An Apology for Poetry

Philip Sidney in his "Apology for Poetry" reacts against the attacks made on poetry by
the puritan, Stephen Gosson. To, Sidney, poetry is an art of imitation for specific purpose, it is
imitated to teach and delight. According to him, poetry is simply a superior means of
communication and its value depends on what is communicated.
So, even history when it is described in a lively and passionate expression becomes
poetic. He prefers imaginative literature that teaches better than history and philosophy.
Literature has the power to reproduce an ideal golden world not just the brazen world.
Stephen Gossen makes charges on poetry which Sidney answers.
The charges are:
1. Poetry is the waste of time.
2. Poetry is mother of lies.
3. It is nurse of abuse.
3. Plato had rightly banished the poets from his ideal world.
Against these charges, Sidney has answered them in the following ways-
Poetry is the source of knowledge and a civilizing force, for Sidney. Gossoon attacks on
poetry saying that it corrupts the people and it is the waste of time, but Sidney says that no
learning is so good as that which teaches and moves to virtue and that nothing can both teach and
amuse so much as poetry does. In essay societies, poetry was the main source of education. He
remembers ancient Greek society that respected poets. The poets are always to be looked up. So,
poetry is not wasted of time.
To the second charge, Sidney answers that poet does not lie because he never affirms that
his fiction is true and can never lie. The poetic truths are ideal and universal. Therefore, poetry
cannot be a mother of lies.
Sidney rejects that poetry is the source of abuses. To him, it is people who abuses poetry,
not the vice- versa. Abuses are more nursed by philosophy and history than by poetry, by
describing battles, bloodshed, violence etc. On the contrary, poetry helps to maintain morality
and peace by avoiding such violence and bloodsheds. Moreover, it brings light to knowledge.
Sidney views that Plato in his Republic wanted to banish the abuse of poetry not the
poets. He himself was not free from poeticality, which we can find in his dialogues. Plato never
says that all poets should be banished. He called for banishing only those poets who are inferior
and unable to instruct the children.
For Sidney, art is the imitation of nature but it is not slavish imitation as Plato views.
Rather it is creative imitation. Nature is dull, incomplete and ugly. It is artists who turn dull
nature in to golden color. He employs his creative faculty, imagination and style of presentation
to decorate the raw materials of nature. For Sidney, art is a speaking picture having
spatiotemporal dimension. For Aristotle human action is more important but for Sidney nature is
important.
Artists are to create arts considering the level of readers. The only purpose of art is to
teach and delight like the whole tendency of Renaissance. Sidney favors poetic justice that is
possible in poet's world where good are rewarded and wicked people are punished.
Plato's philosophy on ' virtue' is worthless at the battlefield but poet teaches men how to
behave under all circumstances. Moral philosophy teaches virtues through abstract examples and
history teaches virtues through concrete examples but both are defective. Poetry teaches virtue
by example as well as by percept (blend of abstract + concrete). The poet creates his own world
where he gives only the inspiring things and thus poetry holds its superior position to that of
philosophy and history.
In the poet's golden world, heroes are ideally presented and evils are corrupt. Didactic
effect of a poem depends up on the poet's power to move. It depends up on the affective quality
of poetry. Among the different forms of poetry like lyric, elegy, satire, comedy etc. epic is the
best form as it portrays heroic deeds and inspires heroic deeds and inspires people to become
courageous and patriotic.
In this way, Sidney defines all the charges against poetry and stands for the sake of
universal and timeless quality of poetry making us know why the poets are universal genius.
 Poetry’s Superiority over Philosophy and History
Even a cursory view at Sidney's Apology may prove that Sidney has an exalted
conception of the nature and function of poetry. Following Minturno he says that poetry is the
first light-giver to ignorance, it Nourished before any other art or science. The
first philosophers and Historians were poets; and such supreme works as the Psalms of David
and the Dialogues of Plato are in reality poetical. Among the Greeks and the Romans, the poet
was regarded as a sage or prophet; and no nation, however primitive or barbarous, has been
without poets, or has failed to receive delight and instruction from poetry.
Poetry, according to Sidney, is an art of imitation, a representing, counterfeiting, or
figuring forth; to speak metaphorically, a speaking picture, with this end,—to teach and delight.
The object of all arts and sciences is to lift human life to the highest altitudes of perfection; and
in this respect they are all servants of the sovereign, or poetry, whose end is well-doing and not
well-knowing only. Virtuous action is, therefore, the end of learning; and Sidney sets out to
prove that the poet, more than anyone else, fulfils this end.
Showing the superiority of poetry to history and philosophy Sidney says that while the
philosopher teaches by precept alone, and the historian by example alone, the poet conduces
most to virtue because he employes both precept and example. The philosopher teaches virtue by
showing what virtue is and what vice is, by setting down, in abstract argument, and without
clarity or beauty of style, the bare principles of morality. The historian teaches virtue by showing
the experience of past ages; but, being tied down to what actually happened, that is, to the
particular truth of things and not to general possibilities, the example he depicts draws no
necessary consequence. The poet alone accomplishes this duel task. What the philosopher says
should be done, is, by the poet, pictured most perfectly in some one by whom it has been done,
thus coupling the general notion with the particular instance. The philosopher, moreover, teaches
the learned only; but the poet teaches all, and so is, in Plutarch's phrase, "the right popular
philosopher." He seems only to promise delight, and moves men to virtue unawares. But even if
the philosopher excels-the poet in teaching, he cannot move his readers to virtuous action as the
poet can, and this is of higher importance than teaching, for what is the use of teaching virtue if
the pupil is not moved to act and accomplish what he is taught? On the other hand, the historian
deals with particular instances, with vices and virtues so mingled together in the same personage
that the reader can find no pattern to imitate.
The poet improves upon history, he gives examples of vice and virtue for human
imitation; he makes virtue succeed and vice fail, and this history can but seldom do. Poetry does
not imitate nature; it is the reader who imitates the example of perfection presented to him by the
poet. He is thus made virtuous. Poetry, therefore, conduces to virtue, the end of all learning,
better than any other art or science.
The basis of Sidney's distinction between the poet and the historian is the famous passage
in which Aristotle explains why poetry is more philosophic and of more value than history. The
poet deals, not with the particular, but with the universal,—with what might or should be, not
with what is or has been. But Sidney, in the assertion of this principle, follows Mintumo and
Scaliger, and goes farther than Aristotle would probably have gone. All arts have the works of
nature as their principal objects of imitation, and follow nature as actors follow the lines of their
play. Only the poet is not tied to such subjects, but creates another nature better than nature
herself. For going hand in hand with nature, and being enclosed not within her limits, but only
by, the zodiac of his own imagination," he creates a golden world in place of Nature's brazen;
and in the sense he may be compared as a creator with God. Where shall you find in life, asks
Sidney, such a friend as Pylades. Such a hero as Orlando, such an excellent man as Aeneas?
Furthermore, he defends poetry vigorously against the puritans' charges, and says that it
is not the mother of lies; it is the oldest of all branches of learning and removes ignorance. It
delights as teaches. Poetry does not misuse and debase the mind of man by turning it to
wantonness and by making it unmartial and effeminate: it is man's wit that abuses poetry, and
poetry that abuses man's wit; and as to making men effeminate, this charge applies to all other
sciences more than to poetry, which in its description of battles and praises of valiant men stirs
courage and enthusiasm. Lastly, it is pointed out by the enemies of poetry that Plato, one of the
greatest of philosophers, banished poets from his ideal commonwealth. But Plato's Dialoguesis
in reality themselves a form of poetry.
The 'Apology' as an Epitome of Renaissance Criticism
Sidney’s 'Apology for Poetry' is a work of genius, a rare and valuable critical document.
Among the manifold achievements of Sidney as a critic one of the most important is the
introduction of Aristotelianism into England. Says Spingarn, “The introduction of
Aristotelianism into England was the direct result of the influence of the Italian critics; and
the agent in bringing this new influence into English letters was Sir Philip
Sidney.” His Defence of Poesy, "is a veritable epitome of the literary criticism of the Italian
Renaissance; and so thoroughly is it imbued with this spirit, that no other work, Italian,
French, or English, can be said to give so complete and so noble a conception of the temper
and the principles of Renaissance criticism." For the general theory of poetry, its sources were
the critical treatises of Minturno and Scaliger. Yet without any decided novelty of ideas, or even
of expression, it can lay claim to distinct originality in its unity of feeling, its ideal and noble
temper, and its adaptation to circumstance. Sidney is the harold of Neo-classicism in England,
but his treatise is also a piece of creative literature romantic to the core. Wimsatt and
Brooks emphasize the note of romance in the Apology and write, "The sources of Sidney's
'Defence' were classical, but the spirit was not very sternly classical. Sidney sends up the
joyous fireworks of the ltalianate Renaissance. His colours are enthusiastic, neo-Platonic,
the dual purple and gold. The motion is soaring. He is essentially a theorist of the
exuberant imagination." His romanticism is also seen in his appreciation of the ballad of
Chevy Chase, which he says has always moved his heart like a trumpet. He thus illustrates the
dual Renaissance tendency, i.e. the simultaneous presence of the romantic and the classic.
Creative literature in the age was romantic, while criticism was mainly classical. As a matter of
fact, Sidney’s Apology is a synthesis of the critical doctrines of Plato, Aristotle, Horace,
Scaliger, Minturno, and a host of other writers and critics. It brings together, and interprets and
comments upon, all that was characteristic in the theories of literature, current at the time. 
Sidney's Defence of Poetry is the earliest attempt to deal with the poetic art, practically
and not theoretically. His judgments are based on contemporary literature and show ample of
good sense and sound scholarship. It is not merely empty, abstract theorising: apart from the
unities, and his dislike of tragi-comedy, his judgments are not governed, to any great extent, by
rules and theories. His ultimate test is of a practical kind, i.e. the power of poetry to move to
virtuous action. "The first sign of literary appreciation is to feel; and not the least of
Sidney's achievement as a critic was the early recognition of that fact"—(Atkins). He has
thus contributed to the appreciation of literature in the concrete. His treatise is the key to an
understanding of Elizabethan poetry and poetic theory.' 
Sidney's practical criticism is constructive and his work contributes a great deal to a
better understanding of literary values. He calls attention to literary excellencies of more than
one kind. He has enthusiasm for Biblical literature and finds much merit, unlike the other
humanists of the day, in the medieval literature. He appreciates Chaucer and the ballad of Chevy
Chase. In many ways, Sidney inaugurated a new era in the history of English literary criticism.
His treatise is a landmark in the history of literary criticism in England. More truly than Dryden
he is the father of literary criticism in that country. 
His 'Apology', as mentioned above, is an epitome of Renaissance criticism. In every one
of his views, on the nature and function of poetry, on the three unities, on Tragedy and Comedy,
on Diction and metre, he represents contemporary trends. Everywhere his work reflects the
influence of Aristotle and Plato, of Scaliger and Minturno, and other classical, Italian and French
critics: He constantly cites the authority of Aristotle, Horace, and the Italian critics of the
Renaissance in support of his views. But this does not mean that it is a mere summary of
classical and Italian doctrines. Sidney’s originality lies in the skill with which he has drawn
upon, selected, arranged and adapted earlier ideas, and then has put forth his own ideas,
independently arrived at. He makes use of (a) Italian critics, (b) classical critics, Plato and
Aristotle, (c) Roman critics, Horace and Plutarch (d) he also shows the influence of medieval
concept of tragedy, and (e) his didactic approach to poetry, is typically Renaissance approach.
Poetry was valued not for its delight, but for its moral effect and practical utility in actual life.
However, he is original in his emphasis on the transport of poetry. Poetry teaches by moving us
to virtuous action. In fact, throughout, his conclusions are his own, the result of reflection and
wide reading. What he writes bears the stamp of his personality. 
In the Apology, he has (a) boldly faced the traditional objections against poetry, (b) he
has claimed for poetry, a high place in intellectual and social life, (c) by his unique vindication of
poetry, he has restored it to something of its ancient prestige and meaning, and (d) by his defence
of poetry, he brought enlightenment and assurance to his own generation. 
His manner of presentation, his freshness and vigour, are characteristically his. His style
has dignity, simplicity, concreteness, and a racy humour and irony. It is an illuminating piece of
literary criticism; as well as a fine piece of creative literature. 

