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Alexander Pope, The Complete Poetical Works of Alexander Pope [1903]

Edition used:

The Complete Poetical Works of Alexander Pope. Cambridge Edition, ed. Henry W. Boynton (Boston and New York: Houghton, Mifflin and Co., 1903).

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Table of Contents

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EDITOR’S NOTE

An attempt has been here made for the first time to include all of Pope’s poetical work within the limits of a single volume; and to print the poems in an approximately chronological order. It has been often difficult, and sometimes impossible, to determine the exact date of a given poem; and the known order of composition has been modified so far as to permit a method of grouping the shorter poems which has been followed in other volumes of his series. Only the twelve books of the Odyssey which were Pope’s own work are here included, and all of the notes to Homer are omitted. Most of Pope’s own notes to the poems have been retained, except in the case of certain notes on The Dunciad, which are so voluminous or so trivial as to find no proper place within the necessary limits of this edition.

The allusions to Pope’s contemporaries are so numerous, particularly in the Satires, the Moral Essays, and The Dunciad, that it has seemed advisable to rid the main body of notes of such names as are of especial importance, or are frequently mentioned. The Glossary of Names will, it is hoped, prove useful in obviating the necessity of cross-reference.

The text is the result of collation, but is based upon that of the standard Croker-Elwin-Courthope edition. As to the details of capitalization and abbreviation, a uniform though necessarily somewhat arbitrary usage has been adopted. The study of facsimiles has shown that the poet himself employed capitals quite without method. They are here used only in cases of personification or of especially important substantives. As a result of his religious preservation of the decasyllabic form of pentameter, Pope employed marks of abbreviation so profusely as often to produce a page distressing to the modern eye, and not really helpful to the modern ear. Many editors have therefore abandoned these marks altogether; in this edition they have been retained wherever they did not appear likely to prove a stumbling-block to the present generation.

The usual indexes have been furnished, and a brief bibliographical note, which, while it does not pretend to exhaustiveness, may be of aid to the general reader.

H. W. B.

Andover,March, 1903.

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A Pope.

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BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH

Alexander Pope was born in London, May 21, 1688. We cannot be sure of anything better than respectability in his ancestry, though late in life he himself claimed kinship with the Earls of Downe. His paternal grandfather is supposed to have been a clergyman of the Church of England. His mother, Edith Turner, came of a family of small gentry and landowners in Yorkshire. Alexander Pope, senior, was a successful linen merchant in London; so successful that he found it possible to retire early from business, and to buy a small estate at Binfield, on the edge of Windsor forest. To this estate, in Pope’s twelfth year, the family removed from Kensington, and here they lived for sixteen years. In 1716 they removed to Chiswick, where a year later the father died. Soon afterwards Pope, then a man of note, leased the estate at Twickenham, on which he was to live till his death, in 1744.

The circumstances of Pope’s early life were in many ways peculiar. One of the main reasons for the choice of Binfield was that a number of Roman Catholic families lived in that neighborhood. They formed a little set sufficiently agreeable for social purposes, though not offering much intellectual stimulus to such a mind as Pope’s very early showed itself to be. But if to be a Roman Catholic in England then meant to move in a narrow social circle, it carried with it also more serious limitations. It debarred from public school and university; so that beyond the inferior instruction afforded by the small Catholic schools which he attended till his twelfth year, Pope had no formal education. Two or three facts recorded of this school experience are worthy of mention: that he was taught the rudiments of Latin and Greek together, according to the Jesuit method; that he left one school in consequence of a flogging which he had earned by satirizing the head master; and that at about the age of ten he built a tragedy on the basis of Ogilvy’s translation of Homer. At twelve he had at least learned the rudiments of Greek, and could read Latin fluently, if not correctly. So far as his failings in scholarship are concerned, Pope’s lack of formal education has probably been made too much of. He had no bent for accurate scholarship, nor was breadth and accuracy of scholarship an accomplishment of that age. Addison, whose literary career was preceded by a long period of university residence, knew very little of Greek literature, and had a by no means wide acquaintance with the literature of Rome. Yet scholarship in those days meant classical learning.

Pope might no doubt have profited by the discipline of a regular academic career. He needed, as Mr. Courthope says, ‘training in thought rather than in taste, which he had by nature.’ But such a mind as his is not likely to submit itself readily to rigid processes of thought. It is impossible not to see, at least, that the boy Pope knew how to read, if not how to study; and that what Latin and Greek he read was approached as literature,—a method more common then than now, it is probable. ‘When I had done with my priests,’ he wrote to Spence, ‘I took to reading by myself, for which I had a very great eagerness and enthusiasm, especially for poetry; and in a very few years I had dipped into a great number of English, French, Italian, Latin, and Greek poets. This I did without any design but that of pleasing myself, and got the language by hunting after the stories in the several authors I read: rather than read the books to get the language.’ Virgil and Statius were his favorite Latin poets at this time, as is attested not only by the Pastorals and the early translations of the Thebais, but by the innumerable reminiscences, or ‘imitations,’ as Pope called them, which may be traced in his later work. In the meantime, as a more important result of his having to rely so much upon his own resources, his creative power was beginning to manifest itself with singular maturity. At twelve he wrote couplets which were long afterwards inserted without change in the Essay on Criticism, and even in The Dunciad. The Pastorals, composed at sixteen, though conventional in conception and not seldom mechanical in execution, contain passages in the poet’s ripest manner. With the Essay on Criticism, published five years later, Pope reached his full power. Such development as is to be found in his later work is the result of an increase in mental breadth and satirical force. His style was already formed.

Whatever may have been the importance, for good and ill, of Pope’s early method of education, a far more potent factor in determining the conduct of his life and the nature of his work lay in his bodily limitations. The tradition that in his childhood he was physically normal is made dubious by the reported fact that his father was also small and crooked, though organically sound. At all events, the Pope whom the world knew was anything but normal,—stunted to dwarfishness, thin to emaciation, crooked and feeble, so that he had to wear stays and padding, and all his life subject to severe bodily pain. Pope’s relations with other men were seriously affected by this condition. Masculine society in eighteenth-century England had little place for weaklings. The late hours and heavy drinking of London were as little possible for the delicate constitution of Pope as the hard riding and heavy drinking of the country gentlemen with whom he was thrown at Binfield. In a letter from Binfield in 1710 Pope writes: ‘I assure you I am looked upon in the neighborhood for a very sober and well-disposed person, no great hunter, indeed, but a great esteemer of the noble sport, and only unhappy in my want of constitution for that and drinking.’ It is a misconception of Pope’s character to suppose him lacking in a natural robustness of temper to which only his physical limitations denied outlet. Before reaching manhood he had been given more than one rude lesson in discretion. At one time over-confinement to his books had so much reduced his vitality as to convince him that he had not long to live. A fortunate chance put his case into the hands of a famous London physician, who prescribed a strict diet, little study, and much horseback riding. Pope followed the advice, recovered, and thereafter, for the most part, took excellent care of himself; it was the price which he had to pay for living. One unfortunate result was that he was thrown back upon the companionship of women, always petted, always deferred to, always nursed. Such conditions naturally developed the acid cleverness, the nervous brilliancy of the poet Pope; and it is matter of great wonder that from such conditions anything stronger should survive; that there is, when all is said, so much virility and restraint in the best of his work.

The Pastorals, Pope’s first considerable poetical achievement, were according to the poet written in 1704, at the age of sixteen. They were, like all modern pastorals, conventional; but they contain some genuine poetry, and are wonderful exercises in versification. Their diction is often artificial to the point of absurdity, but now and then possesses a stately grace, as in the famous lines:—

  • ‘Where’er you walk, cool gales shall fan the glade;
  • Trees, where you sit, shall crowd into a shade,
  • Where’er you tread, the blushing flowers shall rise,
  • And all things flourish where you turn your eyes’

Pope had probably been encouraged to write the Pastorals by Sir William Trumbull, to whom the first of them is inscribed. Trumbull was a man of Oxford training, who after a distinguished diplomatic career had come to end his life upon his estate near Binfield, and who had been drawn to the deformed boy by the discovery of their common taste for the classics. For some time before the publication of the Pastorals the manuscript was being circulated privately among such men of established literary reputation as Garth, Walsh, Congreve, and Wycherley, and such patrons of letters as George Granville, Halifax, and Somers. To Walsh in particular Pope afterward expressed his obligation. ‘He used to encourage me much,’ we read in a letter to Spence, written long after, ‘and used to tell me there was one way left of excelling: for though we had several great poets, we never had any one great poet that was correct; and he desired me to make that my study and aim.’ The dictum has become famous, but though Walsh probably meant, by ‘correctness,’ justice of taste as well as measured accuracy of poetic style, his over-praise of the Pastorals leads us to think that form was the main thing in his mind. If Pope’s statement of the date at which the Pastorals were written is reliable, however (and we must keep in mind from the outset the fact that, as Mr. Courthope says, Pope in mature life ‘systematically antedated his compositions in order to obtain credit for precocity’), he did not become acquainted with Walsh until some time after they were written. The critic’s advice, therefore, amounted simply to an encouragement in pursuing the method which Pope had already adopted: in employing a more rigid metrical scheme than any previous poet, even Sandys or Dryden, had attempted. The bookseller Jacob Tonson was shown the manuscript, and offered to publish it; and in 1709 it appeared in Tonson’s Sixth Miscellany.

Through Walsh Pope became acquainted with Wycherley, who introduced the young poet to literary society in London; that is, to the society of the London coffee-houses. The character of the older resorts had already begun to change. Even Will’s had ceased to be the purely literary club of Dryden’s day. It was natural that the age of Anne, in which increasing public honors were paid to literary men, should have been also an age in which literary men took an increasing interest in politics. At about the time when Pope first came up to London, Whig and Tory were beginning to edge away from each other; and though Will’s for a time remained a sort of neutral ground, the old hearty interchange of thought and companionship was no longer possible. Part-political, part-literary clubs, like the Kitcat, the October Club, and the Scriblerus Club, sapped the strength of the older and freer institution; and its doom was sealed when in 1712 Addison established at Button’s a resort for literary Whigs.

During his first years of London experience, Pope probably knew Richard Steele more intimately than any one else. They had met at Will’s, and through Steele Pope had been presented to Addison, and had later become a frequenter of Button’s. It was Steele who urged Pope to write the Ode on St. Cecilia’s Day, who got his Messiah published in The Spectator and printed various short papers of his in The Guardian. Another Whig friend was Jervas the painter, a pupil of Kneller, but an artist of no very considerable achievement. The poet at one time had some lessons in painting from him, and always held him in esteem. So far Pope allowed himself to associate with the Whigs; but he had no intention of taking rank as a Whig partisan. If he wrote prose for Whig journals, it was in honor of the Tory government that the conclusion was added to Windsor Forest in 1713. To Swift’s admiration for this poem, Pope owed the beginning of his life-long friendship with the Dean; but it was a friendship which committed him no more to Toryism than Addison’s had to Whiggery. ‘As old Dryden said before me,’ he wrote in 1713, ‘it is not the violent I desire to please; and in very truth, I believe they will all find me, at long run, a mere Papist.’ One amusing fact about Pope’s early experience at Button’s is that he is known to have commended the verses of Addison’s satellites, Budgell and Tickell and Philips, whom later he was to attack so bitterly. The first cause of offence was not long in coming; and an offence sown in the mind of Pope was certain to grow very fast and to live very long. The story of Pope’s falling out with Addison and his friends is the story of the first of a long series of personal enmities which embittered Pope’s life, and, it is too clear, impoverished his work.

The Pastorals were published by Tonson at the end of a volume which opened with some exercises in the same kind of verse by Ambrose Philips. Pope was disposed to commend the work of Philips, even going so far as to say that ‘there were no better eclogues in the language.’ His ardor was somewhat cooled when The Spectator, in a paper which was unmistakably Addison’s, printed an extended comparison of his work and Philips’s, considerably to the advantage of the latter; and was converted into a cold rage by the fact that presently the position taken by The Spectator was expanded in five papers in The Guardian. The subtlety and ingenuity of Pope’s method of retort was an interesting indication of the disingenuousness which became a settled quality of his prose writing. Whatever his poetry may not have been, it was certainly downright; but his method of getting it before the public, of annotating it, and of reinforcing its thought, was habitually circuitous and not seldom dishonest. Pope promptly wrote a sixth paper to The Guardian, ostensibly keeping to Tickell’s argument, but really speaking in irony from beginning to end, picking out the weakest points in Philips’s style and matter, and damning them by fulsome praise. Steele, it is said, was so far deceived as to print the paper in good faith. Pope’s revenge among the wits was complete; but he never forgot a score by paying it. In the Satires and The Dunciad, poor namby-pamby Philips comes up again and again for a punishment to which, in recompense, he now owes his fame.

Pope’s attitude toward Addison is a more serious matter to the critic. Up to the year 1714 Pope, whatever irritation he may have felt toward Addison, had chosen to ‘take it out of’ the followers of the great man rather than out of the great man himself. The insertion of the Tory passage in Windsor Forest might have been taken as a direct challenge to the Whig champion, whose famous celebration of the Whig victory at Blenheim had been so popular. That his relations with Addison were not affected by it is shown by his supplying a prologue for Cato, which was produced within a month of the publication of Windsor Forest. Cato itself was to supply the real bone of contention. It was attacked by the veteran critic John Dennis, against whose strictures Pope undertook to take up the cudgels, in an anonymous Narrative of Dr. Robert Norris on the Frenzy of J. D. It is uncertain whether Addison suspected that Pope was its author, and that his championship was inspired by the desire for personal revenge for Dennis’s treatment of the Essay on Criticism; but he disclaimed responsibility for the rejoinder in a letter written for him to the publisher by Steele. The result was a resentment which bore its final fruit in the lines on Atticus in the Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot. Addison, it must be noticed, had warmly praised the Essay on Criticism (1711), and the simpler version of The Rape of the Lock, published a year later; but the publication of Tickell’s version of the first book of the Iliad simultaneously with Pope’s first volume, and Addison’s preference of the weaker version, does not leave the latter quite free from suspicion of parti pris.

Whatever may have been the rights of the difficulty between Addison and Pope, there is no doubt that in one point, evidently a mere point of judgment, Addison was wrong. After pronouncing the first version of The Rape of the Lock, published in 1712, ‘a delicious little thing, and merum sal,’ he advised against Pope’s plan for expanding it. Without the additions which the author made, in spite of this advice, it would hardly stand, as it now does, an acknowledged masterpiece in its kind. Despite the apparently local and temporary nature of its theme, the poem attracted much greater attention when, in 1714, it appeared in the new form. The poem affords the purest expression of Pope’s genius: his imagination applied without strain to a theme with which it was exactly fitted to cope, his satirical power exercised without the goad of personal rancor, and his light and elegant versification unhampered by the fancied necessity for weightiness. Nothing more just has been said about the poem than this by Hazlitt (On Dryden and Pope): ‘It is the most exquisite specimen of filigree work ever invented. It is as admirable in proportion as it is made of nothing:—

  • “More subtle web Arachne cannot spin,
  • Nor the fine nets, which oft we woven see
  • Of scorched dew, do not in th’ air more lightly flee.”

It is made of gauze and silver spangles. The most glittering appearance is given to everything,—to paste, pomatum, billet-doux, and patches. Airs, languid airs, breathe around; the atmosphere is perfumed with affectation. A toilette is described with the solemnity of an altar raised to the Goddess of Vanity, and the history of a silver bodkin is given with all the pomp of heraldry. No pains are spared, no profusion of ornaments, no splendor of poetic diction, to set off the meanest things. The balance between the concealed irony and the assumed gravity is as nicely trimmed as the balance of power in Europe. The little is made great, and the great little. You hardly know whether to laugh or weep. It is the triumph of insignificance, the apotheosis of foppery and folly. It is the perfection of the mock-heroic.’

If The Rape of the Lock was Pope’s masterpiece in the field of impersonal satire, the Essay on Criticism, which belongs to the same period of the poet’s life, was his masterpiece in the realm of poetic generalization. It was, according to the account of the poet, composed in 1709 and published in 1711. The present editor is inclined to think that justice has never been done to this extraordinary work, either as a product of precocity, or in its own right. It is, in his opinion, not only a manual of criticism, to which the practitioner may apply for sound guidance upon almost any given point, but an exhaustive satire upon false methods of criticism. It is a compendious rule of criticism which works both ways; hardly less rigorous than Aristotle, hardly less catholic than Sainte-Beuve. It does not, as has been alleged, constitute a mere helter-skelter summary of critical platitudes: there is hardly a predicament in modern criticism from which it does not suggest an adequate means of extrication. At all events, it represented, as Mr. Courthope says, the ‘first attempt to trace for English readers the just boundaries of taste.’

The Essay on Criticism was not, like The Rape of the Lock, devoid of the note of personal enmity which was to mark so much of the poet’s later work. John Dennis had probably employed his slashing method in reviewing the Pastorals, and in the Essay Pope took occasion for revenge in the lines on Appius, which unmistakably applied to the author of Appius and Virginia; and which after Dennis’s rejoinder were to be followed up by the attacks in the Satires and The Dunciad.

With the accession of the house of Hanover in 1714 the literary situation in London was considerably modified. The common ground upon which Whigs and Tories had, with diminishing success, continued to associate, was taken from under their feet. Politics became the first issue, and literature was relegated to a subordinate position. Fortunately the list of subscribers to Pope’s translation of the Iliad had been made up before the death of Anne. During the few years in which the process of public readjustment absorbed the attention of London, Pope was hard at work upon the most exacting task he had yet undertaken.

The removal of the family from Binfield to Chiswick was made by Pope’s desire. He was now not only a famous author, but a man of fashion; and on both accounts he wished to be nearer London. In leaving the coffee-house society—of which, in truth, he had never been a full member—he had found entrance into ‘aristocratic circles;’ and we hear much in his letters from this time on of the noblemen whose hospitality he accepted, while standing clear of their direct patronage. At Chiswick he found more society and less leisure. Many times during the next few years he accuses himself of laziness, but it does not appear that his mild junketings with the nobilities gave him more relaxation from the toil of his Homer translation than he needed. The first books of the Iliad were published in 1715, and the last books of the Odyssey in 1723. The cripple and man of the world who could do that in the intervals of his house parties and his sieges of physical pain was certainly producing his full share of work.

The Iliad was hailed with applause on all sides, and handsomely paid for. It was in one way a task for which the translator would appear to have been quite unfitted. The Rape of the Lock had proved him the mouthpiece of a conventional and sophisticated age; and conventionality and sophistication are not qualities to go naturally with Homer. The elegance of Pope’s verse becomes at times a mincing neatness, and his fashionable poetic diction in the mouths of Hector and Achilles rings thin and metallic. But though Pope inevitably missed the simplicity and the hearty surge and swing of Homer, he did manage to retain something of his vigor; and his Iliad is still the classic English version. Only half of the Odyssey translation which followed was really the work of Pope, and even his own part was deficient in the spirit which had marked the first translation. It had indeed been undertaken from a very different motive: he could not hope to add greatly to the credit which his Iliad had gained for him, but the cash might readily be increased. The translator actually received nearly £9000 for both translations—a small fortune in those days. Pope’s relations with his collaborators in the affair of the Odyssey are to be noticed, though they have perhaps been too much dwelt upon by the commentators. The facts are briefly these: Fenton translated four books and Broome eight. Both were Cambridge men of parts, Fenton the more brilliant and Broome the more thorough. The latter furnished also all the notes. Pope paid them a very small price for their labor, though not less than they had bargained for, and gave them very little credit for it. Moreover, when he found that there was some stir against him for advertising an Odyssey which was to be his only in part, he induced Broome to write a postscript note claiming only three books for his own share and two for Fenton’s, and insisting that whatever merit they might have was due to Pope’s minute revision.

Before attempting the Odyssey, Pope was unfortunately led to prepare an edition of Shakespeare, which showed some ingenuity in textual emendation. Phrases were, however, too frequently altered as ‘vulgar,’ and metres as ‘incorrect.’ The work was on the whole so mediocre as fairly to lay itself open to the strictures of Theobald, who was consequently made the original hero of The Dunciad. In 1718 the poet leased the estate at Twickenham, and set to work upon the improvements which became a hobby. He had planned to build a town house, but was fortunately dissuaded. The laying out of the tiny five acres of grounds is now a matter of history: the paths, the wilderness, the quincunx, the obelisk to his mother’s memory, above all the grotto,—they are more like actors than stage properties in the quiet drama of Pope’s later years.

His work after the completion of the Homer translation was almost entirely restricted to satire. Even the Moral Essays are largely satirical, for Pope’s didacticism was always tinged with laughter. It was too seldom a kindly laughter. His capacity for personal hatred was suffered not only to remain, but to grow upon him; until it became at length one of the ruling motives of his literary life. His first conception of The Dunciad was formed as early as 1720. Sometime within the five years following he seems to have broached his project for wholesale revenge to Swift, who, oddly enough, dissuaded him: ‘Take care the bad poets do not outwit you,’ he wrote, ‘as they have the good ones in every age, whom they have provoked to transmit their names to posterity. Mævius is as well known as Virgil, and Gildon will be as well known as you if his name gets into your verses.’ Thereto Pope dutifully assents: ‘I am much happier for finding our judgments jump in the notion that all scribblers should be passed by in silence. . . . So let Gildon and Philips rest in peace.’ It is not many years later that we find Swift encouraging Pope to go on with The Dunciad, and Pope accepting the advice with an even better grace than in the former instance. The first judgment of both authors was of course the right one. The Dunciad, with all its cleverness, remains the record of a strife between persons whom we do not now care about. It has no determinable significance beyond that; it lacks the didactic soundness of his Essay on Criticism, and the graceful lightness of The Rape of the Lock. Only in a few detached passages in the Moral Essays and Satires, indeed, did he ever succeed in approaching either of these qualities.

‘Pope’s writings,’ says Mr. Courthope, ‘fall naturally into two classes: those which were inspired by fancy or reflection, and those which grew from personal feeling or circumstance.’ The Moral Essays belonged to the former of these classes, the Satires to the latter. The Moral Essays, and more particularly the Essay on Man, are the product of a materialism which marked the age, and which was set before Pope in something like systematic form by Bolingbroke. As Bolingbroke was primarily a politician, and dabbled in philosophy only because the favorite game was for a great part of his life denied him, it could not be expected that much more than shallow generalization would come out of him. At all events, his system of sophistry was all that Pope needed for a thread upon which to string his couplets. Whatever we may think of the Essay on Man now, we need not forget that so keen a critic as Voltaire once called it ‘the most beautiful, the most awful, the most sublime didactic poem that has ever been written in any language.’ Even in our day a conservative critic can say of it: ‘Form and art triumph even in the midst of error; a framework of fallacious generalization gives coherence to the epigrammatic statement of a multitude of individual truths.’

Some of the difficulty that we have found in The Dunciad is present in the Satires. They are full of personalities. As a rule, however, the persons hit off are of some account, both in themselves and as types, rather than as mere objects of private rancor. Altogether these poems contain, besides the famous portraits of contemporaries, many passages of universal application to the virtues and the shortcomings of any practical age.

With the completion of the Satires in 1738, Pope’s work was practically done. His remaining years were to be spent mainly in revising his works and correspondence; the final additions and alterations to The Dunciad being the only task of special importance which in his weakening health, and decreasing creative impulse, he was able to undertake. The range of the poet’s possible achievement was never very great; and he had now lost most of the living motives of his work. He had numbered among his acquaintances all the prominent men of the time; and not a few of them had been friends upon whom he depended for encouragement and companionship. Gay had died in 1732, Pope’s mother a year later, and Arbuthnot in 1735. Swift was meantime rapidly breaking up in mind and body, and by 1740 Pope was separated from him by a chasm as impassable as that of death. Bolingbroke remained to him, and he was to have one other friend, Warburton, upon whom he relied for advice and aid during his last years, and who became his literary executor. These, however, were friendships of the mind rather than of the heart; and there is something a little pathetic in the spectacle of the still brilliant poet’s dependence upon the chill and disappointed politician Bolingbroke and the worthy and adoring Bishop Warburton, who can hardly have been a lively companion.

Critics are now fairly well agreed as to Pope’s service to English poetry. Intellectually he was clever rather than profound, and, in consequence, though so much of his work was of the didactic type, he made few original contributions to poetic thought. A poem of Pope’s is a collection of brilliant fragments. He kept a note-book full of clever distiches set down at random; presently so many couplets are taken and classified, others are added, a title is found, and the world applauds. If we except The Rape of the Lock, and possibly the Epistle to Arbuthnot, none of his poems can be called organic in structure. The patching is neatly done, but the result is patchwork. The Essay on Man, therefore, which most of his contemporaries considered his greatest work, appears to us a mosaic of cleverly phrased platitudes and epigrams. Many of the couplets have become proverbial; the work as a whole cannot be taken seriously. ‘But the supposition is,’ says Lowell, ‘that in the Essay on Man Pope did not himself know what he was writing. He was only the condenser and epigrammatizer of Bolingbroke—a very fitting St. John for such a gospel.’ It is to another and less pretentious sort of work that we must turn to find the great versifier at his best.

The Rape of the Lock affords exactly the field in which Pope was fitted to excel. The very qualities of artificiality and sophistication which mar the Homer translations make the story of Belinda and her Baron a perfect thing of its kind. Here is the conventional society which Pope knew, and with which—however he might sneer at it—he really sympathized. The polished trivialities, the shallow gallantry, the hardly veiled coarseness of the London which Pope understood, are here to the life. Depth of emotion, of imagination, of thought, are absent, and properly so; but here are present in their purest forms the flashing wit, the ingenious fancy, the malicious innuendo, of which Pope was undoubtedly master.

In versification his merit is to have done one thing incomparably well. Not only is his latest work marked by the same wit, conciseness, and brilliancy of finish which gained the attention of his earliest critics, but it employs the same metrical form which in boyhood he had brought to a singular perfection. The heroic couplet is now pretty much out of fashion: ‘correctness’ is no longer the first quality which we demand of poetry. No doubt we are fortunate to have escaped the trammels of the rigid mode which so long restrained the flight of English verse. But however tedious and wooden Pope’s instrument may have become in later hands, however mistaken he himself may have been in emphasizing its limitations, there is no doubt that it was the instrument best suited to his hand, and that he secured by means of it a surprising variety of effect.

We have chronicled thus far a few of the facts of Pope’s life and work. Something—it cannot be very much—remains to be said of his private character. It was a character of marked contradictions, the nether side of which—the weaknesses and positive faults—has, as is common in such cases, been laid bare with sufficient pitilessness. He was, we are told, malicious, penurious, secretive, unchivalrous, underhanded, implacable. He could address Lady Mary Wortley one day with fulsome adulation, and the next—and ever after—with foul abuse. He could deliberately goad his dunces to self-betrayal by his Treatise on the Bathos, and presently flay them in The Dunciad by way of revenge. He could by circuitous means cause his letters—letters carefully edited by him—to be published, and prosecute the publisher for outraging his sensibilities. He could stoop to compassing the most minute ends of private malice by the most elaborate and leisurely methods. He played life as a game composed of a series of petty moves, and, as one of his friends said, ‘could hardly drink a cup of tea without a stratagem.’

But let us see what we might be fairly saying on the other side. If he was capable of malice, he was incapable of flattery; if he was dishonest in the little matters, he was honest in the great ones; if he held mediocrity in contempt, he had an ungrudging welcome for excellence. In later life he had encouragement for the younger generation of writers,—Johnson, Young, Thomson, and poor Savage. If he allowed a fancied injury to separate him from Addison, he had still to boast of the friendship of men like Gay, Arbuthnot, and Swift; and they had to boast of his. He nursed his mother in extreme old age with anxious devotion, and mourned her death with unaffected grief. In his best satirical mood, the best in English verse, he did not hesitate to arraign the highest as well as the lowest; not even Swift could be so fearless. Such things are to be remembered of this correct versifier and merciless satirist Pope: that with only half the body, and hardly more than half the bodily experience, of a man, he had his full share of a man’s failings and a man’s virtues; and that the failings were on the whole upon a less significant plane than the virtues.

Much has been written of Pope’s attitude toward women, and much has been written of his acrid habit of mind. The relation between these facts has been, perhaps, insufficiently grasped. Pope was not by nature a celibate or a hater of women. He was, on the contrary, fond of their society, and anxious to make himself agreeable to them. His failure with Lady Mary Wortley Montagu was deserved; the relation was a mere affair of gallantry, which she took good care to snuff out when the adorer’s protestations began to weary her. She was not a womanly person, and forestalled much public indignation at Pope’s subsequent abuse by adopting an equally brutal system of retort.

His failure with Martha Blount was of a very different sort, and of far greater significance. She was the younger of two daughters belonging to one of the Roman Catholic families in Pope’s Windsor Forest circle of acquaintance. With her and with her sister Teresa, Pope was for many years upon terms of the closest intimacy. They were not much alike; and though Pope made a habit of addressing them with guarded impartiality in his correspondence, it is to be seen almost from the first that his feeling for the more practical and worldly older sister was less warm than his feeling for the amiable and feminine “Patty.” Eventually, after years of friendship, the poet made a few indirect overtures to Martha in the direction of marriage; and at last ventured to express himself plainly to Teresa. To his unspeakable humiliation and grief, she treated his honest declaration as an affront to her sister, and upon precisely the painful ground of his deformity, which had for so many years kept him from speaking. Pope could not help feeling that however Martha might, if left to herself, have received his advances, it was now out of the question to pursue them. His behavior under the circumstances was full of dignity. It was impossible for the friendship to be renewed upon the old footing, but his only revenge beyond that of the necessary withdrawal from familiar intercourse was to settle a pension upon Teresa at the time, and to leave most of his property by will to Martha. We can hardly imagine Pope madly in love, but that he had a calm and steadfast affection for Martha Blount we cannot doubt. He was disposed to marry, and he would have liked to marry her. She represented the ideal of womanhood in his mind; and to her, in the heat of his most savage bouts of idol-breaking, he pauses to raise a white shaft of love and faith.

If the present editor, after a careful and well-rewarded study of the poet and the man, has any mite of interpretation to offer, it is not that Pope was a greater poet, but that he was a better man, than he is commonly painted; an unamiable man, yet not for that reason altogether unworthy of regard; a man with little meannesses carried upon his sleeve for all the world to mock at, and with the large magnanimity which could face the world alone, without advantages of birth or wealth or education or even health, and win a great victory. Such a man cannot conceivably be supposed to have stumbled upon success. Not only inspired cleverness of hand, but force of character and sanity of mind must be responsible for his work. After the lapse of nearly two centuries it should perhaps be right to indulge ourselves somewhat more sparingly in condemnation of his foibles, and to recall more willingly the sound kernel of character which is the basis of his personality. Whatever slander he may have retailed about the camp-fire, whatever foolish vanity he may have had in his uniform, Pope fought the good fight. ‘After all,’ he wrote to Bishop Atterbury, who was trying to make a Protestant of him, ‘I verily believe your Lordship and I are both of the same religion, if we were thoroughly understood by one another, and that all honest and reasonable Christians would be so, if they did but talk together every day; and had nothing to do together but to serve God and live in peace with their neighbors.’

H. W. B.

Andover,March, 1903.

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EARLY POEMS

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ODE ON SOLITUDE

‘This was a very early production of our Author, written at about twelve years old,’ says Pope in one of his unsigned and unreliable notes. If the statement is true, it was probably written during the year 1700. It is apparently the earliest poem of Pope’s which remains to us, though according to Roscoe, ‘Dodsley, who was honoured with his intimacy, had seen several pieces of an earlier date.’

    • Happy the man whose wish and care
    • A few paternal acres bound,
    • Content to breathe his native air
    • In his own ground.
    • Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
    • Whose flocks supply him with attire,
    • Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
    • In winter fire.
    • Bless’d who can unconcern’dly find
    • Hours, days, and years slide soft away,
    • In health of body, peace of mind,
    • Quiet by day;
    • Sound sleep by night: study and ease
    • Together mix’d; sweet recreation;
    • And innocence, which most does please,
    • With meditation.
    • Thus let me live, unseen, unknown,
    • Thus unlamented let me die;
    • Steal from the world, and not a stone
    • Tell where I lie.
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A PARAPHRASE (ON THOMAS À KEMPIS, L. III. C. 2)

Supposed to have been written in 1700; first published from the Caryll Papers in the Athenæum, July 15, 1854.

    • Speak, Gracious Lord, oh, speak; thy servant hears:
    • For I’m thy servant and I’ll still be so:
    • Speak words of comfort in my willing ears;
    • And since my tongue is in thy praises slow,
    • And since that thine all Rhetoric exceeds:
    • Speak thou in words, but let me speak in deeds!
    • Nor speak alone, but give me grace to hear
    • What thy celestial Sweetness does impart;
    • Let it not stop when enter’d at the ear,
    • But sink, and take deep rooting in my heart.
    • As the parch’d Earth drinks rain (but grace afford)
    • With such a gust will I receive thy word.
    • Nor with the Israelites shall I desire
    • Thy heav’nly word by Moses to receive,
    • Lest I should die: but Thou who didst inspire
    • Moses himself, speak Thou, that I may live.
    • Rather with Samuel I beseech with tears,
    • Speak, gracious Lord, oh, speak, thy servant hears.
    • Moses, indeed, may say the words, but Thou
    • Must give the Spirit, and the Life inspire;
    • Our Love to thee his fervent breath may blow,
    • But ’t is thyself alone can give the fire:
    • Thou without them may’st speak and profit too;
    • But without thee what could the Prophets do?
    • They preach the Doctrine, but thou mak’st us do’t;
    • They teach the myst’ries thou dost open lay;
    • The trees they water, but thou giv’st the fruit;
    • They to Salvation show the arduous way,
    • But none but you can give us strength to walk;
    • You give the Practice, they but give the Talk.
    • Let them be silent then; and thou alone,
    • My God! speak comfort to my ravish’d ears;
    • Light of my eyes, my Consolation,
    • Speak when thou wilt, for still thy servant hears.
    • Whate’er thou speak’st, let this be understood:
    • Thy greater Glory, and my greater Good!
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TO THE AUTHOR OF A POEM ENTITLED SUCCESSIO[ ]

Elkanah Settle, celebrated as Doeg in Dryden’s Absalom and Achitophel, wrote Successio in honor of the incoming Brunswick dynasty. Warburton (or possibly Pope) in a note on Dunciad, I. 181, says that the poem was ‘written at fourteen years old, and soon after printed.’ A good instance of Pope’s economy of material will be found in the passage upon which that note bears: an adaptation of lines 4, 17 and 18 of this early poem. It was first published in Lintot’s Miscellanies, 1712.

  • Begone, ye Critics, and restrain your spite,
  • Codrus writes on, and will forever write.
  • The heaviest Muse the swiftest course has gone,
  • As clocks run fastest when most lead is on;
  • What tho’ no bees around your cradle flew,
  • Nor on your lips distill’d their golden dew;
  • Yet have we oft discover’d in their stead
  • A swarm of drones that buzz’d about your head.
  • When you, like Orpheus, strike the warbling lyre,
  • Attentive blocks stand round you and admire.
  • Wit pass’d thro’ thee no longer is the same,
  • As meat digested takes a diff’rent name;
  • But sense must sure thy safest plunder be,
  • Since no reprisals can be made on thee.
  • Thus thou may’st rise, and in thy daring flight
  • (Tho’ ne’er so weighty) reach a wondrous height.
  • So, forc’d from engines, lead itself can fly,
  • And pond’rous slugs move nimbly thro’ the sky.
  • Sure Bavius copied to the full,
  • And taught to be dull;
  • Therefore, dear friend, at my advice give o’er
  • This needless labour; and contend no more
  • To prove a dull succession to be true,
  • Since ’t is enough we find it so in you.
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THE FIRST BOOK OF STATIUS’S THEBAIS

TRANSLATED IN THE YEAR 1703

Though Pope ascribes this translation to 1703, there is evidence that part of it was done as early as 1699. It was finally revised and published in 1712, but Courthope asserts that ‘it is fair to assume that the body of the composition is preserved in its original form.’

ARGUMENT

Œdipus, King of Thebes, having, by mistake, slain his father Laius, and married his mother Jocasta, put out his own eyes, and resign’d the realm to his sons Eteocles and Polynices. Being neglected by them, he makes his prayer to the Fury Tisiphone, to sow debate betwixt the brothers. They agree at last to reign singly, each a year by turns, and the first lot is obtain’d by Eteocles. Jupiter, in a council of the gods, declares his resolution of punishing the Thebans, and Argives also, by means of a marriage betwixt Polynices and one of the daughters of Adrastus King of Argos. Juno opposes, but to no effect; and Mercury is sent on a message to the shades, to the ghost of Laius, who is to appear to Eteocles, and provoke him to break the agreement. Polynices, in the mean time, departs from Thebes by night, is overtaken by a storm, and arrives at Argos; where he meets with Tideus, who had fled from Calidon, having kill’d his brother. Adrastus entertains them, having receiv’d an oracle from Apollo that his daughters should be married to a boar and a lion, which he understands to be meant of these strangers, by whom the hides of those beasts were worn, and who arrived at the time when he kept an annual feast in honour of that god. The rise of this solemnity. He relates to his guests the loves of Phœbus and Psamathe, and the story of Chorœbus: he inquires, and is made acquainted, with their descent and quality. The sacrifice is renew’d, and the book concludes with a hymn to Apollo.

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IMITATIONS OF ENGLISH POETS

These imitations, with the exception of Silence (Lintot, 1712), were not published till 1727. Pope says, however, that they were ‘done as early as the translations, some of them at fourteen and fifteen years old.’ The Happy Life of a Country Parson must have been written later than the rest, as Pope did not know Swift till 1713.

