be probable, as well as admirable and great. It is not
necessary that there should be historical truth in it; but always
necessary that there should be a likeness of truth, something that is
more than barely possible; _probable_ being that which succeeds, or
happens, oftener than it misses. To invent therefore a probability and
to make it wonderful, is the most difficult undertaking in the art of
poetry; for that, which is not wonderful, is not great; and that,
which is not probable, will not delight a reasonable audience. This
action, thus described, must be represented and not told, to
distinguish dramatic poetry from epic: but I hasten to the end or
scope of tragedy, which is, to rectify or purge our passions, fear and
pity.

To instruct delightfully is the general end of all poetry. Philosophy
instructs, but it performs its work by precept; which is not
delightful, or not so delightful as example. To purge the passions by
example, is therefore the particular instruction which belongs to
tragedy. Rapin, a judicious critic, has observed from Aristotle, that
pride and want of commiseration are the most predominant vices in
mankind; therefore, to cure us of these two, the inventors of tragedy
have chosen to work upon two other passions, which are, fear and pity.
We are wrought to fear, by their setting before our eyes some terrible
example of misfortune, which happened to persons of the highest
quality; for such an action demonstrates to us, that no condition is
privileged from the turns of fortune; this must of necessity cause
terror in us, and consequently abate our pride. But when we see that
the most virtuous, as well as the greatest, are not exempt from such
misfortunes, that consideration moves pity in us, and insensibly works
us to be helpful to, and tender over, the distressed; which is the
noblest and most godlike of moral virtues, Here it is observable, that
it is absolutely necessary to make a man virtuous, if we desire he
should be pitied: we lament not, but detest, a wicked man; we are glad
when we behold his crimes are punished, and that poetical justice is
done upon him. Euripides was censured by the critics of his time, for
making his chief characters too wicked; for example, Phaedra, though
she loved her son-in-law with reluctancy, and that it was a curse upon
her family for offending Venus, yet was thought too ill a pattern for
the stage. Shall we therefore banish all characters of villainy? I
confes