Dramatic criticism in England began with Sidney. To him goes the credit of having
formulated, for the first time, more or less in a systematic manner, the general principles of
dramatic art. As a French critic writes, Sidney's Defence of Poetry, "gives us an almost
complete theory of neo-classical tragedy, a hundred years before the 'Art Poetique' of
Boileau." Sidney is unique as a critic. He is judicial, creative and original. Hence the value of
his work is for all times to come.

Summary (White background lines)

Analysis (colored background lines)

Sidney tells the reader that he and Edward Wotton once studied horseback riding

with Giovanni Pietro Pugliano at the court of the Holy Roman Emperor.  Pugliano did
not simply teach them about the art of riding horses (how to do it) but invited them to
reflect on the activity in a philosophical manner (why one should do it).
Sidney begins his Apology with an anecdote that acts as the exordium, or introduction,
to his essay, which is modeled on a classical oration. The anecdote establishes
Sidney’s status as an aristocratic gentleman, since horseback riding was a symbol of
status. Pugliano’s philosophical approach to teaching riding—dwelling not so much
on how as on why one should do it mirrors Sidney’s own approach in the Apology: it
will not be a guide to writing poetry, but a philosophical essay about the value of poetry.

Pugliano argued that soldiers are the most noble of noblemen, and that “no earthly
thing bred such wonder to a prince” as skill on horseback. He also praised the nobility of
the horse, and spoke so persuasively that Sidney admits that if he was not a “logician,”
he might have wished that he could have been a horse. Sidney concludes from this that
“self love is better than any gilding.”
Pugliano relates the activity of horseback riding to the aristocratic ideals it embodies.
His humorous aside about wanting to be a horse indicates that Sidney does not take
Pugliano in total seriousness, and that Sidney understands the slightly ridiculous nature
of praising horses and horseback riding. He attributes Pugliano’s high-flying rhetoric
with self-love: because Pugliano is proud of himself, he must also be proud of what he
teaches.
Sidney turns to poetry as another example of this phenomenon: how “strong examples
and weak arguments” can nonetheless be convincing. He says that he has “slipped into
the title of the poet” and so has been provoked to defend his “unelected vocation”
because poetry has fallen from its privileged position among the arts to be the
“laughing-stock of children.” He jokes that there is danger of “civil war among the
Muses.”
Sidney claims that his praise of poetry will be a “weak argument” either as part of a
rhetorical strategy to capture the goodwill of the reader (formally called a captatio
benevolentiae) or because he is being slightly ironic. In either case, he claims that, like
a good aristocrat, he writes his defense only because his own honor is at stake.

Sidney argues that the critics of poetry are ungrateful. In most cultures, poetry is the
means by which the young are educated, the “first nurse” who introduces children to
learning