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CHAUCER

    • Women ben full of ragerie,
    • Yet swinken not sans secresie.
    • Thilke Moral shall ye understond,
    • From schoole-boy’s Tale of fayre Irelond;
    • Which to the Fennes hath him betake,
    • To filche the grey Ducke fro the Lake.
    • Right then there passen by the way
    • His Aunt, and eke her Daughters tway.
    • Ducke in his trowses hath he hent,
    • Not to be spied of ladies gent.10
    • ‘But ho! our Nephew,’ crieth one;
    • ‘Ho!’ quoth another, ‘Cozen John;’
    • And stoppen, and lough, and callen out—
    • This sely Clerke full low doth lout:
    • They asken that, and talken this,
    • ‘Lo, here is Coz, and here is Miss.’
    • But, as he glozeth with speeches soote,
    • The Ducke sore tickleth his Erse-roote:
    • Fore-piece and buttons all-to-brest,
    • Forth thrust a white neck and red crest.20
    • ‘Te-hee,’ cried ladies; clerke nought spake;
    • Miss stared, and grey Ducke crieth ‘quaake.’
    • ‘O Moder, Moder!’ quoth the Daughter,
    • ‘Be thilke same thing Maids longen a’ter?
    • Bette is to pine on coals and chalke,
    • Then trust on Mon whose yerde can talke.’
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SPENSER [ ]

THE ALLEY

    • In ev’ry Town where Thamis rolls his tyde,
    • A narrow pass there is, with houses low,
    • Where ever and anon the stream is eyed,
    • And many a boat soft sliding to and fro:
    • There oft are heard the notes of Infant Woe,
    • The short thick Sob, loud Scream, and shriller Squall:
    • How can ye, Mothers, vex your children so?
    • Some play, some eat, some cack against the wall,
    • And as they crouchen low, for bread and butter call.
    • And on the broken pavement, here and there,
    • Doth many a stinking sprat and herring lie;
    • A brandy and tobacco shop is neare,
    • And hens, and dogs, and hogs, are feeding by;
    • And here a sailor’s jacket hangs to dry.
    • At ev’ry door are sunburnt matrons seen,
    • Mending old nets to catch the scaly fry;
    • Now singing shrill, and scolding eft between;
    • Scolds answer foul-mouth’d Scolds; bad neighbourhood I ween.
    • The snappish cur (the passengers’ annoy)
    • Close at my heel with yelping treble flies;
    • The whimp’ring Girl, and hoarser screaming Boy,
    • Join to the yelping treble shrilling cries;
    • The scolding Quean to louder notes doth rise,
    • And her full pipes those shrilling cries confound;
    • To her full pipes the grunting hog replies;
    • The grunting hogs alarm the neighbours round,
    • And Curs, Girls, Boys, and Scolds, in the deep bass are drown’d.
    • Hard by a sty, beneath a roof of thatch,
    • Dwelt Obloquy, who in her early days
    • Baskets of fish at Billingsgate did watch,
    • Cod, whiting, oyster, mackrel, sprat, or plaice:
    • There learn’d she speech from tongues that never cease.
    • Slander beside her like a magpie chatters,
    • With Envy (spitting cat), dread foe to peace;
    • Like a curs’d cur, Malice before her clatters,
    • And vexing ev’ry wight, tears clothes and all to tatters.
    • Her dugs were mark’d by ev’ry Collier’s hand,
    • Her mouth was black as bull-dogs at the stall:
    • She scratchëd, bit, and spared ne lace ne band,
    • And bitch and rogue her answer was to all.
    • Nay, ev’n the parts of shame by name would call:
    • Yea, when she passed by or lane or nook,
    • Would greet the man who turn’d him to the wall,
    • And by his hand obscene the porter took,
    • Nor ever did askance like modest virgin look.
    • Such place hath Deptford, navy-building town,
    • Woolwich and Wapping, smelling strong of pitch;
    • Such Lambeth, envy of each band and gown,
    • And Twick’nam such, which fairer scenes enrich,
    • Grots, statues, urns, and Jo—n’s dog and bitch.
    • Ne village is without, on either side,
    • All up the silver Thames, or all adown;
    • Ne Richmond’s self, from whose tall front are eyed
    • Vales, spires, meand’ring streams, and Windsor’s tow’ry pride.
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WALLER

ON A LADY SINGING TO HER LUTE

  • Fair Charmer, cease! nor make your Voice’s prize
  • A heart resign’d the conquest of your Eyes:
  • Well might, alas! that threaten’d vessel fail,
  • Which winds and lightning both at once assail.
  • We were too bless’d with these enchanting lays,
  • Which must be heav’nly when an Angel plays:
  • But killing charms your lover’s death contrive,
  • Lest heav’nly music should be heard alive.
  • Orpheus could charm the trees; but thus a tree,
  • Taught by your hand, can charm no less than he;
  • A poet made the silent wood pursue;
  • This vocal wood had drawn the poet too.

ON A FAN OF THE AUTHOR’S DESIGN

in which was painted the story of cephalus and procris, with the motto ‘aura veni’

  • Come, gentle air! th’ Æolian shepherd said,
  • While Procris panted in the secret shade;
  • Come, gentle air! the fairer Delia cries,
  • While at her feet her swain expiring lies.
  • Lo, the glad gales o’er all her beauties stray,
  • Breathe on her lips, and in her bosom play;
  • In Delia’s hand this toy is fatal found,
  • Nor could that fabled dart more surely wound:
  • Both gifts destructive to the givers prove;
  • Alike both lovers fall by those they love.
  • Yet guiltless too this bright destroyer lives,
  • At random wounds, nor knows the wounds she gives;
  • She views the story with attentive eyes,
  • And pities Procris while her lover dies.
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COWLEY

THE GARDEN

  • Fain would my Muse the flow’ry treasures sing,
  • And humble glories of the youthful Spring;
  • Where op’ning roses breathing sweets diffuse,
  • And soft carnations shower their balmy dews;
  • Where lilies smile in virgin robes of white,
  • The thin undress of superficial light;
  • And varied tulips show so dazzling gay,
  • Blushing in bright diversities of day.
  • Each painted flow’ret in the lake below
  • Surveys its beauties, whence its beauties grow;10
  • And pale Narcissus, on the bank in vain
  • Transformëd, gazes on himself again.
  • Here aged trees cathedral walks compose,
  • And mount the hill in venerable rows;
  • There the green infants in their beds are laid,
  • The garden’s hope, and its expected shade.
  • Here orange trees with blooms and pendants shine,
  • And Vernal honours to their Autumn join;
  • Exceed their promise in the ripen’d store,
  • Yet in the rising blossom promise more.20
  • There in bright drops the crystal fountains play,
  • By laurels shielded from the piercing day;
  • Where Daphne, now a tree as once a maid,
  • Still from Apollo vindicates her shade;
  • Still turns her beauties from th’ invading beam,
  • Nor seeks in vain for succour to the stream.
  • The stream at once preserves her virgin leaves,
  • At once a shelter from her boughs receives,
  • Where summer’s beauty midst of winter stays,
  • And winter’s coolness spite of summer’s rays.30
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WEEPING

    • While Celia’s tears make sorrow bright,
    • Proud grief sits swelling in her eyes;
    • The sun, next those the fairest light,
    • Thus from the ocean first did rise:
    • And thus thro’ mists we see the sun,
    • Which else we durst not gaze upon.
    • These silver drops, like morning dew,
    • Foretell the fervor of the day:
    • So from one cloud soft showers we view,
    • And blasting lightnings burst away.
    • The stars that fall from Celia’s eye
    • Declare our doom is drawing nigh.
    • The baby in that sunny sphere
    • So like a Phaëton appears,
    • That Heav’n, the threaten’d world to spare,
    • Thought fit to drown him in her tears;
    • Else might th’ ambitions nymph aspire
    • To set, like him, Heav’n too on fire.
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EARL OF ROCHESTER

ON SILENCE

    • Silence! coeval with Eternity,
    • Thou wert ere Nature’s self began to be,
    • ’T was one vast nothing all, and all slept fast in thee.
    • Thine was the sway ere Heav’n was form’d, or earth,
    • Ere fruitful thought conceiv’d Creation’s birth,
    • Or midwife word gave aid, and spoke the infant forth.
    • Then various elements against thee join’d,
    • In one more various animal combin’d,
    • And framed the clam’rous race of busy humankind.
    • The tongue mov’d gently first, and speech was low,
    • Till wrangling Science taught its noise and show,
    • And wicked Wit arose, thy most abusive foe.
    • But rebel Wit deserts thee oft in vain;
    • Lost in the maze of words he turns again,
    • And seeks a surer state, and courts thy gentle reign.
    • Afflicted Sense thou kindly dost set free,
    • Oppress’d with argumental tyranny,
    • And routed Reason finds a safe retreat in thee.
    • With thee in private modest Dulness lies,
    • And in thy bosom lurks in thought’s disguise;
    • Thou varnisher of fools, and cheat of all the wise!
    • Yet thy indulgence is by both confest;
    • Folly by thee lies sleeping in the breast,
    • And ’t is in thee at last that Wisdom seeks for rest.
    • Silence, the knave’s repute, the whore’s good name,
    • The only honour of the wishing dame;
    • The very want of tongue makes thee a kind of Fame.
    • But couldst thou seize some tongues that now are free,
    • How Church and State should be obliged to thee!
    • At Senate and at Bar how welcome wouldst thou be!
    • Yet speech, ev’n there, submissively withdraws
    • From rights of subjects, and the poor man’s cause;
    • Then pompous Silence reigns, and stills the noisy Laws.
    • Past services of friends, good deeds of foes,
    • What fav’rites gain, and what the nation owes,
    • Fly the forgetful world, and in thy arms repose.
    • The country wit, religion of the town,
    • The courtier’s learning, policy o’ th’ gown,
    • Are best by thee express’d, and shine in thee alone.
    • The parson’s cant, the lawyer’s sophistry,
    • Lord’s quibble, critic’s jest, all end in thee;
    • All rest in peace at last, and sleep eternally.
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EARL OF DORSET

ARTEMISIA

    • Tho’ Artemisia talks by fits
    • Of councils, classics, fathers, wits,
    • Reads Malbranche, Boyle, and Locke,
    • Yet in some things methinks she fails:
    • ’T were well if she would pare her nails,
    • And wear a cleaner smock.
    • Haughty and huge as High Dutch bride,
    • Such nastiness and so much pride
    • Are oddly join’d by fate:
    • On her large squab you find her spread,
    • Like a fat corpse upon a bed,
    • That lies and stinks in state.
    • She wears no colours (sign of grace)
    • On any part except her face;
    • All white and black beside:
    • Dauntless her look, her gesture proud,
    • Her voice theatrically loud,
    • And masculine her stride.
    • So have I seen, in black and white,
    • A prating thing, a magpie hight,
    • Majestically stalk;
    • A stately worthless animal,
    • That plies the tongue, and wags the tail,
    • All flutter, pride, and talk.

PHRYNE

    • Phryne had talents for mankind;
    • Open she was and unconfin’d,
    • Like some free port of trade:
    • Merchants unloaded here their freight,
    • And agents from each foreign state
    • Here first their entry made.
    • Her learning and good breeding such,
    • Whether th’ Italian or the Dutch,
    • Spaniards or French, came to her,
    • To all obliging she’d appear;
    • ’T was Si Signior, ’t was Yaw Mynheer,
    • ’T was S’il vous plait, Monsieur.
    • Obscure by birth, renown’d by crimes,
    • Still changing names, religions, climes,
    • At length she turns a bride:
    • In diamonds, pearls, and rich brocades,
    • She shines the first of batter’d jades,
    • And flutters in her pride.
    • So have I known those insects fair
    • (Which curious Germans hold so rare)
    • Still vary shapes and dyes;
    • Still gain new titles with new forms;
    • First grubs obscene, then wriggling worms,
    • Then painted butterflies.
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DR. SWIFT

THE HAPPY LIFE OF A COUNTRY PARSON

    • Parson, these things in thy possessing
    • Are better than the bishop’s blessing:
    • A wife that makes conserves; a steed
    • That carries double when there ’s need;
    • October store, and best Virginia,
    • Tythe pig, and mortuary guinea;
    • Gazettes sent gratis down and frank’d,
    • For which thy patron’s weekly thank’d;
    • A large Concordance, bound long since;
    • Sermons to Charles the First, when prince;
    • A Chronicle of ancient standing;
    • A Chrysostom to smooth thy band in;
    • The Polyglott—three parts—my text,
    • Howbeit—likewise—now to my next;
    • Lo here the Septuagint—and Paul,
    • To sum the whole—the close of all.
    • He that has these may pass his life,
    • Drink with the ’Squire, and kiss his wife;
    • On Sundays preach, and eat his fill,
    • And fast on Fridays—if he will;
    • Toast Church and Queen, explain the news,
    • Talk with Churchwardens about pews,
    • Pray heartily for some new gift,
    • And shake his head at Doctor S—t.
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PASTORALS

  • Rura mihi et rigui placeant in vallibus amnes,
  • Flumma amem, sylvasque, inglorius!

  • Virg

The Pastorals, by Pope’s account, were written at sixteen, in 1704. ‘Beyond the fact that he systematically antedated his compositions in order to obtain credit for precocity,’ says Courthope, ‘there is nothing improbable in the statement.’ They were first published in 1709, in Tonson’s Sixth Miscellany. The Discourse on Pastoral Poetry did not appear till the edition of 1717, but is here given the place which he desired for it at the head of the Pastorals: and the original footnotes, referring to critical authorities, are retained.

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DISCOURSE ON PASTORAL POETRY

There are not, I believe, a greater number of any sort of verses than of those which are called Pastorals; nor a smaller than of those which are truly so. It therefore seems necessary to give some account of this kind of poem; and it is my design to comprise in this short paper the substance of those numerous dissertations that critics have made on the subject, without omitting any of their rules in my own favour. You will also find some points reconciled, about which they seem to differ, and a few remarks which, I think, have escaped their observation.

The origin of Poetry is ascribed to that age which succeeded the creation of the world: and as the keeping of flocks seems to have been the first employment of mankind, the most ancient sort of poetry was probably pastoral.1 It is natural to imagine, that the leisure of those ancient shepherds admitting and inviting some diversion, none was so proper to that solitary and sedentary life as singing; and that in their songs they took occasion to celebrate their own felicity. From hence a poem was invented, and afterwards improved to a perfect image of that happy time; which, by giving us an esteem for the virtues of a former age, might recommend them to the present. And since the life of shepherds was attended with more tranquillity than any other rural employment, the poets chose to introduce their persons, from whom it received the name of Pastoral.

A Pastoral is an imitation of the action of a shepherd, or one considered under that character. The form of this imitation is dramatic, or narrative, or mixed of both:2 the fable simple, the manners not too polite nor too rustic: the thoughts are plain, yet admit a little quickness and passion, but that short and flowing: the expression humble, yet as pure as the language will afford; neat, but not florid; easy, and yet lively. In short, the fable, manners, thoughts, and expressions are full of the greatest simplicity in nature.

The complete character of this poem consists in simplicity,3 brevity, and delicacy; the two first of which render an eclogue natural, and the last delightful.

If we would copy nature, it may be useful to take this idea along with us, that Pastoral is an image of what they call the golden age: so that we are not to describe our shepherds as shepherds at this day really are, but as they may be conceived then to have been, when the best of men followed the employment. To carry this resemblance yet further, it would not be amiss to give these shepherds some skill in astronomy, as far as it may be useful to that sort of life; and an air of piety to the gods should shine through the poem, which so visibly appears in all the works of antiquity; and it ought to preserve some relish of the old way of writing: the connection should be loose, the narrations and descriptions short,4 and the periods concise. Yet it is not sufficient that the sentences only be brief; the whole eclogue should be so too: for we cannot suppose poetry in those days to have been the business of men, but their recreation at vacant hours.

But, with respect to the present age, nothing more conduces to make these composures natural, than when some knowledge in rural affairs is discovered.5 This may be made to appear rather done by chance than on design, and sometimes is best shown by inference; lest, by too much study to seem natural, we destroy that easy simplicity from whence arises the delight. For what is inviting in this sort of poetry proceeds not so much from the idea of that business, as of the tranquillity of a country life.

We must therefore use some illusion to render a pastoral delightful; and this consists in exposing the best side only of a shepherd’s life, and in concealing its miseries.1 Nor is it enough to introduce shepherds discoursing together in a natural way; but a regard must be had to the subject; that it contain some particular beauty in itself, and that it be different in every eclogue. Besides, in each of them a designed scene or prospect is to be presented to our view, which should likewise have its variety. This variety is obtained, in a great degree, by frequent comparisons, drawn from the most agreeable objects of the country; by interrogations to things inanimate; by beautiful digressions, but those short; sometimes by insisting a little on circumstances; and, lastly, by elegant turns on the words, which render the numbers extremely sweet and pleasing. As for the numbers themselves, though they are properly of the heroic measure, they should be the smoothest, the most easy and flowing imaginable.

It is by rules like these that we ought to judge of Pastoral. And since the instructions given for any art are to be delivered as that art is in perfection, they must of necessity be derived from those in whom it is acknowledged so to be. It is therefore from the practice of Theocritus and Virgil (the only undisputed authors of Pastoral) that the critics have drawn the foregoing notions concerning it.

Theocritus excels all others in nature and simplicity. The subjects of his Idyllia are purely pastoral; but he is not so exact in his persons, having introduced reapers2 and fishermen as well as shepherds. He is apt to be too long in his descriptions, of which that of the cup in the first pastoral is a remarkable instance. In the manners he seems a little defective, for his swains are sometimes abusive and immodest, and perhaps too much inclining to rusticity; for instance, in his fourth and fifth Idyllia. But it is enough that all others learned their excellences from him, and that his dialect alone has a secret charm in it, which no other could ever attain.

Virgil, who copies Theocritus, refines upon his original; and, in all points where judgment is principally concerned, he is much superior to his master. Though some of his subjects are not pastoral in themselves, but only seem to be such, they have a wonderful variety in them, which the Greek was a stranger to.3 He exceeds him in regularity and brevity, and falls short of him in nothing but simplicity and propriety of style; the first of which, perhaps, was the fault of his age, and the last of his language.

Among the moderns their success has been greatest who have most endeavoured to make these ancients their pattern. The most considerable genius appears in the famous Tasso, and our Spenser. Tasso, in his Aminta, has as far excelled all the pastoral writers, as in his Gierusalemme he has outdone the epic poets of his country. But as this piece seems to have been the original of a new sort of poem, the pastoral comedy, in Italy, it cannot so well be considered as a copy of the ancients. Spenser’s Calendar, in Mr. Dryden’s opinion, is the most complete work of this kind which any nation has produced ever since the time of Virgil.4 Not but that he may be thought imperfect in some few points: his eclogues are somewhat too long, if we compare them with the ancients; he is sometimes too allegorical, and treats of matters of religion in a pastoral style, as the Mantuan had done before him; he has employed the lyric measure, which is contrary to the practice of the old poets; his stanza is not still the same, nor always well chosen. This last may be the reason his expression is sometimes not concise enough; for the tetrastic has obliged him to extend his sense to the length of four lines, which would have been more closely confined in the couplet.

In the manners, thoughts, and characters, he comes near to Theocritus himself; though, notwithstanding all the care he has taken, he is certainly inferior in his dialect: for the Doric had its beauty and propriety in the time of Theocritus; it was used in part of Greece, and frequent in the mouths of many of the greatest persons: whereas the old English and country phrases of Spenser were either entirely obsolete, or spoken only by people of the lowest condition. As there is a difference betwixt simplicity and rusticity, so the expression of simple thoughts should be plain, but not clownish. The addition he has made of a calendar to his eclogues is very beautiful; since by this, besides the general moral of innocence and simplicity, which is common to other authors of Pastoral, he has one peculiar to himself; he compares human life to the several seasons, and at once exposes to his readers a view of the great and little worlds, in their various changes and aspects. Yet the scrupulous division of his pastorals into months has obliged him either to repeat the same description, in other words, for three months together, or, when it was exhausted before, entirely to omit it; whence it comes to pass that some of his eclogues (as the sixth, eighth, and tenth for example) have nothing but their titles to distinguish them. The reason is evident, because the year has not that variety in it to furnish every month with a particular description, as it may every season.

Of the following eclogues I shall only say, that these four comprehend all the subjects which the critics upon Theocritus and Virgil will allow to be fit for Pastoral; that they have as much variety of description, in respect of the several seasons, as Spenser’s; that, in order to add to this variety, the several times of the day are observed, the rural employments in each season or time of day, and the rural scenes or places proper to such employments, not without some regard to the several ages of man, and the different passions proper to each age.

But after all, if they have any merit, it is to be attributed to some good old authors; whose works, as I had leisure to study, so, I hope, I have not wanted care to imitate.

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I

SPRING; OR, DAMON[ ]

TO SIR WILLIAM TRUMBULL

    • First in these fields I try the sylvan strains,
    • Nor blush to sport on Windsor’s blissful plains:
    • Fair Thames, flow gently from thy sacred spring,
    • While on thy banks Sicilian Muses sing;
    • Let vernal airs thro’ trembling osiers play,
    • And Albion’s cliffs resound the rural lay.
    • You, that too wise for pride, too good for power,
    • Enjoy the glory to be great no more,
    • And carrying with you all the world can boast,
    • To all the world illustriously are lost!10
    • O let my Muse her slender reed inspire,
    • Till in your native shades you tune the lyre:
    • So when the nightingale to rest removes,
    • The thrush may chant to the forsaken groves;
    • But charm’d to silence, listens while she sings,
    • And all th’ aërial audience clap their wings.
    • Soon as the flocks shook off the nightly dews,
    • Two swains, whom love kept wakeful, and the Muse,
    • Pour’d o’er the whitening vale their fleecy care,
    • Fresh as the morn, and as the season fair:20
    • The dawn now blushing on the mountain’s side,
    • Thus Daphnis spoke, and Strephon thus replied:

daphnis.

  • Hear how the birds on ev’ry blooming spray
  • With joyous music wake the dawning day!
  • Why sit we mute, when early linnets sing,
  • When warbling Philomel salutes the spring?
  • Why sit we sad, when Phosphor shines so clear,
  • And lavish Nature paints the purple year?

strephon.

  • Sing, then, and Damon shall attend the strain,
  • While yon slow oxen turn the furrow’d plain.30
  • Here the bright crocus and blue violet glow;
  • Here western winds on breathing roses blow.
  • I’ll stake yon lamb, that near the fountain plays,
  • And from the brink his dancing shade surveys.

daphnis.

  • And I this bowl, where wanton ivy twines,
  • And swelling clusters bend the curling vines:
  • Four figures rising from the work appear,
  • The various seasons of the rolling year;
  • And what is that, which binds the radiant sky,
  • Where twelve fair signs in beauteous order lie?40

damon.

  • Then sing by turns, by turns the Muses sing;
  • Now hawthorns blossom, now the daisies spring;
  • Now leaves the trees, and flowers adorn the ground:
  • Begin, the vales shall every note rebound.

strephon.

  • Inspire me, Phœbus, in my Delia’s praise,
  • With Waller’s strains, or Granville’s moving lays!
  • A milk-white bull shall at your altars stand,
  • That threats a fight, and spurns the rising sand.

daphnis.

  • O Love! for Sylvia let me gain the prize,
  • And make my tongue victorious as her eyes:50
  • No lambs or sheep for victims I’ll impart,
  • Thy victim, Love, shall be the shepherd’s heart.

strephon.

  • Me gentle Delia beckons from the plain,
  • Then, hid in shades, eludes her eager swain;
  • But feigns a laugh to see me search around,
  • And by that laugh the willing Fair is found.

daphnis.

  • The sprightly Sylvia trips along the green;
  • She runs, but hopes she does not run unseen.
  • While a kind glance at her pursuer flies,
  • How much at variance are her feet and eyes!60

strephon.

  • O’er golden sands let rich Pactolus flow,
  • And trees weep amber on the banks of Po;
  • Blest Thames’s shores the brightest beauties yield:
  • Feed here, my lambs, I’ll seek no distant field.

daphnis.

  • Celestial Venus haunts Idalia’s groves;
  • Diana Cynthus, Ceres Hybla loves:
  • If Windsor shades delight the matchless maid,
  • Cynthus and Hybla yield to Windsor shade.

strephon.

  • All nature mourns, the skies relent in showers,
  • Hush’d are the birds, and closed the drooping flowers;70
  • If Delia smile, the flowers begin to spring,
  • The skies to brighten, and the birds to sing.

daphnis.

  • All Nature laughs, the groves are fresh and fair,
  • The sun’s mild lustre warms the vital air;
  • If Sylvia smiles, new glories gild the shore,
  • And vanquish’d Nature seems to charm no more.

strephon.

  • In spring the fields, in autumn hills I love,
  • At morn the plains, at noon the shady grove,
  • But Delia always; absent from her sight,
  • Nor plains at morn, nor groves at noon delight.80

daphnis.

  • Sylvia’s like autumn ripe, yet mild as May,
  • More bright than noon, yet fresh as early day:
  • Ev’n spring displeases, when she shines not here,
  • But bless’d with her, ’t is spring throughout the year.

strephon.

  • Say, Daphnis, say, in what glad soil appears
  • A wondrous tree , that sacred monarchs bears?
  • Tell me but this, and I’ll disclaim the prize,
  • And give the conquest to thy Sylvia’s eyes.

daphnis.

  • Nay, tell me first, in what more happy fields
  • The thistle springs , to which the lily yields:
  • And then a nobler prize I will resign;91
  • For Sylvia, charming Sylvia, shall be thine.

damon.

  • Cease to contend; for, Daphnis, I decree
  • The bowl to Strephon, and the lamb to thee.
  • Blest swains, whose nymphs in ev’ry grace excel;
  • Blest nymphs, whose swains those graces sing so well!
  • Now rise, and haste to yonder woodbine bowers,
  • A soft retreat from sudden vernal showers;
  • The turf with rural dainties shall be crown’d,
  • While opening blooms diffuse their sweets around.100
  • For see! the gath’ring flocks to shelter tend,
  • And from the Pleiads fruitful showers descend.
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II

SUMMER; OR, ALEXIS

TO DR. GARTH

    • A shepherd’s boy (he seeks no better name)
    • Led forth his flocks along the silver Thame,
    • Where dancing sunbeams on the waters play’d
    • And verdant alders form’d a quiv’ring shade.
    • Soft as he mourn’d, the streams forgot to flow,
    • The flocks around a dumb compassion show,
    • The Naiads wept in ev’ry wat’ry bower,
    • And Jove consented in a silent shower.
    • Accept, O Garth! the Muse’s early lays,
    • That adds this wreath of ivy to thy bays;
    • Hear what from love unpractis’d hearts endure,11
    • From love, the sole disease thou canst not cure.
    • Ye shady beeches, and ye cooling streams,
    • Defence from Phœbus’, not from Cupid’s beams,
    • To you I mourn; nor to the deaf I sing:
    • The woods shall answer, and their echo ring.
    • The hills and rocks attend my doleful lay,
    • Why art thou prouder and more hard than they?
    • The bleating sheep with my complaints agree,
    • They parch’d with heat, and I inflamed by thee.20
    • The sultry Sirius burns the thirsty plains,
    • While in thy heart eternal Winter reigns.
    • Where stray ye, Muses! in what lawn or grove,
    • While your Alexis pines in hopeless love?
    • In those fair fields where sacred Isis glides,
    • Or else where Cam his winding vales divides?
    • As in the crystal spring I view my face,
    • Fresh rising blushes paint the wat’ry glass;
    • But since those graces please thy eyes no more,
    • I shun the fountains which I sought before.30
    • Once I was skill’d in ev’ry herb that grew,
    • And ev’ry plant that drinks the morning dew;
    • Ah, wretched shepherd, what avails thy art,
    • To cure thy lambs, but not to heal thy heart!
    • Let other swains attend the rural care,
    • Feed fairer flocks, or richer fleeces shear:
    • But nigh yon mountain let me tune my lays,
    • Embrace my love, and bind my brows with bays.
    • That flute is mine which Colin’s tuneful breath
    • Inspired when living, and bequeath’d in death:40
    • He said, ‘Alexis, take this pipe, the same
    • That taught the groves my Rosalinda’s name.’
    • But now the reeds shall hang on yonder tree,
    • Forever silent, since despised by thee.
    • Oh! were I made by some transforming power
    • The captive bird that sings within thy bower!
    • Then might my voice thy list’ning ears employ,
    • And I those kisses he receives enjoy.
    • And yet my numbers please the rural throng,
    • Rough satyrs dance, and Pan applauds the song;50
    • The nymphs, forsaking ev’ry cave and spring,
    • Their early fruit and milk-white turtles bring;
    • Each am’rous nymph prefers her gifts in vain,
    • On you their gifts are all bestow’d again.
    • For you the swains the fairest flowers design,
    • And in one garland all their beauties join;
    • Accept the wreath which you deserve alone,
    • In whom all beauties are comprised in one.
    • See what delights in sylvan scenes appear!59
    • Descending Gods have found Elysium here.
    • In woods bright Venus with Adonis stray’d,
    • And chaste Diana haunts the forest-shade.
    • Come, lovely nymph, and bless the silent hours,
    • When swains from shearing seek their nightly bowers;
    • When weary reapers quit the sultry field,
    • And, crown’d with corn, their thanks to Ceres yield.
    • This harmless grove no lurking viper hides,
    • But in my breast the serpent Love abides.
    • Here bees from blossoms sip the rosy dew,
    • But your Alexis knows no sweets but you.
    • O deign to visit our forsaken seats,71
    • The mossy fountains, and the green retreats!
    • Where’er you walk, cool gales shall fan the glade;
    • Trees, where you sit, shall crowd into a shade;
    • Where’er you tread, the blushing flowers shall rise,
    • And all things flourish where you turn your eyes.
    • O! how I long with you to pass my days,
    • Invoke the Muses, and resound your praise!
    • Your praise the birds shall chant in ev’ry grove,
    • And winds shall waft it to the powers above.80
    • But would you sing, and rival Orpheus’ strain,
    • The wond’ring forests soon should dance again;
    • The moving mountains hear the powerful call,
    • And headlong streams hang list’ning in their fall!
    • But see, the shepherds shun the noonday heat,
    • The lowing herds to murmuring brooks retreat,
    • To closer shades the panting flocks remove:
    • Ye Gods! and is there no relief for love?
    • But soon the sun with milder rays descends
    • To the cool ocean, where his journey ends.90
    • On me Love’s fiercer flames forever prey,
    • By night he scorches, as he burns by day.
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III

AUTUMN; OR, HYLAS AND ÆGON[ ]

TO MR. WYCHERLEY

    • Beneath the shade a spreading beech displays,
    • Hylas and Ægon sung their rural lays;
    • This mourn’d a faithless, that an absent love,
    • And Delia’s name and Doris’ fill’d the grove.
    • Ye Mantuan Nymphs, your sacred succour bring,
    • Hylas and Ægon’s rural lays I sing.
    • Thou, whom the Nine with Plautus’ wit inspire,
    • The art of Terence, and Menander’s fire;
    • Whose sense instructs us, and whose humour charms,
    • Whose judgment sways us, and whose spirit warms!10
    • O, skill’d in Nature! see the hearts of swains,
    • Their artless passions, and their tender pains.
    • Now setting Phœbus shone serenely bright,
    • And fleecy clouds were streak’d with purple light;
    • When tuneful Hylas, with melodious moan,
    • Taught rocks to weep, and made the mountains groan.
    • Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away!
    • To Delia’s ear the tender notes convey.
    • As some sad turtle his lost love deplores,
    • And with deep murmurs fills the sounding shores;20
    • Thus, far from Delia, to the winds I mourn,
    • Alike unheard, unpitied, and forlorn.
    • Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs along!
    • For her, the feather’d quires neglect their song;
    • For her, the limes their pleasing shades deny;
    • For her, the lilies hang their heads and die.
    • Ye flowers that droop, forsaken by the spring,
    • Ye birds that, left by Summer, cease to sing,
    • Ye trees, that fade when Autumn-heats remove,
    • Say, is not absence death to those who love?30
    • Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away!
    • Curs’d be the fields that cause my Delia’s stay!
    • Fade ev’ry blossom, wither ev’ry tree,
    • Die ev’ry flower, and perish all but she!
    • What have I said? Where’er my Delia flies,
    • Let Spring attend, and sudden flowers arise!
    • Let op’ning roses knotted oaks adorn,
    • And liquid amber drop from ev’ry thorn!
    • Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs along!
    • The birds shall cease to tune their ev’ning song,40
    • The winds to breathe, the waving woods to move,
    • And streams to murmur, ere I cease to love.
    • Not bubbling fountains to the thirsty swain,
    • Not balmy sleep to lab’rers faint with pain,
    • Not showers to larks, nor sunshine to the bee,
    • Are half so charming as thy sight to me.
    • Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away!
    • Come, Delia, come; ah, why this long delay?
    • Thro’ rocks and caves the name of Delia sounds,
    • Delia, each cave and echoing rock rebounds.50
    • Ye Powers, what pleasing frenzy soothes my mind!
    • Do lovers dream, or is my Delia kind?
    • She comes, my Delia comes!—Now cease, my lay,
    • And cease, ye gales, to bear my sighs away!
    • Next Ægon sung, while Windsor groves admired:
    • Rehearse, ye Muses, what yourselves inspired.
    • Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strain!
    • Of perjur’d Doris dying I complain:
    • Here where the mountains, less’ning as they rise,
    • Lose the low vales, and steal into the skies:60
    • While lab’ring oxen, spent with toil and heat,
    • In their loose traces from the field retreat:
    • While curling smokes from village-tops are seen,
    • And the fleet shades glide o’er the dusky green.
    • Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful lay!
    • Beneath yon poplar oft we pass’d the day:
    • Oft on the rind I carv’d her am’rous vows,
    • While she with garlands hung the bending boughs:
    • The garlands fade, the vows are worn away;
    • So dies her love, and so my hopes decay.
    • Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strain!71
    • Now bright Arcturus glads the teeming grain,
    • Now golden fruits on loaded branches shine,
    • And grateful clusters swell with floods of wine;
    • Now blushing berries paint the yellow grove:
    • Just Gods! shall all things yield returns but love?
    • Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful lay!
    • The shepherds cry, ‘Thy flocks are left a prey’—
    • Ah! what avails it me the flocks to keep,
    • Who lost my heart while I preserv’d my sheep!80
    • Pan came, and ask’d, ‘What magic caus’d my smart,
    • Or what ill eyes malignant glances dart?’
    • What eyes but hers, alas, have power to move!
    • And is there magic but what dwells in love?
    • Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strains!
    • I’ll fly from shepherds, flocks, and flow’ry plains;
    • From shepherds, flocks, and plains, I may remove,
    • Forsake mankind, and all the world—but Love!
    • I know thee, Love! on foreign mountains bred,
    • Wolves gave thee suck, and savage tigers fed.90
    • Thou wert from Ætna’s burning entrails torn,
    • Got by fierce whirlwinds, and in thunder born!
    • Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful lay!
    • Farewell, ye woods; adieu the light of day!
    • One leap from yonder cliff shall end my pains,
    • No more, ye hills, no more resound my strains!
    • Thus sung the shepherds till th’ approach of night,
    • The skies yet blushing with departing light,
    • When fallen dews with spangles deck’d the glade,
    • And the low sun had lengthen’d ev’ry shade.100
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IV

WINTER; OR, DAPHNE[ ]

TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. TEMPEST

lycidas.

  • Thyrsis! the music of that murm’ring spring
  • Is not so mournful as the strains you sing;
  • Nor rivers winding thro’ the vales below
  • So sweetly warble, or so smoothly flow.
  • Now sleeping flocks on their soft fleeces lie,
  • The moon, serene in glory, mounts the sky;
  • While silent birds forget their tuneful lays,
  • O sing of Daphne’s fate, and Daphne’s praise!

thyrsis.

  • Behold the groves that shine with silver frost,
  • Their beauty wither’d, and their verdure lost.10
  • Here shall I try the sweet Alexis’ strain,
  • That call’d the list’ning Dryads to the plain?
  • Thames heard the numbers as he flow’d along,
  • And bade his willows learn the moving song.

lycidas.

  • So may kind rains their vital moisture yield,
  • And swell the future harvest of the field.
  • Begin: this charge the dying Daphne gave,
  • And said, ‘Ye shepherds, sing around my grave!’
  • Sing, while beside the shaded tomb I mourn,
  • And with fresh bays her rural shrine adorn.20

thyrsis.

    • Ye gentle Muses, leave your crystal spring,
    • Let Nymphs and Sylvans cypress garlands bring:
    • Ye weeping Loves, the stream with myrtles hide,
    • And break your bows, as when Adonis died!
    • And with your golden darts, now useless grown,
    • Inscribe a verse on this relenting stone:
    • ‘Let Nature change, let Heav’n and Earth deplore,
    • Fair Daphne’s dead, and Love is now no more!’
    • ’T is done; and Nature’s various charms decay,
    • See gloomy clouds obscure the cheerful day!30
    • Now hung with pearls the dropping trees appear,
    • Their faded honours scatter’d on her bier.
    • See, where on earth the flow’ry glories lie,
    • With her they flourish’d, and with her they die.
    • Ah, what avail the beauties Nature wore?
    • Fair Daphne’s dead, and Beauty is no more!
    • For her the flocks refuse their verdant food,
    • The thirsty heifers shun the gliding flood;
    • The silver swans her hapless fate bemoan,
    • In notes more sad than when they sing their own;40
    • In hollow caves sweet Echo silent lies,
    • Silent, or only to her name replies;
    • Her name with pleasure once she taught the shore;
    • Now Daphne’s dead, and Pleasure is no more!
    • No grateful dews descend from ev’ning skies,
    • Nor morning odours from the flowers arise;
    • No rich perfumes refresh the fruitful field,
    • Nor fragrant herbs their native incense yield.
    • The balmy zephyrs, silent since her death ,
    • Lament the ceasing of a sweeter breath;50
    • Th’ industrious bees neglect their golden store:
    • Fair Daphne’s dead, and sweetness is no more!
    • No more the mountain larks, while Daphne sings,
    • Shall, list’ning in mid-air, suspend their wings;
    • No more the birds shall imitate her lays,
    • Or, hush’d with wonder, hearken from the sprays;
    • No more the streams their murmurs shall forbear,
    • A sweeter music than their own to hear;
    • But tell the reeds, and tell the vocal shore,
    • Fair Daphne’s dead, and music is no more!60
    • Her fate is whisper’d by the gentle breeze,
    • And told in sighs to all the trembling trees;
    • The trembling trees, in every plain and wood,
    • Her fate remurmur to the silver flood;
    • The silver flood, so lately calm, appears
    • Swell’d with new passion, and o’erflows with tears;
    • The winds and trees and floods her death deplore,
    • Daphne, our Grief, our Glory now no more!
    • But see! where Daphne wond’ring mounts on high
    • Above the clouds, above the starry sky!70
    • Eternal beauties grace the shining scene,
    • Fields ever fresh, and groves for ever green!
    • There while you rest in amaranthine bowers,
    • Or from those meads select unfading flowers,
    • Behold us kindly, who your name implore,
    • Daphne, our Goddess, and our Grief no more!

lycidas.

  • How all things listen, while thy Muse complains!
  • Such silence waits on Philomela’s strains,
  • In some still ev’ning, when the whisp’ring breeze
  • Pants on the leaves, and dies upon the trees.80
  • To thee, bright Goddess, oft a lamb shall bleed,
  • If teeming ewes increase my fleecy breed.
  • While plants their shade, or flowers their odours give,
  • Thy name, thy honour, and thy praise shall live!

thyrsis.

  • But see, Orion sheds unwholesome dews;
  • Arise, the pines a noxious shade diffuse;
  • Sharp Boreas blows, and Nature feels decay,
  • Time conquers all, and we must Time obey.
  • Adieu, ye vales, ye mountains, streams, and groves;
  • Adieu, ye shepherds’ rural lays and loves;
  • Adieu, my flocks; farewell, ye sylvan crew;91
  • Daphne, farewell; and all the world adieu!
[Back to Table of Contents]

WINDSOR FOREST[ ]

TO THE RIGHT HON. GEORGE LORD LANSDOWN

  • Non injussa cano:—te nostræ, Vare, myricæ,
  • Te Nemus omne canet: nec Phœbo gratior ulla est,
  • Quam sibi quæ Vari præscripsit pagina nomen.

  • Virg.Ecl. vi. 10-12.

‘This poem,’ says Pope, ‘was written at two different times: the first part of it, which relates to the country, in 1704, at the same time with the Pastorals; the latter part was not added till the year 1713, in which it was published.’ The first 289 lines belong to the earlier date. The rest of the poem, with its celebration of the Peace of Utrecht, was added at the instance of Lord Lansdown, the Granville of the opening lines. The aim was obviously that Pope should do for the peaceful triumph of Utrecht what Addison had done for Marlborough’s victory at Blenheim in 1704. It is printed here because the conclusion was an afterthought, and in spite of it the poem as a whole ‘substantially belongs,’ as Courthope remarks, ‘to the Pastoral period.’ Pope ranked it among his ‘juvenile poems.’

