Wesley Corpus

Poets themselves must die, [Fall] like those they sung, Deaf the praised ear, and mute the tuneful tongue; E'en he whose heart now melts in tender [Mournful] lays, Shall shortly want the generous tear he pays. Then from his eyes thy much-loved form [Closing eyes thy form] shall part; And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart: Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er, The Muse forgot, and thou beloved [Be loved] no more. Here is style! How clear, how pure, proper, strong! and yet how amazingly easy! This crowns all; no stiffness, no hard words; no apparent art, no affectation; all is natural, and therefore consummately beautiful. Go thou and write likewise. As for me, I never think of my style at all; but just set down the words that come first. Only when I transcribe anything for the press, then I think it my duty to see every phrase be clear, pure, and proper. Conciseness (which is now, as it were, natural to me) brings quantum sufficit of strength. If, after all, I observe any stiff expression, I throw it out, neck and shoulders. Clearness in particular is necessary for you and me, because we are to instruct people of the lowest understanding. Therefore we, above all, if we think with the wise, yet must speak with the vulgar. We should constantly use the most common, little, easy words (so they are pure and proper) which our language affords. When I had been a member of the University about ten years, I wrote and talked much as you do now. But when I talked to plain people in the Castle or the town, I observed they gaped and stared. This quickly obliged me to alter my style and adopt the language of those I spoke to. And yet there is a dignity in this simplicity, which is not disagreeable to those of the highest rank.