The earliest Greek writers (Musaeus, Homer, and Hesiod) were poets, and helped to
“draw with their charming sweetness the wild untamed wits to an admiration of
knowledge.” Archaic poets, like Livius and Ennius in the Latin tradition, inspired people
to become more civilized. The same could be said of Dante, Boccace (Boccaccio), and
Petrarch, in Italian, and Gower and Chaucer in English, who “encouraged and
delighted” later poets “to beautify our mother tongue.”
Poetry has priority not only in the education of children, but also in literary and
intellectual history more broadly. Indeed, poetry does not only introduce individuals to
learning, but can be seen to be the be the first form of literature and instruction for
Western culture on the whole.
In the ancient world, Sidney explains, there was no real distinction between poetry and
the other arts: poetry was the language of all learning. The earliest Greek scientists, like
Thales, Empedocles, and Parmenides, “sang their philosophy in verses.” The same
could be said for moral philosophy (Pythagoras, Phocylides), the art of war (Tyrtaeus),
and politics (Solon). Even Plato, who was famous for his critiques of poetry, wrote in a
poetic manner: his dialogues are fictions, complete “poetical describing” of circumstance
and named symbols (Gyges’s ring, for example). The great historians, such as
Herodotus, “either stole or usurped” from poetry their description of human emotions,
the details of historical events that they never could have seen themselves, and the
orations they never could have heard.
The distinct separation of literature from philosophy and history and science is a modern
phenomenon. The Ancients—who, to a Renaissance reader, had great wisdom and
authority—did not distinguish between imaginative literature and other kinds of writing.
Sidney suggests that the best classical authors, regardless of topic, used poetic
techniques in their writing.
These great writers would never have become popular, Sidney suggests, if they hadn’t
written poetically. As is clear across world cultures (Sidney cites Turkey, Ireland, and
Wales), poets are widely respected by the people, however uneducated the general
populace may be. Even where there have been attempts to eradicate learning, such as
in the conquests of Wales, poetry survives.
Sidney himself had traveled across Europe and may speak from personal experience. It
is remarkable that an aristocrat, who benefited from an elite education, brings forward
mass popularity as evidence for the virtues of poetry. 
Because most of the examples considered thus far have been Greek and
Roman, Sidney now considers what names these ancient cultures gave “this now
scorned skill.” At Rome, a poet was referred to by the Latin noun vates, which means a
seer or prophet. Sidney takes this as evidence of a great respect for the activity of the
poet. He mentions the various cultural practices that linked poetry and prophecy, such
as the sortes Virgilianae, whereby one turned to a random line in Virgil and read it as a
kind of prophetic statement about one’s life, such as the ancient English king Albinus
did. Sidney notes, too, that the English word charm derives from the Latin
word carmen, which means “poem” or “song,” and that the prophecies of the oracle at
Delphi and the Sibyl were delivered in verse.
Sidney, like other Renaissance authors, puts a great value on etymology: the words the
ancients contain some kernel of truth about what they name. Indeed, this information
seems to us to have little logical force in Sidney’s argument. Yet he incorporates it as a
given without offering justification, since its value to a Renaissance reader would be
self-evident. It is interesting to note that, although the Roman Sibyl and the Oracle at
Delphi were roles always occupied by women, Sidney presents the poet throughout the
Apology as male. The Apology is not explicitly misogynistic and does not preclude the
possibility of a female poet, and indeed there were female poets in the Renaissance.
But Sidney does seem to have a male poet in mind.
It wasn’t just the Romans who thought of the poet as prophet, Sidney claims. For the
prophet David wrote the Psalms—“a divine poem,” Sidney writes—in verse. Sidney
notes that not only the form but also the style of the Psalms is poetic, with its metaphors
and similes. Although Sidney says that he runs the risk of “profan[ing]” the Psalms by
referring to them with the modern word poetry, he suggests that the comparison points
to the fact that, if the name be “rightly applied,” it’s clear that poetry “deserveth not to be
scourged out of the church of God.”
Sidney is a Christian writing to a Christian audience, so it makes his argument more
effective to show that the classical pagan ideas about poetry were shared by religious
writers. Also, because one of the major early modern critiques of poetry was that it
corrupts the morals of its audience (as Sidney addresses later on in the “refutation”), it
is important for Sidney to link poetry with religious virtue.
Turning to the Greeks, Sidney notes that in Greek a poet is called poietes, which
literally means “maker.” (The English word derives from the Greek.) Sidney feels that
this is a very good name, because, while all other arts have to do with “the works of
nature”—that is, what has been made by God—the poet alone, “disdaining to be tied by
any subjection,” uses his “invention” to create a new nature, better than the one in which
we live. He is not subject to nature, but rather “goeth hand in hand” with nature, free to
invent fictional characters and events. The poet creates a perfect, “golden” world.
Again, we see Sidney’s faith in etymology. Here, translating the Greek
word poietes literally allows Sidney to make a connection to the Judeo-Christian God,
who was also a poietes when He made the universe. Sidney’s poet is not a traditionally
pious person, however: he “disdain[s]” to be “tied” to nature as it currently exists, and
instead uses his own powers of “invention” to make a nature that replaces the one God
created. Sidney makes the extremely bold claim that the poet “goeth hand in hand” with
nature as an equal—and so that the poet in a way rivals God on earth. This is a kind of
Renaissance egoism notably shared by the Italian humanist Pico Della Mirandola in his
famous Oration on the Dignity of Man, in which he claims that humans are the best of
God’s creation because they most resemble God in their ability to participate in
everything in nature. Finally, Sidney echoes ancient creation myths (notably in Hesiod
and Ovid) as well as the Christian story of the Fall, when referring to a “golden” age.
The poet restores greatness that has been lost through human sinfulness. Later on,
Sidney will say that poets teach virtue in such a way as to make humans beings as
good as they can possibly be in their “clay lodgings.”
The poet also creates perfect people with perfect virtue, creating a paradigmatic lover
as Theagenes (in Heliodorus’s ancient novel), an exemplary friend in Pylades (in
Euripides’s Orestes), an extraordinary hero in Orlando (in Ariosto’s Orlando Furioso), a
perfect prince in Cyrus (in Xenophon’s Anabasis), and a most generally excellent man
in Aeneas (in Virgil’s Aeneid).
The poet does not simply resemble God in making a second and more perfect nature.
The poet is most like God in being able to make perfect people— according to
traditional Christian theology, humankind is the highest and most perfect of God’s
creatures, because humans (who can think and create) resemble God more than any
other animals.
The virtue of every “artificer,” Sidney writes, consists not in the actual creation of a work
of art, but in the “idea, or fore-conceit of the work.” This means that the genius of the
poet resides in coming up with the idea of the perfect Cyrus or Aeneas. It is in this
capacity of imagination that the poet most resembles God, “the heavenly Maker of that
maker,” whose elevation of humankind is nowhere more visible than in humankind’s
ability to perfect God’s nature through poetry.
Sidney isolates the work of the poet not in the writing of verse, but in the imagination.
Sidney abstracts the act of poetry from writing and instead puts it in the realm of the
mind. Since this activity does not occur in language, and is not bound by any material
limitations, it is therefore even more divine. In choosing God’s creation as the model for
the poet’s creative activity, Sidney implicitly genders this activity as male, as the
creation of forms of “ideas” rather than the matter, which, in the Aristotelian models of
reproduction current in the Renaissance, was gendered female.
But in order to make the truth of the matter more “palpable,” Sidney now will depart
from etymology and go for a precise description of poetry.
Here Sidney moves into the second formal section of a classical oration, called the
Proposition, in which a definition is proposed.
Sidney’s definition is simple: poetry is “an art of imitation,” or, as Aristotle called
it, mimesis. This is a representation or “counterfeiting” of reality. Sidney uses the
metaphor of a “speaking picture,” the end of which is “to teach and delight.”
Sidney’s definition is uncontroversial, since it would have been familiar to many of his
readers. Yet the emphasis on realism seems slightly out of keeping with the earlier
insistence that the act of the poet is essentially creative, rather than bound by nature as
it currently exists.
Sidney subdivides the definition he has just offered, claiming that there are three major
categories of poetry. The central kind, “CHIEF, both in antiquity and excellency,” is
poetry that imitates “the inconceivable excellencies of God.” Namely, David’s poetry in
the Psalms, Solomon’s in the Song of Songs, Ecclesiastes, and Proverbs, Moses and
Deborah and Job, and so on. Although they were not Christians, pagan poets like
Orpheus and Amphion (both mythical) and Homer did the same.
Here, Sidney moves into the next section of the classical oration, the Division, in which
he complicates his definition of poetry. Once again he lumps classical pagan poetry in
with Judeo-Christian scripture. He is careful to make clear that the oldest form of poetry
is religious and therefore cannot be criticized. Note that Sidney bases these distinctions
on the content or theme of the poetry in question, rather than the structural form.
The second kind of poetry is philosophical. This includes poetry about moral philosophy,
such as the work of Tyrtaeus, Phocylides, and Cato, or about natural philosophy, such
as Lucretius’s On the Nature of Things, or Virgil’s Georgics. This can also be about
astronomy, as in Manilius and Pontanus, or about history, as in Lucan. Those who don’t
enjoy these poets, Sidney writes, can only blame themselves for not savoring “the
sweet food of sweetly uttered knowledge.” This poetry is in some way limited by its
subject.
Although philosophical poetry may now seem unusual, classical authors did indeed
write philosophical treatises in poetic verse. One of the goals of doing so was to make
difficult ideas more palatable, as Lucretius famously states in On the Nature of
Things when he compares his verses to honey that coats difficult ideas about Epicurean
philosophy. Sidney probably alludes to this metaphor when he speaks of “sweetly
uttered knowledge.” No matter how sweet this poetry may be, it is still essentially
bounded by nature; philosophical poetry attempts to communicate the truth of things as
they actually are.
The third and final category of poetry does not have any such limitation. This is the
poetry written by “right poets.” If philosophical poets are like painters who paint the
people in front of them, “right poets” are like painters who use their imagination to paint
in colors “fittest for the eye to see.” Hence a good painter does not paint the Roman
heroine Lucretia, whom the painter never saw, but rather uses Lucretia as the “outward
beauty” of the virtue she represents. These “right poets,” like the best painters, create in
order to “teach and delight.” They are not limited by what is or has been in the world, as
the historian or philosopher might be, but rather enter into “divine consideration of what
may be, and should be.” These “right poets” deserve the title of vates, and teach their
readers to be virtuous.
Sidney once again uses the metaphor of the painting as a figure for “right” poetry.
Instead of simply giving a picture of reality, a good painter adds something distinct,
painting in a style that is particularly attractive for the reader. Sidney also suggests that
good painting is not so much the depiction of reality—realism—as a vehicle for
communicating ideas through allegories.
Sidney notes further subdivisions of poetry, naming heroic, lyric, tragic, comic, satirical,
iambic, elegiac, and pastoral poetry. Although these differ in form and content, most are
written in verse. But Sidney makes the important point that verse is merely one way in
which poetry can appear, and is not the “cause” of poetry. Indeed, some of the best
poets never wrote in verse, such as Xenophon in his descriptions of Cyrus, or
Heliodorus in his narration of the love of Theagenes and Chariclea. Poetrs generally do
write in verse, however, because they do not write in a “table-talk fashion” and want to
exercise care in writing “according to the dignity of the subject.” 
Whereas Sidney made the three broad categories above (religious, philosophical, and
“right” poetry) based largely on the themes of this poetry, here he addresses smaller
categories based on content (heroic poetry, satire, comedy) as well as form (elegiac,
iambic, tragic). Although Sidney does not make it explicitly clear, “right” poetry could
appear in any of these categories, because true poetry is not “cause[d]” by verse or any
other formal property.
Now that he has specified the kind of poet and poetry he is interested in
surveying, Sidney enters into an examination of the activity of the poet in order to
secure “a more favourable sentence.”
With his terms defined, and categories drawn, Sidney enters into the next part of the
classical oration, called the Examination, in which he investigates the poet and poetry in
greater detail.
The final end of learning, Sidney states, is to make imperfect humans—trapped in “their
clay lodgings,” or bodies—as good as possible. Some have thought that this tendency
toward virtue could best be cultivated through astronomy and natural philosophy, others
through music and mathematics, but all of these revealed themselves to be imperfect,
since study of these subjects does not compel one to be virtuous. They are mere
“serving sciences”—means to the end of some kind of immediate knowledge that only
indirectly relates to the ultimate end of “the mistress knowledge,” the Greek sophia,
which Sidney suggests is ultimately self-knowledge. Hence the saddle-maker makes a
saddle in order to facilitate horsemanship; the horseman seeks to ride well in order to
participate in some ideal of “soldiery,” and so on. The arts that do the most to serve
some ultimate, rather than proximate, end deserve to be considered “princes over all
the rest.” Sidney feels that poetry is such an art.
Unlike our modern conception of poetry as belonging to the realm of literature, Sidney
thinks of poetry as a branch of learning, that, like any other science, attempts to make
human beings better. The arts are means to some end, and Sidney argues that the
better the end—that is, the closer that end is to divine wisdom—the better the art.
Astronomy, for example, has the relatively limited end of knowing the positions of the