    • Thy forest, Windsor! and thy green retreats,
    • At once the Monarch’s and the Muse’s seats,
    • Invite my lays. Be present, Sylvan Maids!
    • Unlock your springs, and open all your shades.
    • Granville commands: your aid, O Muses, bring!
    • What muse for Granville can refuse to sing?
    • The groves of Eden, vanish’d now so long,
    • Live in description, and look green in song:
    • These, were my breast inspired with equal flame,
    • Like them in Beauty, should be like in Fame.10
    • Here hills and vales, the woodland and the plain,
    • Here earth and water seem to strive again;
    • Not chaos-like together crush’d and bruis’d,
    • But, as the world, harmoniously confused:
    • Where order in variety we see,
    • And where, tho’ all things differ, all agree.
    • Here waving groves a chequer’d scene display,
    • And part admit, and part exclude the day;
    • As some coy nymph her lover’s warm address
    • Nor quite indulges, nor can quite repress.
    • There, interspers’d in lawns and opening glades,21
    • Thin trees arise that shun each other’s shades.
    • Here in full light the russet plains extend:
    • There wrapt in clouds the bluish hills ascend.
    • Ev’n the wild heath displays her purple dyes,
    • And ’midst the desert fruitful fields arise,
    • That crown’d with tufted trees and springing corn,
    • Like verdant isles, the sable waste adorn.
    • Let India boast her plants, nor envy we
    • The weeping amber or the balmy tree,30
    • While by our oaks the precious loads are borne,
    • And realms commanded which those trees adorn.
    • Not proud Olympus yields a nobler sight,
    • Tho’ Gods assembled grace his tow’ring height,
    • Than what more humble mountains offer here,
    • Where, in their blessings, all those Gods appear.
    • See Pan with flocks, with fruits Pomona crown’d,
    • Here blushing Flora paints th’ enamell’d ground,
    • Here Ceres’ gifts in waving prospect stand,
    • And nodding tempt the joyful reaper’s hand;40
    • Rich Industry sits smiling on the plains,
    • And peace and plenty tell, a Stuart reigns.
    • Not thus the land appear’d in ages past,
    • A dreary desert, and a gloomy waste,
    • To savage beasts and savage laws a prey,
    • And Kings more furious and severe than they;
    • Who claim’d the skies, dispeopled air and floods,
    • The lonely lords of empty wilds and woods:
    • Cities laid waste, they storm’d the dens and caves
    • (For wiser brutes were backward to be slaves);50
    • What could be free, when lawless beasts obey’d,
    • And ev’n the elements a Tyrant sway’d?
    • In vain kind seasons swell’d the teeming grain,
    • Soft showers distill’d, and suns grew warm in vain:
    • The swain with tears his frustrate labour yields,
    • And famish’d dies amidst his ripen’d fields.
    • What wonder then, a beast or subject slain
    • Were equal crimes in a despotic reign?
    • Both doom’d alike, for sportive tyrants bled,
    • But while the subject starv’d, the beast was fed.60
    • Proud Nimrod first the bloody chase began,
    • A mighty hunter, and his prey was man:
    • Our haughty Norman boasts that barb’rous name,
    • And makes his trembling slaves the royal game.
    • The fields are ravish’d from th’ industrious swains,
    • From men their cities, and from Gods their fanes;
    • The levell’d towns with weeds lie cover’d o’er;
    • The hollow winds thro’ naked temples roar;68
    • Round broken columns clasping ivy twin’d;
    • O’er heaps of ruin stalk’d the stately hind;
    • The fox obscene to gaping tombs retires,
    • And savage howlings fill the sacred quires.
    • Aw’d by his nobles, by his commons curst,
    • Th’ Oppressor ruled tyrannic where he durst,
    • Stretch’d o’er the poor and church his iron rod,
    • And serv’d alike his vassals and his God.
    • Whom ev’n the Saxon spar’d, and bloody Dane,
    • The wanton victims of his sport remain.
    • But see, the man who spacious regions gave
    • A waste for beasts, himself denied a grave !80
    • Stretch’d on the lawn his second hope survey,
    • At once the chaser, and at once the prey!
    • Lo Rufus, tugging at the deadly dart,
    • Bleeds in the forest like a wounded hart!
    • Succeeding monarchs heard the subjects’ cries,
    • Nor saw displeas’d the peaceful cottage rise:
    • Then gath’ring flocks on unknown mountains fed,
    • O’er sandy wilds were yellow harvests spread,
    • The forest wonder’d at th’ unusual grain,
    • And secret transports touch’d the conscious swain.90
    • Fair Liberty, Britannia’s Goddess, rears
    • Her cheerful head, and leads the golden years.
    • Ye vig’rous Swains! while youth ferments your blood,
    • And purer spirits swell the sprightly flood,
    • Now range the hills, the gameful woods beset,
    • Wind the shrill horn, or spread the waving net.
    • When milder Autumn Summer’s heat succeeds,
    • And in the new-shorn field the partridge feeds,
    • Before his lord the ready spaniel bounds,
    • Panting with hope, he tries the furrow’d grounds;100
    • But when the tainted gales the game betray,
    • Couch’d close he lies, and meditates the prey;
    • Secure they trust th’ unfaithful field beset,
    • Till hov’ring o’er them sweeps the swelling net.
    • Thus (if small things we may with great compare)
    • When Albion sends her eager sons to war,
    • Some thoughtless town, with ease and plenty blest,
    • Near, and more near, the closing lines invest;
    • Sudden they seize th’ amaz’d, defenceless prize,
    • And high in air Britannia’s standard flies.
    • See! from the brake the whirring pheasant springs,111
    • And mounts exulting on triumphant wings:
    • Short is his joy; he feels the fiery wound,
    • Flutters in blood, and panting beasts the ground.
    • Ah! what avail his glossy, varying dyes,
    • His purple crest, and scarlet-circled eyes,
    • The vivid green his shining plumes unfold,
    • His painted wings, and breast that flames with gold?
    • Nor yet, when moist Arcturus clouds the sky,
    • The woods and fields their pleasing toils deny.120
    • To plains with well-breathed beagles we repair,
    • And trace the mazes of the circling hare
    • (Beasts, urged by us, their fellow beasts pursue,
    • And learn of man each other to undo).
    • With slaught’ring guns th’ unwearied fowler roves,
    • When frosts have whiten’d all the naked groves,
    • Where doves in flocks the leafless trees o’ershade,
    • And lonely woodcocks haunt the wat’ry glade.
    • He lifts the tube, and levels with his eye;
    • Straight a short thunder breaks the frozen sky:130
    • Oft, as in airy rings they skim the heath,
    • The clam’rous lapwings feel the leaden death;
    • Oft, as the mounting larks their notes prepare,
    • They fall, and leave their little lives in air.
    • In genial Spring, beneath the quiv’ring shade,
    • Where cooling vapours breathe along the mead,
    • The patient fisher takes his silent stand,
    • Intent, his angle trembling in his hand:
    • With looks unmov’d, he hopes the scaly breed,
    • And eyes the dancing cork and bending reed.140
    • Our plenteous streams a various race supply,
    • The bright-eyed perch with fins of Tyrian dye,
    • The silver eel, in shining volumes roll’d,
    • The yellow carp, in scales bedropp’d with gold,
    • Swift trouts, diversified with crimson stains,
    • And pikes, the tyrants of the wat’ry plains.
    • Now Cancer glows with Phœbus’ fiery car:
    • The youth rush eager to the sylvan war,
    • Swarm o’er the lawns, the forest walks surround,
    • Rouse the fleet hart, and cheer the opening hound.150
    • Th’ impatient courser pants in every vein,
    • And, pawing, seems to beat the distant plain:
    • Hills, vales, and floods appear already cross’d,
    • And ere he starts, a thousand steps are lost.
    • See the bold youth strain up the threat’ning steep,
    • Rush thro’ the thickets, down the valleys sweep,
    • Hang o’er their coursers’ heads with eager speed,
    • And earth rolls back beneath the flying steed.
    • Let old Arcadia boast her ample plain,
    • Th’ immortal huntress, and her virgin train;160
    • Nor envy, Windsor! since thy shades have seen
    • As bright a Goddess, and as chaste a Queen;
    • Whose care, like hers, protects the sylvan reign,
    • The earth’s fair light, and Empress of the Main.
    • Here too, ’t is sung, of old Diana stray’d,
    • And Cynthus’ top forsook for Windsor shade;
    • Here was she seen o’er airy wastes to rove,
    • Seek the clear spring, or haunt the pathless grove;
    • Here arm’d with silver bows, in early dawn,
    • Her buskin’d virgins traced the dewy lawn.170
    • Above the rest a rural nymph was famed,
    • Thy offspring, Thames! the fair Lodona named
    • (Lodona’s fate, in long oblivion cast,
    • The Muse shall sing, and what she sings shall last).
    • Scarce could the Goddess from her nymph be known
    • But by the crescent and the golden zone.
    • She scorn’d the praise of beauty, and the care;
    • A belt her waist, a fillet binds her hair;
    • A painted quiver on her shoulder sounds,
    • And with her dart the flying deer she wounds.180
    • It chanced as, eager of the chase, the maid
    • Beyond the forest’s verdant limits stray’d,
    • Pan saw and lov’d, and, burning with desire,
    • Pursued her flight; her flight increas’d his fire.
    • Not half so swift the trembling doves can fly,
    • When the fierce eagle cleaves the liquid sky;
    • Not half so swiftly the fierce eagle moves,
    • When thro’ the clouds he drives the trembling doves:
    • As from the God she flew with furious pace,
    • Or as the God, more furious, urged the chase.190
    • Now fainting, sinking, pale, the Nymph appears;
    • Now close behind, his sounding steps she hears;
    • And now his shadow reach’d her as she run,
    • His shadow lengthen’d by the setting sun;
    • And now his shorter breath, with sultry air,
    • Pants on her neck, and fans her parting hair.
    • In vain on Father Thames she calls for aid,
    • Nor could Diana help her injur’d maid.
    • Faint, breathless, thus she pray’d, nor pray’d in vain:
    • ‘Ah, Cynthia! ah—tho’ banish’d from thy train,200
    • Let me, O let me, to the shades repair,
    • My native shades—there weep, and murmur there!’
    • She said, and melting as in tears she lay,
    • In a soft silver stream dissolv’d away.
    • The silver stream her virgin coldness keeps,
    • For ever murmurs, and for ever weeps;
    • Still bears the name the hapless virgin bore,
    • And bathes the forest where she ranged before.
    • In her chaste current oft the Goddess laves,
    • And with celestial tears augments the waves.210
    • Oft in her glass the musing shepherd spies
    • The headlong mountains and the downward skies;
    • The wat’ry landscape of the pendent woods,
    • And absent trees that tremble in the floods:
    • In the clear azure gleam the flocks are seen,
    • And floating forests paint the waves with green;
    • Thro’ the fair scene roll slow the ling’ring streams,
    • Then foaming pour along, and rush into the Thames.
    • Thou, too, great Father of the British Floods!
    • With joyful pride survey’st our lofty woods;220
    • Where tow’ring oaks their growing honours rear,
    • And future navies on thy shores appear.
    • Not Neptune’s self from all his streams receives
    • A wealthier tribute than to thine he gives.
    • No seas so rich, so gay no banks appear,
    • No lake so gentle, and no spring so clear.
    • Nor Po so swells the fabling poet’s lays,
    • While led along the skies his current strays,
    • As thine, which visits Windsor’s famed abodes,
    • To grace the mansion of our earthly Gods:
    • Nor all his stars above a lustre show,231
    • Like the bright beauties on thy banks below;
    • Where Jove, subdued by mortal passion still,
    • Might change Olympus for a nobler hill.
    • Happy the man whom this bright court approves,
    • His Sov’reign favours, and his Country loves:
    • Happy next him, who to these shades retires,
    • Whom Nature charms, and whom the Muse inspires:
    • Whom humbler joys of home-felt quiet please,
    • Successive study, exercise, and ease.240
    • He gathers health from herbs the forest yields,
    • And of their fragrant physic spoils the fields:
    • With chemic art exalts the mineral powers,
    • And draws the aromatic souls of flowers:
    • Now marks the course of rolling orbs on high;
    • O’er figured worlds now travels with his eye;
    • Of ancient writ unlocks the learned store,
    • Consults the dead, and lives past ages o’er:
    • Or wand’ring thoughtful in the silent wood,
    • Attends the duties of the wise and good,250
    • T’ observe a mean, be to himself a friend,
    • To follow Nature, and regard his end;
    • Or looks on Heav’n with more than mortal eyes,
    • Bids his free soul expatiate in the skies,
    • Amid her kindred stars familiar roam,
    • Survey the region, and confess her home!
    • Such was the life great Scipio once admired:—
    • Thus Atticus, and Trumbull thus retired.
    • Ye sacred Nine! that all my soul possess,
    • Whose raptures fire me, and whose visions bless,260
    • Bear me, O bear me to sequester’d scenes,
    • The bowery mazes, and surrounding greens;
    • To Thames’s banks, which fragrant breezes fill,
    • Or where ye Muses sport on Cooper’s hill.
    • (On Cooper’s hill eternal wreaths shall grow,
    • While lasts the mountain, or while Thames shall flow.)
    • I seem thro’ consecrated walks to rove;
    • I hear soft music die along the grove:
    • Led by the sound, I roam from shade to shade,
    • By godlike Poets venerable made:270
    • Here his first lays majestic Denham sung;
    • There the last numbers flow’d from Cowley’s tongue.
    • Oh early lost! what tears the river shed,
    • When the sad pomp along his banks was led!
    • His drooping swans on every note expire,
    • And on his willows hung each Muse’s lyre.
    • Since Fate relentless stopp’d their heav’nly voice,
    • No more the forests ring, or groves rejoice;
    • Who now shall charm the shades where Cowley strung
    • His living harp, and lofty Denham sung?
    • But hark! the groves rejoice, the forest rings!281
    • Are these revived, or is it Granville sings?
    • ’T is yours, my Lord, to bless our soft retreats,
    • And call the Muses to their ancient seats;
    • To paint anew the flowery sylvan scenes,
    • To crown the forests with immortal greens,
    • Make Windsor-hills in lofty numbers rise,
    • And lift her turrets nearer to the skies;
    • To sing those honours you deserve to wear,
    • And add new lustre to her silver star!290
    • Here noble Surrey felt the sacred rage,
    • Surrey, the Granville of a former age:
    • Matchless his pen, victorious was his lance,
    • Bold in the lists, and graceful in the dance:
    • In the same shades the Cupids tuned his lyre,
    • To the same notes of love and soft desire;
    • Fair Geraldine, bright object of his vow,
    • Then fill’d the groves, as heav’nly Mira now.
    • Oh wouldst thou sing what heroes Windsor bore,
    • What Kings first breathed upon her winding shore,300
    • Or raise old warriors, whose ador’d remains
    • In weeping vaults her hallow’d earth contains!
    • With Edward’s acts adorn the shining page,
    • Stretch his long triumphs down thro’ every age,
    • Draw Monarchs chain’d, and Cressi’s glorious field,
    • The lilies blazing on the regal shield:
    • Then, from her roofs when Verrio’s colours fall,
    • And leave inanimate the naked wall,
    • Still in thy song should vanquish’d France appear,
    • And bleed for ever under Britain’s spear.310
    • Let softer strains ill-fated Henry mourn,
    • And palms eternal flourish round his urn.
    • Here o’er the martyr-king the marble weeps,
    • And, fast beside him, once-fear’d Edward sleeps,
    • Whom not th’ extended Albion could contain,
    • From old Bellerium to the northern main;
    • The grave unites; where ev’n the great find rest,
    • And blended lie th’ oppressor and th’ opprest!
    • Make sacred Charles’s tomb for ever known
    • (Obscure the place, and uninscribed the stone);320
    • Oh fact accurs’d! what tears has Albion shed,
    • Heav’ns! what new wounds! and how her old have bled!
    • She saw her sons with purple death expire,
    • Her sacred domes involv’d in rolling fire,
    • A dreadful series of intestine wars,
    • Inglorious triumphs, and dishonest scars.
    • At length great Anna said, ‘Let discord cease!’
    • She said! the world obey’d, and all was peace!
    • In that blest moment from his oozy bed
    • Old father Thames advanced his rev’rend head;330
    • His tresses dropp’d with dews, and o’er the stream
    • His shining horns diffused a golden gleam:
    • Graved on his urn appear’d the moon, that guides
    • His swelling waters and alternate tides;
    • The figured streams in waves of silver roll’d,
    • And on her banks Augusta rose in gold.
    • Around his throne the sea-born brothers stood,
    • Who swell with tributary urns his flood:338
    • First the famed authors of his ancient name;
    • The winding Isis, and the fruitful Thame;
    • The Kennet swift, for silver eels renown’d;
    • The Lodden slow, with verdant alders crown’d;
    • Cole, whose dark streams his flowery islands lave;
    • And chalky Wey, that rolls a milky wave:
    • The blue, transparent Vandalis appears;
    • The gulfy Lee his sedgy tresses rears;
    • And sullen Mole, that hides his diving flood;
    • And silent Darent, stain’d with Danish blood.
    • High in the midst, upon his urn reclin’d
    • (His sea-green mantle waving with the wind),350
    • The God appear’d: he turn’d his azure eyes
    • Where Windsor-domes and pompous turrets rise;
    • Then bow’d and spoke; the winds forget to roar,
    • And the hush’d waves glide softly to the shore.
    • ‘Hail, sacred Peace! hail, long-expected days,
    • That Thames’s glory to the stars shall raise!
    • Tho’ Tiber’s streams immortal Rome behold,
    • Tho’ foaming Hermus swells with tides of gold,
    • From Heav’n itself tho’ sev’nfold Nilus flows,
    • And harvests on a hundred realms bestows;
    • These now no more shall be the Muse’s themes,361
    • Lost in my fame, as in the sea their streams.
    • Let Volga’s banks with iron squadrons shine,
    • And groves of lances glitter on the Rhine;
    • Let barb’rous Ganges arm a servile train,
    • Be mine the blessings of a peaceful reign.
    • No more my sons shall dye with British blood
    • Red Iber’s sands, or Ister’s foaming flood:
    • Safe on my shore each unmolested swain
    • Shall tend the flocks, or reap the bearded grain;370
    • The shady empire shall retain no trace
    • Of war or blood, but in the sylvan chase;
    • The trumpet sleep, while cheerful horns are blown,
    • And arms employ’d on birds and beasts alone.
    • Behold! th’ ascending villas on my side
    • Project long shadows o’er the crystal tide;
    • Behold! Augusta’s glitt’ring spires increase,
    • And temples rise, the beauteous works of Peace.
    • I see, I see, where two fair cities bend
    • Their ample bow, a new Whitehall ascend!
    • There mighty nations shall inquire their doom,381
    • The world’s great oracle in times to come;
    • There Kings shall sue, and suppliant states be seen
    • Once more to bend before a British Queen.
    • ‘Thy trees, fair Windsor! now shall leave their woods,
    • And half thy forests rush into my floods,
    • Bear Britain’s thunder, and her cross display
    • To the bright regions of the rising day;
    • Tempt icy seas, where scarce the waters roll,
    • Where clearer flames glow round the frozen pole;390
    • Or under southern skies exalt their sails,
    • Led by new stars, and borne by spicy gales!
    • For me the balm shall bleed, and amber flow,
    • The coral redden, and the ruby glow,
    • The pearly shell its lucid globe infold,
    • And Phœbus warm the ripening ore to gold.
    • The time shall come, when, free as seas or wind,
    • Unbounded Thames shall flow for all mankind,
    • Whole nations enter with each swelling tide,
    • And seas but join the regions they divide;
    • Earth’s distant ends our glory shall behold,401
    • And the new world launch forth to seek the old.
    • Then ships of uncouth form shall stem the tide,
    • And feather’d people crowd my wealthy side;
    • And naked youths and painted chiefs admire
    • Our speech, our color, and our strange attire!
    • O stretch thy reign, fair Peace! from shore to shore,
    • Till conquest cease, and slavery be no more;
    • Till the freed Indians in their native groves
    • Reap their own fruits, and woo their sable loves;410
    • Peru once more a race of kings behold,
    • And other Mexicos be roof’d with gold.
    • Exiled by thee from earth to deepest Hell,
    • In brazen bonds shall barb’rous Discord dwell:
    • Gigantic Pride, pale Terror, gloomy Care,
    • And mad Ambition shall attend her there:
    • There purple Vengeance, bathed in gore, retires,
    • Her weapons blunted, and extinct her fires:
    • There hated Envy her own snakes shall feel,
    • And Persecution mourn her broken wheel:
    • There Faction roar, Rebellion bite her chain,421
    • And gasping Furies thirst for blood in vain.’
    • Here cease thy flight, nor with unhallow’d lays
    • Touch the fair fame of Albion’s golden days:
    • The thoughts of Gods let Granville’s verse recite,
    • And bring the scenes of opening fate to light.
    • My humble Muse, in unambitious strains,
    • Paints the green forests and the flowery plains,
    • Where Peace descending bids her olives spring,
    • And scatters blessings from her dovelike wing.430
    • Ev’n I more sweetly pass my careless days,
    • Pleas’d in the silent shade with empty praise;
    • Enough for me that to the list’ning swains
    • First in these fields I sung the sylvan strains.
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PARAPHRASES FROM CHAUCER

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JANUARY AND MAY: OR, THE MERCHANT’S TALE

Pope says that this ‘translation’ was done at sixteen or seventeen years of age. It was first published, with the Pastorals, in 1709, in Tonson’s sixth Miscellany. Eventually Pope grouped the Chaucer imitations with Eloisa to Abelard, the translations from Ovid and Statius and the brief Imitations of English Poets. To this collection be prefixed this Advertisement:—

‘The following Translations were selected from many others done by the Author in his youth; for the most part indeed but a sort of Exercises, while he was improving himself in the Languages, and carried by his early bent to Poetry to perform them rather in Verse than Prose. Mr. Dryden’s Fables came out about that time, which occasioned the Translations from Chaucer. They were first separately printed in Miscellanies by J. Tonson and B. Lintot, and afterwards collected in the Quarto Edition of 1717. The Imitations of English Authors, which are added at the end, were done as early, some of them at fourteen or fifteen years old; but having also got into Miscellanies, we have put them here together to complete this Juvenile Volume.’

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THE WIFE OF BATH

HER PROLOGUE

Not published until 1714, but naturally classified with January and May, and not improbably the product of the same period.

    • Behold the woes of matrimonial life,
    • And hear with rev’rence an experienced wife;
    • To dear-bought wisdom give the credit due,
    • And think for once a woman tells you true.
    • In all these trials I have borne a part:
    • I was myself the scourge that caus’d the smart;
    • For since fifteen in triumph have I led
    • Five captive husbands from the church to bed.
    • Christ saw a wedding once, the Scripture says,
    • And saw but one, ’t was thought, in all his days;10
    • Whence some infer, whose conscience is too nice,
    • No pious Christian ought to marry twice.
    • But let them read, and solve me if they can,
    • The words address’d to the Samaritan:
    • Five times in lawful wedlock she was join’d,
    • And sure the certain stint was ne’er defin’d.
    • ‘Increase and multiply’ was Heav’n’s command,
    • And that ’s a text I clearly understand:
    • This too, ‘Let men their sires and mothers leave,19
    • And to their dearer wives for ever cleave.’
    • More wives than one by Solomon were tried,
    • Or else the wisest of mankind’s belied.
    • I’ve had myself full many a merry fit,
    • And trust in Heav’n I may have many yet;
    • For when my transitory spouse, unkind, }
    • Shall die and leave his woful wife behind, }
    • I’ll take the next good Christian I can find. }
    • Paul, knowing one could never serve our turn,
    • Declared ’t was better far to wed than burn.
    • There ’s danger in assembling fire and tow;
    • I grant ’em that; and what it means you know.31
    • The same apostle, too, has elsewhere own’d
    • No precept for virginity he found:
    • ’T is but a counsel—and we women still
    • Take which we like, the counsel or our will.
    • I envy not their bliss, if he or she
    • Think fit to live in perfect chastity:
    • Pure let them be, and free from taint or vice;
    • I for a few slight spots am not so nice.
    • Heav’n calls us diff’rent ways; on these bestows40
    • One proper gift, another grants to those;
    • Not every man’s obliged to sell his store,
    • And give up all his substance to the poor:
    • Such as are perfect may, I can’t deny;
    • But by your leaves, Divines! so am not I.
    • Full many a saint, since first the world began,
    • Liv’d an unspotted maid in spite of man:
    • Let such (a God’s name) with fine wheat be fed,
    • And let us honest wives eat barley bread.
    • For me, I’ll keep the post assign’d by Heav’n,50
    • And use the copious talent it has giv’n:
    • Let my good spouse pay tribute, do me right,
    • And keep an equal reck’ning every night;
    • His proper body is not his, but mine;
    • For so said Paul, and Paul’s a sound divine.
    • Know then, of those five husbands I have had,
    • Three were just tolerable, two were bad.
    • The three were old, but rich and fond beside,
    • And toil’d most piteously to please their bride;
    • But since their wealth (the best they had) was mine,60
    • The rest without much loss I could resign:
    • Sure to be lov’d, I took no pains to please,
    • Yet had more pleasure far than they had ease.
    • Presents flow’d in apace: with showers of gold
    • They made their court, like Jupiter of old:
    • If I but smiled, a sudden youth they found,
    • And a new palsy seiz’d them when I frown’d.
    • Ye sov’reign Wives! give ear, and understand:
    • Thus shall ye speak, and exercise command;
    • For never was it giv’n to mortal man70
    • To lie so boldly as we women can:
    • Forswear the fact, tho’ seen with both his eyes,
    • And call your maids to witness how he lies.
    • Hark, old Sir Paul! (’t was thus I used to say)
    • Whence is our neighbour’s wife so rich and gay?
    • Treated, caress’d, where’er she’s pleas’d to roam—
    • I sit in tatters, and immured at home.
    • Why to her house dost thou so oft repair?
    • Art thou so am’rous? and is she so fair?
    • If I but see a cousin or a friend,80
    • Lord! how you swell and rage like any fiend!
    • But you reel home, a drunken beastly bear,
    • Then preach till midnight in your easy chair;
    • Cry, wives are false, and every woman evil,
    • And give up all that’s female to the devil.
    • If poor (you say), she drains her husband’s purse;
    • If rich, she keeps her priest, or something worse;
    • If highly born, intolerably vain,
    • Vapours and pride by turns possess her brain;
    • Now gaily mad, now sourly splenetic,90
    • Freakish when well, and fretful when she ’s sick.
    • If fair, then chaste she cannot long abide,
    • By pressing youth attack’d on every side;
    • If foul, her wealth the lusty lover lures,
    • Or else her wit some fool-gallant procures,
    • Or else she dances with becoming grace,
    • Or shape excuses the defects of face.
    • There swims no goose so gray, but soon or late
    • She finds some honest gander for her mate.
    • Horses (thou say’st) and asses men may try,100
    • And ring suspected vessels ere they buy;
    • But wives, a random choice, untried they take,
    • They dream in courtship, but in wedlock wake;
    • Then, not till then, the veil’s remov’d away,
    • And all the woman glares in open day.
    • You tell me, to preserve your wife’s good grace,
    • Your eyes must always languish on my face,
    • Your tongue with constant flatt’ries feed my ear,
    • And tag each sentence with ‘My life! my dear!’
    • If by strange chance a modest blush be rais’d,110
    • Be sure my fine complexion must be prais’d.
    • My garments always must be new and gay,
    • And feasts still kept upon my wedding day.
    • Then must my nurse be pleas’d, and fav’rite maid;
    • And endless treats and endless visits paid
    • To a long train of kindred, friends, allies:
    • All this thou say’st, and all thou say’st are lies.
    • On Jenkin, too, you cast a squinting eye:
    • What! can your ’prentice raise your jealousy?
    • Fresh are his ruddy cheeks, his forehead fair,120
    • And like the burnish’d gold his curling hair.
    • But clear thy wrinkled brow, and quit thy sorrow;
    • I’d scorn your ’prentice should you die tomorrow.
    • Why are thy chests all lock’d? on what design?
    • Are not thy worldly goods and treasure mine?
    • Sir, I’m no fool; nor shall you, by St. John,
    • Have goods and body to yourself alone.
    • One you shall quit, in spite of both your eyes—
    • I heed not, I, the bolts, the locks, the spies.
    • If you had wit, you ’d say, ‘Go where you will,130
    • Dear spouse! I credit not the tales they tell:
    • Take all the freedoms of a married life;
    • I know thee for a virtuous, faithful wife.’
    • Lord! when you have enough, what need you care
    • How merrily soever others fare?
    • Tho’ all the day I give and take delight,
    • Doubt not sufficient will be left at night.
    • ’T is but a just and rational desire
    • To light a taper at a neighbour’s fire.
    • There ’s danger too, you think, in rich array,140
    • And none can long be modest that are gay.
    • The cat, if you but singe her tabby skin,
    • The chimney keeps, and sits content within:
    • But once grown sleek, will from her corner run,
    • Sport with her tail, and wanton in the sun:
    • She licks her fair round face, and frisks abroad
    • To show her fur, and to be catterwaw’d.
    • Lo thus, my friends, I wrought to my desires
    • These three right ancient venerable sires.
    • I told them, Thus you say, and thus you do;150
    • And told them false, but Jenkin swore ’t was true.
    • I, like a dog, could bite as well as whine,
    • And first complain’d whene’er the guilt was mine.
    • I tax’d them oft with wenching and amours,
    • When their weak legs scarce dragg’d them out of doors;
    • And swore the rambles that I took by night
    • Were all to spy what damsels they bedight:
    • That colour brought me many hours of mirth;
    • For all this wit is giv’n us from our birth.
    • Heav’n gave to woman the peculiar grace
    • To spin, to weep, and cully human race.161
    • By this nice conduct and this prudent course,
    • By murm’ring, wheedling, stratagem, and force,
    • I still prevail’d, and would be in the right;
    • Or curtain lectures made a restless night.
    • If once my husband’s arm was o’er my side,
    • ‘What! so familiar with your spouse?’ I cried:
    • I levied first a tax upon his need;
    • Then let him—’t was a nicety indeed!
    • Let all mankind this certain maxim hold;
    • Marry who will, our sex is to be sold.171
    • With empty hands no tassels you can lure,
    • But fulsome love for gain we can endure;
    • For gold we love the impotent and old,
    • And heave, and pant, and kiss, and cling, for gold.
    • Yet with embraces curses oft I mixt,
    • Then kiss’d again, and chid, and rail’d betwixt.
    • Well, I may make my will in peace, and die,
    • For not one word in man’s arrears am I.
    • To drop a dear dispute I was unable,180
    • Ev’n though the Pope himself had sat at table;
    • But when my point was gain’d, then thus I spoke:
    • ‘Billy, my dear, how sheepishly you look!
    • Approach, my spouse, and let me kiss thy cheek;
    • Thou shouldst be always thus resign’d and meek!
    • Of Job’s great patience since so oft you preach,
    • Well should you practise who so well can teach.
    • ’T is difficult to do, I must allow,
    • But I, my dearest! will instruct you how.
    • Great is the blessing of a prudent wife,190
    • Who puts a period to domestic strife.
    • One of us two must rule, and one obey; }
    • And since in man right Reason bears the sway, }
    • Let that frail thing, weak woman, have her way. }
    • The wives of all my family have ruled
    • Their tender husbands, and their passions cool’d.
    • Fie! ’t is unmanly thus to sigh and groan:
    • What! would you have me to yourself alone?
    • Why, take me, love! take all and every part!
    • Here ’s your revenge! you love it at your heart.200
    • Would I vouchsafe to sell what Nature gave,
    • You little think what custom I could have.
    • But see! I ’m all your own—nay hold—for shame!
    • What means my dear?—indeed—you are to blame.’
    • Thus with my first three lords I pass’d my life,
    • A very woman and a very wife.
    • What sums from these old spouses I could raise
    • Procur’d young husbands in my riper days.
    • Tho’ past my bloom, not yet decay’d was I,209
    • Wanton and wild, and chatter’d like a pie.
    • In country dances still I bore the bell,
    • And sung as sweet as ev’ning Philomel.
    • To clear my quail-pipe, and refresh my soul,
    • Full oft I drain’d the spicy nut-brown bowl;
    • Rich luscious wines, that youthful blood improve,
    • And warm the swelling veins to feats of love:
    • For ’t is as sure as cold engenders hail,
    • A liquorish mouth must have a lech’rous tail:
    • Wine lets no lover unrewarded go,219
    • As all true gamesters by experience know.
    • But oh, good Gods! whene’er a thought I cast
    • On all the joys of youth and beauty past,
    • To find in pleasures I have had my part
    • Still warms me to the bottom of my heart.
    • This wicked world was once my dear delight;
    • Now all my conquests, all my charms, good night!
    • The flour consumed, the best that now I can
    • Is ev’n to make my market of the bran.
    • My fourth dear spouse was not exceeding true;
    • He kept, ’t was thought, a private miss or two;230
    • But all that score I paid—As how? you ’ll say:
    • Not with my body, in a filthy way;
    • But I so dress’d, and danc’d, and drank, and din’d
    • And view’d a friend with eyes so very kind,
    • As stung his heart, and made his marrow fry,
    • With burning rage and frantic jealousy.
    • His soul, I hope, enjoys eternal glory,
    • For here on earth I was his purgatory.
    • Oft, when his shoe the most severely wrung,239
    • He put on careless airs, and sat and sung.
    • How sore I gall’d him only Heav’n could know,
    • And he that felt, and I that caus’d the woe.
    • He died when last from pilgrimage I came,
    • With other gossips, from Jerusalem;
    • And now lies buried underneath a rood,
    • Fair to be seen, and rear’d of honest wood:
    • A tomb, indeed, with fewer sculptures graced
    • Than that Mausolus’ pious widow placed,
    • Or where enshrin’d the great Darius lay;
    • But cost on graves is merely thrown away.
    • The pit fill’d up, with turf we cover’d o’er;
    • So bless the good man’s soul! I say no more.252
    • Now for my fifth lov’d lord, the last and best;
    • (Kind Heav’n afford him everlasting rest!)
    • Full hearty was his love, and I can show
    • The tokens on my ribs in black and blue;
    • Yet with a knack my heart he could have won,
    • While yet the smart was shooting in the bone.
    • How quaint an appetite in women reigns!
    • Free gifts we scorn, and love what costs us pains.260
    • Let men avoid us, and on them we leap;
    • A glutted market makes provision cheap.
    • In pure good will I took this jovial spark,
    • Of Oxford he, a most egregious clerk.
    • He boarded with a widow in the town,
    • A trusty gossip, one dame Alison;
    • Full well the secrets of my soul she knew,
    • Better than e’er our parish priest could do.
    • To her I told whatever could befall:269
    • Had but my husband piss’d against a wall,
    • Or done a thing that might have cost his life,
    • She—and my niece—and one more worthy wife,
    • Had known it all: what most he would conceal,
    • To these I made no scruple to reveal.
    • Oft has he blush’d from ear to ear for shame
    • That e’er he told a secret to his dame.
    • It so befell, in holy time of Lent,
    • That oft a day I to this gossip went;
    • (My husband, thank my stars, was out of town)
    • From house to house we rambled up and down,280
    • This clerk, myself, and my good neighbour Alse,
    • To see, be seen, to tell, and gather tales.
    • Visits to every church we daily paid,
    • And march’d in every holy masquerade;
    • The stations duly and the vigils kept;
    • Not much we fasted, but scarce ever slept.
    • At sermons, too, I shone in scarlet gay: }
    • The wasting moth ne’er spoil’d my best array; }
    • The cause was this, I wore it every day. }
    • ’Twas when fresh May her early blossoms yields,290
    • This clerk and I were walking in the fields.
    • We grew so intimate, I can’t tell how,
    • I pawn’d my honour, and engaged my vow,
    • If e’er I laid my husband in his urn,
    • That he, and only he, should serve my turn.
    • We straight struck hands, the bargain was agreed;
    • I still have shifts against a time of need.
    • The mouse that always trusts to one poor hole
    • Can never be a mouse of any soul.
    • I vow’d I scarce could sleep since first I knew him,300
    • And durst be sworn he had bewitch’d me to him;
    • If e’er I slept I dream’d of him alone, }
    • And dreams foretell, as learned men have shown. }
    • All this I said; but dreams, Sirs, I had none: }
    • I follow’d but my crafty crony’s lore,
    • Who bid me tell this lie—and twenty more.
    • Thus day by day, and month by month we past;
    • It pleas’d the Lord to take my spouse at last.
    • I tore my gown, I soil’d my locks with dust,
    • And beat my breasts, as wretched widows—must.310
    • Before my face my handkerchief I spread,
    • To hide the flood of tears I—did not shed.
    • The good man’s coffin to the church was borne;
    • Around the neighbours and my clerk too mourn.
    • But as he march’d, good Gods! he show’d a pair
    • Of legs and feet so clean, so strong, so fair!
    • Of twenty winters’ age he seem’d to be;
    • I (to say truth) was twenty more than he;
    • But vig’rous still, a lively buxom dame,319
    • And had a wondrous gift to quench a flame.
    • A conjurer once, that deeply could divine,
    • Assur’d me Mars in Taurus was my sign.
    • As the stars order’d, such my life has been:
    • Alas, alas! that ever love was sin!
    • Fair Venus gave me fire and sprightly grace,
    • And Mars assurance and a dauntless face.
    • By virtue of this powerful constellation,
    • I follow’d always my own inclination.
    • But to my tale:—A month scarce pass’d away,
    • With dance and song we kept the nuptial day.330
    • All I possess’d I gave to his command,
    • My goods and chattels, money, house, and land;
    • But oft repented, and repent it still;
    • He prov’d a rebel to my sov’reign will;
    • Nay, once, by Heav’n! he struck me on the face:
    • Hear but the fact, and judge yourselves the case.
    • Stubborn as any lioness was I,
    • And knew full well to raise my voice on high;
    • As true a rambler as I was before,
    • And would be so in spite of all he swore.340
    • He against this right sagely would advise,
    • And old examples set before my eyes;
    • Tell how the Roman matrons led their life,
    • Of Gracehus’ mother, and Duilius’ wife;
    • And close the sermon, as beseem’d his wit,
    • With some grave sentence out of Holy Writ.
    • Oft would he say, ‘Who builds his house on sands,
    • Pricks his blind horse across the fallow lands,
    • Or lets his wife abroad with pilgrims roam,
    • Deserves a fool’s-cap and long ears at home.’350
    • All this avail’d not, for whoe’er he be
    • That tells my faults, I hate him mortally!
    • And so do numbers more, I’ll boldly say,
    • Men, women, clergy, regular and lay.
    • My spouse (who was, you know, to learning bred)
    • A certain treatise oft at evening read,
    • Where divers authors (whom the devil confound
    • For all their lies) were in one volume bound:
    • Valerius whole, and of St. Jerome part;
    • Chrysippus and Tertullian, Ovid’s Art,360
    • Solomon’s Proverbs, Eloisa’s loves,
    • And many more than sure the church approves.
    • More legends were there here of wicked wives
    • Than good in all the Bible and saints’ lives.
    • Who drew the lion vanquish’d? ’T was a man:
    • But could we women write as scholars can,
    • Men should stand mark’d with far more wickedness
    • Than all the sons of Adam could redress.
    • Love seldom haunts the breast where learning lies,
    • And Venus sets ere Mercury can rise.370
    • Those play the scholars who can’t play the men,
    • And use that weapon which they have, their pen;
    • When old, and past the relish of delight,
    • Then down they sit, and in their dotage write
    • That not one woman keeps her marriagevow.
    • (This by the way, but to my purpose now.)
    • It chanc’d my husband, on a winter’s night,
    • Read in this book aloud with strange delight,
    • How the first female (as the Scriptures show)
    • Brought her own spouse and all his race to woe;380
    • How Samson fell; and he whom Dejanire
    • Wrapp’d in th’ envenom’d shirt, and set on fire;
    • How curs’d Eriphyle her lord betray’d,
    • And the dire ambush Clytemnestra laid;
    • But what most pleas’d him was the Cretan dame
    • And husband-bull—Oh, monstrous! fie, for shame!
    • He had by heart the whole detail of woe
    • Xantippe made her good man undergo;
    • How oft she scolded in a day he knew,389
    • How many pisspots on the sage she threw—
    • Who took it patiently, and wiped his head:
    • ‘Rain follows thunder,’ that was all he said.
    • He read how Arius to his friend complain’d
    • A fatal tree was growing in his land,
    • On which three wives successively had twin’d
    • A sliding noose, and waver’d in the wind.
    • ‘Where grows this plant,’ replied the friend, ‘oh where?
    • For better fruit did never orchard bear:
    • Give me some slip of this most blissful tree,
    • And in my garden planted it shall be.’400
    • Then how two wives their lords’ destruction prove,
    • Thro’ hatred one, and one thro’ too much love;
    • That for her husband mix’d a pois’nous draught,
    • And this for lust an am’rous philtre bought;
    • The nimble juice soon seiz’d his giddy head,
    • Frantic at night, and in the morning dead.
    • How some with swords their sleeping lords have slain,
    • And some have hammer’d nails into their brain,
    • And some have drench’d them with a deadly potion:
    • All this he read, and read with great devotion.410
    • Long time I heard, and swell’d, and blush’d, and frown’d;
    • But when no end of these vile tales I found,
    • When still he read, and laugh’d, and read again,
    • And half the night was thus consumed in vain,
    • Provoked to vengeance, three large leaves I tore,
    • And with one buffet fell’d him on the floor.
    • With that my husband in a fury rose,
    • And down he settled me with hearty blows.
    • I groan’d, and lay extended on my side;
    • ‘Oh! thou hast slain me for my wealth,’ I cried!420
    • ‘Yet I forgive thee—take my last embrace’—
    • He wept, kind soul! and stoop’d to kiss my face:
    • I took him such a box as turn’d him blue,
    • Then sigh’d and cried, ‘Adieu, my dear, adieu!’
    • But after many a hearty struggle past,
    • I condescended to be pleas’d at last.
    • Soon as he said, ‘My mistress and my wife!
    • Do what you list the term of all your life;’
    • I took to heart the merits of the cause,
    • And stood content to rule by wholesome laws;430
    • Receiv’d the reins of absolute command, }
    • With all the government of house and land, }
    • And empire o’er his tongue and o’er his hand. }
    • As for the volume that revil’d the dames,
    • ’T was torn to fragments, and condemn’d to flames.
    • Now Heav’n on all my husbands gone bestow
    • Pleasures above for tortures felt below:
    • That rest they wish’d for grant them in the grave,
    • And bless those souls my conduct help’d to save!
[Back to Table of Contents]

THE TEMPLE OF FAME[ ]

Pope asserted that this poem was composed in 1711. Its date of publication is indicated by a letter from Pope to Martha Blount, written in 1714, in which he speaks of it as ‘just out.’ Eventually it was classed by the poet as a ‘juvenile poem’ among the earlier translations and imitations. This Advertisement was prefixed:—

The hint of the following piece was taken from Chaucer’s House of Fame. The design is in a manner entirely altered; the descriptions and most of the particular thoughts my own: yet I could not suffer it to be printed without this acknowledgment. The reader who would compare this with Chaucer, may begin with his third Book of Fame, there being nothing in the two first books that answers to their title.

