Please rewrite the lines in bold into plain English

'Tis not enough no Harshness gives Offence,

Well constructed sentences are not necessarily a sign of good poetry. You should not be upset by rough/seemingly badly constructed lines.
(Basically, it can all seem a bit bland without contrasting styles)


Soft is the Strain

This is a reference to music, a soft strain is a gentle piece of music,(although when I write it like that it sounds a bit like a bowel movement). It's the sort of sound used in a lullaby for example.


smoother Numbers flows;

This is referring to the way the water flows in a gentle stream, with very few rocks.

And bid alternate Passions fall and rise.

Good poetry will affect more than one emotion, (alternate passions). Fall and rise refers to each emotion being stimulated (rising) and subsiding (falling)

Thank you very much.
But I failed to understand the meaning of "Numbers."
Does "bid" refer to "cause?"

The smoothness of a line of poetry is created by the way it uses its "numbers," or metre. The basic metre for English verse is iambic pentameter, which is a technical way to say that it's written in five pairs of unstressed and stressed syllables. ("meter" in American)

I'd agree with that.

Yes, or allow.

How cool, especially in hot summer.

PS. what does "The fool is happy that he knows no more" in the context below?

Context:

Whatever the passions, knowledge, fame, or pelf,
Not one will change is neighbour with himself.
The learn'd is happy nature to explore,
The fool is happy that he knows no more;
The rich is happy in the plenty given,
The poor contents him with the care of Heaven,
See the blind beggar dance, the cripple sing
The sot a hero, lunatic a king;

It's the idea of blissful ignorance. There's a lot of horrible things in the world. The more educated you become, the more aware you are of the horrors of existance.

I should bloody well think so! I spent ages Googling for a site to copy it from.

I spent ages trying to get by new computer to use google instead of bing. Then my daughter did it for me.

I don't like search toolbars etc. I just have www.google.com as my home page. I've done that on every computer I've had since about 1998.

Bid means ask, command, even compel.

"I bid you rise, take up your bed, and walk."

You are right, 'bid' does mean command, but I would say this was use of poetic licence. That when looking at the reality, 'cause' would be a more realistic interpretation. Having said that I think 'compel' works even better.

Thank you.

What does "vary'd Lays " mean in "how Timotheus' vary'd Lays surprize"
?

I would imagine Timotheus is Timotheus of Miletus (446-357 BC) An Athenian poet and musician. He added another string to his lyre.

Lay in this sense means a short narrative poem, especially one that is meant to be sung, or it could mean a song or melody. It's quite an archaic term now though.

Vary'd would now be spelt varied, meaning a variety.

So the line means that the reader/listener is suprised by the variety of melodies/poetic devices when they read/listen to Timotheus.

Macaulay's "Lays of Ancient Rome" (1842) was a book I had to study at school.

Then out spake brave Horatius,
the Captain of the Gate:
"To every man upon this earth
Death cometh soon or late.
And how can man die better
than facing fearful odds,
For the ashes of his fathers,
And the temples of his Gods,
And for the tender mother
Who dandled him to rest,
And for the wife who nurses
His baby at her breast,
And for the holy maidens
Who feed the eternal flame,
To save them from false Sextus
That wrought the deed of shame?

I remember having to write an essay about that...

Was it a good essay?

Probably not...

Well you can't have everything. Your quotation put me in mind of a WW1 song from O What A Lovely War.

'Then up spoke Private Shorthouse his face as bold as brass,
Saying, 'We don't wan't yer Christmas pud, you can stick it up your arse.'

My father taught me that as part of a (he said Victorian) comic recitation called "Christmas Day In The Workhouse", in which it was a "burly pauper" who spoke up. I believe it was an irreverent variation of this poem by George R. Sims, 1847-1922:

CHRISTMAS DAY IN THE WORKHOUSE

It is Christmas Day in the workhouse,
And the cold, bare walls are bright
With garlands of green and holly,
Ad the place is a pleasant sight;
For with clean-washed hands and faces,
In a long and hungry line
The paupers sit at the table,
For this is the hour they dine.

And the guardians and their ladies,
Although the wind is east,
Have come in their furs and wrappers,
To watch their charges feast;
To smile and be condescending,
Put pudding on pauper plates.
To be hosts at the workhouse banquet
They've paid for with the rates.

Oh, the paupers are meek and lowly
With their "Thank'ee kindly, mum's!'"
So long as they fill their stomachs,
What matter it whence it comes!
But one of the old men mutters,
And pushes his plate aside:
"Great God!" he cries, "but it chokes me!
For this is the day she died!"