stars and thereby improving navigation, agriculture, etc. Astronomy, and related
branches of learning like mathematics, have nothing to do with improving the person
who studies them. But poetry has the end of teaching virtue, the best possible end.
Therefore, according to Sidney’s logic, it is the best of the arts.
Among the primary challengers for the title of prince of the arts is moral
philosophy. Sidney imagines moral philosophers confronting him “with a sullen gravity,”
speaking to him “sophistically against subtlety” and in general full of moral paradoxes.
Sidney describes how philosophers try to use logic to come up with a way of teaching
virtue, and try to master the passions “by showing the generalities that contain it, and
the specialities [sic] that are derived from it.”
Sidney uses poetic language to caricature moral philosophers as over-serious and
hypocritical in the way they speak “sophistically” against the use of subtle, or sophistic,
language. Although they take themselves very seriously, Sidney believes that their
logical approach to virtue—which involves making scholastic distinctions about virtue in
the abstract—is unhelpful for teaching actual people.
The historian, on the other hand, “laden with old mouse-eaten records,” is similarly
bound by the discourse of history. He knows more about the past than the present. He
claims to know more about virtue than the philosopher because, while the philosopher
teaches “by certain abstract considerations,” the historian teaches “active” virtue as
embodied in historical events such as the battles of Marathon, Pharsalia, Poitiers, and
Agincourt. According to this schematization, Sidney explains, the philosopher gives the
“precept” and the historian gives the example.
Again, Sidney uses his skills as a creative writer to give a negative caricature of the
historian, whose “mouse-eaten” records are of interest only to other historians and are
of little help in the teaching of virtue. Although each is an imperfect teacher of virtue
independently, together they make a good team: the historian complements the
philosopher in that history provides a wealth of concrete examples with which to
illustrate the abstract ideas of philosophy. 
But it is poetry, Sidney claims, that deserves to be considered the most elevated of the
arts. Sidney compares the poet with the historian and the philosopher—he ignores the
lawyer who, though concerned with peoples’ manners, is not interested in improving
people—and observes that neither philosophy nor history can teach virtue on its own.
One gives the moral principle, the other the historical example, but one or the other can
not teach virtue independently. The moral principle is too abstract, the historical
example not abstract enough.
Again, the historian and the philosopher are imperfect teachers, and lack the autonomy
enjoyed by the poet. Each is trapped by the nature of the discourse in which he or she
writes.
The poet, however, can give both abstract principles and compelling moral examples.
In fact, the poet can give “a perfect picture” of what the philosopher says should be
done. The poet makes an image out of what to the philosopher was merely “wordish
description,” which would otherwise “lie dark before the imaginative and judging power.”
The “speaking picture of poesy” thus illuminates abstract truths using these compelling
examples. Examples from literature, such as Anchises speaking about patriotism as
Troy falls, teach readers much more about virtue than the philosopher’s description of
it. Sidney lists other examples, and notes how in common language the names of
characters or mythical figures have become synonymous with certain emotions or types
of people (i.e., Oedipus is synonymous with remorse, Medea with bittersweet revenge).
Unlike the historian or the philosopher, the poet can teach virtue independently. Sidney
again invokes the metaphor of the speaking picture by claiming that the poet, instead of
having to search through history for an example that may not exist, can come up with a
“perfect picture” of a philosophical ideal. Sidney also associates poetry with the bright
light of enlightenment, since poetry can illuminate what may otherwise “lie dark” to the
mind of a reader. Once again, Sidney conveys interest in etymologies, and the origins of
common phrases. The use of literary character names as synonyms for common
character traits is evidence, for Sidney, of the effectiveness and memorability of these
poetic creations.
Sidney concludes that the “feigned image” of poetry does more to teach readers about
virtue than the “regular instruction” of philosophy. He cites the most famous example of
moral teaching in Western culture, Christ’s preaching in the Gospels, and notes that,
while Christ could have advocated the general importance of charity and goodness, he
instead spoke in concrete, “instructing” parables. The philosopher may teach but does
so “obscurely,” for those who already know enough to understand him or her. The poet,
on the other hand, is “the right popular philosopher,” teaching virtue in a way that
everyone can understand.
Once again, Sidney makes an argument of association: poetry must teach virtue if
Christ, the greatest of all moral teachers, used it in his preaching. Sidney here alludes to
Christ’s parables of the Sower, the Reaper, the Two Roads, and others immortalized in
the Gospels. Christ could have spoken like a philosopher, speaking in abstract terms,
but instead, like a poet, he chose to embody his principles of virtue in compelling
miniature narratives, stories that could be remembered and discussed by all.
But what of history, which should have a monopoly on compelling examples?
Here Sidney once again draws on Aristotle, who wrote in the Poetics that poetry is
more philosophical and, in Sidney’s translation, “ingenious” than history because it
deals with the universal (katholou) rather than the particular (kathekaston). Of course, it
is good to record what actually happened. But poetry isn’t limited by that: the poet can
write about what should have happened: of a great hero, such as Cyrus, not as he was,
but as he should have been. The “feigned” Cyrus or Aeneas is “more doctrinable” than
the true Cyrus or Aeneas, more capable of instructing readers about virtue because he
is more clearly an embodiment thereof. Sidney gives other examples before concluding
that the historian is limited by “his bare WAS,” whereas the poet can create an example
to suit precisely what he or she is trying to communicate.
Sidney continues to consider arguments that claim history or philosophy to be a better
teacher of virtue than poetry, and hence prince of the arts. Here he addresses history’s
rich store of examples. Although history does indeed deal in the concrete, it can never
embody the universal, or ideal, in the concrete, because such people or things have
never actually existed. A perfect king, for example, simply cannot exist in created nature
—humans are imperfect. Hence, the historian cannot offer a perfect example for
instruction. But the poet can come up with a morally perfect example that is more
“doctrinable,” or didactic, exactly because it is “feigned,” or fictionalized to suit the
occasion. Like the painter Sidney mentions above, the historian can only write about
what is in front of him or her, a “bare” picture of what was, while the poet can present
something much more vivid.
Sidney takes pains to emphasize that a “feigned” example—although technically not
historically true, or historical at all—is as useful for teaching as a real example. He cites
examples from Herodotus, Livy, and Xenophon, all of whom tell fictional stories about
noblemen trying to deceive kings, and getting punished for it in the end. These stories
will surely be as compelling as factual narratives to one who is considering how to
deceive in a similar way, Sidney reasons.
This passage foreshadows an argument Sidney will make more explicitly in the
Refutation section of the text. Sidney is careful to emphasize that there is nothing wrong
with poetry because it is fictional, or “feigned.” Even great ancient historians invented
stories, or at least embellished them with fictional details, but that doesn’t make them
any less useful for teaching virtue. Indeed, Sidney’s argument thus far suggests that it
would make them more useful.
The poet, then, is indeed prince of the arts, because he can come up with compelling
examples about any subject under the sun.  Unlike history, which is “captive to the truth
of a foolish world,” poetry can present perfect examples in the most compelling and
instructive way, eliminating moral ambiguities and contradictions, of which Sidney cites
several examples. Indeed, it is possible that, as Caesar said of Sulla, history could do
more harm than good to one trying to learn virtue.
Sidney concludes that, not only is poetry worthy of our respect as a potential teaching
tool, but it is the best of the teaching tools. He may verge on hyperbole when he refers
to history as prisoner of “the truth of a foolish world,” but in drawing such clear
distinctions between disciplines that obviously have a lot in common, Sidney he
exemplifies the cut-and-dried moral clarity he praises in poetry. At the very least, Sidney
cleverly inverts arguments made against poetry—namely, that it is fictional, and is
therefore inferior, and that it corrupts morals, and is therefore harmful.  These are
precisely the faults that Sidney finds with history: it is truthful and therefore limited, and
it could corrupt morals because plenty of historical figures did bad things.
Continuing the metaphor of competition among the arts for the title of
prince, Sidney concludes the comparison with history and philosophy by remarking
that the poet triumphs by “setting forward” examples and “moving to well-doing”
through the compelling way in which he or she does so. Not even the greatest lover of
philosophy would say that the philosopher moves a listener or reader more effectively
than the poet, and moving is the most important part of teaching. Indeed, it is both its
cause and effect, for in order to be taught, one must have a desire to be taught, and
good teaching moves one to do what is taught.
Sidney here continues to invert criticisms of poetry, turning them into arguments for its
power. As will be stated later in the Refutation, the affective part of poetry—its ability to
affect the emotions of its audience—is at the center of traditional criticisms of poetry,
notably Plato’s. But Sidney claims that it is precisely that ability to move, to affect us in a
way that isn’t rational, that makes poetry an effective tool for teaching. Sidney subtly but
importantly reformulates teaching as something that is not simply about the mind and
reason, but rather operates on an affective foundation of desire: we must want to learn,
and then want to apply what we learn. Being moved to do what is right is substantially
different from knowing what is right. Sidney claims that poetry is able to tap into the
affective system that underlies moral behavior.
Sidney again cites Aristotle, who said that the goal of teaching is not knowledge
(gnosis) but action (praxis). The philosopher may show someone the way, and describe
the end one strives to reach, but in his or her complex analysis may divert one from the
path of virtue. Philosophers think that, once one has mastered the passions enough to
concentrate and understand what they teach, “the inward light of each mind” will light
the way to virtue. But Sidney claims that actually being moved to act virtuously is
another problem altogether, and requires more than just understanding abstract
philosophical ideas.
Sidney bolsters his argument by invoking the hallowed name of Aristotle, this time
invoking not his poetic theory, but his ethics. Philosophy has a tendency to believe that
thinking and understanding is enough to lead to virtuous behavior. But this not only fails
to acknowledge the affective basis of moral action discussed above, but also runs the
risk of overestimating the “inward light” of the reader, who may not have the training or
intelligence to understand the difficult and abstract arguments made by philosophy. The
imagery of light recalls Sidney’s earlier claim that the “speaking picture” of poetry can
illuminate the obscure philosophy that may otherwise “lie dark before the imaginative
and judging power” of the reader.
If philosophy gives one a clear sense of the complexity of an issue, poetry entices one
to learn it by giving a “sweet prospect into the way.” It is as if, at the beginning of a
journey through a vineyard, the poet gives the reader a cluster of grapes, a taste of the
reward at the end. Just as adults teach children to take medicine by hiding it in
something sweet, so does poetry hide virtue in the appealing stories of heroes like
Hercules, Achilles, Cyrus, and Aeneas. If the morals of these tales were told directly to
the listener—as philosophy does—they would be rejected. Even things which are
inherently repulsive, like suffering or monsters, give readers some kind of pleasure
when they read them in a story, as Aristotle noticed. Therefore, poetry is a kind of
“medicine of cherries,” giving pleasure while also delivering the medicine of virtue.
Sidney provides a metaphor for the teaching activity of the poet through the journey
through a vineyard. This metaphor implies that the path to virtue takes time, and that
pleasure must be provided in order to motivate one to undertake the journey. Sidney
draws upon the language of sweetness used earlier (i.e. when he describes
philosophical poetry as “sweetly uttered knowledge”) to figure the poet as one who
gives one a foretaste of the benefits of virtue through the pleasurable stories of virtuous
characters and actions.
Sidney illustrates this with two examples, starting with Menenius Agrippa, a Roman
politician who reconciled the people of Rome with the Roman senate by telling a moral
allegory about mutiny, in which he compared the state to a body that conspires against
its stomach, and ends up starving itself. This story led to the reconciliation of the
problem, having “such effect in the people as I never read that only words brought
forth.” The second example is of Nathan, a prophet from the Hebrew Bible, whom God
sent to bring David, the Psalmist, back to the faith after having abandoned religion.
Nathan told David an allegory about a man whose lamb was stolen from him, of which
Sidney says that “the application [was] most true, but the discourse itself feigned.” This
caused David to reflect on his actions and return to religion.
To show the power of poetry to teach virtue, Sidney cites a classical Roman example
and an Old Testament religious example, drawing upon the two most authoritative
sources available to him as a Renaissance author. In the first example, Menenius uses
a poetic metaphor to communicate the danger of mutiny to a crowd of Romans; just as
Christ’s parables were able to reach a broader audience than mere abstract ideas,
Menenius is able to make a relatively sophisticated argument to a crowd of average
people using a metaphor. Poetry, this example shows, can teach virtue in the public
sphere. The second example, Nathan’s appeal to David, shows that poetry can teach in
the entirely different context of private religious matters. In the case of both Menenius
and Nathan, the metaphors in question are “feigned”—neither were making arguments
about facts. Instead, they came up with evocative metaphors to inspire reflection in their
audience, so that their listeners came to a virtuous conclusion independently.
 