    • In that soft season , when descending showers
    • Call forth the greens, and wake the rising flowers,
    • When opening buds salute the welcome day,
    • And earth relenting feels the genial ray;
    • As balmy sleep had charm’d my cares to rest,
    • And love itself was banish’d from my breast,
    • (What time the morn mysterious visions brings,
    • While purer slumbers spread their golden wings)
    • A train of phantoms in wild order rose,9
    • And join’d, this intellectual scene compose.
    • I stood, methought, betwixt earth, seas, and skies,
    • The whole Creation open to my eyes;
    • In air self-balanced hung the globe below,
    • Where mountains rise and circling oceans flow;
    • Here naked rocks and empty wastes were seen,
    • There towery cities, and the forests green;
    • Here sailing ships delight the wand’ring eyes,
    • There trees and intermingled temples rise:
    • Now a clear sun the shining scene displays,
    • The transient landscape now in clouds decays.20
    • O’er the wide prospect as I gazed around,
    • Sudden I heard a wild promiscuous sound,
    • Like broken thunders that at distance roar,
    • Or billows murm’ring on the hollow shore:
    • Then gazing up, a glorious Pile beheld,
    • Whose tow’ring summit ambient clouds conceal’d;
    • High on a rock of ice the structure lay,
    • Steep its ascent, and slipp’ry was the way;
    • The wondrous rock like Parian marble shone,29
    • And seem’d, to distant sight, of solid stone.
    • Inscriptions here of various names I view’d,
    • The greater part by hostile time subdued;
    • Yet wide was spread their fame in ages past,
    • And poets once had promis’d they should last.
    • Some fresh engraved appear’d of wits renown’d;
    • I look’d again, nor could their trace be found.
    • Critics I saw, that other names deface,
    • And fix their own with labour, in their place:
    • Their own, like others, soon their place resign’d,
    • Or disappear’d and left the first behind.40
    • Nor was the work impair’d by storms alone,
    • But felt th’ approaches of too warm a sun;
    • For Fame, impatient of extremes, decays
    • Not more by envy than excess of praise.
    • Yet part no injuries of Heav’n could feel,
    • Like crystal faithful to the graving steel:
    • The rock’s high summit, in the temple’s shade,
    • Nor heat could melt, nor beating storm invade.
    • Their names inscribed unnumber’d ages past
    • From Time’s first birth, with Time itself shall last:50
    • These ever new, nor subject to decays,
    • Spread, and grow brighter with the length of days.
    • So Zembla’s rocks (the beauteous work of frost)
    • Rise white in air, and glitter o’er the coast;
    • Pale suns, unfelt, at distance roll away,
    • And on th’ impassive ice the lightnings play;
    • Eternal snows the growing mass supply,
    • Till the bright mountains prop th’ incumbent sky:
    • As Atlas fix’d, each hoary pile appears,59
    • The gather’d winter of a thousand years.
    • On this foundation Fame’s high temple stands;
    • Stupendous pile! not rear’d by mortal hands.
    • Whate’er proud Rome or artful Greece beheld,
    • Or elder Babylon, its frame excell’d.
    • Four faces had the dome , and ev’ry face
    • Of various structure, but of equal grace:
    • Four brazen gates, on columns lifted high,
    • Salute the diff’rent quarters of the sky.
    • Here fabled Chiefs in darker ages born,
    • Or Worthies old whom Arms or Arts adorn,70
    • Who cities raised or tamed a monstrous race,
    • The walls in venerable order grace:
    • Heroes in animated marble frown,
    • And Legislators seem to think in stone.
    • Westward, a sumptuous frontispiece appear’d,
    • On Doric pillars of white marble rear’d,
    • Crown’d with an architrave of antique mould,
    • And sculpture rising on the roughen’d gold.
    • In shaggy spoils here Theseus was beheld,
    • And Perseus dreadful with Minerva’s shield:80
    • There great Alcides , stooping with his toil,
    • Rests on his club, and holds th’ Hesperian spoil:
    • Here Orpheus sings; trees moving to the sound
    • Start from their roots, and form a shade around:
    • Amphion there the loud creating lyre
    • Strikes, and beholds a sudden Thebes aspire;
    • Cithæron’s echoes answer to his call,
    • And half the mountain rolls into a wall:
    • There might you see the length’ning spires ascend,
    • The domes swell up, and widening arches bend,90
    • The growing towers, like exhalations, rise,
    • And the huge columns heave into the skies.
    • The eastern front was glorious to behold,
    • With diamond flaming, and barbaric gold.
    • There Ninus shone, who spread th’ Assyrian fame,
    • And the great founder of the Persian name ;
    • There in long robes the royal Magi stand,
    • Grave Zoroaster waves the circling wand;
    • The sage Chaldeans robed in white appear’d,
    • And Brahmans, deep in desert woods revered.100
    • These stopp’d the moon, and call’ th’ unbodied shades
    • To midnight banquets in the glimm’ring glades;
    • Made visionary fabrics round them rise,
    • And airy spectres skim before their eyes;
    • Of talismans and sigils knew the power,
    • And careful watch’d the planetary hour.
    • Superior, and alone, Confucius stood,
    • Who taught that useful science,—to be good.
    • But on the south, a long majestic race109
    • Of Egypt’s priests the gilded niches grace,
    • Who measured earth, described the starry spheres,
    • And traced the long records of Lunar Years.
    • High on his car Sesostris struck my view,
    • Whom sceptred slaves in golden harness drew:
    • His hands a bow and pointed jav’lin hold;
    • His giant limbs are arm’d in scales of gold.
    • Between the statues obelisks were placed,
    • And the learn’d walls with hieroglyphics graced.
    • Of Gothic structure was the northern side,
    • O’erwrought with ornaments of barb’rous pride.120
    • There huge Colosses rose, with trophies crown’d,
    • And Runic characters were graved around;
    • There sat Zamolxis with erected eyes,
    • And Odin here in mimic trances dies.
    • There on rude iron columns, smear’d with blood,
    • The horrid forms of Scythian Heroes stood,
    • Druids and Bards (their once loud harps unstrung)
    • And youths that died to be by poets sung.
    • These and a thousand more of doubtful fame,
    • To whom old fables gave a lasting name,130
    • In ranks adorn’d the temple’s outward face;
    • The wall in lustre and effect like glass,
    • Which o’er each object casting various dyes,
    • Enlarges some, and others multiplies;
    • Nor void of emblem was the mystic wall,
    • For thus romantic Fame increases all.
    • The temple shakes, the sounding gates unfold,
    • Wide vaults appear, and roofs of fretted gold,
    • Rais’d on a thousand pillars, wreath’d around
    • With laurel foliage, and with eagles crown’d.140
    • Of bright transparent beryl were the walls,
    • The friezes gold, and gold the capitals;
    • As Heav’n with stars, the roof with jewels glows,
    • And ever-living lamps depend in rows.
    • Full in the passage of each spacious gate
    • The sage Historians in white garments wait;
    • Graved o’er their seats the form of Time was found,
    • His scythe revers’d, and both his pinions bound.
    • Within stood Heroes, who thro’ loud alarms
    • In bloody fields pursued renown in arms.
    • High on a throne, with trophies charged, I view’d151
    • The youth that all things but himself subdued;
    • His feet on sceptres and tiaras trod,
    • And his horn’d head belied the Libyan God,
    • There Cæsar, graced with both Minervas, shone;
    • Cæsar, the world’s great master, and his own;
    • Unmov’d, superior still in ev’ry state,
    • And scarce detested in his country’s fate.
    • But chief were those who not for empire fought,
    • But with their toils their people’s safety bought:160
    • High o’er the rest Epaminondas stood;
    • Timoleon, glorious in his brother’s blood ;
    • Bold Scipio, saviour of the Roman state,
    • Great in his triumphs, in retirement great;
    • And wise Aurelius, in whose well-taught mind }
    • With boundless power unbounded virtue join’d, }
    • His own strict judge, and patron of mankind. }
    • Much-suff’ring heroes next their honours claim.
    • Those of less noisy, and less guilty fame,
    • Fair Virtue’s silent train: supreme of these170
    • Here ever shines the godlike Socrates:
    • He whom ungrateful Athens could expel,
    • At all times just, but when he sign’d the shell:
    • Here his abode the martyr’d Phocion claims,
    • With Agis, not the last of Spartan names:
    • Unconquer’d Cato shows the wound he tore,
    • And Brutus his ill genius meets no more.
    • But in the centre of the hallow’d choir
    • Six pompous columns o’er the rest aspire:
    • Around the shrine itself of Fame they stand,180
    • Hold the chief honours and the fane command.
    • High on the first the mighty Homer shone;
    • Eternal adamant composed his throne;
    • Father of verse! in holy fillets drest,
    • His silver beard waved gently o’er his breast;
    • Tho’ blind, a boldness in his looks appears;
    • In years he seem’d, but not impair’d by years.
    • The wars of Troy were round the pillar seen;
    • Here fierce Tydides wounds the Cyprian Queen;189
    • Here Hector, glorious from Patroclus’ fall,
    • Here, dragg’d in triumph round the Trojan wall.
    • Motion and life did ev’ry part inspire,
    • Bold was the work, and prov’d the master’s fire:
    • A strong expression most he seem’d t’ affect,
    • And here and there disclosed a brave neglect.
    • A golden column next in rank appear’d,
    • On which a shrine of purest gold was rear’d;
    • Finish’d the whole, and labour’d ev’ry part,
    • With patient touches of unwearied art.199
    • The Mantuan there in sober triumph sate,
    • Composed his posture, and his look sedate;
    • On Homer still he fix’d a rev’rend eye,
    • Great without pride, in modest majesty.
    • In living sculpture on the sides were spread
    • The Latian wars, and haughty Turnus dead;
    • Eliza stretch’d upon the funeral pyre;
    • Æneas bending with his aged sire:
    • Troy flamed in burning gold, and o’er the throne
    • ‘Arms and the man’ in golden ciphers shone.
    • Four swans sustain a car of silver bright,210
    • With heads advanced, and pinions stretch’d for flight:
    • Here, like some furious prophet, Pindar rode,
    • And seem’d to labour with th’ inspiring God.
    • Across the harp a careless hand he flings,
    • And boldly sinks into the sounding strings.
    • The figured games of Greece the column grace:
    • Neptune and Jove survey the rapid race;
    • The youths hang o’er the chariots as they run;
    • The fiery steeds seem starting from the stone;
    • The champions in distorted postures threat;220
    • And all appear’d irregularly great.
    • Here happy Horace tuned th’ Ausonian lyre
    • To sweeter sounds, and temper’d Pindar’s fire:
    • Pleas’d with Alcæus’ manly rage t’ infuse
    • The softer spirit of the Sapphic Muse.
    • The polish’d pillar diff’rent sculptures grace;
    • A work outlasting monumental brass.
    • Here smiling loves and bacchanals appear,
    • The Julian star, and great Augustus here;
    • The doves, that round the infant poet spread230
    • Myrtles and bays, hung hov’ring o’er his head.
    • Here, in a shrine that cast a dazzling light,
    • Sate fix’d in thought the mighty Stagyrite;
    • His sacred head a radiant Zodiac crown’d,
    • And various animals his sides surround:
    • His piercing eyes, erect, appear to view
    • Superior worlds, and look all Nature thro’.
    • With equal rays immortal Tully shone;
    • The Roman rostra deck’d the consul’s throne;
    • Gath’ring his flowing robe, he seem’d to stand240
    • In act to speak, and graceful stretch’d his hand;
    • Behind, Rome’s Genius waits with civic crowns,
    • And the great father of his country owns.
    • These massy columns in a circle rise,
    • O’er which a pompous dome invades the skies;
    • Scarce to the top I stretch’d my aching sight,
    • So large it spread, and swell’d to such a height.
    • Full in the midst proud Fame’s imperial seat
    • With jewels blazed, magnificently great;
    • The vivid em’ralds there revive the eye,250
    • The flaming rubies show their sanguine dye,
    • Bright azure rays from lively sapphires stream,
    • And lucid amber casts a golden gleam.
    • With various-colour’d light the pavement shone,
    • And all on fire appear’d the glowing throne;
    • The dome’s high arch reflects the mingled blaze,
    • And forms a rainbow of alternate rays.
    • When on the Goddess first I cast my sight,
    • Scarce seem’d her stature of a cubit’s height;259
    • But swell’d to larger size, the more I gazed,
    • Till to the roof her tow’ring front she rais’d.
    • With her, the temple ev’ry moment grew,
    • And ampler vistas open’d to my view:
    • Upward the columns shoot, the roofs ascend,
    • And arches widen, and long aisles extend.
    • Such was her form, as ancient bards have told;
    • Wings raise her arms, and wings her feet infold;
    • A thousand busy tongues the Goddess bears,
    • A thousand open eyes, and thousand list’ning ears.269
    • Beneath, in order ranged, the tuneful Nine
    • (Her virgin handmaids) still attend the shrine;
    • With eyes on Fame for ever fix’d, they sing;
    • For Fame they raise the voice, and tune the string;
    • With Time’s first birth began the heav’nly lays,
    • And last, eternal, thro’ the length of days.
    • Around these wonders as I cast a look,
    • The trumpet sounded, and the temple shook,
    • And all the nations summon’d at the call,
    • From diff’rent quarters fill the crowded hall.
    • Of various tongues the mingled sounds were heard;280
    • In various garbs promiscuous throngs appear’d:
    • Thick as the bees, that with the spring renew
    • Their flowery toils, and sip the fragrant dew,
    • When the wing’d colonies first tempt the sky,
    • O’er dusky fields and shaded waters fly,
    • Or, settling, seize the sweets the blossoms yield,
    • And a low murmur runs along the field.
    • Millions of suppliant crowds the shrine attend,288
    • And all degrees before the Goddess bend;
    • The poor, the rich, the valiant, and the sage,
    • And boasting youth, and narrative old age.
    • Their pleas were diff’rent, their request the same;
    • For good and bad alike are fond of Fame.
    • Some she disgraced and some with honours crown’d;
    • Unlike successes equal merits found.
    • Thus her blind sister, fickle Fortune, reigns,
    • And, undiscerning, scatters crowns and chains.
    • First at the shrine the learned world appear,
    • And to the Goddess thus prefer their prayer:
    • ‘Long have we sought t’ instruct and please mankind,300
    • With studies pale, with midnight-vigils blind;
    • But thank’d by few, rewarded yet by none,
    • We here appeal to thy superior throne:
    • On Wit and Learning the just prize bestow,
    • For Fame is all we must expect below.’
    • The Goddess heard, and bade the Muses raise
    • The golden trumpet of eternal praise:
    • From pole to pole the winds diffuse the sound,
    • That fills the circuit of the world around;
    • Not all at once, as thunder breaks the cloud,310
    • The notes at first were rather sweet than loud;
    • By just degrees they every moment rise,
    • Fill the wide earth, and gain upon the skies.
    • At every breath were balmy odours shed,
    • Which still grew sweeter as they wider spread;
    • Less fragrant scents th’ unfolding rose exhales,
    • Or spices breathing in Arabian gales.
    • Next these the good and just, an awful train,
    • Thus on their knees address the sacred fane:319
    • ‘Since living virtue is with envy curs’d,
    • And the best men are treated like the worst,
    • Do thou, just Goddess, call our merits forth,
    • And give each deed th’ exact intrinsic worth.’
    • ‘Not with bare justice shall your act be crown’d
    • (Said Fame), but high above desert renown’d:
    • Let fuller notes th’ applauding world amaze,
    • And the loud clarion labour in your praise.’
    • This band dismiss’d, behold another crowd
    • Preferr’d the same request, and lowly bow’d;
    • The constant tenor of whose well-spent days330
    • No less deserv’d a just return of praise.
    • But straight the direful trump of Slander sounds;
    • Thro’ the big dome the doubling thunder bounds;
    • Loud as the burst of cannon rends the skies,
    • The dire report thro’ every region flies,
    • In every ear incessant rumours rung,
    • And gath’ring scandals grew on every tongue.
    • From the black trumpet’s rusty concave broke
    • Sulphureous flames, and clouds of rolling smoke:
    • The pois’nous vapour blots the purple skies,340
    • And withers all before it as it flies.
    • A troop came next, who crowns and armour wore,
    • And proud defiance in their looks they bore:
    • ‘For thee (they cried) amidst alarms and strife,
    • We sail’d in tempests down the stream of life;
    • For thee whole nations fill’d with flames and blood,
    • And swam to Empire thro’ the purple flood:
    • Those ills we dared, thy inspiration own;
    • What virtue seem’d, was done for thee alone.’
    • ‘Ambitious fools!’ (the Queen replied, and frown’d)350
    • ‘Be all your acts in dark oblivion drown’d;
    • There sleep forgot, with mighty tyrants gone,
    • Your statues moulder’d, and your names unknown!’
    • A sudden cloud straight snatch’d them from my sight,
    • And each majestic phantom sunk in night.
    • Then came the smallest tribe I yet had seen;
    • Plain was their dress, and modest was their mien:
    • ‘Great Idol of mankind! we neither claim
    • The praise of Merit, nor aspire to Fame!
    • But safe in deserts from th’ applause of men,360
    • Would die unheard of, as we liv’d unseen;
    • ’T is all we beg thee, to conceal from sight
    • Those acts of goodness which themselves requite.
    • O let us still the secret joy partake,
    • To follow Virtue ev’n for Virtue’s sake.’
    • ‘And live there men who slight immortal fame?
    • Who then with incense shall adore our name?
    • But, mortals! know, ’t is still our greatest pride
    • To blaze those virtues which the good would hide.
    • Rise! Muses, rise! add all your tuneful breath;370
    • These must not sleep in darkness and in death.’
    • She said: in air the trembling music floats,
    • And on the winds triumphant swell the notes;
    • So soft, tho’ high, so loud, and yet so clear,
    • Ev’n list’ning angels lean’d from Heav’n to hear:
    • To farthest shores th’ ambrosial spirit flies,
    • Sweet to the world, and grateful to the skies.
    • Next these a youthful train their vows express’d,
    • With feathers crown’d, with gay embroid’ry dress’d:
    • ‘Hither’ they cried ‘direct your eyes, and see380
    • The men of pleasure, dress, and gallantry.
    • Ours is the place at banquets, balls, and plays,
    • Sprightly our nights, polite are all our days;
    • Courts we frequent, where ’t is our pleasing care
    • To pay due visits, and address the Fair;
    • In fact, ’t is true, no nymph we could persuade,
    • But still in fancy vanquish’d ev’ry maid;
    • Of unknown Duchesses lewd tales we tell,
    • Yet, would the world believe us, all were well;389
    • The joy let others have, and we the name,
    • And what we want in pleasure, grant in fame.’
    • The Queen assents: the trumpet rends the skies,
    • And at each blast a lady’s honour dies.
    • Pleas’d with the strange success, vast numbers prest
    • Around the shrine, and made the same request:
    • ‘What you’ she cried, ‘unlearn’d in arts to please,
    • Slaves to yourselves, and ev’n fatigued with ease,
    • Who lose a length of undeserving days,
    • Would you usurp the lover’s dear-bought praise?
    • To just contempt, ye vain pretenders, fall,
    • The people’s fable, and the scorn of all.’401
    • Straight the black clarion sends a horrid sound,
    • Loud laughs burst out, and bitter scoffs fly round;
    • Whispers are heard, with taunts reviling loud,
    • And scornful hisses run thro’ all the crowd.
    • Last, those who boast of mighty mischiefs done,
    • Enslave their country, or usurp a throne;
    • Or who their glory’s dire foundation laid
    • On sov’reigns ruin’d, or on friends betray’d;
    • Calm, thinking villains, whom no faith could fix,410
    • Of crooked counsels and dark politics;
    • Of these a gloomy tribe surround the throne,
    • And beg to make th’ immortal treasons known.
    • The trumpet roars, long flaky flames expire,
    • With sparks that seem’d to set the world on fire.
    • At the dread sound pale mortals stood aghast,
    • And startled Nature trembled with the blast.
    • This having heard and seen, some Power unknown
    • Straight changed the scene, and snatch’d me from the throne.
    • Before my view appear’d a structure fair,420
    • Its site uncertain, if in earth or air;
    • With rapid motion turn’d the mansion round;
    • With ceaseless noise the ringing walls resound:
    • Not less in number were the spacious doors
    • Than leaves on trees, or sands upon the shores;
    • Which still unfolded stand, by night, by day,
    • Previous to winds, and open every way.
    • As flames by nature to the skies ascend,
    • As weighty bodies to the centre tend,
    • As to the sea returning rivers roll,430
    • And the touch’d needle trembles to the pole,
    • Hither, as to their proper place, arise
    • All various sounds from earth, and seas, and skies,
    • Or spoke aloud, or whisper’d in the ear;
    • Nor ever silence, rest, or peace is here.
    • As on the smooth expanse of crystal lakes
    • The sinking stone at first a circle makes;
    • The trembling surface by the motion stirr’d,
    • Spreads in a second circle, then a third;
    • Wide, and more wide, the floating rings advance,440
    • Fill all the wat’ry plain, and to the margin dance:
    • Thus every voice and sound, when first they break,
    • On neighb’ring air a soft impression make;
    • Another ambient circle then they move;
    • That in its turn, impels the next above;
    • Thro’ undulating air the sounds are sent,
    • And spread o’er all the fluid element.
    • There various news I heard of love and strife,
    • Of peace and war, health, sickness, death, and life,449
    • Of loss and gain, of famine, and of store,
    • Of storms at sea, and travels on the shore,
    • Of prodigies, and portents seen in air,
    • Of fires and plagues, and stars with blazing hair,
    • Of turns of fortune, changes in the state,
    • The fall of fav’rites, projects of the great,
    • Of old mismanagements, taxations new;
    • All neither wholly false, nor wholly true.
    • Above, below, without, within, around,
    • Confused, unnumber’d multitudes are found,
    • Who pass, repass, advance, and glide away,460
    • Hosts rais’d by fear, and phantoms of a day:
    • Astrologers, that future fates foreshew,
    • Projectors, quacks, and lawyers not a few;
    • And priests, and party zealots, numerous bands,
    • With home-born lies or tales from foreign lands;
    • Each talk’d aloud, or in some secret place,
    • And wild impatience stared in ev’ry face.
    • The flying rumours gather’d as they roll’d,
    • Scarce any tale was sooner heard than told;
    • And all who told it added something new, }
    • And all who heard it made enlargements too;471 }
    • In ev’ry ear it spread, on ev’ry tongue it grew. }
    • Thus flying east and west, and north and south,
    • News travel’d with increase from mouth to mouth.
    • So from a spark that, kindled first by chance,
    • With gath’ring force the quick’ning flames advance;
    • Till to the clouds their curling heads aspire,
    • And towers and temples sink in floods of fire.
    • When thus ripe lies are to perfection sprung,
    • Full grown, and fit to grace a mortal tongue,480
    • Thro’ thousand vents, impatient, forth they flow,
    • And rush in millions on the world below.
    • Fame sits aloft, and points them out their course,
    • Their date determines, and prescribes their force;
    • Some to remain, and some to perish soon,
    • Or wane and wax alternate like the moon.
    • Around, a thousand winged wonders fly,
    • Borne by the trumpet’s blast, and scatter’d thro’ the sky.
    • There, at one passage, oft you might survey
    • A lie and truth contending for the way;490
    • And long ’t was doubtful, both so closely pent,
    • Which first should issue thro’ the narrow vent:
    • At last agreed, together out they fly,
    • Inseparable now the truth and lie;
    • The strict companions are for ever join’d,
    • And this or that unmix’d, no mortal e’er shall find,
    • While thus I stood, intent to see and hear,
    • One came, methought, and whisper’d in my ear:
    • ‘What could thus high thy rash ambition raise?
    • Art thou, fond youth, a candidate for praise?’500
    • ‘’T is true,’ said I, ‘not void of hopes I came,
    • For who so fond as youthful bards of Fame?
    • But few, alas! the casual blessing boast,
    • So hard to gain, so easy to be lost.
    • How vain that second life in others’ breath,
    • Th’ estate which wits inherit after death!
    • Ease, health, and life for this they must resign,
    • (Unsure the tenure, but how vast the fine!)
    • The great man’s curse, without the gains, endure,
    • Be envied, wretched; and be flatter’d, poor;
    • All luckless wits their enemies profest,511
    • And all successful, jealous friends at best.
    • Nor Fame I slight, nor for her favours call;
    • She comes unlook’d for, if she comes at all.
    • But if the purchase costs so dear a price
    • As soothing Folly, or exalting Vice;
    • Oh! if the Muse must flatter lawless sway,
    • And follow still where Fortune leads the way;
    • Or if no basis bear my rising name,
    • But the fall’n ruins of another’s fame;520
    • Then teach me, Heav’n! to scorn the guilty bays;
    • Drive from my breast that wretched lust of praise;
    • Unblemish’d let me live or die unknown;
    • Oh, grant an honest fame, or grant me none!’
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TRANSLATIONS FROM OVID

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SAPPHO TO PHAON

FROM THE FIFTEENTH OF OVID’S EPISTLES

Written, according to Pope, in 1707. First published in Tonson’s Ovid, 1712.

    • Say, lovely Youth, that dost my heart command,
    • Can Phaon’s eyes forget his Sappho’s hand?
    • Must then her name the wretched writer prove,
    • To thy remembrance lost, as to thy love?
    • Ask not the cause that I new numbers choose,
    • The lute neglected and the lyric Muse;
    • Love taught my tears in sadder notes to flow,
    • And tuned my heart to elegies of woe.
    • I burn, I burn, as when thro’ ripen’d corn
    • By driving winds the spreading flames are borne!10
    • Phaon to Ætna’s scorching fields retires,
    • While I consume with more than Ætna’s fires!
    • No more my soul a charm in music finds;
    • Music has charms alone for peaceful minds.
    • Soft scenes of solitude no more can please;
    • Love enters there, and I’m my own disease.
    • No more the Lesbian dames my passion move,
    • Once the dear objects of my guilty love;
    • All other loves are lost in only thine,
    • O youth, ungrateful to a flame like mine!
    • Whom would not all those blooming charms surprise,21
    • Those heav’nly looks, and dear deluding eyes?
    • The harp and bow would you like Phœbus bear,
    • A brighter Phœbus Phaon might appear;
    • Would you with ivy wreathe your flowing hair,
    • Not Bacchus’ self with Phaon could compare:
    • Yet Phœbus lov’d, and Bacchus felt the flame,
    • One Daphne warm’d, and one the Cretan dame;
    • Nymphs that in verse no more could rival me,
    • Than ev’n those Gods contend in charms with thee.30
    • The Muses teach me all their softest lays,
    • And the wide world resounds with Sappho’s praise.
    • Tho’ great Alcæus more sublimely sings,
    • And strikes with bolder rage the sounding strings,
    • No less renown attends the moving lyre,
    • Which Venus tunes, and all her loves inspire;
    • To me what Nature has in charms denied,
    • Is well by Wit’s more lasting flames supplied.
    • Tho’ short my stature, yet my name extends
    • To Heav’n itself, and earth’s remotest ends.40
    • Brown as I am, an Ethiopian dame
    • Inspired young Perseus with a gen’rous flame;
    • Turtles and doves of diff’rent hues unite,
    • And glossy jet is pair’d with shining white.
    • If to no charms thou wilt thy heart resign,
    • But such as merit, such as equal thine,
    • By none, alas! by none thou canst be mov’d,
    • Phaon alone by Phaon must be lov’d!
    • Yet once thy Sappho could thy cares employ,
    • Once in her arms you centred all your joy:
    • No time the dear remembrance can remove,51
    • For oh! how vast a memory has Love!
    • My music, then, you could for ever hear,
    • And all my words were music to your ear.
    • You stopp’d with kisses my enchanting tongue,
    • And found my kisses sweeter than my song.
    • In all I pleas’d, but most in what was best;
    • And the last joy was dearer than the rest.
    • Then with each word, each glance, each motion fired,
    • You still enjoy’d, and yet you still desired,
    • Till, all dissolving, in the trance we lay,61
    • And in tumultuous raptures died away.
    • The fair Sicilians now thy soul inflame;
    • Why was I born, ye Gods, a Lesbian dame?
    • But ah, beware, Sicilian nymphs! nor boast
    • That wand’ring heart which I so lately lost;
    • Nor be with all those tempting words abused,
    • Those tempting words were all to Sappho used.
    • And you that rule Sicilia’s happy plains,
    • Have pity, Venus, on your poet’s pains!70
    • Shall fortune still in one sad tenor run,
    • And still increase the woes so soon begun?
    • Inured to sorrow from my tender years,
    • My parents’ ashes drank my early tears:
    • My brother next, neglecting wealth and fame,
    • Ignobly burn’d in a destructive flame:
    • An infant daughter late my griefs increas’d,
    • And all a mother’s cares distract my breast.
    • Alas! what more could Fate itself impose,
    • But thee, the last, and greatest of my woes?80
    • No more my robes in waving purple flow,
    • Nor on my hand the sparkling diamonds glow;
    • No more my locks in ringlets curl’d diffuse
    • The costly sweetness of Arabian dews,
    • Nor braids of gold the varied tresses bind,
    • That fly disorder’d with the wanton wind:
    • For whom should Sappho use such arts as these?
    • He’s gone, whom only she desired to please!
    • Cupid’s light darts my tender bosom move;
    • Still is there cause for Sappho still to love:90
    • So from my birth the sisters fix’d my doom,
    • And gave to Venus all my life to come;
    • Or, while my Muse in melting notes complains,
    • My yielding heart keeps measure to my strains.
    • By charms like thine which all my soul have won,
    • Who might not—ah! who would not be undone?
    • For those Aurora Cephalus might scorn,
    • And with fresh blushes paint the conscious morn.
    • For those might Cynthia lengthen Phaon’s sleep,99
    • And bid Endymion nightly tend his sheep.
    • Venus for those had rapt thee to the skies;
    • But Mars on thee might look with Venus’ eyes.
    • O scarce a youth, yet scarce a tender boy!
    • O useful time for lovers to employ!
    • Pride of thy age, and glory of thy race,
    • Come to these arms, and melt in this embrace!
    • The vows you never will return, receive;
    • And take, at least, the love you will not give.
    • See, while I write, my words are lost in tears!
    • The less my sense, the more my love appears.110
    • Sure ’t was not much to bid one kind adieu
    • (At least to feign was never hard to you):
    • ‘Farewell, my Lesbian love,’ you might have said;
    • Or coldly thus, ‘Farewell, O Lesbian maid!’
    • No tear did you, no parting kiss receive,
    • Nor knew I then how much I was to grieve.
    • No lover’s gift your Sappho could confer,
    • And wrongs and woes were all you left with her.
    • No charge I gave you, and no charge could give,
    • But this, ‘Be mindful of our loves, and live.’120
    • Now by the Nine, those powers ador’d by me,
    • And Love, the God that ever waits on thee,
    • When first I heard (from whom I hardly knew)
    • That you were fled, and all my joys with you,
    • Like some sad statue, speechless, pale, I stood,
    • Grief chill’d my breast, and stopt my freezing blood;
    • No sigh to rise, no tear had power to flow,
    • Fix’d in a stupid lethargy of woe:
    • But when its way th’ impetuous passion found,
    • I rend my tresses, and my breast I wound;
    • I rave, then weep; I curse, and then complain;131
    • Now swell to rage, now melt in tears again.
    • Not fiercer pangs distract the mournful dame,
    • Whose first-born infant feeds the funeral flame.
    • My scornful brother with a smile appears,
    • Insults my woes, and triumphs in my tears;
    • His hated image ever haunts my eyes;
    • ‘And why this grief? thy daughter lives,’ he cries,
    • Stung with my love, and furious with despair,
    • All torn my garments, and my bosom bare,
    • My woes, thy crimes, I to the world proclaim,141
    • Such inconsistent things are Love and Shame!
    • ’T is thou art all my care and my delight,
    • My daily longing, and my dream by night:
    • O night more pleasing than the brightest day,
    • When fancy gives what absence takes away,
    • And, dress’d in all its visionary charms,
    • Restores my fair deserter to my arms!
    • Then round your neck in wanton wreaths I twine;
    • Then you, methinks, as fondly circle mine:
    • A thousand tender words I hear and speak;151
    • A thousand melting kisses give and take:
    • Then fiercer joys—I blush to mention these,
    • Yet, while I blush, confess how much they please.
    • But when, with day, the sweet delusions fly,
    • And all things wake to life and joy but I,
    • As if once more forsaken, I complain,
    • And close my eyes to dream of you again:
    • Then frantic rise, and like some fury rove
    • Thro’ lonely plains, and thro’ the silent grove;160
    • As if the silent grove, and lonely plains,
    • That knew my pleasures, could relieve my pains.
    • I view the grotto, once the scene of love,
    • The rocks around, the hanging roofs above,
    • That charm’d me more, with native moss o’ergrown,
    • Than Phrygian marble, or the Parian stone:
    • I find the shades that veil’d our joys before;
    • But, Phaon gone, those shades delight no more.
    • Here the press’d herbs with bending tops betray
    • Where oft entwin’d in am’rous folds we lay;170
    • I kiss that earth which once was press’d by you,
    • And all with tears the with’ring herbs bedew.
    • For thee the fading trees appear to mourn,
    • And birds defer their songs till thy return:
    • Night shades the groves, and all in silence lie,
    • All but the mournful Philomel and I:
    • With mournful Philomel I join my strain,
    • Of Tereus she, of Phaon I complain.
    • A spring there is, whose silver waters show,
    • Clear as a glass, the shining sands below:
    • A flowery lotos spreads its arms above,181
    • Shades all the banks, and seems itself a grove;
    • Eternal greens the mossy margin grace,
    • Watch’d by the sylvan genius of the place.
    • Here as I lay, and swell’d with tears the flood,
    • Before my sight a wat’ry virgin stood:
    • She stood and cried, ‘O you that love in vain!
    • Fly hence, and seek the fair Leucadian main.
    • There stands a rock, from whose impending steep
    • Apollo’s fane surveys the rolling deep;190
    • There injur’d lovers, leaping from above,
    • Their flames extinguish, and forget to love.
    • Deucalion once with hopeless fury burn’d;
    • In vain he lov’d, relentless Pyrrha scorn’d;
    • But when from hence he plunged into the main,
    • Deucalion scorn’d, and Pyrrha lov’d in vain.
    • Haste, Sappho, haste, from high Leucadia throw
    • Thy wretched weight, nor dread the deeps below!’
    • She spoke, and vanish’d with the voice—I rise,
    • And silent tears fall trickling from my eyes.200
    • I go, ye Nymphs! those rocks and seas to prove;
    • How much I fear, but ah, how much I love!
    • I go, ye Nymphs! where furious love inspires,
    • Let female fears submit to female fires.
    • To rocks and seas I fly from Phaon’s hate,
    • And hope from seas and rocks a milder fate.
    • Ye gentle gales, beneath my body blow,
    • And softly lay me on the waves below!
    • And thou, kind Love, my sinking limbs sustain, }
    • Spread thy soft wings, and waft me o’er the main,210 }
    • Nor let a lover’s death the guiltless flood profane; }
    • On Phœbus’ shrine my harp I’ll then bestow,
    • And this inscription shall be placed below:
    • ‘Here she who sung, to him that did inspire,
    • Sappho to Phœbus consecrates her lyre;
    • What suits with Sappho, Phœbus, suits with thee;
    • The Gift, the Giver, and the God agree.’
    • But why, alas! relentless youth, ah why
    • To distant seas must tender Sappho fly?
    • Thy charms than those may far more powerful be,220
    • And Phœbus’ self is less a God to me.
    • Ah! canst thou doom me to the rocks and sea,
    • Oh! far more faithless and more hard than they?
    • Ah! canst thou rather see this tender breast
    • Dash’d on these rocks than to thy bosom press’d?
    • This breast which once, in vain! you liked so well
    • Where the Loves play’d, and where the Muses dwell.
    • Alas! the Muses now no more inspire;
    • Untuned my lute, and silent is my lyre.229
    • My languid numbers have forgot to flow,
    • And fancy sinks beneath a weight of woe.
    • Ye Lesbian virgins, and ye Lesbian dames,
    • Themes of my verse, and objects of my flames,
    • No more your groves with my glad songs shall ring,
    • No more these hands shall touch the trembling string:
    • My Phaon’s fled, and I those arts resign;
    • (Wretch that I am, to call that Phaon mine!)
    • Return, fair youth, return, and bring along
    • Joy to my soul, and vigour to my song:239
    • Absent from thee, the poet’s flame expires;
    • But ah! how fiercely burn the lover’s fires!
    • Gods! can no prayers, no sighs, no numbers move
    • One savage heart, or teach it how to love?
    • The winds my prayers, my sighs, my numbers bear,
    • The flying winds have lost them all in air!
    • Oh when, alas! shall more auspicious gales
    • To these fond eyes restore thy welcome sails!
    • If you return—ah, why these long delays?
    • Poor Sappho dies while careless Phaon stays.
    • O launch thy bark, nor fear the wat’ry plain;250
    • Venus for thee shall smooth her native main.
    • O launch thy bark, secure of prosp’rous gales;
    • Cupid for thee shall spread the swelling sails.
    • If you will fly—(yet ah! what cause can be,
    • Too cruel youth, that you should fly from me?)
    • If not from Phaon I must hope for ease,
    • Ah let me seek it from the raging seas:
    • To raging seas unpitied I ’ll remove,
    • And either cease to live or cease to love!
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THE FABLE OF DRYOPE[ ]