The guardians gazed in horror,
The master's face went white;
"Did a pauper refuse the pudding?"
"Could their ears believe aright?"
Then the ladies clutched their husbands,
Thinking the man would die,
Struck by a bolt, or something,
By the outraged One on high.

But the pauper sat for a moment,
Then rose 'mid silence grim,
For the others had ceased to chatter
And trembled in every limb.
He looked at the guardians' ladies,
Then, eyeing their lords, he said,
"I eat not the food of villains
Whose hands are foul and red:

"Whose victims cry for vengeance
From their dark, unhallowed graves."
"He's drunk!" said the workhouse master,
"Or else he's mad and raves."
"Not drunk or mad," cried the pauper,
"But only a haunted beast,
Who, torn by the hounds and mangled,
Declines the vulture's feast.

"I care not a curse for the guardians,
And I won't be dragged away;
Just let me have the fit out,
It's only on Christmas Day
That the black past comes to goad me,
And prey on my burning brain;
I'll tell you the rest in a whisper ?
I swear I won't shout again.

"Keep your hands off me, curse you!
Hear me right out to the end.
You come here to see how paupers
The season of Christmas spend;.
You come here to watch us feeding,
As they watched the captured beast.
Here's why a penniless pauper
Spits on your paltry feast.

"Do you think I will take your bounty,
And let you smile and think
You're doing a noble action
With the parish's meat and drink?
Where is my wife, you traitors ?
The poor old wife you slew?
Yes, by the God above me,
My Nance was killed by you!

'Last winter my wife lay dying,
Starved in a filthy den;
I had never been to the parish ?
I came to the parish then.
I swallowed my pride in coming,
For ere the ruin came,
I held up my head as a trader,
And I bore a spotless name.

"I came to the parish, craving
Bread for a starving wife,
Bread for the woman who'd loved me
Through fifty years of life;
And what do you think they told me,
Mocking my awful grief,
That 'the House' was open to us,
But they wouldn't give 'out relief'.

"I slunk to the filthy alley ?
'Twas a cold, raw Christmas Eve ?
And the bakers' shops were open,
Tempting a man to thieve;
But I clenched my fists together,
Holding my head awry,
So I came to her empty-handed
And mournfully told her why.

"Then I told her the house was open;
She had heard of the ways of that,
For her bloodless cheeks went crimson,
and up in her rags she sat,
Crying, 'Bide the Christmas here, John,
We've never had one apart;
I think I can bear the hunger ?
The other would break my heart.'

"All through that eve I watched her,
Holding her hand in mine,
Praying the Lord and weeping,
Till my lips were salt as brine;
I asked her once if she hungered,
And as she answered 'No' ,
T'he moon shone in at the window,
Set in a wreath of snow.

"Then the room was bathed in glory,
And I saw in my darling's eyes
The faraway look of wonder
That comes when the spirit flies;
And her lips were parched and parted,
And her reason came and went.
For she raved of our home in Devon,
Where our happiest years were spent.

"And the accents, long forgotten,
Came back to the tongue once more.
For she talked like the country lassie
I woo'd by the Devon shore;
Then she rose to her feet and trembled,
And fell on the rags and moaned,
And, 'Give me a crust ? I'm famished ?
For the love of God!' she groaned.

"I rushed from the room like a madman
And flew to the workhouse gate,
Crying, 'Food for a dying woman!'
And the answer came, 'Too late.'
They drove me away with curses;
Then I fought with a dog in the street
And tore from the mongrel's clutches
A crust he was trying to eat.

"Back through the filthy byways!
Back through the trampled slush!
Up to the crazy garret,
Wrapped in an awful hush;
My heart sank down at the threshold,
And I paused with a sudden thrill.
For there, in the silv'ry moonlight,
My Nance lay, cold and still.

"Up to the blackened ceiling,
The sunken eyes were cast ?
I knew on those lips, all bloodless,
My name had been the last;
She called for her absent husband ?
O God! had I but known! ?
Had called in vain, and, in anguish,
Had died in that den ? alone.

"Yes, there, in a land of plenty,
Lay a loving woman dead,
Cruelly starved and murdered
for a loaf of the parish bread;
At yonder gate, last Christmas,
I craved for a human life,
You, who would feed us paupers,
What of my murdered wife!"

'There, get ye gone to your dinners,
Don't mind me in the least,
Think of the happy paupers
Eating your Christmas feast;
And when you recount their blessings
In your smug parochial way,
Say what you did for me, too,
Only last Christmas Day."