From these stories, Sidney says, it’s clear that the poet can “draw the mind” more
effectively than the other arts. If the arts and the learning they yield are meant to
improve readers in some way, then poetry must be the best of the arts and the poet the
best of the artists: “in the most excellent work is the most excellent workman.”
Again, Sidney emphasizes that poetry “draws” the minds of its audience through
something other than argumentation. Poetry is able to move them, through imagery, to
act virtuously, in ways that philosophy and history cannot. Since it teaches virtue most
effectively, it must be the best of the arts.

Sidney now turns from the “works” of poetry—what it can do—to the “parts” of poetry,
or its various different kinds. Even if readers find poetry on the whole to be virtuous,
Sidney wants to be sure that all of its component parts are examined so as to find
anything objectionable. Sidney acknowledges that some kinds of poetry are mixtures of
genres (e.g., tragicomic) or of forms (e.g., Boethius’s mixture of poetry and prose), and
will not be able to address them all, but if the component genres are found to be good,
these mixtures must be good, too.
Now that Sidney has made his broad claims, and established why poetry in general is a
good teacher of virtue, he will go through different kinds of poetry in detail, in order to
convince the audience even more thoroughly of the virtues of this art. Because Sidney
believes that poetry is something that takes place in the poet’s mind, and that real
poetry is the “idea” or “fore-conceit,” the particular form in which a poet chooses to write
is incidental and should not affect one’s overall opinion of poetry.
Sidney goes through a number of minor genres of poetry that are “misliked” by critics.
The first is the pastoral, which some find trivial or petty, but which can actually
communicate profound lessons in what seem to be simple fables. The second is the
“lamenting elegiac,” which expresses woe or critiques the human tendency to strong
feeling. The third is the “bitter, but wholesome iambic,” which openly decries moral
corruption. The third is satire, which mocks folly in all sorts of people, including the
reader.
In the mode of a defense attorney, Sidney notes the subgenres of poetry that have been
singled out by critics, and shows that if one simply thinks about what these forms of
poetry aim to do, the criticism of each is baseless.
Moving to major genres, Sidney argues that people criticize comedy because bad
actors and directors have “made [it] odious.” But Sidney says in response to critics that
comedy reflects life as it actually is, and people as they actually are, and—just as in
geometry we must see the curved as well as the straight lines, and in mathematics we
must count the odd as well as the even numbers—so we must examine the “filthiness”
of life as a “foil” for virtue. By seeing imperfect characters on stage, we learn to identify
them in life. We don’t learn to behave badly by watching such characters, but rather
learn to identify our own faults, which might otherwise remain invisible to us.
Sidney once again employs his now familiar tactic of distinguishing between poetry as it
is practiced in Elizabethan England and the ideal form of poetry he has described in the
Apology. In another familiar argumentative move, Sidney shows that what critics
perceive to be the problematic aspects of comedy—namely, its presentation of morally
questionable characters—is what makes it a useful teaching tool. It is important to note
that, although Sidney argues for poetry as an abstract process that occurs within the
poet’s mind, almost all of his arguments for the value of poetry hinge on its effects in
practice. The poet creates a second nature that in some ways is more perfect, or
morally clear, than God’s nature—but that only matters insofar as it leads people to
behave more virtuously.
In a similar way, tragedy, through evoking “admiration and commiseration” with its
suffering characters, teaches us about the uncertainty in life. It scares the powerful,
warning kings about the dangers of tyranny, and is therefore clearly a useful genre.
Both comedy and tragedy are valuable because they stir their audience to reflection.
Just as comedy should make one more attentive to one’s own moral flaws, so does
tragedy render one more conscious of the historical contingencies that govern one’s life.
Sidney’s comments on drama here may take a subtle shot at the morality of poetry’s
critics: if one understands drama, Sidney argues, one learns from it. In his view,
detractors of poetry clearly don’t understand drama, so they haven’t learned from it, and
therefore have perhaps not realized their own moral faults.  
Next Sidney turns to lyric poetry, which praises virtue, offers moral precepts, and is
often used to praise God. Sidney states that he is frequently moved by lyric, even in the
rustic forms he might hear in rural England. He believes that it can give courage, citing
the poetry he heard in Hungary, and the historical example of the Lacedaemonians
(Spartans) who sang lyrics about valor at home as well as on the battlefield. Pindar, the
great Greek lyric poet, may sometimes praise seemingly small athletic victories, but that
can be blamed on a broader Greek tendency to put too high a value on athletic
competition, rather than on poetry itself.
Sidney’s collection of lyric poetry, the sonnet cycle Astrophel and Stella, is his most
widely-read work after the Apology. Therefore, his comments on lyric must have a
special resonance for Sidney’s own poetry. This section also reflects Sidney’s own
travels through Europe. It is interesting to note that he lumps his own experience in with
classical examples: Sidney uses all the evidence at his disposal to make his arguments.
The final genre Sidney addresses is heroic verse, whose very name should “daunt all
backbiters.” How could anyone criticize poetry that tells of Achilles, Cyrus, and Aeneas,
among other great heroes? This kind of poetry teaches the highest and best kind of
virtue, and is therefore the best kind of poetry, since it makes the reader most eager to
be virtuous. It also gives one the best examples to imitate in life, such as Aeneas, who
gives a good model for all aspects of behavior.
Once again, Sidney claims that the value of poetry is self-evident. It is impossible to
criticize poetry that gives us such unquestionably perfect examples of virtue as ancient
heroes.
Sidney concludes this tour of the poetic genres, which has shown all of them to be
good in some way, by comparing the “poet-whippers” to “some good women” who
always feel ill, but don’t know why exactly: these critics don’t like poetry in general, but,
if they like virtue, they must like what poetry does to its readers.
Since all the poetic forms that Sidney has considered have proven to be self-evidently
valuable for teaching virtue, Sidney concludes this section by claiming that critics of
poetry complain for no reason. In a slightly misogynistic metaphor, he compares critics
of poetry to women who complain of being ill for no identifiable reason. “Poet-
whippers”— a name that suggests Sidney does not respect the critics of poetry—are
stuck in a contradiction if they simultaneously praise virtue and criticize poetry, because
poetry and virtue are closely linked.
 