FROM THE NINTH BOOK OF OVID’S METAMORPHOSES

    • She said, and for her lost Galanthis sighs;
    • When the fair consort of her son replies:
    • ‘Since you a servant’s ravish’d form bemoan,
    • And kindly sigh for sorrows not your own,
    • Let me (if tears and grief permit) relate
    • A nearer woe, a sister’s stranger fate.
    • No nymph of all Œchalia could compare
    • For beauteous form with Dryope the fair,
    • Her tender mother’s only hope and pride
    • (Myself the offspring of a second bride).10
    • This nymph compress’d by him who rules the day,
    • Whom Delphi and the Delian isle obey,
    • Andræmon lov’d; and bless’d in all those charms
    • That pleas’d a God, succeeded to her arms.
    • ‘A lake there was with shelving banks around,
    • Whose verdant summit fragrant myrtles crown’d.
    • These shades, unknowing of the fates, she sought,
    • And to the Naiads flowery garlands brought:
    • Her smiling babe (a pleasing charge) she prest
    • Within her arms, and nourish’d at her breast.20
    • Not distant far a wat’ry lotos grows;
    • The spring was new, and all the verdant boughs
    • Adorn’d with blossoms, promis’d fruits that vie
    • In glowing colours with the Tyrian dye.
    • Of these she cropp’d, to please her infant son,
    • And I myself the same rash act had done:
    • But, lo! I saw (as near her side I stood)
    • The violated blossoms drop with blood;
    • Upon the tree I cast a frightful look;
    • The trembling tree with sudden horror shook.30
    • Lotis the nymph (if rural tales be true)
    • As from Priapus’ lawless lust she flew,
    • Forsook her form, and, fixing here, became
    • A flowery plant, which still preserves her name.
    • ‘This change unknown, astonish’d at the sight,
    • My trembling sister strove to urge her flight;
    • And first the pardon of the Nymphs implor’d,
    • And those offended sylvan Powers ador’d:
    • But when she backward would have fled, she found
    • Her stiff’ning feet were rooted in the ground:40
    • In vain to free her fasten’d feet she strove,
    • And as she struggles only moves above;
    • She feels th’ encroaching bark around her grow
    • By quick degrees, and cover all below:
    • Surprised at this, her trembling hand she heaves
    • To rend her hair; her hand is fill’d with leaves:
    • Where late was hair the shooting leaves are seen
    • To rise, and shade her with a sudden green.
    • The child Amphissus, to her bosom prest,
    • Perceiv’d a colder and a harder breast,50
    • And found the springs, that ne’er till then denied
    • Their milky moisture, on a sudden dried.
    • I saw, unhappy! what I now relate,
    • And stood the helpless witness of thy fate;
    • Embraced thy boughs, thy rising bark delay’d,
    • There wish’d to grow, and mingle shade with shade.
    • ‘Behold Andræmon and th’ unhappy sire
    • Appear, and for their Dryope inquire:
    • A springing tree for Dryope they find,
    • And print warm kisses on the panting rind;
    • Prostrate, with tears, their kindred plant bedew,61
    • And close embrace as to the roots they grew.
    • The face was all that now remain’d of thee,
    • No more a woman, nor yet quite a tree;
    • Thy branches hung with humid pearls appear,
    • From ev’ry leaf distils a trickling tear;
    • And straight a voice, while yet a voice remains,
    • Thus thro’ the trembling boughs in sighs complains.
    • ‘If to the wretched any faith be giv’n,
    • I swear by all th’ unpitying powers of Heav’n,70
    • No wilful crime this heavy vengeance bred;
    • In mutual innocence our lives we led:
    • If this be false, let these new greens decay, }
    • Let sounding axes lop my limbs away, }
    • And crackling flames on all my honours prey. }
    • But from my branching arms this infant bear;
    • Let some kind nurse supply a mother’s care;
    • And to his mother let him oft be led,
    • Sport in her shades, and in her shades be fed.
    • Teach him, when first his infant voice shall frame80
    • Imperfect words, and lisp his mother’s name,
    • To hail this tree, and say with weeping eyes,
    • “Within this plant my hapless parent lies:”
    • And when in youth he seeks the shady woods,
    • Oh! let him fly the crystal lakes and floods,
    • Nor touch the fatal flowers; but, warn’d by me,
    • Believe a Goddess shrined in every tree.
    • My sire, my sister, and my spouse, farewell!
    • If in your breasts or love or pity dwell,
    • Protect your plant, nor let my branches feel90
    • The browsing cattle or the piercing steel.
    • Farewell! and since I cannot bend to join
    • My lips to yours, advance at least to mine.
    • My son, thy mother’s parting kiss receive,
    • While yet thy mother has a kiss to give.
    • I can no more; the creeping rind invades
    • My closing lips, and hides my head in shades:
    • Remove your hands; the bark shall soon suffice
    • Without their aid to seal these dying eyes.’
    • ‘She ceas’d at once to speak and ceas’d to be,100
    • And all the Nymph was lost within the tree;
    • Yet latent life thro’ her new branches reign’d
    • And long the plant a human heat retain’d.’
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VERTUMNUS AND POMONA

FROM THE FOURTEENTH BOOK OF OVID’S METAMORPHOSES

    • The fair Pomona flourish’d in his reign;
    • Of all the virgins of the sylvan train
    • None taught the trees a nobler race to bear,
    • Or more improv’d the vegetable care.
    • To her the shady grove, the flowery field,
    • The streams and fountains no delights could yield;
    • ’T was all her joy the ripening fruits to tend,
    • And see the boughs with happy burdens bend.
    • The hook she bore instead of Cynthia’s spear.
    • To lop the growth of the luxuriant year,10
    • To decent form the lawless shoots to bring,
    • And teach th’ obedient branches where to spring.
    • Now the cleft rind inserted grafts receives,
    • And yields an offspring more than Nature gives;
    • Now sliding streams the thirsty plants renew,
    • And feed their fibres with reviving dew.
    • These cares alone her virgin breast employ,
    • Averse from Venus and the nuptial joy.
    • Her private orchards, wall’d on every side,
    • To lawless sylvans all access denied.20
    • How oft the Satyrs and the wanton Fauns,
    • Who haunt the forests or frequent the lawns,
    • The God whose ensign scares the birds of prey,
    • And old Silenus, youthful in decay,
    • Employ’d their wiles and unavailing care
    • To pass the fences, and surprise the Fair?
    • Like these Vertumnus own’d his faithful flame,
    • Like these rejected by the scornful dame.
    • To gain her sight a thousand forms he wears;
    • And first a reaper from the field appears:30
    • Sweating he walks, while loads of golden grain
    • O’ercharge the shoulders of the seeming swain:
    • Oft o’er his back a crooked scythe is laid,
    • And wreaths of hay his sunburnt temples shade:
    • Oft in his harden’d hand a goad he bears,
    • Like one who late unyoked the sweating steers:
    • Sometimes his pruning-hook corrects the vines,
    • And the loose stragglers to their ranks confines:
    • Now gath’ring what the bounteous year allows,
    • He pulls ripe apples from the bending boughs:40
    • A soldier now, he with his sword appears;
    • A fisher next, his trembling angle bears:
    • Each shape he varies, and each art he tries,
    • On her bright charms to feast his longing eyes.
    • A female form at last Vertumnus wears, }
    • With all the marks of rev’rend age appears, }
    • His temples thinly spread with silver hairs: }
    • Propp’d on his staff, and stooping as he goes,
    • A painted mitre shades his furrow’d brows.
    • The God in this decrepit form array’d,50 }
    • The gardens enter’d, and the fruit survey’d; }
    • And, ‘Happy you!’ he thus address’d the maid, }
    • ‘Whose charms as far all other nymphs outshine,
    • As other gardens are excell’d by thine!’
    • Then kiss’d the Fair; (his kisses warmer grow
    • Than such as women on their sex bestow)
    • Then placed beside her on the flowery ground,
    • Beheld the trees with autumn’s bounty crown’d.
    • An elm was near, to whose embraces led,
    • The curling vine her swelling clusters spread:60
    • He view’d her twining branches with delight,
    • And prais’d the beauty of the pleasing sight.
    • ‘Yet this tall elm, but for this vine,’ he said,
    • “Had stood neglected, and a barren shade;
    • And this fair vine, but that her arms surround
    • Her married elm, had crept along the ground.
    • Ah! beauteous maid! let this example move
    • Your mind, averse from all the joys of love.
    • Deign to be lov’d, and every heart subdue!
    • What Nymph could e’er attract such crowds as you?70
    • Not she whose beauty urged the Centaur’s arms,
    • Ulysses’ queen, nor Helen’s fatal charms.
    • Ev’n now, when silent scorn is all they gain,
    • A thousand court you, tho’ they court in vain,
    • A thousand Sylvans, Demigods, and Gods,
    • That haunt our mountains and our Alban woods.
    • But if you ’ll prosper, mark what I advise,
    • Whom age and long experience render wise,
    • And one whose tender care is far above
    • All that these lovers ever felt of love80
    • (Far more than e’er can by yourself be guess’d);
    • Fix on Vertumnus, and reject the rest:
    • For his firm faith I dare engage my own;
    • Scarce to himself himself is better known.
    • To distant lands Vertumnus never roves;
    • Like you, contented with his native groves;
    • Nor at first sight, like most, admires the Fair; }
    • For you he lives; and you alone shall share }
    • His last affection as his early care. }
    • Besides, he’s lovely far above the rest,90
    • With youth immortal, and with beauty blest.
    • Add, that he varies every shape with ease,
    • And tries all forms that may Pomona please.
    • But what should most excite a mutual flame,
    • Your rural cares and pleasures are the same.
    • To him your orchard’s early fruits are due
    • (A pleasing off’ring when ’t is made by you);
    • He values these; but yet, alas! complains
    • That still the best and dearest gift remains.
    • Not the fair fruit that on yon branches glows100
    • With that ripe red th’ autumnal sun bestows;
    • Nor tasteful herbs that in these gardens rise,
    • Which the kind soil with milky sap supplies;
    • You, only you, can move the God’s desire.
    • O crown so constant and so pure a fire!
    • Let soft compassion touch your gentle mind;
    • Think ’t is Vertumnus begs you to be kind:
    • So may no frost, when early buds appear,
    • Destroy the promise of the youthful year;
    • Nor winds, when first your florid orchard blows,110
    • Shake the light blossoms from their blasted boughs!’
    • This, when the various God had urged in vain,
    • He straight assumed his native form again:
    • Such, and so bright an aspect now he bears,
    • As when thro’ clouds th’ emerging sun appears,
    • And thence exerting his refulgent ray,
    • Dispels the darkness, and reveals the day.
    • Force he prepared, but check’d the rash design;
    • For when, appearing in a form divine,
    • The Nymph surveys him, and beholds the grace120
    • Of charming features and a youthful face,
    • In her soft breast consenting passions move,
    • And the warm maid confess’d a mutual love.
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AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM[ ]

This, the first mature original work of the author, was written in 1709, when Pope was in his twentieth year. It was not published till 1711.

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PART I

Introduction. That it is as great a fault to judge ill as to write ill, and a more dangerous one to the public. That a true Taste is as rare to be found as a true Genius. That most men are born with some Taste, but spoiled by false education. The multitude of Critics, and causes of them. That we are to study our own Taste, and know the limits of it. Nature the best guide of judgment. Improved by Art and rules, which are but methodized Nature. Rules derived from the practice of the ancient poets. That therefore the ancients are necessary to be studied by a Critic, particularly Homer and Virgil. Of licenses, and the use of them by the ancients. Reverence due to the ancients, and praise of them.

    • ’T is hard to say if greater want of skill
    • Appear in writing or in judging ill;
    • But of the two less dangerous is th’ offence
    • To tire our patience than mislead our sense:
    • Some few in that, but numbers err in this;
    • Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss;
    • A fool might once himself alone expose;
    • Now one in verse makes many more in prose.
    • ’T is with our judgments as our watches, none
    • Go just alike, yet each believes his own.10
    • In Poets as true Genius is but rare,
    • True Taste as seldom is the Critic’s share;
    • Both must alike from Heav’n derive their light,
    • These born to judge, as well as those to write.
    • Let such teach others who themselves excel,
    • And censure freely who have written well;
    • Authors are partial to their wit, ’t is true,
    • But are not Critics to their judgment too?
    • Yet if we look more closely, we shall find
    • Most have the seeds of judgment in their mind:20
    • Nature affords at least a glimm’ring light;
    • The lines, tho’ touch’d but faintly, are drawn right:
    • But as the slightest sketch, if justly traced, }
    • Is by ill col’ring but the more disgraced, }
    • So by false learning is good sense defaced: }
    • Some are bewilder’d in the maze of schools,
    • And some made coxcombs Nature meant but fools:
    • In search of wit these lose their common sense,
    • And then turn Critics in their own defence:
    • Each burns alike, who can or cannot write,
    • Or with a rival’s or an eunuch’s spite.31
    • All fools have still an itching to deride,
    • And fain would be upon the laughing side.
    • If Mævius scribble in Apollo’s spite,
    • There are who judge still worse than he can write.
    • Some have at first for Wits, then Poets pass’d;
    • Turn’d Critics next, and prov’d plain Fools at last.
    • Some neither can for Wits nor Critics pass,
    • As heavy mules are neither horse nor ass.
    • Those half-learn’d witlings, numerous in our isle,40
    • As half-form’d insects on the banks of Nile;
    • Unfinish’d things, one knows not what to call,
    • Their generation ’s so equivocal;
    • To tell them would a hundred tongues require,
    • Or one vain Wit’s, that might a hundred tire.
    • But you who seek to give and merit fame,
    • And justly bear a Critic’s noble name,
    • Be sure yourself and your own reach to know,
    • How far your Genius, Taste, and Learning go,
    • Launch not beyond your depth, but be discreet,50
    • And mark that point where Sense and Dulness meet.
    • Nature to all things fix’d the limits fit,
    • And wisely curb’d proud man’s pretending wit.
    • As on the land while here the ocean gains,
    • In other parts it leaves wide sandy plains;
    • Thus in the soul while Memory prevails,
    • The solid power of Understanding fails;
    • Where beams of warm Imagination play,
    • The Memory’s soft figures melt away.
    • One Science only will one genius fit;60
    • So vast is Art, so narrow human wit:
    • Not only bounded to peculiar arts,
    • But oft in those confin’d to single parts.
    • Like Kings we lose the conquests gain’d before,
    • By vain ambition still to make them more:
    • Each might his sev’ral province well command,
    • Would all but stoop to what they understand.
    • First follow Nature, and your judgment frame
    • By her just standard, which is still the same;
    • Unerring Nature, still divinely bright,70
    • One clear, unchanged, and universal light,
    • Life, force, and beauty must to all impart,
    • At once the source, and end, and test of Art.
    • Art from that fund each just supply provides,
    • Works without show, and without pomp presides.
    • In some fair body thus th’ informing soul
    • With spirits feeds, with vigour fills the whole;
    • Each motion guides, and every nerve sustains,
    • Itself unseen, but in th’ effects remains.
    • Some, to whom Heav’n in wit has been profuse,80
    • Want as much more to turn it to its use;
    • For Wit and Judgment often are at strife,
    • Tho’ meant each other’s aid, like man and wife.
    • ’T is more to guide than spur the Muse’s steed,
    • Restrain his fury than provoke his speed:
    • The winged courser, like a gen’rous horse,
    • Shows most true mettle when you check his course.
    • Those rules of old, discover’d, not devised,
    • Are Nature still, but Nature methodized;
    • Nature, like Liberty, is but restrain’d90
    • By the same laws which first herself ordain’d.
    • Hear how learn’d Greece her useful rules indites
    • When to repress and when indulge our flights:
    • High on Parnassus’ top her sons she show’d,
    • And pointed out those arduous paths they trod;
    • Held from afar, aloft, th’ immortal prize,
    • And urged the rest by equal steps to rise.
    • Just precepts thus from great examples giv’n,
    • She drew from them what they derived from Heav’n.
    • The gen’rous Critic fann’d the poet’s fire,
    • And taught the world with reason to admire.101
    • Then Criticism the Muse’s handmaid prov’d,
    • To dress her charms, and make her more belov’d:
    • But following Wits from that intention stray’d:
    • Who could not win the mistress woo’d the maid;
    • Against the Poets their own arms they turn’d,
    • Sure to hate most the men from whom they learn’d.
    • So modern ’pothecaries, taught the art
    • By doctors’ bills to play the doctor’s part,
    • Bold in the practice of mistaken rules,110
    • Prescribe, apply, and call their masters fools.
    • Some on the leaves of ancient authors prey;
    • Nor time nor moths e’er spoil’d so much as they;
    • Some drily plain, without invention’s aid,
    • Write dull receipts how poems may be made;
    • These leave the sense their learning to display,
    • And those explain the meaning quite away.
    • You then whose judgment the right course would steer,
    • Know well each ancient’s proper character;
    • His fable, subject, scope in every page;120
    • Religion, country, genius of his age:
    • Without all these at once before your eyes,
    • Cavil you may, but never criticise.
    • Be Homer’s works your study and delight,
    • Read them by day, and meditate by night;
    • Thence form your judgment, thence your maxims bring,
    • And trace the Muses upward to their spring.
    • Still with itself compared, his text peruse;
    • And let your comment be the Mantuan Muse.
    • When first young Maro in his boundless mind130
    • A work t’ outlast immortal Rome design’d,
    • Perhaps he seem’d above the critic’s law,
    • And but from Nature’s fountains scorn’d to draw;
    • But when t’ examine ev’ry part he came,
    • Nature and Homer were, he found, the same.
    • Convinced, amazed, he checks the bold design, }
    • And rules as strict his labour’d work confine }
    • As if the Stagyrite o’erlook’d each line. }
    • Learn hence for ancient rules a just esteem;
    • To copy Nature is to copy them.140
    • Some beauties yet no precepts can declare,
    • For there ’s a happiness as well as care.
    • Music resembles poetry; in each }
    • Are nameless graces which no methods teach, }
    • And which a master-hand alone can reach. }
    • If, where the rules not far enough extend,
    • (Since rules were made but to promote their end)
    • Some lucky license answer to the full
    • Th’ intent proposed, that license is a rule.
    • Thus Pegasus, a nearer way to take,150
    • May boldly deviate from the common track.
    • Great Wits sometimes may gloriously offend,
    • And rise to faults true Critics dare not mend;
    • From vulgar bounds with brave disorder part,
    • And snatch a grace beyond the reach of Art,
    • Which, without passing thro’ the judgment, gains
    • The heart, and all its end at once attains.
    • In prospects thus some objects please our eyes, }
    • Which out of Nature’s common order rise, }
    • The shapeless rock, or hanging precipice. }
    • But tho’ the ancients thus their rules invade,161
    • (As Kings dispense with laws themselves have made)
    • Moderns, beware! or if you must offend
    • Against the precept, ne’er transgress its end;
    • Let it be seldom, and compell’d by need;
    • And have at least their precedent to plead;
    • The Critic else proceeds without remorse,
    • Seizes your fame, and puts his laws in force.
    • I know there are to whose presumptuous thoughts
    • Those freer beauties, ev’n in them, seem faults.170
    • Some figures monstrous and misshaped appear,
    • Consider’d singly, or beheld too near,
    • Which, but proportion’d to their light or place,
    • Due distance reconciles to form and grace.
    • A prudent chief not always must display
    • His powers in equal ranks and fair array,
    • But with th’ occasion and the place comply,
    • Conceal his force, nay, seem sometimes to fly.
    • Those oft are stratagems which errors seem,
    • Nor is it Homer nods , but we that dream.
    • Still green with bays each ancient altar stands181
    • Above the reach of sacrilegious hands,
    • Secure from flames, from Envy’s fiercer rage,
    • Destructive war, and all-involving Age.
    • See from each clime the learn’d their incense bring!
    • Hear in all tongues consenting pæans ring!
    • In praise so just let ev’ry voice be join’d,
    • And fill the gen’ral chorus of mankind.
    • Hail, Bards triumphant! born in happier days,
    • Immortal heirs of universal praise!190
    • Whose honours with increase of ages grow,
    • As streams roll down, enlarging as they flow;
    • Nations unborn your mighty names shall sound,
    • And worlds applaud that must not yet be found!
    • O may some spark of your celestial fire
    • The last, the meanest of your sons inspire,
    • (That on weak wings, from far, pursues your flights,
    • Glows while he reads, but trembles as he writes)
    • To teach vain Wits a science little known,
    • T’ admire superior sense, and doubt their own.200
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PART II

Causes hindering a true judgment. Pride. Imperfect learning. Judging by parts, and not by the whole. Critics in wit, language, versification only. Being too hard to please, or too apt to admire. Partiality—too much love to a sect—to the ancients or moderns. Prejudice or prevention. Singularity. Inconstancy. Party spirit. Envy. Against envy, and in praise of good-nature. When severity is chiefly to be used by critics.

    • Of all the causes which conspire to blind
    • Man’s erring judgment, and misguide the mind,
    • What the weak head with strongest bias rules,
    • Is Pride, the never failing vice of fools.
    • Whatever Nature has in worth denied
    • She gives in large recruits of needful Pride:
    • For as in bodies, thus in souls, we find
    • What wants in blood and spirits swell’d with wind:
    • Pride, where Wit fails, steps in to our defence,
    • And fills up all the mighty void of Sense:10
    • If once right Reason drives that cloud away,
    • Truth breaks upon us with resistless day.
    • Trust not yourself; but your defects to know,
    • Make use of ev’ry friend—and ev’ry foe.
    • A little learning is a dangerous thing;
    • Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring:
    • There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain,
    • And drinking largely sobers us again.
    • Fired at first sight with what the Muse imparts,
    • In fearless youth we tempt the heights of arts,20
    • While from the bounded level of our mind
    • Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind:
    • But more advanc’d, behold with strange surprise
    • New distant scenes of endless science rise!
    • So pleas’d at first the tow’ring Alps we try,
    • Mount o’er the vales, and seem to tread the sky;
    • Th’ eternal snows appear already past,
    • And the first clouds and mountains seem the last:
    • But those attain’d, we tremble to survey
    • The growing labours of the lengthen’d way;30
    • Th’ increasing prospect tires our wand’ring eyes,
    • Hills peep o’er hills, and Alps on Alps arise!
    • A perfect judge will read each work of wit
    • With the same spirit that its author writ;
    • Survey the whole, nor seek slight faults to find
    • Where Nature moves, and Rapture warms the mind:
    • Nor lose, for that malignant dull delight,
    • The gen’rous pleasure to be charm’d with wit.
    • But in such lays as neither ebb nor flow,
    • Correctly cold, and regularly low,40
    • That shunning faults one quiet tenor keep,
    • We cannot blame indeed—but we may sleep.
    • In Wit, as Nature, what affects our hearts
    • Is not th’ exactness of peculiar parts;
    • ’T is not a lip or eye we beauty call,
    • But the joint force and full result of all.
    • Thus when we view some well proportion’d dome,
    • (The world’s just wonder, and ev’n thine, O Rome!)
    • No single parts unequally surprise,
    • All comes united to th’ admiring eyes;50
    • No monstrous height, or breadth, or length, appear;
    • The whole at once is bold and regular.
    • Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see,
    • Thinks what ne’er was, nor is, nor e’er shall be.
    • In every work regard the writer’s end,
    • Since none can compass more than they intend;
    • And if the means be just, the conduct true,
    • Applause, in spite of trivial faults, is due.
    • As men of breeding, sometimes men of wit,
    • T’ avoid great errors must the less commit;
    • Neglect the rules each verbal critic lays,61
    • For not to know some trifles is a praise.
    • Most critics, fond of some subservient art,
    • Still make the whole depend upon a part:
    • They talk of Principles, but Notions prize,
    • And all to one lov’d folly sacrifice.
    • Once on a time La Mancha’s Knight, they say,
    • A certain bard encount’ring on the way,
    • Discours’d in terms as just, with looks as sage,
    • As e’er could Dennis, of the Grecian Stage;
    • Concluding all were desperate sots and fools71
    • Who durst depart from Aristotle’s rules.
    • Our author, happy in a judge so nice,
    • Produced his play, and begg’d the knight’s advice;
    • Made him observe the Subject and the Plot,
    • The Manners, Passions, Unities; what not?
    • All which exact to rule were brought about,
    • Were but a combat in the lists left out.
    • ‘What! leave the combat out?’ exclaims the knight.
    • ‘Yes, or we must renounce the Stagyrite.’
    • ‘Not so, by Heaven! (he answers in a rage)81
    • Knights, squires, and steeds must enter on the stage.’
    • ‘So vast a throng the stage can ne’er contain.’
    • ‘Then build a new, or act it in a plain.’
    • Thus critics of less judgment than caprice,
    • Curious, not knowing, not exact, but nice,
    • Form short ideas, and offend in Arts
    • (As most in Manners), by a love to parts.
    • Some to Conceit alone their taste confine,
    • And glitt’ring thoughts struck out at every line;90
    • Pleas’d with a work where nothing ’s just or fit,
    • One glaring chaos and wild heap of wit.
    • Poets, like painters, thus unskill’d to trace
    • The naked nature and the living grace,
    • With gold and jewels cover every part,
    • And hide with ornaments their want of Art.
    • True Wit is Nature to advantage dress’d,
    • What oft was thought, but ne’er so well express’d;
    • Something whose truth convinced at sight we find,
    • That gives us back the image of our mind.
    • As shades more sweetly recommend the light,101
    • So modest plainness sets off sprightly wit:
    • For works may have more wit than does them good,
    • As bodies perish thro’ excess of blood.
    • Others for language all their care express,
    • And value books, as women men, for dress:
    • Their praise is still—the Style is excellent;
    • The Sense they humbly take upon content.
    • Words are like leaves; and where they most abound,
    • Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found.
    • False eloquence, like the prismatic glass,111
    • Its gaudy colours spreads on every place;
    • The face of Nature we no more survey,
    • All glares alike, without distinction gay;
    • But true expression, like th’ unchanging sun, }
    • Clears and improves whate’er it shines upon; }
    • It gilds all objects, but it alters none. }
    • Expression is the dress of thought, and still
    • Appears more decent as more suitable.
    • A vile Conceit in pompous words express’d
    • Is like a clown in regal purple dress’d:121
    • For diff’rent styles with diff’rent subjects sort,
    • As sev’ral garbs with country, town, and court.
    • Some by old words to fame have made pretence,
    • Ancients in phrase, mere moderns in their sense;
    • Such labour’d nothings, in so strange a style,
    • Amaze th’ unlearn’d, and make the learned smile;
    • Unlucky as Fungoso in the play ,
    • These sparks with awkward vanity display
    • What the fine gentleman wore yesterday;
    • And but so mimic ancient wits at best,131
    • As apes our grandsires in their doublets drest.
    • In words as fashions the same rule will hold,
    • Alike fantastic if too new or old:
    • Be not the first by whom the new are tried,
    • Nor yet the last to lay the old aside.
    • But most by Numbers judge a poet’s song,
    • And smooth or rough with them is right or wrong.
    • In the bright Muse tho’ thousand charms conspire,139
    • Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire;
    • Who haunt Parnassus but to please their ear, }
    • Not mend their minds; as some to church repair, }
    • Not for the doctrine, but the music there. }
    • These equal syllables alone require,
    • Tho’ oft the ear the open vowels tire,
    • While expletives their feeble aid do join,
    • And ten low words oft creep in one dull line:
    • While they ring round the same unvaried chimes,
    • With sure returns of still expected rhymes;
    • Where’er you find ‘the cooling western breeze,’150
    • In the next line, it ‘whispers thro’ the trees;’
    • If crystal streams ‘with pleasing murmurs creep,’
    • The reader’s threaten’d (not in vain) with ‘sleep;’
    • Then, at the last and only couplet, fraught
    • With some unmeaning thing they call a thought,
    • A needless Alexandrine ends the song,
    • That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.
    • Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes, and know
    • What’s roundly smooth, or languishingly slow;
    • And praise the easy vigour of a line160
    • Where Denham’s strength and Waller’s sweetness join.
    • True ease in writing comes from Art, not Chance,
    • As those move easiest who have learn’d to dance.
    • ’T is not enough no harshness gives offence;
    • The sound must seem an echo to the sense.
    • Soft is the strain when zephyr gently blows,
    • And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows;
    • But when loud surges lash the sounding shore,
    • The hoarse rough verse should like the torrent roar.
    • When Ajax strives some rock’s vast weight to throw,170
    • The line, too, labours, and the words move slow:
    • Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain,
    • Flies o’er th’ unbending corn, and skims along the main.
    • Hear how Timotheus’ varied lays surprise,
    • And bid alternate passions fall and rise!
    • While at each change the son of Libyan Jove
    • Now burns with glory, and then melts with love;
    • Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury glow,
    • Now sighs steal out, and tears begin to flow:
    • Persians and Greeks like turns of nature found,180
    • And the world’s Victor stood subdued by sound!
    • The power of music all our hearts allow,
    • And what Timotheus was is Dryden now.
    • Avoid extremes, and shun the fault of such
    • Who still are pleas’d too little or too much.
    • At ev’ry trifle scorn to take offence;
    • That always shows great pride or little sense:
    • Those heads, as stomachs, are not sure the best
    • Which nauseate all, and nothing can digest.
    • Yet let not each gay turn thy rapture move;190
    • For fools admire, but men of sense approve:
    • As things seem large which we thro’ mist descry,
    • Dulness is ever apt to magnify.
    • Some foreign writers, some our own despise;
    • The ancients only, or the moderns prize.
    • Thus Wit, like Faith, by each man is applied
    • To one small sect, and all are damn’d beside.
    • Meanly they seek the blessing to confine,
    • And force that sun but on a part to shine,
    • Which not alone the southern wit sublimes,200
    • But ripens spirits in cold northern climes;
    • Which from the first has shone on ages past,
    • Enlights the present, and shall warm the last;
    • Tho’ each may feel increases and decays,
    • And see now clearer and now darker days.
    • Regard not then if wit be old or new,
    • But blame the False and value still the True.
    • Some ne’er advance a judgment of their own,
    • But catch the spreading notion of the town;
    • They reason and conclude by precedent,210
    • And own stale nonsense which they ne’er invent.
    • Some judge of authors’ names, not works, and then
    • Nor praise nor blame the writings, but the men.
    • Of all this servile herd, the worst is he
    • That in proud dulness joins with quality;
    • A constant critic at the great man’s board,
    • To fetch and carry nonsense for my lord.
    • What woful stuff this madrigal would be
    • In some starv’d hackney sonneteer or me!
    • But let a lord once own the happy lines,
    • How the Wit brightens! how the Style refines!221
    • Before his sacred name flies every fault,
    • And each exalted stanza teems with thought!
    • The vulgar thus thro’ imitation err,
    • As oft the learn’d by being singular;
    • So much they scorn the crowd, that if the throng
    • By chance go right, they purposely go wrong.
    • So schismatics the plain believers quit,
    • And are but damn’d for having too much wit.
    • Some praise at morning what they blame at night,230
    • But always think the last opinion right.
    • A Muse by these is like a mistress used,
    • This hour she ’s idolized, the next absued;
    • While their weak heads, like towns unfortified,
    • ’Twixt sense and nonsense daily change their side.
    • Ask them the cause; they ’re wiser still they say;
    • And still to-morrow ’s wiser than to-day.
    • We think our fathers fools, so wise we grow;
    • Our wiser sons no doubt will think us so.
    • Once school-divines this zealous isle o’erspread;240
    • Who knew most sentences was deepest read.
    • Faith, Gospel, all seem’d made to be disputed,
    • And none had sense enough to be confuted.
    • Scotists and Thomists now in peace remain
    • Amidst their kindred cobwebs in Ducklane .
    • If Faith itself has diff’rent dresses worn,
    • What wonder modes in Wit should take their turn?
    • Oft, leaving what is natural and fit,
    • The current Folly proves the ready Wit;
    • And authors think their reputation safe,250
    • Which lives as long as fools are pleas’d to laugh.
    • Some, valuing those of their own side or mind,
    • Still make themselves the measure of mankind:
    • Fondly we think we honour merit then,
    • When we but praise ourselves in other men.
    • Parties in wit attend on those of state,
    • And public faction doubles private hate.
    • Pride, Malice, Folly, against Dryden rose,
    • In various shapes of parsons, critics, beaux:
    • But sense survived when merry jests were past;260
    • For rising merit will buoy up at last.
    • Might he return and bless once more our eyes,
    • New Blackmores and new Milbournes must arise.
    • Nay, should great Homer lift his awful head,
    • Zoilus again would start up from the dead.
    • Envy will Merit as its shade pursue,
    • But like a shadow proves the substance true;
    • For envied Wit, like Sol eclips’d, makes known
    • Th’ opposing body’s grossness, not its own.
    • When first that sun too powerful beams displays,270
    • It draws up vapours which obscure its rays;
    • But ev’n those clouds at last adorn its way,
    • Reflect new glories, and augment the day.
    • Be thou the first true merit to befriend;
    • His praise is lost who stays till all commend.
    • Short is the date, alas! of modern rhymes,
    • And ’t is but just to let them live betimes.
    • No longer now that Golden Age appears,
    • When patriarch wits survived a thousand years:
    • Now length of fame (our second life) is lost,280
    • And bare threescore is all ev’n that can boast:
    • Our sons their fathers’ failing language see,
    • And such as Chaucer is shall Dryden be.
    • So when the faithful pencil has design’d
    • Some bright idea of the master’s mind,
    • Where a new world leaps out at his command,
    • And ready Nature waits upon his hand;
    • When the ripe colours soften and unite,
    • And sweetly melt into just shade and light;
    • When mellowing years their full perfection give,290
    • And each bold figure just begins to live,
    • The treach’rous colours the fair art betray,
    • And all the bright creation fades away!
    • Unhappy Wit, like most mistaken things,
    • Atones not for that envy which it brings:
    • In youth alone its empty praise we boast,
    • But soon the short-lived vanity is lost;
    • Like some fair flower the early Spring supplies,
    • That gaily blooms, but ev’n in blooming dies.
    • What is this Wit, which must our cares employ?300
    • The owner’s wife that other men enjoy;
    • Then most our trouble still when most admired,
    • And still the more we give, the more required;
    • Whose fame with pains we guard, but lose with ease,
    • Sure some to vex, but never all to please,
    • ’T is what the vicious fear, the virtuous shun;
    • By fools ’t is hated, and by knaves undone!
    • If Wit so much from Ignorance undergo,
    • Ah, let not Learning too commence its foe!
    • Of old those met rewards who could excel,310
    • And such were prais’d who but endeavour’d well;
    • Tho’ triumphs were to gen’rals only due,
    • Crowns were reserv’d to grace the soldiers too.
    • Now they who reach Parnassus’ lofty crown
    • Employ their pains to spurn some others down;
    • And while self-love each jealous writer rules,
    • Contending wits become the sport of fools;
    • But still the worst with most regret commend,
    • For each ill author is as bad a friend.
    • To what base ends, and by what abject ways,320
    • Are mortals urged thro’ sacred lust of praise!
    • Ah, ne’er so dire a thirst of glory boast,
    • Nor in the critic let the man be lost!
    • Good nature and good sense must ever join;
    • To err is human, to forgive divine.
    • But if in noble minds some dregs remain,
    • Not yet purged off, of spleen and sour disdain,
    • Discharge that rage on more provoking crimes,
    • Nor fear a dearth in these flagitious times.
    • No pardon vile obscenity should find,330
    • Tho’ Wit and Art conspire to move your mind;
    • But dulness with obscenity must prove
    • As shameful sure as impotence in love.
    • In the fat age of pleasure, wealth, and ease
    • Sprung the rank weed, and thrived with large increase:
    • When love was all an easy monarch’s care,
    • Seldom at council, never in a war;
    • Jilts ruled the state, and statesmen farces writ;
    • Nay wits had pensions, and young lords had wit;339
    • The Fair sat panting at a courtier’s play,
    • And not a mask went unimprov’d away;
    • The modest fan was lifted up no more,
    • And virgins smil’d at what they blush’d before.
    • The following license of a foreign reign
    • Did all the dregs of bold Socinus drain;
    • Then unbelieving priests reform’d the nation,
    • And taught more pleasant methods of salvation;
    • Where Heav’n’s free subjects might their rights dispute,
    • Lest God himself should seem too absolute;349
    • Pulpits their sacred satire learn’d to spare,
    • And vice admired to find a flatt’rer there!
    • Encouraged thus, Wit’s Titans braved the skies,
    • And the press groan’d with licens’d blasphemies.
    • These monsters, Critics! with your darts engage,
    • Here point your thunder, and exhaust your rage!
    • Yet shun their fault, who, scandalously nice,
    • Will needs mistake an author into vice:
    • All seems infected that th’ infected spy,
    • As all looks yellow to the jaundic’d eye.
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PART III

Rules for the conduct and manners in a Critic. Candour. Modesty. Good breeding. Sincerity and freedom of advice. When one’s counsel is to be restrained. Character of an incorrigible poet. And of an impertinent critic. Character of a good critic. The history of criticism, and characters of the best critics; Aristotle. Horace. Dionysius. Petronius. Quintilian. Longinus. Of the decay of Criticism, and its revival. Erasmus. Vida. Boileau. Lord Roscommon, &c. Conclusion.

