answers his Friend, who blames him for not singing, when desired, he contradict the Third Satyr of Horace, beginning with Omnibus hoc vitium est Cantoribus inter Amicos, &c. He defends Tigellius, and proves that Horace had no actual Skill in Vocal Musick.

IF this strange Vice in all good Singers were, As the admir'd Horace does declare, That when desir'd, tho bless'd with Health and Ease Their choicest Friends they still deny to please, Yet if unask'd shall rudely Sing so long, To tire 'em quite with each repeated Song: I strongly then should take his Satyr's part, Lash the Performers, and despise their Art. But having studied long enough to be A little knowing in that quality: I soon perceiv'd when I his Version met 'Twas more from Prejudice, than Judgment writ. And Horace was in his Reproof more free, Because Tigellius was his Enemy, Whose resty Vice must bear this fierce Assault Whilst all the rest are lash'd for one man's Fault. Satyr should never take from Malice aid, For with due Reverence to Horace paid, Who rails at Faults through personal prejudice, Shews more his own, than shames another's Vice; Tigellius, as his Character is plain, Was of a Humour most absurd and vain, Fantastick in his Garb, unsettled in his Brain. And if (as once great Cesar he deny'd When ask'd to Sing) 'twere the effect of Pride: Lictors and Fasces should have bluntly taught The Fool to know th' Obedience that he ought. But if Augustus his Commands did lay When th' Genius was not able to obey; As oft with Singers it will happen so, According as their Joys or Troubles grow; 'Twas no Offence then to excuse his Art, The Soul untun'd makes discord in each part. And Monarchs can no more give vocal Breath Than they can hinder when Fate summons, death: Though kind Complyance Singers ought to use, They often have just Reasons to refuse; A pleasure lov'd by one, is lik'd by more, Suppose, Sir, I have Sung too much before, Made my self hoarse, and even rack'd my Throat To please some Friend, with some fine treble Note; Chance does me then to you and others bring, The second Complement, is prithee sing; I swear I — Can't, can't say you, that's find sport; But all good Singers are so hard to Court: Come, come, you must, here's Ladies beg, not I What Soul so dull as Beauty can deny? To make excuse then, modestly I tell How hoarse I am, with what that day befell, 'Tis all in vain, you rail, I'm thought a Clown, And Omnibus hoc victium knocks me down. I often have, ('tis true) to sing deny'd, But not through resty Vanity, or Pride; But that perhaps I had been tir'd before, Untun'd and ill, not able to sing more, Or that an hour of Infelicity Has rob'd my Soul of usual Harmony; Yet all's the same th' old Saw is still repeated, You Singers long to be so much intreated, Though at that time to me no Joy could fall Greater, than not to have been ask'd at all; Th' Harmonious Soul must have her Humour free, Consent of parts still makes best Harmony. We read the Iewish Captives could not Sing In a strange Land, rul'd by a Foreign King; Contentment the melodious Chord controuls, And Tunes the Diapason of our Souls: What makes a Cobler Chirp a pleasant part At his hard Labour, but a merry Heart; He sings when ask'd, or bluntly else denies, According to his share of Grief or Joys. Thus the same Accidents to us befall, And that which tun'd the Cobler tunes us all; But if against our Will we thrash out Songs, For singing then is Thrashing to the Lungs; The blast of airy Praise we dearer get, Than Peasants do their Bread, with toil and sweat To sleep at your command is the same thing, As when y'are ill or vext in mind to sing, And though Performance ne'r so easie show, As it has Charms it has Vexations too, And th' Singers Plague 'tis none but Singers know. How often have I heard th' unskilful say, Had I a Voice by Heaven I'd sing all day; But with that Science had he been endow'd, And was to sing, when ask'd, or be thought proud, When weary, hoarse, or vext, not to deny, But at all Seasons with all Friends comply, He'd then blame Horace full as much as I; Whose want of Knowledge in the Vocal Art Made him lash all, for one man's mean desert: For had he the Fatigue of Songsters known, And judg'd their Inconvenience by his own; Tigellius only had Correction met, And Omnibus hoc vitium ne'r been writ.