Sidney summarizes his arguments thus far: poetry is the oldest form of human learning,
found in every culture and given much respect by the Greeks and the Romans. The
poet does not “learn a conceit out a matter,” the way a philosopher does, but “maketh
matter for a conceit,” creating a concrete thing in which to express an idea.
Furthermore, poetry cannot be evil because it teaches goodness. In this way, the
philosopher is a better teacher than the historian, who can never speak of moral
absolutes, and surpasses the philosopher in his ability to move his audience. Even the
Bible uses poetry in the Psalms, and Christ himself employed parables, which are
fictional narratives of a kind.
Before moving into the next section of the classical oration, Sidney briefly refreshes the
reader’s memory with a summary of the arguments that he has employed so far to
prove the excellence of poetry. All of these arguments revolve around poetry’s
effectiveness for teaching virtue, rather than any intrinsic quality of poetry itself. 

Sidney now turns to refuting critiques made of poetry. He begins with the superficial
ones. First of all, Sidney notes that “poet-haters” (he uses the Greek
term misomousaioi) like to criticize poetry because it gets them attention. Critics of this
kind don’t deserve a substantial response, just ridicule. Some writers, like Erasmus in
the Praise of Folly, make absurd claims to attract the reader’s attention to an important
or non-intuitive argument. But generally critics of poetry are merely fools.
Following the structure of the classical oration, Sidney now moves into the Refutation,
where instead of arguing a positive case for the value of poetry, he will refute criticisms
made against it. Sidney begins by trying to discredit the critics of poetry by once again
giving them a ridiculous name that makes them seem foreign and perhaps old-
fashioned.
What many of the poet-haters object to is verse. Sidney has already explained that
verse is not an essential quality of poetry. But even if verse was an essential part of
poetry, to speak carefully and beautifully must be a good thing. What is more, verse is
very useful for memory, which is an important part of learning. Indeed, all of the other
arts use verse as a tool for memorization. If verse is the best tool for memory, “the only
handle of knowledge,” a reasonable person can’t object to it.
In fitting with their generally superficial approach to poetry, poet-haters object to the
(ab)use of verse. But, as Sidney has described in detail, the essence of poetry is
something that precedes the actual act of writing and takes place in the poet’s
imagination.  Yet even verse can be defended, since it is a useful tool for memory. This
recalls arguments Sidney made earlier for the ingratitude of the critics of poetry, who
themselves would have been educated with the help of verse. 
Now Sidney moves on to address four more substantial critiques of poetry, critiques
that cannot be so easily dismissed. The first is that poetry is a waste of time. Sidney
objects that this critique “begs the question”: it relies on the principle which is under
discussion, namely the value of poetry. If one believes that poetry moves to virtue and is
therefore a good thing, then it cannot be a waste of time.
So far, Sidney’s strategy has been to show that criticism of poetry is inconsistent,
because it ignores the links between poetry and virtue. Sidney’s argument here is a
perfect example of this rhetorical strategy in miniature: claiming that poetry is a waste of
time is a bad argument because it presupposes something about the quality of poetry
that Sidney has shown to be self-evidently untrue.
The second major criticism, deriving ultimately from Plato’s critique of poetry in
the Republic, is that poetry is the “mother of lies,” and the poet is a great
liar. Sidney responds by claiming that the poet is actually the “least liar” of all writers,
since it is in fact impossible for a poet to lie. An astronomer or geometer or physician—
natural scientists talking about the real world—inevitably get things wrong. But the poet
does not claim to talk about reality, so he or she cannot, by definition, lie: “he nothing
affirmeth, and therefore never lieth.”
As Sidney hinted before, the poet “feigns” but he does not lie. Here, Sidney makes an
important distinction between fiction—an invented reality—and dishonesty. In order for
something to be a lie, it must make a claim about the state of the world as it actually is.
Natural scientists make claims about the state of the world, and therefore run the risk of
being dishonest, or just plain wrong. But the poet is not bound by the world as it actually
is and does not (usually) claim to represent it accurately. Therefore, no matter how
fantastic the contents of a poem, a poet cannot be a liar. 
Poetry may contain things that are not true, but these are not lies; they are fictions, and
whoever doesn’t understand this is being willfully perverse. Whoever thinks that Aesop
records true histories should be “chronicled among the beasts he writeth of.” For even a
child seeing a play understands that the setting is not real. The narration of a poem or a
play is not meant to reflect reality as it really was, but rather “an imaginative ground-plot
of a profitable invention.” Even when a poet uses names that belonged to real people, it
is not to make claims about those actual people but rather to signal that the character in
question is like those people (for instance, a king, if he is called Cyrus).
Sidney appeals to common sense to distinguish poetry from lying. Children are a figure
for common sense, since their thinking has not been perverted by ulterior motives or the
sophistic subtleties of philosophy. Not even a child would say that a playwright claims to
show a real place in a play: it is always only a setting, a “ground-plot” on which the poet
of the imagination may work. Any resemblance to reality is to provide a kind of short-
hand for the audience, rather than to make claims about how a certain person actually
was. 
The third major criticism is that poetry corrupts the morals of its audience, inciting
lust. Sidney grants that much poetry has to do with love and lust. However, this is not
the fault of poetry itself, but rather of the people who write it, and one should not blame
poetry for the way certain authors have abused it. Indeed, the power of its “sweet
charming force” is actually proof of its power to move its readers—the same power that
can move to virtue.
Sidney here combines two familiar rhetorical moves. First, he claims that if some poetry
does corrupt its audience, it is the fault of unskilled modern poets. Second, he claims
that that arguments for the corrupting influence of poetry should actually be understood
as arguments for the affective power of poetry, which can be wielded for good or for ill.
Sidney shows that what appears like a critique is actually an indirect praise of poetry.
Medicine can be similarly abused, as can the law, and religious texts, without
discrediting those branches of knowledge. If someone uses a sword to kill another
person, one does not blame the sword, but the person who used it. Similarly, in claiming
that poetry corrupts the sexual morality of its audience, critics are actually endorsing
poetry’s power, which in the right hands promotes virtue.
To illustrate his claim that the corrupting influence is not poetry itself, but the authors
who abuse it, Sidney compares poetry to medicine, law, and theology, each of which
are recognized to be good but are very commonly abused by malicious or ignorant
practitioners. Poetry, like medicine and the other arts, is a tool that should not be
blamed for the faults of its practitioners. The comparison of poetry with a sword infuses
Sidney’s rhetoric with a military air, subtly linking poetry with “manly” and aristocratic
activities like warfare and dueling.
In the same vein, critics say that poetry saps the courage and warlike spirit of a nation,
and that the general moral state of England was better before poetry was
popular. Sidney rejects the idea that there was ever a time when poetry was not
popular in England, and cites several examples of poetry being used to promote
courage and military spirit. Sidney cites the example of Alexander the Great, who
rejected the teaching of Aristotle in favor of the poetry of Homer. Sidney cites a similar
example from Roman history, of the Roman general Fulvius’s love for the archaic Latin
poet Ennius.
Sidney draws upon historical examples to show that poetry was loved by plenty of
notable heroes. Like the comparison of poetry to a sword above, Sidney links poetry
with masculine courage on the battlefield.
The fourth and final criticism that Sidney rebuts is the claim that poetry must be bad
because Plato banished it from his ideal city in the Republic. Sidney claims that Plato
was in fact the most poetic of the philosophers. He suggests that one of the reasons
Plato might have turned against poetry was that philosophers, after having learned
much from poetry, tried to discredit it to establish their own dominance.
Here Sidney addresses the well-spring of poetry hatred in the Western tradition. It is
striking that Sidney waits till the end of his refutation to refute Plato’s treatment of poetry
in the Republic, which some readers might have expected to come at the very
beginning due to its fame and influence. Sidney claims that Plato and his fellow
philosophers are not unimpeachable authorities, but themselves were governed by
competition and anxiety just like any modern might be. In a clever argument—similar to
one Nietzsche would employ three centuries later in his discussion of Plato’s moral
theory—Sidney suggests that Plato’s critique of poetry is an anxious theory designed to
suppress poetry.
Philosophers grew to hate poets because philosophy could not please so well as poetry,
and could not capture the affection of the people in the same way, and were even
expelled from some communities. It is said that the lyric poets Simonides and Pindar
had a positive effect on the tyrant Hiero the First, and helped turn him into a just king,
while Plato was made into a slave. Indeed, he invites readers to examine Plato’s ideal
city: women were shared among men, in what seems to the modern reader like an
immoral social practice.
Just as contemporary moral philosophers may feel themselves in competition with
poetry, ancient philosophers were conscious of the fact that poetry was more popular
than philosophy, and for good reason. Sidney’s example of the civilizing influence of
Simonides and Pindar on Hiero shows that the idea that philosophers are morally
superior to poets wasn’t necessarily shared by the ancient Greeks. Indeed, if one
considers the moral character of Plato’s Republic, one sees that it would not meet the
moral standards that critics of poetry are so anxious to uphold. Sidney suggests that
Plato’s ideal Republic isn’t actually a moral place, so Plato’s critique of poetry should
not be taken seriously.
Plato doesn’t object to the sexual immortality of poetry, which is what bothers Sidney’s
contemporaries, but rather to poetry’s promotion of seemingly heretical ideas about the
gods. But these only reflected commonly held beliefs in Greece, and had nothing to do
with poetry itself. Therefore, Plato meant to banish poets only because they very
effectively promoted ideas that he didn’t like, which means that he actually believed in
the power of poetry and thus indirectly praised it when banning poets from his republic.
Sidney has claimed at several points that contemporary critics of poetry confuse poorly
written modern verse for poetry itself. Here he claims that Plato did something similar
when he banned the poets from his city: he confused the contemporary culture that
poets were representing with poetry itself. Sidney repeats the move he made earlier,
claiming that Plato’s condemnation of poetry is therefore an indirect endorsement of its
power.
Sidney invites his readers to consider that, alongside the criticisms that people have
made of poetry, many famous people have also praised it. Aristotle would not have
written his Poetics if he thought poetry shouldn’t be written, Sidney reasons. Sidney
concludes that we should “plant more laurels” to crown poets with, instead of tolerating
the “ill-favoured breath” that some critics want to blow upon the “clear springs of
poesy.” 
Sidney closes the main body of the Apology with a Peroration, or conclusion. He
makes the obvious but compelling point that such great classical authorities like
Aristotle would not have wasted their breath on poetry if it did not have some value.
Sidney decides that, since he has gone on so long, he should consider why there is so
little good poetry in England, a country in which the other arts flourish. For many other
countries have strong traditions of poetry, like Scotland and France and Italy, and there
used to be plenty of good poetry in England, even in times of war. The consequence of
this vacuum is that there is a proliferation of bad poetry, giving poetry a bad name.
Indeed, most of Sidney’s contemporaries don’t deserve the title of poet, and he claims
that he never sought it.
Continuing to follow the classical structure that he has very carefully observed so far,
Sidney enters into a Digression on the state of poetry in England, particularly in the
vernacular. Although he has made hints throughout the Apology that he does not
approve of modern English poets, here he addresses the subject directly. Sidney is
clear that, unlike the striving and (he implies) less gentlemanly writers, he himself writes
only as an avocation, rather than professionally. Indeed, in fitting with his aristocratic
sense of self, none of Sidney’s texts were printed and sold in his lifetime. 