    • Learn then what morals Critics ought to show,
    • For ’t is but half a judge’s task to know.
    • ’T is not enough Taste, Judgment, Learning join;
    • In all you speak let Truth and Candour shine;
    • That not alone what to your Sense is due
    • All may allow, but seek your friendship too.
    • Be silent always when you doubt your Sense,
    • And speak, tho’ sure, with seeming diffidence.
    • Some positive persisting fops we know,
    • Who if once wrong will needs be always so;10
    • But you with pleasure own your errors past,
    • And make each day a critique on the last.
    • ’T is not enough your counsel still be true;
    • Blunt truths more mischief than nice falsehoods do.
    • Men must be taught as if you taught them not,
    • And things unknown proposed as things forgot.
    • Without good breeding truth is disapprov’d;
    • That only makes superior Sense belov’d.
    • Be niggards of advice on no pretence,
    • For the worst avarice is that of Sense.20
    • With mean complacence ne’er betray your trust,
    • Nor be so civil as to prove unjust.
    • Fear not the anger of the wise to raise;
    • Those best can bear reproof who merit praise.
    • ’T were well might critics still this freedom take,
    • But Appius reddens at each word you speak,
    • And stares tremendous , with a threat’ning eye,
    • Like some fierce tyrant in old tapestry.
    • Fear most to tax an honourable fool,
    • Whose right it is, uncensured to be dull:30
    • Such without Wit, are poets when they please,
    • As without Learning they can take degrees.
    • Leave dangerous truths to unsuccessful satires,
    • And flattery to fulsome dedicators;
    • Whom, when they praise, the world believes no more
    • Than when they promise to give scribbling o’er.
    • ’T is best sometimes your censure to restrain,
    • And charitably let the dull be vain;
    • Your silence there is better than your spite,
    • For who can rail so long as they can write?40
    • Still humming on their drowsy course they keep,
    • And lash’d so long, like tops, are lash’d asleep.
    • False steps but help them to renew the race,
    • As, after stumbling, jades will mend their pace.
    • What crowds of these, impenitently bold,
    • In sounds and jingling syllables grown old,
    • Still run on poets, in a raging vein,
    • Ev’n to the dregs and squeezings of the brain,
    • Strain out the last dull droppings of their sense,
    • And rhyme with all the rage of impotence!50
    • Such shameless bards we have; and yet ’t is true
    • There are as mad abandon’d critics too.
    • The bookful blockhead ignorantly read,
    • With loads of learned lumber in his head,
    • With his own tongue still edifies his ears,
    • And always list’ning to himself appears.
    • All books he reads, and all he reads assails,
    • From Dryden’s Fables down to Durfey’s Tales.
    • With him most authors steal their works, or buy;
    • Garth did not write his own Dispensary.60
    • Name a new play, and he’s the poet’s friend;
    • Nay, show’d his faults—but when would poets mend?
    • No place so sacred from such fops is barr’d,
    • Nor is Paul’s church more safe than Paul’s churchyard :
    • Nay, fly to altars; there they ’ll talk you dead;
    • For fools rush in where angels fear to tread.
    • Distrustful sense with modest caution speaks, }
    • It still looks home, and short excursions makes; }
    • But rattling nonsense in full volleys breaks }
    • And never shock’d, and never turn’d aside,70
    • Bursts out, resistless, with a thund’ring tide.
    • But where ’s the man who counsel can bestow,
    • Still pleas’d to teach, and yet not proud to know?
    • Unbiass’d or by favour or by spite;
    • Not dully prepossess’d nor blindly right;
    • Tho’ learn’d, well bred, and tho’ well bred sincere;
    • Modestly bold, and humanly severe;
    • Who to a friend his faults can freely show,
    • And gladly praise the merit of a foe;
    • Bless’d with a taste exact, yet unconfin’d,
    • A knowledge both of books and humankind;81
    • Gen’rous converse; a soul exempt from pride;
    • And love to praise, with reason on his side?
    • Such once were critics; such the happy few
    • Athens and Rome in better ages knew.
    • The mighty Stagyrite first left the shore,
    • Spread all his sails, and durst the deeps explore;
    • He steer’d securely, and discover’d far,
    • Led by the light of the Mæonian star.
    • Poets, a race long unconfin’d and free,90
    • Still fond and proud of savage liberty,
    • Receiv’d his laws, and stood convinc’d ’t was fit
    • Who conquer’d Nature should preside o’er Wit.
    • Horace still charms with graceful negligence,
    • And without method talks us into sense;
    • Will, like a friend, familiarly convey
    • The truest notions in the easiest way.
    • He who, supreme in judgment as in wit,
    • Might boldly censure as he boldly writ,
    • Yet judg’d with coolness, though he sung with fire;100
    • His precepts teach but what his works inspire.
    • Our critics take a contrary extreme,
    • They judge with fury, but they write with phlegm;
    • Nor suffers Horace more in wrong translations
    • By Wits, than Critics in as wrong quotations.
    • See Dionysius Homer’s thoughts refine,
    • And call new beauties forth from ev’ry line!
    • Fancy and art in gay Petronius please,
    • The Scholar’s learning with the courtier’s ease.
    • In grave Quintilian’s copious work we find110
    • The justest rules and clearest method join’d.
    • Thus useful arms in magazines we place,
    • All ranged in order, and disposed with grace;
    • But less to please the eye than arm the hand,
    • Still fit for use, and ready at command.
    • Thee, bold Longinus! all the Nine inspire,
    • And bless their critic with a poet’s fire:
    • An ardent judge, who, zealous in his trust,
    • With warmth gives sentence, yet is always just;
    • Whose own example strengthens all his laws,120
    • And is himself that great sublime he draws.
    • Thus long succeeding critics justly reign’d,
    • License repress’d, and useful laws ordain’d:
    • Learning and Rome alike in empire grew,
    • And arts still follow’d where her eagles flew;
    • From the same foes at last both felt their doom,
    • And the same age saw learning fall and Rome.
    • With tyranny then superstition join’d,
    • As that the body, this enslaved the mind;
    • Much was believ’d, but little understood,
    • And to be dull was construed to be good;
    • A second deluge learning thus o’errun,132
    • And the monks finish’d what the Goths begun.
    • At length Erasmus, that great injur’d name,
    • (The glory of the priesthood and the shame!)
    • Stemm’d the wild torrent of a barb’rous age,
    • And drove those holy Vandals off the stage.
    • But see! each Muse in Leo’s golden days
    • Starts from her trance, and trims her wither’d bays.
    • Rome’s ancient genius, o’er its ruins spread,140
    • Shakes off the dust, and rears his rev’rend head.
    • Then sculpture and her sister arts revive;
    • Stones leap’d to form, and rocks began to live;
    • With sweeter notes each rising temple rung;
    • A Raphael painted and a Vida sung:
    • Immortal Vida! on whose honour’d brow
    • The poet’s bays and critic’s ivy grow:
    • Cremona now shall ever boast thy name,
    • As next in place to Mantua, next in fame!
    • But soon by impious arms from Latium chased,150
    • Their ancient bounds the banish’d Muses pass’d;
    • Thence arts o’er all the northern world advance,
    • But critic learning flourish’d most in France;
    • The rules a nation born to serve obeys,
    • And Boileau still in right of Horace sways.
    • But we, brave Britons, foreign laws despised,
    • And kept unconquer’d and uncivilized;
    • Fierce for the liberties of wit, and bold,
    • We still defied the Romans, as of old.
    • Yet some there were, among the sounder few160
    • Of those who less presumed and better knew,
    • Who durst assert the juster ancient cause,
    • And here restor’d Wit’s fundamental laws.
    • Such was the Muse whose rules and practice tell
    • ‘Nature’s chief masterpiece is writing well.’
    • Such was Roscommon, not more learn’d than good,
    • With manners gen’rous as his noble blood;
    • To him the wit of Greece and Rome was known,
    • And every author’s merit but his own.
    • Such late was Walsh—the Muse’s judge and friend,170
    • Who justly knew to blame or to commend;
    • To failings mild but zealous for desert,
    • The clearest head, and the sincerest heart.
    • This humble praise, lamented Shade! receive;
    • This praise at least a grateful Muse may give:
    • The Muse whose early voice you taught to sing,
    • Prescribed her heights, and pruned her tender wing,
    • (Her guide now lost), no more attempts to rise,
    • But in low numbers short excursions tries;
    • Content if hence th’ unlearn’d their wants may view,180
    • The learn’d reflect on what before they knew;
    • Careless of censure, nor too fond of fame;
    • Still pleas’d to praise, yet not afraid to blame;
    • Averse alike to flatter or offend;
    • Not free from faults, nor yet too vain to mend.
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POEMS WRITTEN BETWEEN 1708 AND 1712

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ODE FOR MUSIC ON ST. CECILIA’S DAY

This ode was written at the suggestion of Richard Steele, in 1708. It was recast in 1730 in briefer form so that it might be set to music; and the first four stanzas were considerably changed.

  • I

  • Descend, ye Nine, descend and sing:
  • The breathing instruments inspire,
  • Wake into voice each silent string,
  • And sweep the sounding lyre.
  • In a sadly pleasing strain
  • Let the warbling lute complain;
  • Let the loud trumpet sound,
  • Till the roofs all around
  • The shrill echoes rebound;
  • While in more lengthen’d notes and slow
  • The deep, majestic, solemn organs blow.11
  • Hark! the numbers soft and clear
  • Gently steal upon the ear;
  • Now louder, and yet louder rise,
  • And fill with spreading sounds the skies:
  • Exulting in triumph now swell the bold notes,
  • In broken air, trembling, the wild music floats:
  • Till by degrees, remote and small,
  • The strains decay,
  • And melt away20
  • In a dying, dying fall.

  • II

  • By Music minds an equal temper know,
  • Nor swell too high, nor sink too low.
  • If in the breast tumultuous joys arise,
  • Music her soft assuasive voice applies;
  • Or when the soul is press’d with cares,
  • Exalts her in enlivening airs.
  • Warriors she fires with animated sounds,
  • Pours balm into the bleeding lover’s wounds;
  • Melancholy lifts her head,30
  • Morpheus rouses from his bed,
  • Sloth unfolds her arms and wakes,
  • List’ning Envy drops her snakes;
  • Intestine war no more our passions wage,
  • And giddy Factions hear away their rage.

  • III

  • But when our country’s cause provokes to arms,
  • How martial music ev’ry bosom warms!
  • So when the first bold vessel dared the seas,
  • High on the stern the Thracian rais’d his strain,
  • While Argo saw her kindred trees40
  • Descend from Pelion to the main:
  • Transported demigods stood round,
  • And men grew heroes at the sound,
  • Inflamed with Glory’s charms:
  • Each chief his sev’nfold shield display’d,
  • And half unsheath’d the shining blade;
  • And seas, and rocks, and skies rebound
  • To arms, to arms, to arms!

  • IV

  • But when thro’ all th’ infernal bounds,
  • Which flaming Phlegethon surrounds,50
  • Love, strong as Death, the Poet led
  • To the pale nations of the dead,
  • What sounds were heard,
  • What scenes appear’d,
  • O’er all the dreary coasts!
  • Dreadful gleams,
  • Dismal screams,
  • Fires that glow,
  • Shrieks of woe,
  • Sullen moans,60
  • Hollow groans,
  • And cries of tortured ghosts!
  • But hark! he strikes the golden lyre,
  • And see! the tortured ghosts respire!
  • See, shady forms advance!
  • Thy stone, O Sisyphus, stands still,
  • Ixion rests upon his wheel,
  • And the pale spectres dance;
  • The Furies sink upon their iron beds,
  • And snakes uncurl’d hang list’ning round their heads.70

  • V

  • By the streams that ever flow,
  • By the fragrant winds that blow
  • O’er th’ Elysian flowers;
  • By those happy souls who dwell
  • In yellow meads of Asphodel,
  • Or Amaranthine bowers;
  • By the heroes’ armed shades,
  • Glitt’ring thro’ the gloomy glades;
  • By the youths that died for love,
  • Wand’ring in the myrtle grove,80
  • Restore, restore Eurydice to life!
  • Oh, take the husband, or return the wife!
  • He sung, and Hell consented
  • To hear the Poet’s prayer:
  • Stern Proserpine relented,
  • And gave him back the Fair.
  • Thus song could prevail
  • O’er Death and o’er Hell,
  • A conquest how hard and how glorious!
  • Tho’ fate had fast bound her,90
  • With Styx nine times round her,
  • Yet music and love were victorious.

  • VI

  • But soon, too soon, the lover turns his eyes:
  • Again she falls, again she dies, she dies!
  • How wilt thou now the fatal sisters move?
  • No crime was thine, if ’t is no crime to love.
  • Now under hanging mountains,
  • Beside the falls of fountains,
  • Or where Hebrus wanders,
  • Rolling in meanders,100
  • All alone,
  • Unheard, unknown,
  • He makes his moan;
  • And calls her ghost,
  • For ever, ever, ever lost!
  • Now with Furies surrounded,
  • Despairing, confounded,
  • He trembles, he glows,
  • Amidst Rhodope’s snows.
  • See, wild as the winds, o’er the desert he flies!110
  • Hark! Hæmus resounds with the Bacchanals’ cries—
  • Ah see, he dies!
  • Yet ev’n in death Eurydice he sung,
  • Eurydice still trembled on his tongue;
  • Eurydice the woods,
  • Eurydice the floods,
  • Eurydice the rocks and hollow mountains rung.

  • VII

  • Music the fiercest grief can charm,
  • And Fate’s severest rage disarm:
  • Music can soften pain to ease,120
  • And make despair and madness please:
  • Our joys below it can improve,
  • And antedate the bliss above.
  • This the divine Cecilia found,
  • And to her Maker’s praise confin’d the sound.
  • When the full organ joins the tuneful quire,
  • Th’ immortal Powers incline their ear;
  • Borne on the swelling notes our souls aspire,
  • While solemn airs improve the sacred fire,
  • And Angels lean from Heav’n to hear.130
  • Of Orpheus now no more let poets tell;
  • To bright Cecilia greater power is giv’n:
  • His numbers rais’d a shade from Hell,
  • Hers lift the soul to Heav’n.
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ARGUS

Written in 1709 and sent in a letter to Henry Cromwell in 1711.

  • When wise Ulysses, from his native coast
  • Long kept by wars, and long by tempests toss’d,
  • Arrived at last, poor, old, disguised, alone,
  • To all his friends, and ev’n his Queen unknown,
  • Changed as he was, with age, and toils, and cares,
  • Furrow’d his rev’rend face, and white his hairs,
  • In his own palace forc’d to ask his bread,
  • Scorn’d by those slaves his former bounty fed,
  • Forgot of all his own domestic crew,
  • The faithful Dog alone his rightful master knew!
  • Unfed, unhous’d, neglected, on the clay,
  • Like an old servant now cashier’d, he lay;
  • Touch’d with resentment of ungrateful man,
  • And longing to behold his ancient lord again.
  • Him when he saw he rose, and crawl’d to meet,
  • (’T was all he could) and fawn’d and kiss’d his feet,
  • Seiz’d with dumb joy; then falling by his side,
  • Own’d his returning lord, look’d up, and died!
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THE BALANCE OF EUROPE

  • Now Europe balanc’d, neither side prevails:
  • For nothing’s left in either of the scales.
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THE TRANSLATOR

‘Egbert Sanger,’ says Warton, ‘served his apprenticeship with Jacob Tonson, and succeeded Bernard Lintot in his shop at Middle Temple Gate, Fleet Street. Lintot printed Ozell’s translation of Perrault’s Characters, and Sanger his translation of Boileau’s Lutrin, recommended by Rowe, in 1709.’

  • Ozell, at Sanger’s call, invoked his Muse—
  • For who to sing for Sanger could refuse?
  • His numbers such as Sanger’s self might use.
  • Reviving Perrault, murd’ring Boileau, he
  • Slander’d the ancients first, then Wycherley;
  • Which yet not much that old bard’s anger rais’d,
  • Since those were slander’d most whom Ozell prais’d.
  • Nor had the gentle satire caused complaining,
  • Had not sage Rowe pronounc’d it entertaining;
  • How great must be the judgment of that writer,
  • Who The Plain Dealer damns, and prints The Biter!
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ON MRS. TOFTS, A FAMOUS OPERA-SINGER

Katharine Tofts was an English opera singer popular in London between 1703 and 1709.

  • So bright is thy beauty, so charming thy song,
  • As had drawn both the beasts and their Orpheus along:
  • But such is thy av’rice, and such is thy pride,
  • That the beasts must have starv’d, and the poet have died.
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EPISTLE TO MRS. BLOUNT, WITH THE WORKS OF VOITURE.

To Teresa Blount. First published in Lintot’s Miscellany, in 1712. See note.

    • In these gay thoughts the Loves and Graces shine,
    • And all the writer lives in ev’ry line;
    • His easy Art may happy Nature seem,
    • Trifles themselves are elegant in him.
    • Sure to charm all was his peculiar fate,
    • Who without flatt’ry pleas’d the Fair and Great;
    • Still with esteem no less convers’d than read,
    • With wit well-natured, and with books well-bred:
    • His heart his mistress and his friend did share,9
    • His time the Muse, the witty, and the fair.
    • Thus wisely careless, innocently gay,
    • Cheerful he play’d the trifle, Life, away;
    • Till Fate scarce felt his gentle breath supprest,
    • As smiling infants sport themselves to rest.
    • Ev’n rival Wits did Voiture’s death deplore,
    • And the gay mourn’d who never mourn’d before;
    • The truest hearts for Voiture heav’d with sighs,
    • Voiture was wept by all the brightest eyes:
    • The Smiles and Loves had died in Voiture’s death,19
    • But that for ever in his lines they breathe.
    • Let the strict life of graver mortals be
    • A long, exact, and serious Comedy;
    • In ev’ry scene some Moral let it teach,
    • And, if it can, at once both please and preach.
    • Let mine an innocent gay farce appear,
    • And more diverting still than regular,
    • Have Humour, Wit, a native Ease and Grace,
    • Tho’ not too strictly bound to Time and Place:
    • Critics in Wit, or Life, are hard to please,
    • Few write to those, and none can live to these.30
    • Too much your Sex is by their forms confin’d,
    • Severe to all, but most to Womankind;
    • Custom, grown blind with Age, must be your guide;
    • Your pleasure is a vice, but not your pride;
    • By Nature yielding, stubborn but for fame,
    • Made slaves by honour, and made fools by shame;
    • Marriage may all those petty tyrants chase;
    • But sets up one, a greater, in their place;
    • Well might you wish for change by those accurst,39
    • But the last tyrant ever proves the worst.
    • Still in constraint your suff’ring Sex remains,
    • Or bound in formal, or in real chains:
    • Whole years neglected, for some months ador’d,
    • The fawning Servant turns a haughty Lord.
    • Ah, quit not the free innocence of life,
    • For the dull glory of a virtuous Wife;
    • Nor let false shows, or empty titles please;
    • Aim not at Joy, but rest content with Ease.
    • The Gods, to curse Pamela with her pray’rs,
    • Gave the gilt coach and dappled Flanders mares,50
    • The shining robes, rich jewels, beds of state,
    • And, to complete her bliss, a fool for mate.
    • She glares in Balls, front Boxes, and the Ring,
    • A vain, unquiet, glitt’ring, wretched thing!
    • Pride, Pomp, and State but reach her outward part;
    • She sighs, and is no Duchess at her heart.
    • But, Madam, if the fates withstand, and you
    • Are destin’d Hymen’s willing victim too;
    • Trust not too much your now resistless charms,
    • Those Age or Sickness soon or late disarms:60
    • Good humour only teaches charms to last,
    • Still makes new conquests, and maintains the past;
    • Love, rais’d on Beauty, will like that decay,
    • Our hearts may bear its slender chain a day;
    • As flow’ry bands in wantonness are worn,
    • A morning’s pleasure, and at evening torn;
    • This binds in ties more easy, yet more strong,
    • The willing heart, and only holds it long.
    • Thus Voiture’s early care still shone the same,69
    • And Montausier was only changed in name;
    • By this, ev’n now they live, ev’n now they charm,
    • Their wit still sparkling, and their flames still warm.
    • Now crown’d with myrtle, on th’ Elysian coast,
    • Amid those lovers, joys his gentle Ghost:
    • Pleas’d, while with smiles his happy lines you view,
    • And finds a fairer Rambouillet in you.
    • The brightest eyes of France inspired his Muse;
    • The brightest eyes of Britain now peruse;
    • And dead, as living, ’t is our Author’s pride
    • Still to charm those who charm the world beside.80
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THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL

This Ode was written, we find [in 1712], at the desire of Steele; and our Poet, in a letter to him on that occasion, says,—‘You have it, as Cowley calls it, just warm from the brain; it came to me the first moment I waked this morning; yet you ’ll see, it was not so absolutely inspiration, but that I had in my head, not only the verses of Hadrian, but the fine fragment of Sappho.’ It is possible, however, that our Author might have had another composition in his head, besides those he here refers to: for there is a close and surprising resemblance between this Ode of Pope, and one of an obscure and forgotten rhymer of the age of Charles the Second, Thomas Flatman. (Warton). Pope’s version of the Adriani morientis ad Animam was written at about this date, and sent to Steele for publication in The Spectator. It ran as follows:—

  • ‘Ah, fleeting Spirit! wand’ring fire,
  • That long hast warm’d my tender breast,
  • Must thou no more this frame inspire,
  • No more a pleasing cheerful guest?
  • Whither, ah whither, art thou flying,
  • To what dark undiscover’d shore?
  • Thou seem’st all trembling, shiv’ring, dying,
  • And Wit and Humour are no more!’

  • I

  • Vital spark of heav’nly flame,
  • Quit, oh quit, this mortal frame!
  • Trembling, hoping, ling’ring, flying,
  • Oh, the pain, the bliss of dying!
  • Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife,
  • And let me languish into life!

  • II

  • Hark! they whisper; Angels say,
  • Sister Spirit, come away.
  • What is this absorbs me quite,
  • Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
  • Drowns my spirits, draws my breath?
  • Tell me, my Soul! can this be Death?

  • III

  • The world recedes; it disappears;
  • Heav’n opens on my eyes; my ears
  • With sounds seraphic ring:
  • Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!
  • O Grave! where is thy Victory?
  • O Death! where is thy Sting?
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EPISTLE TO MR. JERVAS[ ]

WITH DRYDEN’S TRANSLATION OF FRESNOY’S ART OF PAINTING

Charles Jervas was an early and firm friend of Pope’s, and, himself an indifferent painter, at one time gave Pope some instruction in painting. Dryden’s translation of Fresnoy appears to have been a hasty and perfunctory piece of work. The poem was first published in 1712.

    • This verse be thine, my friend, nor thou refuse
    • This from no venal or ungrateful Muse.
    • Whether thy hand strike out some free design,
    • Where life awakes, and dawns at ev’ry line,
    • Or blend in beauteous tints the colour’d mass,
    • And from the canvas call the mimic face:
    • Read these instructive leaves, in which conspire
    • Fresnoy’s close Art and Dryden’s native Fire;
    • And reading wish like theirs our fate and fame,
    • So mix’d our studies, and so join’d our name;10
    • Like them to shine thro’ long succeeding age,
    • So just thy skill, so regular my rage.
    • Smit with the love of Sister-Arts we came,
    • And met congenial, mingling flame with flame;
    • Like friendly colours found them both unite,
    • And each from each contract new strength and light.
    • How oft in pleasing tasks we wear the day,
    • While summer suns roll unperceiv’d away!
    • How oft our slowly growing works impart,
    • While images reflect from art to art!20
    • How oft review; each finding, like a friend,
    • Something to blame, and something to commend.
    • What flatt’ring scenes our wand’ring fancy wrought,
    • Rome’s pompous glories rising to our thought!
    • Together o’er the Alps methinks we fly,
    • Fired with ideas of fair Italy.
    • With thee on Raphael’s monument I mourn,
    • Or wait inspiring dreams at Maro’s urn:
    • With thee repose where Tully once was laid,
    • Or seek some ruin’s formidable shade:30
    • While Fancy brings the vanish’d piles to view,
    • And builds imaginary Rome anew.
    • Here thy well-studied marbles fix our eye;
    • A fading fresco here demands a sigh;
    • Each heav’nly piece unwearied we compare,
    • Match Raphael’s grace with thy lov’d Guido’s air,
    • Carracci’s strength, Correggio’s softer line,
    • Paulo’s free stroke, and Titian’s warmth divine.
    • How finish’d with illustrious toil appears
    • This small well-polish’d Gem , the work of years,40
    • Yet still how faint by precept is exprest
    • The living image in the painter’s breast!
    • Thence endless streams of fair ideas flow,
    • Strike in the sketch, or in the picture glow;
    • Thence Beauty, waking all her forms, supplies
    • An Angel’s sweetness, or Bridgewater’s eyes.
    • Muse! at that name thy sacred sorrows shed
    • Those tears eternal that embalm the dead;
    • Call round her tomb each object of desire,
    • Each purer frame inform’d with purer fire;50
    • Bid her be all that cheers or softens life,
    • The tender sister, daughter, friend, and wife;
    • Bid her be all that makes mankind adore,
    • Then view this marble, and be vain no more!
    • Yet still her charms in breathing paint engage,
    • Her modest cheek shall warm a future age.
    • Beauty, frail flower, that ev’ry season fears,
    • Blooms in thy colours for a thousand years.
    • Thus Churchill’s race shall other hearts surprise,
    • And other beauties envy Worsley’s eyes ;60
    • Each pleasing Blount shall endless smiles bestow,
    • And soft Belinda’s blush for ever glow.
    • O, lasting as those colours may they shine,
    • Free as thy stroke, yet faultless as thy line;
    • New graces yearly like thy works display,
    • Soft without weakness, without glaring gay!
    • Led by some rule that guides, but not constrains,
    • And finish’d more thro’ happiness than pains.
    • The kindred arts shall in their praise conspire,69
    • One dip the pencil, and one string the lyre.
    • Yet should the Graces all thy figures place,
    • And breathe an air divine on ev’ry face;
    • Yet should the Muses bid my numbers roll
    • Strong as their charms, and gentle as their soul;
    • With Zeuxis’ Helen thy Bridgewater vie,
    • And these be sung till Granville’s Myra die;
    • Alas! how little from the grave we claim!
    • Thou but preserv’st a Face and I a Name!
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IMPROMPTU TO LADY WINCHILSEA

OCCASIONED BY FOUR SATIRICAL VERSES ON WOMEN WITS, IN THE RAPE OF THE LOCK

‘The four verses,’ says Ward, ‘are apparently Canto IV. vv. 59-62. The Countess of Winchilsea, a poetess whom Rowe hailed as inspired by ‘more than Delphic ardour,’ replied by some pretty lines, where she declares that “disarmed with so genteel an air,” she gives over the contest.’

  • In vain you boast poetic names of yore,
  • And cite those Sapphos we admire no more:
  • Fate doom’d the fall of every female wit;
  • But doom’d it then, when first Ardelia writ.
  • Of all examples by the world confess’d,
  • I knew Ardelia could not quote the best;
  • Who, like her mistress on Britannia’s throne,
  • Fights and subdues in quarrels not her own.
  • To write their praise you but in vain essay:
  • Ev’n while you write, you take that praise away.
  • Light to stars the sun does thus restore,
  • But shines himself till they are seen no more.
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ELEGY TO THE MEMORY OF AN UNFORTUNATE LADY

It was long rumored that this poem was literally founded on fact: that the unfortunate lady was a maiden with whom Pope was in love, and from whom he was separated. The fact seems to be that the poem’s only basis in truth lay in Pope’s sympathy for an unhappy married woman about whom he wrote to Caryll in 1712. The verses were not published till 1717, but were probably written several years earlier.

    • What beck’ning ghost along the moonlight shade
    • Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade?
    • ’T is she!—but why that bleeding bosom gor’d?
    • Why dimly gleams the visionary sword?
    • Oh ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell,
    • Is it, in Heav’n, a crime to love too well?
    • To bear too tender or too firm a heart,
    • To act a lover’s or a Roman’s part?
    • Is there no bright reversion in the sky
    • For those who greatly think, or bravely die?10
    • Why bade ye else, ye Powers! her soul aspire
    • Above the vulgar flight of low desire?
    • Ambition first sprung from your blest abodes,
    • The glorious fault of Angels and of Gods:
    • Thence to their images on earth it flows,
    • And in the breasts of Kings and Heroes glows.
    • Most souls, ’t is true, but peep out once an age,
    • Dull sullen pris’ners in the body’s cage;
    • Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years
    • Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres;20
    • Like eastern Kings a lazy state they keep,
    • And, close confin’d to their own palace, sleep.
    • From these, perhaps (ere Nature bade her die),
    • Fate snatch’d her early to the pitying sky.
    • As into air the purer spirits flow,
    • And sep’rate from their kindred dregs below;
    • So flew the soul to its congenial place,
    • Nor left one virtue to redeem her race.
    • But thou, false guardian of a charge too good,
    • Thou, mean deserter of thy brother’s blood!30
    • See on these ruby lips the trembling breath,
    • These cheeks now fading at the blast of death;
    • Cold is that breast which warm’d the world before,
    • And those love-darting eyes must roll no more.
    • Thus, if eternal justice rules the ball,
    • Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall;
    • On all the line a sudden vengeance waits,
    • And frequent hearses shall besiege your gates;
    • There passengers shall stand, and pointing say
    • (While the long funerals blacken all the way),40
    • Lo! these were they whose souls the furies steel’d,
    • And cursed with hearts unknowing how to yield.
    • Thus unlamented pass the proud away,
    • The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day!
    • So perish all, whose breast ne’er learn’d to glow
    • For others’ good, or melt at others’ woe.
    • What can atone, O ever injured shade!
    • Thy fate unpitied, and thy rites unpaid?
    • No friend’s complaint, no kind domestic tear
    • Pleas’d thy pale ghost, or graced thy mournful bier;50
    • By foreign hands thy dying eyes were closed,
    • By foreign hands thy decent limbs composed,
    • By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn’d,
    • By strangers honour’d, and by strangers mourn’d.
    • What tho’ no friends in sable weeds appear,
    • Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year,
    • And bear about the mockery of woe
    • To midnight dances, and the public show?
    • What tho’ no weeping loves thy ashes grace,
    • Nor polish’d marble emulate thy face?60
    • What tho’ no sacred earth allow thee room,
    • Nor hallow’d dirge be mutter’d o’er thy tomb?
    • Yet shall thy grave with rising flowers be dress’d,
    • And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:
    • There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow,
    • There the first roses of the year shall blow;
    • While angels with their silver wings o’ershade
    • The ground, now sacred by thy relics made.
    • So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name,
    • What once had Beauty, Titles, Wealth and Fame.70
    • How lov’d, how honour’d once, avails thee not,
    • To whom related, or by whom begot;
    • A heap of dust alone remains of thee;
    • ’T is all thou art, and all the proud shall be!
    • Poets themselves must fall like those they sung,
    • Deaf the prais’d ear, and mute the tuneful tongue.
    • Ev’n he whose soul now melts in mournful lays,
    • Shall shortly want the gen’rous tear he pays;
    • Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part,
    • And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart;80
    • Life’s idle bus’ness at one gasp be o’er,
    • The Muse forgot, and thou belov’d no more!
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MESSIAH

Written, according to Courthope, in 1712.

ADVERTISEMENT

In reading several passages of the prophet Isaiah, which foretell the coming of Christ, and the felicities attending it, I could not but observe a remarkable parity between many of the thoughts and those in the Pollio of Virgil. This will not seem surprising, when we reflect that the Eclogue was taken from a Sibylline prophecy on the same subject. One may judge that Virgil did not copy it line by line, but selected such ideas as best agreed with the nature of Pastoral Poetry, and disposed them in that manner which served most to beautify his piece. I have endeavoured the same in this imitation of him, though without admitting any thing of my own; since it was written with this particular view, that the reader, by comparing the several thoughts, might see how far the images and descriptions of the Prophet are superior to those of the Poet. But as I fear I have prejudiced them by my management, I shall subjoin the passages of Isaiah, and those of Virgil, under the same disadvantage of a literal translation.

    • Ye Nymphs of Solyma! begin the song:
    • To heav’nly themes sublimer strains belong.
    • The mossy fountains, and the sylvan shades,
    • The dreams of Pindus, and th’ Aonian maids,
    • Delight no more—O Thou my voice inspire
    • Who touch’d Isaiah’s hallow’d lips with fire!
    • Rapt into future times, the bard begun:
    • A virgin shall conceive, a virgin bear a son!1
    • From Jesse’s2 root behold a branch arise,
    • Whose sacred flower with fragrance fills the skies;10
    • Th’ ethereal spirit o’er its leaves shall move,
    • And on its top descends the mystic dove.
    • Ye Heav’ns!3 from high the dewy nectar pour,
    • And in soft silence shed the kindly shower!
    • The sick4 and weak the healing plant shall aid,
    • From storms a shelter, and from heat a shade.
    • All crimes shall cease, and ancient fraud shall fail,
    • Returning Justice5 lift aloft her scale;
    • Peace o’er the world her olive wand extend,
    • And white-robed Innocence from Heav’n descend.20
    • Swift fly the years, and rise th’ expected morn!
    • O spring to light, auspicious babe! be born.
    • See Nature hastes her earliest wreaths to bring,6
    • With all the incense of the breathing spring:
    • See lofty Lebanon7 his head advance,
    • See nodding forests on the mountains dance:
    • See spicy clouds from lowly Saron rise,
    • And Carmel’s flow’ry top perfumes the skies!
    • Hark! a glad voice the lonely desert cheers;1
    • Prepare the way!2 a God, a God appears!
    • A God, a God! the vocal hills reply;31
    • The Rocks proclaim th’ approaching Deity.
    • Lo, Earth receives him from the bending skies!
    • Sink down, ye Mountains, and, ye valleys, rise;
    • With heads declin’d, ye Cedars, homage pay;
    • Be smooth, ye Rocks; ye rapid floods, give way;
    • The Saviour comes, by ancient bards foretold!
    • Hear him,3 ye deaf, and all ye blind, behold!
    • He from thick films shall purge the visual ray,
    • And on the sightless eyeball pour the day:40
    • ’T is he th’ obstructed paths of sound shall clear,
    • And bid new music charm th’ unfolding ear:
    • The dumb shall sing, the lame his crutch forego,
    • And leap exulting like the bounding roe.
    • No sigh, no murmur, the wide world shall hear,
    • From every face he wipes off every tear.
    • In4 adamantine chains shall Death be bound,
    • And Hell’s grim tyrant feel th’ eternal wound.
    • As the good Shepherd5 tends his fleecy care,
    • Seeks freshest pasture and the purest air,
    • Explores the lost, the wand’ring sheep directs,51
    • By day o’ersees them, and by night protects;
    • The tender lambs he raises in his arms,
    • Feeds from his hand, and in his bosom warms;
    • Thus shall mankind his guardian care engage,
    • The promis’d Father6 of the future age.
    • No more shall7 nation against nation rise,
    • Nor ardent warriors meet with hateful eyes,
    • Nor fields with gleaming steel be cover’d o’er,
    • The brazen trumpets kindle rage no more;
    • But useless lances into scythes shall bend,61
    • And the broad falchion in a ploughshare end.
    • Then palaces shall rise; the joyful8 son
    • Shall finish what his short-lived sire begun;
    • Their vines a shadow to their race shall yield,
    • And the same hand that sow’d shall reap the field:
    • The swain in barren9 deserts with surprise
    • See lilies spring, and sudden verdure rise;10
    • And start, amidst the thirsty wilds, to hear
    • New falls of water murm’ring in his ear.70
    • On rifted rocks, the dragon’s late abodes,
    • The green reed trembles, and the bulrush nods;
    • Waste1 sandy valleys, once perplex’d with thorn,
    • The spiry fir and shapely box adorn;
    • To leafless shrubs the flow’ring palms succeed,
    • And od’rous myrtle to the noisome weed.
    • The lambs2 with wolves shall graze the verdant mead,
    • And boys in flow’ry bands the tiger lead;3
    • The steer and lion at one crib shall meet,
    • And harmless serpents4 lick the pilgrim’s feet;80
    • The smiling infant in his hand shall take
    • The crested basilisk and speckled snake,
    • Pleas’d, the green lustre of the scales survey,
    • And with their forky tongue shall innocently play.
    • Rise, crown’d with light, imperial Salem,5 rise!6
    • Exalt thy tow’ry head, and lift thy eyes!
    • See a long race7 thy spacious courts adorn;
    • See future sons and daughters, yet unborn,
    • In crowding ranks on every side arise,
    • Demanding life, impatient for the skies!90
    • See barb’rous nations8 at thy gates attend,
    • Walk in thy light, and in thy temple bend!
    • See thy bright altars throng’d with prostrate kings,
    • And heap’d with products of Sabæan9 springs;
    • For thee Idume’s spicy forests blow,
    • And seeds of gold in Ophir’s mountains glow;
    • See Heav’n its sparkling portals wide display,
    • And break upon thee in a flood of day!
    • No more the rising sun10 shall gild the morn,
    • Nor ev’ning Cynthia fill her silver horn;
    • But lost, dissolv’d in thy superior rays,101
    • One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze
    • O’erflow thy courts: the light himself shall shine
    • Reveal’d, and God’s eternal day be thine!
    • The seas11 shall waste, the skies in smoke decay,
    • Rocks fall to dust, and mountains melt away;
    • But fix’d his word, his saving power remains;—
    • Thy realm for ever lasts, thy own Messiah reigns!
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THE RAPE OF THE LOCK AN HEROI-COMICAL POEM[ ]

  • Nolueram, Belinda, tuos violare capillos;
  • Sed juvat, hoc precibus me tribuisse tuis.

  • Mart. Epig. xii. 84.

‘It appears by this motto,’ says Pope, in a footnote supplied for Warburton’s edition, ‘that the following poem was written or published at the lady’s request. But there are some other circumstances not unworthy relating. Mr. Caryll (a gentleman who was secretary to Queen Mary, wife of James II., whose fortunes he followed into France, author of the comedy of Sir Solomon Single, and of several translations in Dryden’s Miscellanies) originally proposed it to him in a view of putting an end, by this piece of ridicule, to a quarrel that was risen between two noble families, those of Lord Petre and Mrs. Fermor, on the trifling occasion of his having cut off a lock of her hair. The author sent it to the lady, with whom he was acquainted; and she took it so well as to give about copies of it. That first sketch (we learn from one of his letters) was written in less than a fortnight, in 1711, in two cantos only, and it was so printed first, in a Miscellany of Bern. Lintot’s, without the name of the author. But it was received so well that he made it more considerable the next year by the addition of the machinery of the Sylphs, and extended it to five cantos.’

TO MRS. ARABELLA FERMOR

Madam,—

It will be in vain to deny that I have some regard for this piece, since I dedicate it to you. Yet you may bear me witness it was intended only to divert a few young ladies, who have good sense and good humour enough to laugh not only at their sex’s little unguarded follies, but at their own. But as it was communicated with the air of a secret, it soon found its way into the world. An imperfect copy having been offer’d to a bookseller, you had the good-nature for my sake, to consent to the publication of one more correct: this I was forced to, before I had executed half my design, for the Machinery was entirely wanting to complete it.

The Machinery, Madam, is a term invented by the critics, to signify that part which the Deities, Angels, or Dæmons, are made to act in a poem: for the ancient poets are in one respect like many modern ladies; let an action be never so trivial in itself, they always make it appear of the utmost importance. These Machines I determined to raise on a very new and odd foundation, the Rosicrucian doctrine of Spirits.

I know how disagreeable it is to make use of hard words before a lady; but it is so much the concern of a poet to have his works understood, and particularly by your sex, that you must give me leave to explain two or three difficult terms. The Rosicrucians are a people I must bring you acquainted with. The best account I know of them is in a French book called La Comte de Gabalis, which, both in its title and size, is so like a novel, that many of the fair sex have read it for one by mistake. According to these gentlemen, the four elements are inhabited by Spirits, which they call Sylphs, Gnomes, Nymphs, and Salamanders. The Gnomes, or Dæmons of earth, delight in mischief; but the Sylphs, whose habitation is in the air, are the best-conditioned creatures imaginable; for, they say, any mortal may enjoy the most intimate familiarities with these gentle spirits, upon a condition very easy to all true adepts,—an inviolate preservation of chastity.

As to the following cantos, all the passages of them are as fabulous as the Vision at the beginning, or the Transformation at the end (except the loss of your hair, which I always mention with reverence). The human persons are as fictitious as the airy ones; and the character of Belinda, as it is now managed, resembles you in nothing but in beauty.

If this poem had as many graces as there are in your person or in your mind, yet I could never hope it should pass thro’ the world half so uncensured as you have done. But let its fortune be what it will, mine is happy enough, to have given me this occasion of assuring you that I am, with the truest esteem, Madam,

Your most obedient, humble servant,

A. Pope.

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CANTO I

    • What dire offence from am’rous causes springs,
    • What mighty contests rise from trivial things,
    • I sing—This verse to Caryll, muse! is due:
    • This, ev’n Belinda may vouchsafe to view:
    • Slight is the subject, but not so the praise,
    • If she inspire, and he approve my lays.
    • Say what strange motive, Goddess! could compel
    • A well-bred Lord t’ assault a gentle Belle?
    • O say what stranger cause, yet unexplor’d,
    • Could make a gentle Belle reject a Lord?10
    • In tasks so bold can little men engage,
    • And in soft bosoms dwells such mighty rage?
    • Sol thro’ white curtains shot a tim’rous ray,
    • And oped those eyes that must eclipse the day.
    • Now lapdogs give themselves the rousing shake,
    • And sleepless lovers just at twelve awake:
    • Thrice rung the bell, the slipper knock’d the ground,
    • And the press’d watch return’d a silver sound.
    • Belinda still her downy pillow prest,
    • Her guardian Sylph prolong’d the balmy rest.20
    • ’T was he had summon’d to her silent bed
    • The morning-dream that hover’d o’er her head;
    • A youth more glitt’ring than a Birthnight Beau
    • (That ev’n in slumber caus’d her cheek to glow)
    • Seem’d to her ear his winning lips to lay,
    • And thus in whispers said, or seem’d to say:
    • ‘Fairest of mortals, thou distinguish’d care
    • Of thousand bright Inhabitants of Air!
    • If e’er one vision touch’d thy infant thought,
    • Of all the nurse and all the priest have taught—30
    • Of airy elves by moonlight shadows seen,
    • The silver token, and the circled green,
    • Or virgins visited by Angel-powers,
    • With golden crowns and wreaths of heav’nly flowers;
    • Hear and believe! thy own importance know,
    • Nor bound thy narrow views to things below.
    • Some secret truths, from learned pride conceal’d,
    • To maids alone and children are reveal’d:
    • What tho’ no credit doubting Wits may give?
    • The fair and innocent shall still believe.40
    • Know, then, unnumber’d Spirits round thee fly,
    • The light militia of the lower sky:
    • These, tho’ unseen, are ever on the wing,
    • Hang o’er the Box , and hover round the Ring.
    • Think what an equipage thou hast in air,
    • And view with scorn two pages and a chair.
    • As now your own, our beings were of old,
    • And once inclosed in woman’s beauteous mould;
    • Thence, by a soft transition, we repair
    • From earthly vehicles to these of air.50
    • Think not, when woman’s transient breath is fled,
    • That all her vanities at once are dead;
    • Succeeding vanities she still regards,
    • And, tho’ she plays no more, o’erlooks the cards.
    • Her joy in gilded chariots, when alive,
    • And love of Ombre, after death survive.
    • For when the Fair in all their pride expire,
    • To their first elements their souls retire.
    • The sprites of fiery termagants in flame59
    • Mount up, and take a Salamander’s name.
    • Soft yielding minds to water glide away,
    • And sip, with Nymphs, their elemental tea.
    • The graver prude sinks downward to a Gnome
    • In search of mischief still on earth to roam.
    • The light coquettes in Sylphs aloft repair,
    • And sport and flutter in the fields of air.
    • ‘Know further yet: whoever fair and chaste
    • Rejects mankind, is by some Sylph embraced;
    • For spirits, freed from mortal laws, with ease
    • Assume what sexes and what shapes they please.70
    • What guards the purity of melting maids,
    • In courtly balls, and midnight masquerades,
    • Safe from the treach’rous friend, the daring spark,
    • The glance by day, the whisper in the dark;
    • When kind occasion prompts their warm desires,
    • When music softens, and when dancing fires?
    • ’T is but their Sylph, the wise Celestials know,
    • Tho’ Honour is the word with men below.
    • ‘Some nymphs there are, too conscious of their face,
    • For life predestin’d to the Gnome’s embrace.80
    • These swell their prospects and exalt their pride,
    • When offers are disdain’d, and love denied:
    • Then gay ideas crowd the vacant brain,
    • While peers, and dukes, and all their sweeping train,
    • And garters, stars, and coronets appear,
    • And in soft sounds, “Your Grace” salutes their ear.
    • ’T is these that early taint the female soul,
    • Instruct the eyes of young conquettes to roll,
    • Teach infant cheeks a bidden blush to know,
    • And little hearts to flutter at a Beau.90
    • ‘Oft, when the world imagine women stray,
    • The Sylphs thro’ mystic mazes guide their way;
    • Thro’ all the giddy circle they pursue,
    • And old impertinence expel by new.
    • What tender maid but must a victim fall
    • To one man’s treat, but for another’s ball?
    • When Florio speaks, what virgin could withstand,
    • If gentle Damon did not squeeze her hand?
    • With varying vanities, from every part,
    • They shift the moving toyshop of their heart;100
    • Where wigs with wigs, with sword-knots sword-knots strive,
    • Beaux banish beaux, and coaches coaches drive.
    • This erring mortals levity may call;
    • Oh blind to truth! the Sylphs contrive it all.
    • ‘Oh these am I, who thy protection claim,
    • A watchful sprite, and Ariel is my name.
    • Late, as I ranged the crystal wilds of air,
    • In the clear mirror of thy ruling star
    • I saw, alas! some dread event impend,
    • Ere to the main this morning sun descend,
    • But Heav’n reveals not what, or how or where.111
    • Warn’d by the Sylph, O pious maid, beware!
    • This to disclose is all thy guardian can:
    • Beware of all, but most beware of Man!’
    • He said; when Shock, who thought she slept too long,
    • Leap’d up, and waked his mistress with his tongue.
    • ’T was then, Belinda, if report say true,
    • Thy eyes first open’d on a billet-doux;
    • Wounds, charms, and ardours were no sooner read,119
    • But all the vision vanish’d from thy head.
    • And now, unveil’d, the toilet stands display’d,
    • Each silver vase in mystic order laid.
    • First, robed in white, the nymph intent adores,
    • With head uncover’d, the cosmetic powers.
    • A heav’nly image in the glass appears;
    • To that she bends, to that her eyes she rears.
    • Th’ inferior priestess, at her altar’s side,
    • Trembling begins the sacred rites of Pride.
    • Unnumber’d treasures ope at once, and here
    • The various off’rings of the world appear;
    • From each she nicely culls with curious toil,131
    • And decks the Goddess with the glitt’ring spoil.
    • This casket India’s glowing gems unlocks,
    • And all Arabia breathes from yonder box.
    • The tortoise here and elephant unite,
    • Transform’d to combs, the speckled, and the white.
    • Here files of pins extend their shining rows,
    • Puffs, powders, patches, bibles, billet-doux.
    • Now awful beauty puts on all its arms;139
    • The Fair each moment rises in her charms,
    • Repairs her smiles, awakens every grace,
    • And calls forth all the wonders of her face;
    • Sees by degrees a purer blush arise,
    • And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes.
    • The busy Sylphs surround their darling care,
    • These set the head, and those divide the hair,
    • Some fold the sleeve, whilst others plait the gown;
    • And Betty’s prais’d for labours not her own.
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CANTO II

    • Not with more glories, in th’ ethereal plain,
    • The sun first rises o’er the purpled main,
    • Than, issuing forth, the rival of his beams
    • Launch’d on the bosom of the silver Thames.
    • Fair nymphs, and well-dress’d youths around her shone,
    • But every eye was fix’d on her alone.
    • On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore,
    • Which Jews might kiss, and infidels adore.
    • Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose,
    • Quick as her eyes, and as unfix’d as those:
    • Favours to none, to all she smiles extends;11
    • Oft she rejects, but never once offends.
    • Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike,
    • And, like the sun, they shine on all alike.
    • Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride,
    • Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to hide;
    • If to her share some female errors fall,
    • Look on her face, and you’ll forget ’em all.
    • This nymph, to the destruction of mankind,
    • Nourish’d two locks, which graceful hung behind20
    • In equal curls, and well conspired to deck
    • With shining ringlets the smooth iv’ry neck.
    • Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains,
    • And mighty hearts are held in slender chains.
    • With hairy springes we the birds betray,
    • Slight lines of hair surprise the finny prey,
    • Fair tresses man’s imperial race ensnare,
    • And beauty draws us with a single hair.
    • Th’ adventurous Baron the bright locks admired;
    • He saw, he wish’d, and to the prize aspired.
    • Resolv’d to win, he meditates the way,31
    • By force to ravish, or by fraud betray;
    • For when success a lover’s toil attends,
    • Few ask if fraud or force attain’d his ends.
    • For this, ere Phœbus rose, he had implor’d
    • Propitious Heav’n, and every Power ador’d,
    • But chiefly Love—to Love an altar built
    • Of twelve vast French romances , neatly gilt.
    • There lay three garters, half a pair of gloves,
    • And all the trophies of his former loves;40
    • With tender billet-doux he lights the pyre,
    • And breathes three am’rous sighs to raise the fire.
    • Then prostrate falls, and begs with ardent eyes
    • Soon to obtain, and long possess the prize:
    • The Powers gave ear , and granted half his prayer,
    • The rest the winds dispers’d in empty air.
    • But now secure the painted vessel glides,
    • The sunbeams trembling on the floating tides;
    • While melting music steals upon the sky,
    • And soften’d sounds along the waters die:
    • Smooth flow the waves, the zephyrs gently play,51
    • Belinda smil’d, and all the world was gay.
    • All but the Sylph—with careful thoughts opprest
    • Th’ impending woe sat heavy on his breast.
    • He summons straight his denizens of air;
    • The lucid squadrons round the sails repair:
    • Soft o’er the shrouds aërial whispers breathe
    • That seem’d but zephyrs to the train beneath.
    • Some to the sun their insect-wings unfold,
    • Waft on the breeze, or sink in clouds of gold;60
    • Transparent forms too fine for mortal sight,
    • Their fluid bodies half dissolv’d in light,
    • Loose to the wind their airy garments flew,
    • Thin glitt’ring textures of the filmy dew,
    • Dipt in the richest tincture of the skies,
    • Where light disports in ever-mingling dyes,
    • While ev’ry beam new transient colours flings,
    • Colours that change whene’er they wave their wings.
    • Amid the circle, on the gilded mast,
    • Superior by the head was Ariel placed;70
    • His purple pinions opening to the sun,
    • He raised his azure wand, and thus begun:
    • ‘Ye Sylphs and Sylphids, to your chief give ear.
    • Fays, Fairies, Genii , Elves, and Dæmons, hear!
    • Ye know the spheres and various tasks assign’d
    • By laws eternal to th’ aërial kind.
    • Some in the fields of purest ether play,
    • And bask and whiten in the blaze of day:
    • Some guide the course of wand’ring orbs on high,
    • Or roll the planets thro’ the boundless sky:80
    • Some, less refin’d, beneath the moon’s pale light
    • Pursue the stars that shoot athwart the night,
    • Or suck the mists in grosser air below,
    • Or dip their pinions in the painted bow,
    • Or brew fierce tempests on the wintry main,
    • Or o’er the glebe distil the kindly rain.
    • Others, on earth, o’er human race preside,
    • Watch all their ways, and all their actions guide:
    • Of these the chief the care of nations own,
    • And guard with arms divine the British Throne.90
    • ‘Our humbler province is to tend the Fair,
    • Not a less pleasing, tho’ less glorious care;
    • To save the Powder from too rude a gale;
    • Nor let th’ imprison’d Essences exhale;
    • To draw fresh colours from the vernal flowers;
    • To steal from rainbows ere they drop in showers
    • A brighter Wash; to curl their waving hairs,
    • Assist their blushes and inspire their airs;
    • Nay oft, in dreams invention we bestow,
    • To change a Flounce, or add a Furbelow.
    • ‘This day black omens threat the brightest Fair,101
    • That e’er deserv’d a watchful spirit’s care;
    • Some dire disaster, or by force or slight;
    • But what, or where, the Fates have wrapt in night.
    • Whether the nymph shall break Diana’s law,
    • Or some frail China jar receive a flaw;
    • Or stain her honour, or her new brocade,
    • Forget her prayers, or miss a masquerade,
    • Or lose her heart, or necklace, at a ball;
    • Or whether Heav’n has doom’d that Shock must fall.110
    • Haste, then, ye Spirits! to your charge repair:
    • The flutt’ring fan be Zephyretta’s care;
    • The drops to thee, Brillaute, we consign;
    • And, Momentilla, let the watch be thine;
    • Do thou, Crispissa, tend her fav’rite Lock;
    • Ariel himself shall be the guard of Shock.
    • ‘To fifty chosen sylphs, of special note,
    • We trust th’ important charge, the petticoat;
    • Oft have we known that sev’n-fold fence to fail,
    • Tho’ stiff with hoops, and arm’d with ribs of whale:120
    • Form a strong line about the silver bound,
    • And guard the wide circumference around.
    • ‘Whatever spirit, careless of his charge,
    • His post neglects, or leaves the Fair at large,
    • Shall feel sharp vengeance soon o’ertake his sins:
    • Be stopp’d in vials, or transfix’d with pins,
    • Or plunged in lakes of bitter washes lie,
    • Or wedg’d whole ages in a bodkin’s eye;
    • Gums and pomatums shall his flight restrain,
    • While clogg’d he beats his silken wings in vain,130
    • Or alum styptics with contracting power
    • Shrink his thin essence like a rivell’d flower:
    • Or, as Ixion fix’d, the wretch shall feel
    • The giddy motion of the whirling mill,
    • In fumes of burning chocolate shall glow,
    • And tremble at the sea that froths below!’
    • He spoke; the spirits from the sails descend;
    • Some, orb in orb, around the nymph extend;
    • Some thread the mazy ringlets of her hair;
    • Some hang upon the pendants of her ear;
    • With beating hearts the dire event they wait,141
    • Anxious, and trembling for the birth of Fate.
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CANTO III

    • Close by those meads, for ever crown’d with flowers,
    • Where Thames with pride surveys his rising towers
    • There stands a structure of majestic frame,
    • Which from the neighb’ring Hampton takes its name.
    • Here Britain’s statesmen oft the fall foredoom
    • Of foreign tyrants, and of nymphs at home;
    • Here, thou, great Anna! whom three realms obey,
    • Dost sometimes counsel take—and sometimes tea.
    • Hither the Heroes and the Nymphs resort,
    • To taste awhile the pleasures of a court;10
    • In various talk th’ instructive hours they past,
    • Who gave the ball, or paid the visit last;
    • One speaks the glory of the British Queen,
    • And one describes a charming Indian screen;
    • A third interprets motions, looks, and eyes;
    • At every word a reputation dies.
    • Snuff, or the fan, supply each pause of chat,
    • With singing, laughing, ogling, and all that.
    • Meanwhile, declining from the noon of day,
    • The sun obliquely shoots his burning ray;
    • The hungry judges soon the sentence sign,21
    • And wretches hang that jurymen may dine;
    • The merchant from th’ Exchange returns in peace,
    • And the long labours of the toilet cease.
    • Belinda now, whom thirst of fame invites,
    • Burns to encounter two adventurous knights,
    • At Ombre singly to decide their doom,
    • And swells her breast with conquests yet to come.
    • Straight the three bands prepare in arms to join,
    • Each band the number of the sacred Nine.
    • Soon as she spreads her hand, th’ aerial guard31
    • Descend, and sit on each important card:
    • First Ariel perch’d upon a Matadore,
    • Then each according to the rank they bore;
    • For Sylphs, yet mindful of their ancient race,
    • Are, as when women, wondrous fond of place.
    • Behold four Kings in majesty revered,
    • With hoary whiskers and a forky beard;
    • And four fair Queens, whose hands sustain a flower
    • Th’ expressive emblem of their softer power;40
    • Four Knaves, in garbs succinct, a trusty band,
    • Caps on their heads, and halberts in their hand
    • And party-colour’d troops, a shining train,
    • Draw forth to combat on the velvet plain.
    • The skilful nymph reviews her force with care;
    • ‘Let Spades be trumps!’ she said, and trumps they were.
    • Now move to war her sable Matadores,
    • In show like leaders of the swarthy Moors.
    • Spadillio first, unconquerable lord!
    • Led off two captive trumps, and swept the board.50
    • As many more Manillio forced to yield,
    • And march’d a victor from the verdant field.
    • Him Basto follow’d, but his fate more hard
    • Gain’d but one trump and one plebeian card.
    • With his broad sabre next, a chief in years,
    • The hoary Majesty of Spades appears,
    • Puts forth one manly leg, to sight reveal’d;
    • The rest his many colour’d robe conceal’d.
    • The rebel Knave, who dares his prince engage,
    • Proves the just victim of his royal rage.60
    • Ev’n mighty Pam , that kings and queens o’erthrew,
    • And mow’d down armies in the fights of Loo,
    • Sad chance of war! now destitute of aid,
    • Falls undistinguish’d by the victor Spade.
    • Thus far both armies to Belinda yield;
    • Now to the Baron Fate inclines the field.
    • His warlike amazon her host invades,
    • Th’ imperial consort of the crown of Spades.
    • The Club’s black tyrant first her victim died,
    • Spite of his haughty mien and barb’rous pride:70
    • What boots the regal circle on his head,
    • His giant limbs, in state unwieldy spread;
    • That long behind he trails his pompous robe,
    • And of all monarchs only grasps the globe?
    • The Baron now his Diamonds pours apace;
    • Th’ embroider’d King who shows but half his face,
    • And his refulgent Queen, with powers combin’d,
    • Of broken troops an easy conquest find.
    • Clubs, Diamonds, Hearts, in wild disorder seen,
    • With throngs promiscuous strew the level green.80
    • Thus when dispers’d a routed army runs,
    • Of Asia’s troops, and Afric’s sable sons,
    • With like confusion diff’rent nations fly,
    • Of various habit, and of various dye;
    • The pierced battalions disunited fall
    • In heaps on heaps; one fate o’erwhelms them all.
    • The Knave of Diamonds tries his wily arts,
    • And wins (oh shameful chance!) the Queen of Hearts.
    • At this, the blood the virgin’s cheek forsook,
    • A livid paleness spreads o’er all her look;
    • She sees, and trembles at th’ approaching ill,91
    • Just in the jaws of ruin , and Codille.
    • And now (as oft in some distemper’d state)
    • On one nice trick depends the gen’ral fate!
    • An Ace of Hearts steps forth: the King unseen
    • Lurk’d in her hand, and mourn’d his captive Queen.
    • He springs to vengeance with an eager pace,
    • And falls like thunder on the prostrate Ace.
    • The nymph, exulting, fills with shouts the sky;
    • The walls, the woods, and long canals reply.100
    • Oh thoughtless mortals! ever blind to fate,
    • Too soon dejected, and too soon elate:
    • Sudden these honours shall be snatch’d away,
    • And curs’d for ever this victorious day.
    • For lo! the board with cups and spoons is crown’d,
    • The berries crackle, and the mill turns round;
    • On shining altars of japan they raise
    • The silver lamp; the fiery spirits blaze:
    • From silver spouts the grateful liquors glide,
    • While China’s earth receives the smoking tide.110
    • At once they gratify their scent and taste,
    • And frequent cups prolong the rich repast.
    • Straight hover round the Fair her airy band;
    • Some, as she sipp’d, the fuming liquor fann’d,
    • Some o’er her lap their careful plumes display’d,
    • Trembling, and conscious of the rich brocade.
    • Coffee (which makes the politician wise,
    • And see thro’ all things with his half-shut eyes)
    • Sent up in vapors to the Baron’s brain
    • New stratagems, the radiant Lock to gain.
    • Ah, cease, rash youth! desist ere ’t is too late,121
    • Fear the just Gods, and think of Scylla’s fate!
    • Changed to a bird , and sent to flit in air,
    • She dearly pays for Nisus’ injured hair!
    • But when to mischief mortals bend their will,
    • How soon they find fit instruments of ill!
    • Just then, Clarissa drew with tempting grace
    • A two-edg’d weapon from her shining case:
    • So ladies in romance assist their knight,
    • Present the spear, and arm him for the fight.130
    • He takes the gift with rev’rence, and extends
    • The little engine on his fingers’ ends;
    • This just behind Belinda’s neck he spread,
    • As o’er the fragrant steams she bends her head.
    • Swift to the Lock a thousand sprites repair;
    • A thousand wings, by turns, blow back the hair;
    • And thrice they twitch’d the diamond in her ear;
    • Thrice she look’d back, and thrice the foe drew near.138
    • Just in that instant, anxious Ariel sought
    • The close recesses of the virgin’s thought:
    • As on the nosegay in her breast reclin’d,
    • He watch’d th’ ideas rising in her mind,
    • Sudden he view’d, in spite of all her art,
    • An earthly Lover lurking at her heart.
    • Amazed, confused, he found his power expired,
    • Resign’d to fate, and with a sigh retired.
    • The Peer now spreads the glitt’ring forfex wide,
    • T’ inclose the Lock; now joins it, to divide.
    • Ev’n then, before the fatal engine closed,
    • A wretched Sylph too fondly interposed;
    • Fate urged the shears, and cut the Sylph in twain151
    • (But airy substance soon unites again ).
    • The meeting points the sacred hair dissever
    • From the fair head, for ever, and for ever!
    • Then flash’d the living lightning from her eyes,
    • And screams of horror rend th’ affrighted skies.
    • Not louder shrieks to pitying Heav’n are cast,
    • When husbands, or when lapdogs breathe their last;
    • Or when rich China vessels, fall’n from high,
    • In glitt’ring dust and painted fragments lie!160
    • ‘Let wreaths of triumph now my temples twine,’
    • The Victor cried, ‘the glorious prize is mine!
    • While fish in streams, or birds delight in air,
    • Or in a coach and six the British Fair,
    • As long as Atalantis shall be read,
    • Or the small pillow grace a lady’s bed,
    • While visits shall be paid on solemn days,
    • When numerous wax-lights in bright order blaze:
    • While nymphs take treats, or assignations give,
    • So long my honour, name, and praise shall live!170
    • What Time would spare, from Steel receives its date,
    • And monuments, like men, submit to Fate!
    • Steel could the labour of the Gods destroy,
    • And strike to dust th’ imperial towers of Troy;
    • Steel could the works of mortal pride confound
    • And hew triumphal arches to the ground.
    • What wonder, then , fair Nymph! thy hairs should feel
    • The conquering force of unresisted steel?’
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CANTO IV

    • But anxious cares the pensive nymph opprest,
    • And secret passions labour’d in her breast.
    • Not youthful kings in battle seiz’d alive,
    • Not scornful virgins who their charms survive,
    • Not ardent lovers robb’d of all their bliss,
    • Not ancient ladies when refused a kiss,
    • Not tyrants fierce that unrepenting die,
    • Not Cynthia when her mantua’s pinn’d awry,
    • E’er felt such rage, resentment, and despair,
    • As thou, sad Virgin! for thy ravish’d hair.
    • For, that sad moment, when the Sylphs withdrew,11
    • And Ariel weeping from Belinda flew,
    • Umbriel, a dusky, melancholy sprite
    • As ever sullied the fair face of light,
    • Down to the central earth, his proper scene,
    • Repair’d to search the gloomy cave of Spleen.
    • Swift on his sooty pinions flits the Gnome,
    • And in a vapour reach’d the dismal dome.
    • No cheerful breeze this sullen region knows,
    • The dreaded East is all the wind that blows.20
    • Here in a grotto shelter’d close from air,
    • And screen’d in shades from day’s detested glare,
    • She sighs for ever on her pensive bed,
    • Pain at her side, and Megrim at her head.
    • Two handmaids wait the throne; alike in place,
    • But diff’ring far in figure and in face.
    • Here stood Ill-nature, like an ancient maid,
    • Her wrinkled form in black and white array’d!
    • With store of prayers for mornings, nights, and noons,
    • Her hand is fill’d; her bosom with lampoons.30
    • There Affectation, with a sickly mien,
    • Shows in her cheek the roses of eighteen,
    • Practis’d to lisp, and hang the head aside,
    • Faints into airs, and languishes with pride;
    • On the rich quilt sinks with becoming woe,
    • Wrapt in a gown for sickness and for show.
    • The fair ones feel such maladies as these,
    • When each new night-dress gives a new disease.
    • A constant vapour o’er the palace flies
    • Strange phantoms rising as the mists arise;
    • Dreadful as hermits’ dreams in haunted shades,41
    • Or bright as visions of expiring maids:
    • Now glaring fiends, and snakes on rolling spires,
    • Pale spectres, gaping tombs, and purple fires;
    • Now lakes of liquid gold, Elysian scenes,
    • And crystal domes, and angels in machines.
    • Unnumber’d throngs on ev’ry side are seen,
    • Of bodies changed to various forms by Spleen.
    • Here living Teapots stand, one arm held out,
    • One bent; the handle this, and that the spout:50
    • A Pipkin there, like Homer’s Tripod walks;
    • Here sighs a Jar, and there a Goose-pie talks ;
    • Men prove with child, as powerful fancy works,
    • And maids turn’d bottles call aloud for corks.
    • Safe pass’d the Gnome thro’ this fantastic band,
    • A branch of healing spleenwort in his hand.
    • Then thus address’d the Power—‘Hail, wayward Queen!
    • Who rule the sex to fifty from fifteen:
    • Parent of Vapours and of female wit,
    • Who give th’ hysteric or poetic fit,60
    • On various tempers act by various ways,
    • Make some take physic, others scribble plays;
    • Who cause the proud their visits to delay,
    • And send the godly in a pet to pray.
    • A nymph there is that all your power disdains,
    • And thousands more in equal mirth maintains.
    • But oh! if e’er thy Gnome could spoil a grace,
    • Or raise a pimple on a beauteous face,
    • Like citron-waters matrons’ cheeks inflame,
    • Or change complexions at a losing game;70
    • If e’er with airy horns I planted heads,
    • Or rumpled petticoats, or tumbled beds,
    • Or caused suspicion when no soul was rude,
    • Or discomposed the head-dress of a prude,
    • Or e’er to costive lapdog gave disease,
    • Which not the tears of brightest eyes could ease,
    • Hear me, and touch Belinda with chagrin;
    • That single act gives half the world the spleen.’
    • The Goddess, with a discontented air,
    • Seems to reject him tho’ she grants his prayer.80
    • A wondrous Bag with both her hands she binds,
    • Like that where once Ulysses held the winds;
    • There she collects the force of female lungs,
    • Sighs, sobs, and passions, and the war of tongues.
    • A Vial next she fills with fainting fears,
    • Soft sorrows, melting griefs, and flowing tears.
    • The Gnome rejoicing bears her gifts away,
    • Spreads his black wings, and slowly mounts to day.
    • Sunk in Thalestris’ arms the nymph he found,
    • Her eyes dejected, and her hair unbound.90
    • Full o’er their heads the swelling Bag he rent,
    • And all the Furies issued at the vent.
    • Belinda burns with more than mortal ire,
    • And fierce Thalestris fans the rising fire.
    • ‘O wretched maid!’ she spread her hands, and cried
    • (While Hampton’s echoes, ‘Wretched maid!’ replied),
    • Was it for this you took such constant care
    • The bodkin, comb, and essence to prepare?
    • For this your locks in paper durance bound?
    • For this with torturing irons wreathed around?100
    • For this with fillets strain’d your tender head,
    • And bravely bore the double loads of lead?
    • Gods! shall the ravisher display your hair,
    • While the fops envy, and the ladies stare!
    • Honour forbid! at whose unrivall’d shrine
    • Ease, Pleasure, Virtue, all, our sex resign.
    • Methinks already I your tears survey,
    • Already hear the horrid things they say,
    • Already see you a degraded toast,
    • And all your honour in a whisper lost!110
    • How shall I, then, your hapless fame defend?
    • ’T will then be infamy to seem your friend!
    • And shall this prize, th’ inestimable prize,
    • Exposed thro’ crystal to the gazing eyes,
    • And heighten’d by the diamond’s circling rays,
    • On that rapacious hand for ever blaze?
    • Sooner shall grass in Hyde Park Circus grow,
    • And Wits take lodgings in the sound of Bow ;
    • Sooner let earth, air, sea, to chaos fall,
    • Men, monkeys, lapdogs, parrots, perish all!’120
    • She said; then raging to Sir Plume repairs,
    • And bids her beau demand the precious hairs
    • (Sir Plume, of amber snuff-box justly vain,
    • And the nice conduct of a clouded cane):
    • With earnest eyes, and round unthinking face,
    • He first the snuff-box open’d, then the case,
    • And thus broke out—‘My lord, why, what the devil!
    • Z—ds! damn the Lock! ’fore Gad, you must be civil!
    • Plague on ’t! ’t is past a jest—nay, prithee, pox!
    • Give her the hair.’—He spoke, and rapp’d his box.130
    • ‘It grieves me much,’ replied the Peer again,
    • ‘Who speaks so well should ever speak in vain:
    • But by this Lock, this sacred Lock, I swear
    • (Which never more shall join its parted hair;
    • Which never more its honours shall renew,
    • Clipp’d from the lovely head where late it grew),
    • That, while my nostrils draw the vital air,
    • This hand, which won it, shall for ever wear.’
    • He spoke, and speaking, in proud triumph spread
    • The long-contended honours of her head.140
    • But Umbriel, hateful Gnome, forbears not so;
    • He breaks the Vial whence the sorrows flow.
    • Then see! the nymph in beauteous grief appears,
    • Her eyes half-languishing, half drown’d in tears;
    • On her heav’d bosom hung her drooping head,
    • Which with a sigh she rais’d, and thus she said:
    • ‘For ever curs’d be this detested day,
    • Which snatch’d my best, my fav’rite curl away!
    • Happy! ah, ten times happy had I been,
    • If Hampton Court these eyes had never seen!150
    • Yet am not I the first mistaken maid,
    • By love of courts to numerous ills betray’d.
    • O had I rather unadmired remain’d
    • In some lone isle, or distant northern land;
    • Where the gilt chariot never marks the way,
    • Where none learn Ombre, none e’er taste Bohea!
    • There kept my charms conceal’d from mortal eye,
    • Like roses, that in deserts bloom and die.
    • What mov’d my mind with youthful lords to roam?
    • O had I stay’d, and said my prayers at home;160
    • ’T was this the morning omens seem’d to tell,
    • Thrice from my trembling hand the patchbox fell;
    • The tott’ring china shook without a wind;
    • Nay, Poll sat mute, and Shock was most unkind!
    • A Sylph, too, warn’d me of the threats of fate,
    • In mystic visions, now believ’d too late!
    • See the poor remnants of these slighted hairs!
    • My hands shall rend what ev’n thy rapine spares.
    • These, in two sable ringlets taught to break,
    • Once gave new beauties to the snowy neck;
    • The sister-lock now sits uncouth alone,171
    • And in its fellow’s fate foresees its own;
    • Uncurl’d it hangs, the fatal shears demands,
    • And tempts once more thy sacrilegious hands.
    • O hadst thou, cruel! been content to seize
    • Hairs less in sight, or any hairs but these!’
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CANTO V

    • She said: the pitying audience melt in tears;
    • But Fate and Jove had stopp’d the Baron’s ears.
    • In vain Thalestris with reproach assails,
    • For who can move when fair Belinda fails?
    • Not half so fix’d the Trojan could remain,
    • While Anna begg’d and Dido raged in vain.
    • Then grave Clarissa graceful waved her fan;
    • Silence ensued, and thus the nymph began:
    • ‘Say, why are beauties prais’d and honour’d most,
    • The wise man’s passion, and the vain man’s toast?10
    • Why deck’d with all that land and sea afford,
    • Why angels call’d, and angel-like ador’d?
    • Why round our coaches crowd the whiteglov’d beaux?
    • Why bows the side-box from its inmost rows?
    • How vain are all these glories, all our pains,
    • Unless Good Sense preserve what Beauty gains;
    • That men may say when we the front-box grace,
    • “Behold the first in virtue as in face!”
    • Oh! if to dance all night, and dress all day,
    • Charm’d the smallpox, or chased old age away;20
    • Who would not scorn what housewife’s cares produce,
    • Or who would learn one earthly thing of use?
    • To patch, nay, ogle, might become a saint,
    • Nor could it sure be such a sin to paint.
    • But since, alas! frail beauty must decay,
    • Curl’d or uncurl’d, since locks will turn to gray;
    • Since painted, or not painted, all shall fade,
    • And she who scorns a man must die a maid;
    • What then remains, but well our power to use,
    • And keep good humour still whate’er we lose?30
    • And trust me, dear, good humour can prevail,
    • When airs, and flights, and screams, and scolding fail.
    • Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll;
    • Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul.’
    • So spoke the dame, but no applause ensued;
    • Belinda frown’d, Thalestris call’d her prude.
    • ‘To arms, to arms!’ the fierce virago cries,
    • And swift as lightning to the combat flies.
    • All side in parties, and begin th’ attack;
    • Fans clap, silks rustle, and tough whale-bones crack;40
    • Heroes’ and heroines’ shouts confusedly rise,
    • And bass and treble voices strike the skies.
    • No common weapons in their hands are found,
    • Like Gods they fight nor dread a mortal wound.
    • So when bold Homer makes the Gods engage,
    • And heav’nly breasts with human passions rage;
    • ’Gainst Pallas, Mars; Latona, Hermes arms;
    • And all Olympus rings with loud alarms;
    • Jove’s thunder roars, Heav’n trembles all around,
    • Blue Neptune storms, the bell’wing deeps resound:50
    • Earth shakes her nodding towers, the ground gives way,
    • And the pale ghosts start at the flash of day!
    • Triumphant Umbriel, on a sconce’s height ,
    • Clapp’d his glad wings, and sat to view the fight:
    • Propp’d on their bodkin-spears, the sprites survey
    • The growing combat, or assist the fray.
    • While thro’ the press enraged Thalestris flies,
    • And scatters death around from both her eyes,
    • A Beau and Witling perish’d in the throng,
    • One died in metaphor, and one in song:60
    • ‘O cruel Nymph! a living death I bear,’
    • Cried Dapperwit, and sunk beside his chair.
    • A mournful glance Sir Fopling upwards cast,
    • ‘Those eyes are made so killing’—was his last.
    • Thus on Mæander’s flowery margin lies
    • Th’ expiring swan, and as he sings he dies.
    • When bold Sir Plume had drawn Clarissa down,
    • Chloe stepp’d in, and kill’d him with a frown;
    • She smiled to see the doughty hero slain,
    • But, at her smile, the beau revived again.
    • Now Jove suspends his golden scales in air ,71
    • Weighs the men’s wits against the lady’s hair;
    • The doubtful beam long nods from side to side;
    • At length the wits mount up, the hairs subside.
    • See fierce Belinda on the Baron flies,
    • With more than usual lightning in her eyes;
    • Nor fear’d the chief th’ unequal fight to try,
    • Who sought no more than on his foe to die.
    • But this bold lord, with manly strength endued,
    • She with one finger and a thumb subdued:
    • Just where the breath of life his nostrils drew,81
    • A charge of snuff the wily virgin threw;
    • The Gnomes direct, to every atom just,
    • The pungent grains of titillating dust.
    • Sudden, with starting tears each eye o’erflows,
    • And the high dome reechoes to his nose.
    • ‘Now meet thy fate,’ incens’d Belinda cried,
    • And drew a deadly bodkin from her side.
    • (The same, his ancient personage to deck,
    • Her great-great-grandsire wore about his neck,90
    • In three seal-rings; which after, melted down,
    • Form’d a vast buckle for his widow’s gown:
    • Her infant grandame’s whistle next it grew,
    • The bells she jingled, and the whistle blew;
    • Then in a bodkin graced her mother’s hairs,
    • Which long she wore and now Belinda wears.)
    • ‘Boast not my fall,’ he cried, ‘insulting foe!
    • Thou by some other shalt be laid as low;
    • Nor think to die dejects my lofty mind:
    • All that I dread is leaving you behind!100
    • Rather than so, ah, let me still survive,
    • And burn in Cupid’s flames—but burn alive.’
    • ‘Restore the Lock!’ she cries; and all around
    • ‘Restore the Lock!’ the vaulted roofs rebound.
    • Not fierce Othello in so loud a strain
    • Roar’d for the handkerchief that caus’d his pain.
    • But see how oft ambitious aims are cross’d,
    • And chiefs contend till all the prize is lost!
    • The lock, obtain’d with guilt, and kept with pain,
    • In ev’ry place is sought, but sought in vain:110
    • With such a prize no mortal must be blest.
    • So Heav’n decrees! with Heav’n who can contest?
    • Some thought it mounted to the lunar sphere,
    • Since all things lost on earth are treasured there.
    • There heroes’ wits are kept in pond’rous vases,
    • And beaux’ in snuffboxes and tweezercases.
    • There broken vows, and deathbed alms are found,
    • And lovers’ hearts with ends of riband bound,
    • The courtier’s promises, and sick man’s prayers,
    • The smiles of harlots, and the tears of heirs,120
    • Cages for gnats, and chains to yoke a flea,
    • Dried butterflies, and tomes of casuistry.
    • But trust the Muse—she saw it upward rise,
    • Tho’ mark’d by none but quick poetic eyes
    • (So Rome’s great founder to the heav’ns withdrew,
    • To Proculus alone confess’d in view):
    • A sudden star, it shot thro’ liquid air,
    • And drew behind a radiant trail of hair.
    • Not Berenice’s locks first rose so bright,
    • The heav’ns bespangling with dishevell’d light.130
    • The Sylphs behold it kindling as it flies,
    • And pleas’d pursue its progress thro’ the skies.
    • This the beau monde shall from the Mall survey,
    • And hail with music its propitious ray;
    • This the blest lover shall for Venus take,
    • And send up vows from Rosamonda’s lake;
    • This Partridge soon shall view in cloudless skies,
    • When next he looks thro’ Galileo’s eyes;
    • And hence th’ egregious wizard shall foredoom
    • The fate of Louis, and the fall of Rome.140
    • Then cease, bright Nymph! to mourn thy ravish’d hair,
    • Which adds new glory to the shining sphere!
    • Not all the tresses that fair head can boast
    • Shall draw such envy as the Lock you lost.
    • For after all the murders of your eye,
    • When, after millions slain, yourself shall die;
    • When those fair suns shall set, as set they must,
    • And all those tresses shall be laid in dust,
    • This Lock the Muse shall consecrate to fame,
    • And ’midst the stars inscribe Belinda’s name.150
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POEMS WRITTEN BETWEEN 1713 AND 1717

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PROLOGUE TO MR. ADDISON’S CATO

This prologue was written in 1713, after Addison had given Pope two of the main causes which led to their estrangement; and itself led the way for the third. Addison’s faint praise of the Pastorals, and disagreement with Pope as to the advisability of revising The Rape of the Lock, had not as yet led to their estrangement. But when not long after the presentation of Cato, Pope ventured to become its champion against the attacks of John Dennis, Addison’s quiet disclaimer of responsibility for his anonymous defender cut Pope to the quick.