For poets cannot simply claim the title of poets without the proper skill. A famous old
proverb says that poets must be born poets, but Sidney says that even talented young
minds must be educated in order to become good poets. The chief instruments of this
education are “imitation” of classical authors and “exercise” through practicing different
kinds of writing. If students do these activities properly, they will eventually learn to
create their own original poetry inspired or influenced by classical authors but not in
slavish imitation of them.
Sidney acknowledges the role of talent and genius in the writing of poetry, but also
endorses humanist theories of education in which imitation of the classics forms an
essential component of learning how to write. Imitation must not be an end in and of
itself, however, otherwise students will never write good poetry.
Sidney then offers some comments on famous English poets. He praises Chaucer, who
“in that misty time could see so clearly.” He praises the Earl of Surrey, and makes an
indirect praise of Spenser by naming his “Shepherds’ Kalendar.” But in general what
Sidney offers are criticisms: modern poets try to sound old, and write inelegant verse.
Sidney praises Chaucer, arguably the most famous early English poet, for his clarity of
vision. This indicates once again the inherently visual nature of poetry, hearkening back
to the metaphor of poetry as a “speaking picture.” Sidney also makes clear that, despite
his constant praise for ancient poetry, modern poets must not try to sound like ancient
poets; they must write in a way appropriate to the modern era.
Dramatists do not observe the classical unities of space and time, and so present
ridiculous plots that take place over many months or years and in different countries,
which does not seem at all realistic. Furthermore, dramatists stick too closely to
historical details, forgetting that a playwright must adapt history to suit the plot and
substance of a tragedy. He suggests that they learn from classical tragedy how to make
use of the messenger speech to report action that cannot be represented on stage.
Finally, modern playwrights too often tell a story from the beginning, when instead they
should start at the place best suited for narration.
Despite his criticism of apishly imitating classical authors, Sidney’s main critique of
modern dramatists is that they do not abide closely enough by the unities of time and
space described in Aristotle’s Poetics. He argues, too, that modern dramatists do not
write realistically enough: the long timespans and big geographical ranges of modern
plays are not plausible. Yet this emphasis on realism is slightly unexpected because
throughout the Apology, Sidney has emphasized the poet’s ability to transcend nature
and its limitations.
In addition to these “gross absurdities,” by which modern authors fail to meet the
standards established by classical literature, they mix genres, and abuse them. They
mix kings with clowns, creating “mongrel tragicomedy.” Furthermore, they think that
comedies must always be funny and provoke laughter. But Sidney points out that
laughter is only one kind of delight that comedy provokes, which comes from
“disproportion” to the normal human experience and to nature (i.e., deformed creatures
and monsters). Sidney advises that comedy shouldn’t just be about matters that
provoke laughter, but should also provide the kind of “delightful teaching” that is the end
of true poetry. Audiences should not be invited to laugh at things that actually should
deserve condemnation, like sins, or pity, like an old beggar. Instead, laughter should be
reserved for delightful things, like a ridiculously pedantic schoolmaster. Sidney praises
George Buchanan for having matched tone with content in his tragedies.
Sidney believes that modern English authors also do not understand that the rules of
genre must be observed. Again, despite his insistence on the autonomy and creativity of
the poet, Sidney has a strangely strict notion of what is and is not permissible in
imaginative literature. Yet his critiques make sense when one remembers that Sidney’s
praise of poetry is ultimately grounded in its ability to teach virtue. Comedy must be
written in order to teach virtue most effectively, so as to educate the audience to feel the
appropriate emotional responses to what it sees.

Sidney then apologies for spending so much time on drama, but says that he does so
because there is relatively little poetry of other kinds in England, except lyric. Modern
lyric, too, is poorly written, as modern lyric poets are generally too cold. They need to
portray the passions with more energia, a Greek term that means “vigor.”
Just because Sidney believes that poetry should teach virtue and morality does not
mean that he is a prude, as his critique of the lyric poetry’s coldness shows. Sidney’s
appeal to ancient poetry as a source of energy or vigor is typical of a Renaissance
humanist, who would see classical literature as a source for inspiration.
Beyond the poor application of particular genres, modern English writers generally
confuse fancy-sounding language for eloquence. The problem occurs not just in poetry,
but also in the learned discourses of scholars, who “cast sugar and spice upon very dish
that is served at the table,” instead of tastefully seasoning their language with fewer
classical references and big words. Classical authors might have expressed themselves
effectively, but when modern writers imitate them too closely, or cite them too often, it
falls flat. Writers also come across as ridiculous or sophistical when they try to use very
elaborate comparisons, or similitudes. Classical authors actually used such devices
very rarely, and Sidney approves of the less fancy speech of “small-learned courtiers”
because it sounds more natural, which is the goal of art.
Just as he has argued that criticisms of poetry are superficial, and ignore the true nature
of poetry, Sidney now claims that modern poets, as well as writers of other kinds, have
too superficial a relationship to language. They think that fancy language makes for
good poetry or prose, when in reality good writing cannot simply be produced by loading
prose with classical allusions and big words. Sidney draws upon the metaphors of food
and taste that he used above when describing the “sweetness” of poetry when he
describes false eloquence as “sugar and spice.” Additionally, he alludes to the
commonplace that “art conceals art” when he praises the simpler language of the less-
educated courtier.

After apologizing for straying from poetry to oratory, Sidney considers the fitness of

modern languages, and particularly English, for writing poetry. Sometimes people
criticize English for having less grammar than Latin, but Sidney sees this as an
advantage, because people do not have to study so much to learn how to express
themselves effectively in their mother tongue. English is also capable of achieving both
“sweetness” and “majesty” in its meter, unlike Italian, Dutch, or French, and also has
more possibilities for rhyme than other modern languages.
Sidney’s discussion of oration alongside poetry reminds the reader that Sidney himself
is both a poet and an orator, and that the Apology is an oratorical praise of poetry that,
like all good writing (according to its own arguments) employs plenty of poetic
metaphors and images to make its case. Sidney also writes the Apology and his other
poetry in English, thereby endorsing the argument he makes here for the virtues of the
English language. Sidney’s argument for the superiority of English is simultaneously
evidence of his broad reading in many languages and the international transmission of
literature in the early modern era, as well as evidence of an emerging sense of

nationalism at the time.

 

Sidney reiterates that poetry has a bad reputation in England because of the bad verse
written by “poet-apes,” and not because of any intrinsic fault of poetry itself. He invites
his readers to respect poets and poetry as teachers of virtue. Sidney warns his
readership that poets are also capable of immortalizing people in their verse, so the
names of people who respect poetry will “flourish in the printers’ shops” and shall “dwell
upon superlatives” forever. The critics of poetry, on the other hand, will never succeed
in their romantic endeavors because they will get poets to write them sonnets to help
woo their beloveds, and will not be remembered after their death for want of a
compelling and memorable epitaph.

Question 2

Criticism on Tragedy and Comedy

Spingarn has aptly remarked : “Dramatic criticism in England began with Sir
Philip Sidney. Casual references to the drama can be found in critical writings
anterior to the Defence of Poesy; but to Sidney belongs the credit of having first
formulated, in a more or less, systematic manner, the general principles of dramatic
art. “
According to Sidney, “the ideal tragedy is an imitation of a noble action, in the
representation of which it stirs, admiration and commiseration.” and teaches the
uncertainty of the world and the weak foundations upon which golden roofs are
built. “It makes kings fear to be tyrant, and tyrants manifest their tyrannical humours.
Sidney’s censure of the contemporary drama is that it outrages the grave and weighty
character of tragedy, its elevated style, and the dignity of the personages represented,
by mingling kings and clowns, introducing the most inappropriated buffoonery. Never
did the ancients, like the English, “match hornpipe and funerals. ” The English dramas
are neither true comedies nor true tragedies, and they disregard both the rules of poetry
and honest civility. Tragedy is not tied to the laws of history, and may arrange and
modify events as it pleases; but it is certainly bound by the rules of poetry. It is evident,
therefore, that the Defence of Poesy, as a French writer has observed, “gives us an
almost complete theory of neo-classic tragedy, a hundred years before the ‘Art Poetique’
of Boileau; the severe separation of poetic forms, the sustained dignity of language, the
unities, nothing is lacking.”
Sidney’s conception of tragedy, as Atkins points out, is somewhat indeterminate
composite in character, made up for the most part of ideas reminiscent of medieval
tradition together with fragments drawn from Aristotle as interpreted by Italian critics.”
Sidney gathered his material from different sources. While basically he adheres to the
medieval tradition that tragedy deals with the fall of kings and mighty tyrants and
teaches ‘the uncertainty of this world,’ he also echoes the views of Aristotle, Seneca,
Horace and some Italian critics such as Scaliger, Minturno, and Castelvetro. Aristotle
said that the function of tragedy is to arouse the feelings of ‘admiration and
commiseration.’ To achieve this end, tragedy must have stately speeches and well
sounding phrases in the Senecan manner. From Castelvetro comes the narrow
interpretation of the unities of time and place in tragedy though Sidney refers to
‘Aristotle’s precept’ and ‘common reason’ for supporting his views. From Horace he
derives some practical hints for the handling of the tragic plot.
Tragedy, Sidney maintains ‘is tied to the laws of poetry and not of history, not bound
to follow the story, but having liberty, either to a quite new matter, or to frame the
history to the most tragical convenience.’ Thus he allows the tragic poets sufficient
liberty in handling their themes. This point was later exploited by Elizabethan
dramatists to justify their romantic plays. Again, like Horace, Sidney points out that
many things may be told which cannot be showed, if they know the difference betwixt
reporting and representing.’ The dramatists must straightway plunge into ‘the principal
point of that one action which they will represent.’ Here also he quotes Horace’s
authority.
Comedy
Sidney’s theory of comedy is based on the body of rules and observations which the
Italian critics, aided by a few hints from Aristotle, had deduced from the practice of the
Greek dramatists. Sidney defines comedy, ‘as an imitation of the common errors of life,
which are represented in the most ridiculous and scornful manner, so that the spectator
is anxious to avoid such errors himself Comedy, therefore, shows the ‘filthiness of evil’,
but only in our private and domestic matters. It should aim at being wholly delightful,
just as tragedy should be maintained by a well-raised admiration. Delight is thus the
first requirement of comedy; but the English comic writers err in thinking that delight
cannot be obtained without laughter, whereas laughter is neither an essential cause nor
an essential effect of delight. Sidney thus distinguishes delight from laughter. The great
fault of English comedy is that it stirs laughter concerning things that are sinful, i.e.
wicked rather than merely ridiculous—forbidden plainly, according to Sidney, by
Aristotle himself— and concerning things that are miserable, rather to be pitied than
scorned. Not only should comedy produce delightful laughter, also it should mix with it
that delightful teaching which is the end of all poetry. Human follies or errors, rather
than human vice and wickedness, or the poverty of men, are the proper themes of
comedy. Sidney’s distinction between delight and laughter is psychological and the most
original part of his treatise.
The Unities
 The unities of time and place were first formulated in Italy and France about the
middle of the 15th century. The first mention of the unities in England is to be found,
more than a dozen years later, in the Defence of Poetry, and it cannot be doubted that
Sidney derived them directly from the Italian critic Castelvetro. Sidney in discussing the
tragedy of Gorboduc, finds it, “Faulty in time and place, the two necessary companions
of all corporal actions; for where the stage should always represent but one place, and
the uttermost time presupposed in it should be, both by Aristotle’s percept and common
reason, but one day there (i.e. in Gorboduc) is both many days and many places
inartificially imagined.” He also objects to the absurdities of the English stage, when on
one side Africa and on the other Asia may be represented, and where in a hour a youth
may grow from boyhood to old age. How absurd this is, commonsense, art and ancient
examples ought to teach the English playwrights; and at this day, says Sidney, even the
ordinary player in Italy will not err in it. If indeed, it be objected that one or two of the
comedies of Plautus and Terence do not observe the unity of time, let us not follow them
when they err but when they are right; it is no excuse for us to do wrong, because
Plautus, on one occasion, has done likewise.
The rule of the three unities did receive such rigid application in England, as is given
by Sidney, until the introduction of the French influence nearly three quarter of a
century later. Ben Jonson is considerably less stringent in this respect than Sidney.
POINTS TO REMEMBER
1. Spingam : “Dramatic criticism in England began with Sir Philip Sidney….” Sidney first
formulated the general principles of dramatic art in a systematic manner.
2.     Sidney’s Views on Tragedy:
(a)             Tragedy, according to Sidney, is an imitation of a noble action which demonstrates
the uncertainty of this world and teaches virtue in a delightful manner.
(b)            Sidney condemns the attempt of the English dramatists of his age to mingle tragedy
and comedy. He is against tragi-comedy.
(c)             Sidneys-conception of tragedy, says Atkins, is reminiscent of medieval tradition
together with fragments drawn from Aristotle as interpreted by Italian critics.
(d)            Thus Sidney echoes the views of Aristotle, Seneca, Horace, Scaliger, Minturno, and
Castelvetro.
(e)             The tragic poet has a liberty to handle his theme either on the basis of history and
legend or on the basis of his imagination.
3.     Sidney‘s Views on Comedy : Sidney‘s theory of comedy is based on Italian critics
who based their observations about comedy on the hints received from Aristotle.
(a)             Comedy, according to Sidney, is an imitation of the common errors of life in a
ridiculous and scornful manner.
(b)            Comedy may or may not have laughter but it should be delightful.
4.     Sidney‘s Views on the Unities : Sidney derived his views on the dramatic unities from
the Italian critic Castelvetro. His views on the unities were regarded as masterly and
authentic by the future generations of England and provoked discussions.