    • To wake the soul by tender strokes of art,
    • To raise the genius, and to mend the heart;
    • To make mankind, in conscious virtue bold,
    • Live o’er each scene, and be what they behold:
    • For this the Tragic Muse first trod the stage,
    • Commanding tears to stream thro’ ev’ry age:
    • Tyrants no more their savage nature kept,
    • And foes to virtue wonder’d how they wept.
    • Our author shuns by vulgar springs to move
    • The Hero’s glory, or the Virgin’s love;10
    • In pitying Love, we but our weakness show,
    • And wild Ambition well deserves its woe.
    • Here tears shall flow from a more gen’rous cause,
    • Such tears as patriots shed for dying laws.
    • He bids your breasts with ancient ardour rise,
    • And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes:
    • Virtue confess’d in human shape he draws,
    • What Plato thought, and godlike Cato was:
    • No common object to your sight displays,
    • But what with pleasure Heav’n itself surveys,20
    • A brave man struggling in the storms of fate,
    • And greatly falling with a falling state.
    • While Cato gives his little senate laws,
    • What bosom beats not in his country’s cause?
    • Who sees him act, but envies ev’ry deed?
    • Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed?
    • Ev’n when proud Cæsar, midst triumphal cars,
    • The spoils of nations, and the pomp of wars,
    • Ignobly vain, and impotently great,
    • Show’d Rome her Cato’s figure drawn in state;30
    • As her dead father’s rev’rend image past,
    • The pomp was darken’d, and the day o’ercast;
    • The triumph ceas’d, tears gush’d from ev’ry eye,
    • The world’s great Victor pass’d unheeded by;
    • Her last good man dejected Rome ador’d,
    • And honour’d Cæsar’s less than Cato’s sword.
    • Britons, attend: be worth like this approv’d,
    • And show you have the virtue to be mov’d.
    • With honest scorn the first famed Cato view’d
    • Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she subdued;40
    • Your scene precariously subsists too long
    • On French translation and Italian song.
    • Dare to have sense yourselves; assert the stage;
    • Be justly warm’d with your own native rage:
    • Such plays alone should win a British ear
    • As Cato’s self had not disdain’d to hear.
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EPILOGUE TO MR. ROWE’S JANE SHORE

DESIGNED FOR MRS. OLDFIELD

Nicholas Rowe’s play was acted at Drury Lane in February, 1714. Mrs. Oldfield played the leading part, but Pope’s Epilogue was not used.

    • Prodigious this! the Frail-one of our play
    • From her own sex should mercy find today!
    • You might have held the pretty head aside,
    • Peep’d in your fans, been serious, thus, and cried,—
    • ‘The play may pass—but that strange creature, Shore,
    • I can’t—indeed now—I so hate a whore!’
    • Just as a blockhead rubs his thoughtless skull,
    • And thanks his stars he was not born a fool;
    • So from a sister sinner you shall hear,
    • ‘How strangely you expose yourself, my dear!10
    • But let me die, all raillery apart,
    • Our sex are still forgiving at their heart;
    • And, did not wicked custom so contrive,
    • We’d be the best good-natured things alive.’
    • There are, ’t is true, who tell another tale,
    • That virtuous ladies envy while they rail;
    • Such rage without betrays the fire within;
    • In some close corner of the soul they sin;
    • Still hoarding up, most scandalously nice,
    • Amidst their virtues a reserve of vice.20
    • The godly dame, who fleshly failings damns,
    • Scolds with her maid, or with her chaplain crams.
    • Would you enjoy soft nights and solid dinners?
    • Faith, gallants, board with saints, and bed with sinners.
    • Well, if our author in the Wife offends,
    • He has a Husband that will make amends:
    • He draws him gentle, tender, and forgiving;
    • And sure such kind good creatures may be living.
    • In days of old, they pardon’d breach of vows;29
    • Stern Cato’s self was no relentless spouse.
    • Plu—Plutarch, what ’s his name that writes his life,
    • Tells us, that Cato dearly lov’d his wife:
    • Yet if a friend, a night or so, should need her,
    • He ’d recommend her as a special breeder.
    • To lend a wife, few here would scruple make;
    • But, pray, which of you all would take her back?
    • Tho’ with the Stoic Chief our stage may ring,
    • The Stoic Husband was the glorious thing.
    • The man had courage, was a sage, ’t is true,
    • And lov’d his country—but what ’s that to you?40
    • Those strange examples ne’er were made to fit ye,
    • But the kind cuckold might instruct the city:
    • There, many an honest man may copy Cato
    • Who ne’er saw naked sword, or look’d in Plato.
    • If, after all, you think it a disgrace,
    • That Edward’s Miss thus perks it in your face,
    • To see a piece of failing flesh and blood,
    • In all the rest so impudently good:
    • Faith, let the modest matrons of the town
    • Come here in crowds, and stare the strumpet down.50
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TO A LADY, WITH THE TEMPLE OF FAME

  • What ’s Fame with men, by custom of the nation,
  • Is call’d, in women, only Reputation:
  • About them both why keep we such a pother?
  • Part you with one, and I ’ll renounce the other.
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UPON THE DUKE OF MARLBOROUGH’S HOUSE AT WOODSTOCK

  • Atria longa patent; sed nec coenantibus usquam,
  • Nec somno, locus est: quam bene non habitas.

  • Martial.

These verses were first published in 1714. There is no actual proof that they are Pope’s, but as his editors have always retained them, they are here given.

    • See, Sir, here ’s the grand approach,
    • This way is for his Grace’s coach;
    • There lies the bridge, and here ’s the clock;
    • Observe the lion and the cock,
    • The spacious court, the colonnade,
    • And mark how wide the hall is made!
    • The chimneys are so well design’d,
    • They never smoke in any wind.
    • This gallery ’s contrived for walking,
    • The windows to retire and talk in;
    • The council-chamber for debate,
    • And all the rest are rooms of state.
    • Thanks, Sir, cried I, ’t is very fine,
    • But where d’ye sleep, or where d’ ye dine?
    • I find by all you have been telling
    • That ’t is a house, but not a dwelling.
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LINES TO LORD BATHURST

In illustration Mitford refers to Pope’s letter to Lord Bathurst of September 13, 1732, where ‘Mr. L.’ is spoken of as ‘more inclined to admire God in his greater works, the tall timber.’ (Ward.) Proof is lacking that these lines belong to Pope. They were printed by E. Curll in 1714.

  • ‘A Wood!’ quoth Lewis, and with that
  • He laugh’d, and shook his sides of fat.
  • His tongue, with eye that mark’d his cunning,
  • Thus fell a-reas’ning, not a-running:
  • ‘Woods are—not to be too prolix—
  • Collective bodies of straight sticks.
  • It is, my lord, a mere conundrum
  • To call things woods for what grows under ’em.
  • For shrubs, when nothing else at top is,
  • Can only constitute a coppice.
  • But if you will not take my word,
  • See anno quint. of Richard Third;
  • And that’s a coppice call’d, when dock’d,
  • Witness an. prim. of Harry Oct.
  • If this a wood you will maintain,
  • Merely because it is no plain,
  • Holland, for all that I can see,
  • May e’en as well be term’d the sea,
  • Or C[onings]by be fair harangued
  • An honest man, because not hang’d.’
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MACER[ ]

A CHARACTER

This was first printed in 1727 in the Miscellanies of Pope and Swift, but was probably written in 1715. Macer is supposed to be Ambrose Philips. The ‘borrow’d Play’ of the eighth line would then have been The Distrest Mother, adapted by Philips from Racine.

    • When simple Macer, now of high renown,
    • First sought a poet’s fortune in the town,
    • ’T was all th’ ambition his high soul could feel
    • To wear red stockings, and to dine with Steele.
    • Some ends of verse his betters might afford,
    • And gave the harmless fellow a good word:
    • Set up with these he ventured on the town,
    • And with a borrow’d play outdid poor Crowne .
    • There he stopp’d short, nor since has writ a tittle,
    • But has the wit to make the most of little;
    • Like stunted hide-bound trees, that just have got11
    • Sufficient sap at once to bear and rot.
    • Now he begs verse, and what he gets commends,
    • Not of the Wits his foes, but Fools his friends.
    • So some coarse country wench, almost decay’d,
    • Trudges to town and first turns chamber-maid;
    • Awkward and supple each devoir to pay,
    • She flatters her good lady twice a day;
    • Thought wondrous honest, tho’ of mean degree,
    • And strangely liked for her simplicity:20
    • In a translated suit then tries the town,
    • With borrow’d pins and patches not her own:
    • But just endured the winter she began,
    • And in four months a batter’d harridan:
    • Now nothing left, but wither’d, pale, and shrunk,
    • To bawd for others, and go shares with punk.
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EPISTLE TO MRS. TERESA BLOUNT

ON HER LEAVING THE TOWN AFTER THE CORONATION

This was written shortly after the coronation of George I. ‘Zephalinda’ was a fanciful name employed by Teresa Blount in correspondence.

    • As some fond virgin, whom her mother’s care
    • Drags from the town to wholesome country air,
    • Just when she learns to roll a melting eye,
    • And hear a spark, yet think no danger nigh—
    • From the dear man unwilling she must sever,
    • Yet takes one kiss before she parts for ever—
    • Thus from the world fair Zephalinda flew,
    • Saw others happy, and with sighs withdrew;
    • Not that their pleasures caus’d her discontent;
    • She sigh’d not that they stay’d, but that she went.10
    • She went to plain-work, and to purling brooks,
    • Old-fashion’d halls, dull aunts, and croaking rooks:
    • She went from Op’ra, Park, Assembly, Play,
    • To morning walks, and prayers three hours a day;
    • To part her time ’twixt reading and Bohea,
    • To muse, and spill her solitary tea;
    • Or o’er cold coffee trifle with the spoon,
    • Count the slow clock, and dine exact at noon;
    • Divert her eyes with pictures in the fire,
    • Hum half a tune, tell stories to the squire;
    • Up to her godly garret after sev’n,21
    • There starve and pray, for that’s the way to Heav’n.
    • Some Squire, perhaps, you take delight to rack,
    • Whose game is Whist, whose treat a toast in sack;
    • Who visits with a gun, presents you birds,
    • Then gives a smacking buss, and cries—‘No words!’
    • Or with his hounds comes hollowing from the stable,
    • Makes love with nods, and knees beneath a table;
    • Whose laughs are hearty, tho’ his jests are coarse,
    • And loves you best of all things—but his horse.30
    • In some fair ev’ning, on your elbow laid,
    • You dream of triumphs in the rural shade;
    • In pensive thought recall the fancied scene,
    • See coronations rise on ev’ry green:
    • Before you pass th’ imaginary sights
    • Of Lords and Earls and Dukes and garter’d Knights,
    • While the spread fan o’ershades your closing eyes;
    • Then gives one flirt, and all the vision flies.
    • Thus vanish sceptres, coronets, and balls,
    • And leave you in lone woods, or empty walls!40
    • So when your Slave, at some dear idle time
    • (Not plagued with headaches or the want of rhyme)
    • Stands in the streets, abstracted from the crew,
    • And while he seems to study, thinks of you;
    • Just when his fancy paints your sprightly eyes,
    • Or sees the blush of soft Parthenia rise,
    • Gay pats my shoulder, and you vanish quite,
    • Streets, Chairs, and Coxcombs rush upon my sight;
    • Vext to be still in town, I knit my brow,
    • Look sour, and hum a tune, as you may now.50
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LINES OCCASIONED BY SOME VERSES OF HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM

  • Muse, ’t is enough, at length thy labour ends,
  • And thou shalt live, for Buckingham commends.
  • Let crowds of critics now my verse assail,
  • Let Dennis write, and nameless numbers rail:
  • This more than pays whole years of thankless pain;
  • Time, health, and fortune, are not lost in vain.
  • Sheffield approves, consenting Phœbus bends,
  • And I and malice from this hour are friends.
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A FAREWELL TO LONDON[ ]

IN THE YEAR 1715

    • Dear, damn’d, distracting town, farewell!
    • Thy fools no more I’ll tease:
    • This year in peace, ye Critics, dwell,
    • Ye Harlots, sleep at ease!
    • Soft B—s and rough C[ragg]s, adieu!
    • Earl Warwick, make your moan;
    • The lively II[inchenbroo]k and you
    • May knock up whores alone.
    • To drink and droll be Rowe allow’d
    • Till the third watchman’s toll;
    • Let Jervas gratis paint, and Froude
    • Save threepence and his soul.
    • Farewell Arbuthnot’s raillery
    • On every learned sot;
    • And Garth, the best good Christian he,
    • Although he knows it not.
    • Lintot, farewell! thy bard must go;
    • Farewell, unhappy Tonson!
    • Heav’n gives thee for thy loss of Rowe,
    • Lean Philips and fat Johnson.
    • Why should I stay? Both parties rage;
    • My vixen mistress squalls;
    • The Wits in envious feuds engage;
    • And Homer (damn him!) calls.
    • The love of arts lies cold and dead
    • In Halifax’s urn;
    • And not one Muse of all he fed
    • Has yet the grace to mourn.
    • My friends, by turns, my friends confound,
    • Betray, and are betray’d:
    • Poor Y[ounge]r’s sold for fifty pounds,
    • And B[ickne]ll is a jade.
    • Why make I friendships with the great,
    • When I no favour seek?
    • Or follow girls seven hours in eight?—
    • I need but once a week.
    • Still idle, with a busy air,
    • Deep whimseys to contrive;
    • The gayest valetudinaire,
    • Most thinking rake alive.
    • Solicitous for others’ ends,
    • Tho’ fond of dear repose;
    • Careless or drowsy with my friends,
    • And frolic with my foes.
    • Luxurious lobster-nights, farewell,
    • For sober, studious days!
    • And Burlington’s delicious meal,
    • For salads, tarts, and pease!
    • Adieu to all but Gay alone,
    • Whose soul sincere and free,
    • Loves all mankind but flatters none,
    • And so may starve with me.
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IMITATION OF MARTIAL

Referred to in a letter from Trumbull to Pope dated January, 1716. The epigram imitated is the twenty-third of the tenth book.

  • At length, my Friend (while Time, with still career,
  • Wafts on his gentle wing his eightieth year),
  • Sees his past days safe out of Fortune’s power,
  • Nor dreads approaching Fate’s uncertain hour;
  • Reviews his life, and in the strict survey, }
  • Finds not one moment he could wish away, }
  • Pleased with the series of each happy day. }
  • Such, such a man extends his life’s short space,
  • And from the goal again renews the race;
  • For he lives twice, who can at once employ
  • The present well, and ev’n the past enjoy.
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IMITATION OF TIBULLUS

See the fourth elegy of Tibullus, lines 55, 56. In the course of his high-flown correspondence with Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, after her departure for the East, Pope often suggests the possibility of his travelling to meet her. ‘But if my fate be such,’ he says on the occasion which brought forth this couplet, ‘that this body of mine (which is as ill matched to my mind as any wife to her husband) be left behind in the journey, let the epitaph of Tibullus be set over it!’

  • Here, stopt by hasty Death, Alexis lies,
  • Who cross’d half Europe, led by Wortley’s eyes.
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THE BASSET-TABLE[ ]

AN ECLOGUE

This mock pastoral was one of three which made up the original volume of Town Eclogues, published anonymously in 1716. Three more appeared in a later edition. It is now known that only the Basset-Table is Pope’s, the rest being the work of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu.

cardelia, smilinda, lovet

Card.

  • The Basset-Table spread, the Tallier come,
  • Why stays Smilinda in the dressing-room?
  • Rise, pensive nymph! the Tallier waits for you. }

Smil.

  • Ah, madam! since my Sharper is untrue, }
  • I joyless make my once adored Alpeu. }
  • I saw him stand behind Ombrelia’s chair, }
  • And whisper with that soft deluding air, }
  • And those feign’d sighs which cheat the list’ning Fair. }

Card.

  • Is this the cause of your romantic strains?
  • A mightier grief my heavy heart sustains:
  • As you by love, so I by Fortune crost;11
  • One, one bad Deal, three Septlevas have lost.

Smil.

  • Is that the grief which you compare with mine?
  • With ease the smiles of fortune I resign:
  • Would all my gold in one bad Deal were gone,
  • Were lovely Sharper mine, and mine alone.

Card.

  • A lover lost is but a common care,
  • And prudent nymphs against that change prepare:
  • The Knave of Clubs thrice lost: Oh! who could guess19
  • This fatal stroke, this unforeseen distress?

Smil.

  • See Betty Lovet! very àpropos;
  • She all the cares of love and play does know.
  • Dear Betty shall th’ important point decide;
  • Betty! who oft the pain of each has tried;
  • Impartial she shall say who suffers most,
  • By cards’ ill usage, or by lovers lost.

Lov.

  • Tell, tell your griefs; attentive will I stay,
  • Though time is precious, and I want some tea.

Card.

  • Behold this equipage, by Mathers wrought,
  • With fifty guineas (a great pen’worth) bought.30
  • See on the toothpick Mars and Cupid strive,
  • And both the struggling figures seem alive.
  • Upon the bottom shines the Queen’s bright face;
  • A myrtle foliage round the thimble case.
  • Jove, Jove himself does on the scissors shine:
  • The metal, and the workmanship, divine.

Smil.

  • This snuff-box—once the pledge of Sharper’s love,
  • When rival beauties for the present strove;
  • At Corticelli’s he the raffle won;39
  • Then first his passion was in public shown:
  • Hazardia blush’d, and turn’d her head aside,
  • A rival’s envy (all in vain) to hide.
  • This snuffbox—on the hinge see brilliants shine—
  • This snuffbox will I stake, the Prize is mine.

Card.

  • Alas! far lesser losses than I bear
  • Have made a soldier sigh, a lover swear.
  • And oh! what makes the disappointment hard,
  • ’T was my own Lord that drew the fatal card.
  • In complaisance I took the Queen he gave,
  • Tho’ my own secret wish was for the Knave.50
  • The Knave won Sonica, which I had chose,
  • And the next pull my Septleva I lose.

Smil.

    • But ah! what aggravates the killing smart,
    • The cruel thought that stabs me to the heart,
    • This curs’d Ombrelia, this undoing Fair,
    • By whose vile arts this heavy grief I bear,
    • She, at whose name I shed these spiteful tears,
    • She owes to me the very charms she wears.
    • An awkward thing when first she came to town,
    • Her shape unfashion’d, and her face unknown:60
    • She was my friend; I taught her first to spread
    • Upon her sallow cheeks enlivening red;
    • I introduced her to the park and plays,
    • And by my int’rest Cozens made her Stays.
    • Ungrateful wretch! with mimic airs grown pert,
    • She dares to steal my favourite lover’s heart.

Card.

  • Wretch that I was, how often have I swore,
  • When Winnall tallied, I would punt no more!
  • I know the bite, yet to my ruin run,
  • And see the folly which I cannot shun.70

Smil.

  • How many maids have Sharper’s vows deceiv’d?
  • How many curs’d the moment they believ’d?
  • Yet his known falsehoods could no warning prove:
  • Ah! what is warning to a maid in love?

Card.

  • But of what marble must that breast be form’d,
  • To gaze on Basset, and remain unwarm’d?
  • When Kings, Queens, Knaves, are set in decent rank,
  • Exposed in glorious heaps the tempting Bank,
  • Guineas, half-guineas, all the shining train,
  • The winner’s pleasure, and the loser’s pain.80
  • In bright confusion open Rouleaux lie,
  • They strike the soul, and glitter in the eye:
  • Fired by the sight, all reason I disdain,
  • My passions rise, and will not bear the rein.
  • Look upon Basset, you who reason boast,
  • And see if reason must not there be lost.

Smil.

  • What more than marble must that heart compose
  • Can harken coldly to my Sharper’s vows?
  • Then when he trembles! when his blushes rise!
  • When awful love seems melting in his eyes!90
  • With eager beats his Mechlin cravat moves:
  • ‘He loves’—I whisper to myself, ‘He loves!’
  • Such unfeign’d passion in his looks appears,
  • I lose all mem’ry of my former fears;
  • My panting heart confesses all his charms,
  • I yield at once, and sink into his arms.
  • Think of that moment, you who Prudence boast;
  • For such a moment Prudence well were lost.

Card.

Smil.

  • Soft Simplicetta dotes upon a beau;
  • Prudina likes a man, and laughs at show:
  • Their several graces in my Sharper meet,
  • Strong as the footman, as the master sweet.

Lov.

  • Cease your contention, which has been too long;
  • I grow impatient, and the tea ’s too strong.
  • Attend, and yield to what I now decide;
  • The equipage shall grace Smilinda’s side;110
  • The snuffbox to Cardelia I decree;
  • Now leave complaining, and begin your tea.
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EPIGRAM ON THE TOASTS OF THE KIT-CAT CLUB[ ]

ANNO 1716

    • Whence deathless ‘Kit-cat’ took its name,
    • Few critics can unriddle:
    • Some say from ‘Pastrycook’ it came,
    • And some, from ‘cat’ and ‘fiddle.’
    • From no trim Beaux its name it boasts,
    • Gray Statesmen, or green wits;
    • But from this pellmell pack of Toasts
    • Of old ‘cats’ and young ‘kits.’
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THE CHALLENGE

A COURT BALLAD

TO THE TUNE OF ‘TO ALL YOU LADIES NOW AT LAND,’ ETC.

This lively ballad, written in 1717, belongs to the period of Pope’s intimacy with court society. The three ladies here addressed were attached to the court of the Prince and Princess of Wales.

    • I

    • To one fair lady out of Court,
    • And two fair ladies in,
    • Who think the Turk and Pope a sport,
    • And wit and love no sin;
    • Come these soft lines, with nothing stiff in,
    • To Bellenden, Lepell, and Griffin.
    • With a fa, la, la.

    • II

    • What passes in the dark third row,
    • And what behind the scene,
    • Couches and crippled chairs I know,
    • And garrets hung with green;
    • I know the swing of sinful hack,
    • Where many damsels cry alack.
    • With a fa, la, la.

    • III

    • Then why to Courts should I repair,
    • Where’s such ado with Townshend?
    • To hear each mortal stamp and swear,
    • And every speech with Zounds end;
    • To hear ’em rail at honest Sunderland,
    • And rashly blame the realm of Blunderland.
    • With a fa, la, la.

    • IV

    • Alas! like Schutz, I cannot pun,
    • Like Grafton court the Germans;
    • Tell Pickenbourg how slim she ’s grown,
    • Like Meadows run to sermons;
    • To Court ambitious men may roam,
    • But I and Marlbro’ stay at home.
    • With a fa, la, la.

    • V

    • In truth, by what I can discern,
    • Of courtiers ’twixt you three,
    • Some wit you have, and more may learn
    • From Court, than Gay or me;
    • Perhaps, in time, you ’ll leave high diet,
    • To sup with us on milk and quiet.
    • With a fa, la, la.

    • VI

    • At Leicester-Fields, a house full high,
    • With door all painted green,
    • Where ribbons wave upon the tie
    • (A milliner I mean),
    • There may you meet us three to three,
    • For Gay can well make two of me.
    • With a fa, la, la.

    • VII

    • But should you catch the prudish itch
    • And each become a coward,
    • Bring sometimes with you lady Rich,
    • And sometimes mistress Howard;
    • For virgins to keep chaste must go
    • Abroad with such as are not so.
    • With a fa, la, la.

    • VIII

    • And thus, fair maids, my ballad ends:
    • God send the King safe landing;
    • And make all honest ladies friends
    • To armies that are standing;
    • Preserve the limits of those nations,
    • And take off ladies’ limitations.
    • With a fa, la, la.
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THE LOOKING-GLASS

ON MRS. PULTENEY

Mrs. Pulteney was a daughter of one John Gumley, who had made a fortune by a glass manufactory.

  • With scornful mien, and various toss of air,
  • Fantastic, vain, and insolently fair,
  • Grandeur intoxicates her giddy brain,
  • She looks ambition, and she moves disdain.
  • Far other carriage graced her virgin life,
  • But charming Gumley’s lost in Pulteney’s wife.
  • Not greater arrogance in him we find,
  • And this conjunction swells at least her mind.
  • O could the sire, renown’d in glass, produce
  • One faithful mirror for his daughter’s use!
  • Wherein she might her haughty errors trace,
  • And by reflection learn to mend her face:
  • The wonted sweetness to her form restore,
  • Be what she was, and charm mankind once more.
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PROLOGUE, DESIGNED FOR MR. D’URFEY’S LAST PLAY

‘Tom’ D’Urfey was a writer of popular farces under the Restoration. Through Addison’s influence his play The Plotting Sisters was revived for his benefit; and the present prologue was possibly written for that occasion. It was first published in 1727.

    • Grown old in rhyme, ’t were barb’rous to discard
    • Your persevering, unexhausted Bard:
    • Damnation follows death in other men,
    • But your damn’d poet lives and writes again.
    • The adventurous lover is successful still,
    • Who strives to please the Fair against her will.
    • Be kind, and make him in his wishes easy,
    • Who in your own despite has strove to please ye.
    • He scorn’d to borrow from the Wits of yore,
    • But ever writ, as none e’er writ before.10
    • You modern Wits, should each man bring his claim,
    • Have desperate debentures on your fame;
    • And little would be left you, I’m afraid,
    • If all your debts to Greece and Rome were paid.
    • From this deep fund our author largely draws,
    • Nor sinks his credit lower than it was.
    • Tho’ plays for honour in old time he made,
    • ’T is now for better reasons—to be paid.
    • Believe him, he has known the world too long,
    • And seen the death of much immortal song.20
    • He says, poor poets lost, while players won,
    • As pimps grow rich while gallants are undone.
    • Though Tom the poet writ with ease and pleasure,
    • The comic Tom abounds in other treasure.
    • Fame is at best an unperforming cheat;
    • But ’t is substantial happiness to eat.
    • Let ease, his last request, be of your giving,
    • Nor force him to be damn’d to get his living.
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PROLOGUE TO THE ‘THREE HOURS AFTER MARRIAGE’

Three Hours after Marriage was a dull and unsuccessful farce produced in January, 1717, at the Drury Lane Theatre. Though it was attributed to the joint authorship of Pope, Gay, and Arbuthnot, direct proof is lacking not only of Pope’s share in the play, but of his authorship of the Prologue. Of the latter fact, at least, we have, however, indirect evidence in Pope’s resentment of the ridicule cast by Cibber, in a topical impromptu, upon the play; the incident which first roused Pope’s enmity for Cibber, which resulted in his eventually displacing Theobald as the central figure in The Dunciad.

    • Authors are judged by strange capricious rules,
    • The great ones are thought mad, the small ones fools:
    • Yet sure the best are most severely fated;
    • For Fools are only laugh’d at, Wits are hated.
    • Blockheads with reason men of sense abhor;
    • But fool ’gainst fool, is barb’rous civil war.
    • Why on all Authors then should Critics fall?
    • Since some have writ, and shown no wit at all.
    • Condemn a play of theirs, and they evade it;
    • Cry, ‘Damn not us, but damn the French, who made it.’10
    • By running goods these graceless Owlers gain;
    • Theirs are the rules of France, the plots of Spain:
    • But wit, like wine, from happier climates brought,
    • Dash’d by these rogues, turns English common draught.
    • They pall Molière’s and Lopez’ sprightly strain,
    • And teach dull Harlequins to grin in vain.
    • How shall our Author hope a gentler fate,
    • Who dares most impudently not translate?
    • It had been civil, in these ticklish times,
    • To fetch his fools and knaves from foreign climes.20
    • Spaniards and French abuse to the world’s end,
    • But spare old England, lest you hurt a friend.
    • If any fool is by our satire bit,
    • Let him hiss loud, to show you all he ’s hit.
    • Poets make characters, as salesmen clothes;
    • We take no measure of your Fops and Beaux;
    • But here all sizes and all shapes you meet,
    • And fit yourselves like chaps in Monmouth Street.
    • Gallants, look here! this Foolscap has an air29
    • Goodly and smart, with ears of Issachar.
    • Let no one fool engross it, or confine
    • A common blessing! now ’t is yours, now mine.
    • But poets in all ages had the care
    • To keep this cap for such as will, to wear.
    • Our Author has it now (for every Wit
    • Of course resign’d it to the next that writ)
    • And thus upon the stage ’t is fairly thrown;
    • Let him that takes it wear it as his own.
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PRAYER OF BRUTUS

FROM GEOFFREY OF MONMOUTH

The Rev. Aaron Thompson, of Queen’s College, Oxon., translated the Chronicle of Geoffrey of Monmouth. He submitted the translation to Pope, 1717, who gave him the following lines, being a translation of a Prayer of Brutus. (Carruthers.)

  • Goddess of woods, tremendous in the chase
  • To mountain wolves and all the savage race,
  • Wide o’er th’ aerial vault extend thy sway,
  • And o’er th’ infernal regions void of day.
  • On thy Third Reign look down; disclose our fate;
  • In what new station shall we fix our seat?
  • When shall we next thy hallow’d altars raise,
  • And choirs of virgins celebrate thy praise?
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TO LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU

While there is no absolute date to be given for this or the following poem, both evidently belong to the period of Pope’s somewhat fanciful attachment for Lady Mary.

    • I

    • In beauty, or wit,
    • No mortal as yet
    • To question your empire has dar’d;
    • But men of discerning
    • Have thought that in learning,
    • To yield to a lady was hard.

    • II

    • Impertinent schools,
    • With musty dull rules,
    • Have reading to females denied:
    • So Papists refuse
    • The Bible to use,
    • Lest flocks should be wise as their guide.

    • III

    • ’T was a woman at first,
    • (Indeed she was curst)
    • In Knowledge that tasted delight,
    • And sages agree
    • The laws should decree
    • To the first possessor the right.

    • IV

    • Then bravely, fair Dame,
    • Resume the old claim,
    • Which to your whole sex does belong;
    • And let men receive,
    • From a second bright Eve,
    • The knowledge of right and of wrong.

    • V

    • But if the first Eve
    • Hard doom did receive,
    • When only one apple had she,
    • What a punishment new
    • Shall be found out for you,
    • Who tasting have robb’d the whole tree?
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EXTEMPORANEOUS LINES

ON A PORTRAIT OF LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU, PAINTED BY KNELLER

  • The playful smiles around the dimpled mouth,
  • That happy air of majesty and truth,
  • So would I draw (but oh! ’t is vain to try;
  • My narrow Genius does the power deny;)
  • The equal lustre of the heav’nly mind,
  • Where ev’ry grace with ev’ry virtue ’s join’d;
  • Learning not vain, and Wisdom not severe,
  • With Greatness easy, and with Wit sincere;
  • With just description show the work divine,
  • And the whole Princess in my work should shine.
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ELOISA TO ABELARD[ ]

The origin of this famous poem seems to have lain jointly in Pope’s perception of the poetic availability of the Héloise-Abelard legend, and in his somewhat factitious grief in his separation from Lady Mary Wortley Montagu. They met in 1715, became friends, and in 1716 Lady Mary left England. In a letter of June, 1717, Pope commends the poem to her consideration, with a suggestion of the personal applicability of the concluding lines to his own suffering under the existing circumstance of their separation.

ELOISA TO ABELARD

ARGUMENT

Abelard and Eloisa flourished in the twelfth century; they were two of the most distinguished persons of their age in Learning and Beauty, but for nothing more famous than for their unfortunate passion. After a long course of calamities, they retired each to a several convent, and consecrated the remainder of their days to Religion. It was many years after this separation that a letter of Abelard’s to a friend, which contained the history of his misfortune, fell into the hands of Eloisa. This, awakening all her tenderness, occasioned those celebrated letters (out of which the following is partly extracted), which give so lively a picture of the struggles of Grace and Nature, Virtue and Passion.

    • In these deep solitudes and awful cells,
    • Where heav’nly-pensive Contemplation dwells,
    • And ever-musing Melancholy reigns,
    • What means this tumult in a vestal’s veins?
    • Why rove my thoughts beyond this last retreat?
    • Why feels my heart its long-forgotten heat?
    • Yet, yet I love!—From Abelard it came,
    • And Eloisa yet must kiss the name.
    • Dear fatal name! rest ever unreveal’d,
    • Nor pass these lips, in holy silence seal’d:10
    • Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise,
    • Where, mix’d with God’s, his lov’d idea lies:
    • O write it not, my hand—the name appears
    • Already written—wash it out, my tears!
    • In vain lost Eloisa weeps and prays,
    • Her heart still dictates, and her hand obeys.
    • Relentless walls! whose darksome round contains
    • Repentant sighs, and voluntary pains:
    • Ye rugged rocks, which holy knees have worn;
    • Ye grots and caverns shagg’d with horrid thorn!20
    • Shrines! where their vigils pale-eyed virgins keep,
    • And pitying saints, whose statues learn to weep!
    • Tho’ cold like you, unmov’d and silent grown,
    • I have not yet forgot myself to stone .
    • All is not Heav’n’s while Abelard has part,
    • Still rebel Nature holds out half my heart;
    • Nor prayers nor fasts its stubborn pulse restrain,
    • Nor tears, for ages taught to flow in vain.
    • Soon as thy letters trembling I unclose,
    • That well-known name awakens all my woes.30
    • Oh name for ever sad! for ever dear!
    • Still breathed in sighs, still usher’d with a tear.
    • I tremble too, where’er my own I find,
    • Some dire misfortune follows close behind.
    • Line after line my gushing eyes o’erflow,
    • Led thro’ a safe variety of woe:
    • Now warm in love, now with’ring in my bloom,
    • Lost in a convent’s solitary gloom!
    • There stern religion quench’d th’ unwilling flame,
    • There died the best of passions, Love and Fame.40
    • Yet write, O write me all, that I may join
    • Griefs to thy griefs, and echo sighs to thine.
    • Nor foes nor fortune take this power away;
    • And is my Abelard less kind than they?
    • Tears still are mine, and those I need not spare;
    • Love but demands what else were shed in prayer.
    • No happier task these faded eyes pursue;
    • To read and weep is all they now can do.
    • Then share thy pain, allow that sad relief;
    • Ah, more than share it, give me all thy grief.50
    • Heav’n first taught letters for some wretch’s aid,
    • Some banish’d lover, or some captive maid;
    • They live, they speak, they breathe what love inspires,
    • Warm from the soul, and faithful to its fires;
    • The virgin’s wish without her fears impart,
    • Excuse the blush, and pour out all the heart,
    • Speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul,
    • And waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole.
    • Thou know’st how guiltless first I met thy flame,
    • When Love approach’d me under Friendship’s name;60
    • My fancy form’d thee of angelic kind,
    • Some emanation of th’ all-beauteous Mind.
    • Those smiling eyes, attemp’ring every ray,
    • Shone sweetly lambent with celestial day,
    • Guiltless I gazed; Heav’n listen’d while you sung;
    • And truths divine came mended from that tongue.
    • From lips like those what precept fail’d to move?
    • Too soon they taught me ’t was no sin to love:
    • Back thro’ the paths of pleasing sense I ran,69
    • Nor wish’d an angel whom I loved a man.
    • Dim and remote the joys of saints I see;
    • Nor envy them that Heav’n I lose for thee.
    • How oft, when press’d to marriage, have I said,
    • Curse on all laws but those which Love has made!
    • Love, free as air, at sight of human ties,
    • Spreads his light wings, and in a moment flies.
    • Let Wealth, let Honour, wait the wedded dame,
    • August her deed, and sacred be her fame;
    • Before true passion all those views remove;
    • Fame, Wealth, and Honour! what are you to Love?80
    • The jealous God, when we profane his fires,
    • Those restless passions in revenge inspires,
    • And bids them make mistaken mortals groan,
    • Who seek in love for aught but love alone.
    • Should at my feet the world’s great master fall,
    • Himself, his throne, his world, I ’d scorn ’em all:
    • Not Cæsar’s empress would I deign to prove;
    • No, make me mistress to the man I love;
    • If there be yet another name more free,
    • More fond than mistress, make me that to thee!90
    • O happy state! when souls each other draw,
    • When Love is liberty, and Nature law;
    • All then is full, possessing and possess’d,
    • No craving void left aching in the breast:
    • Ev’n thought meets thought, ere from the lips it part,
    • And each warm wish springs mutual from the heart.
    • This sure is bliss (if bliss on earth there be),
    • And once the lot of Abelard and me.
    • Alas, how changed! what sudden horrors rise!
    • A naked lover bound and bleeding lies!100
    • Where, where was Eloise? her voice, her hand,
    • Her poniard had opposed the dire command.
    • Barbarian, stay! that bloody stroke restrain;
    • The crime was common, common be the pain.
    • I can no more; by shame, by rage suppress’d,
    • Let tears and burning blushes speak the rest.
    • Canst thou forget that sad, that solemn day,
    • When victims at you altar’s foot we lay?
    • Canst thou forget what tears that moment fell,
    • When, warm in youth, I bade the world farewell?110
    • As with cold lips I kiss’d the sacred veil,
    • The shrines all trembled, and the lamps grew pale:
    • Heav’n scarce believ’d the conquest it survey’d,
    • And saints with wonder heard the vows I made.
    • Yet then, to those dread altars as I drew,
    • Not on the cross my eyes were fix’d, but you:
    • Not grace, or zeal, love only was my call,
    • And if I lose thy love, I lose my all.
    • Come! with thy looks, thy words, relieve my woe;119
    • Those still at least are left thee to bestow.
    • Still on that breast enamour’d let me lie,
    • Still drink delicious poison from thy eye,
    • Pant on thy lip, and to thy heart be press’d;
    • Give all thou canst—and let me dream the rest.
    • Ah, no! instruct me other joys to prize,
    • With other beauties charm my partial eyes!
    • Full in my view set all the bright abode,
    • And make my soul quit Abelard for God.
    • Ah, think at least thy flock deserves thy care,
    • Plants of thy hand, and children of thy prayer.130
    • From the false world in early youth they fled,
    • By thee to mountains, wilds, and deserts led.
    • You raised these hallow’d walls; the desert smil’d,
    • And Paradise was open’d in the wild.
    • No weeping orphan saw his father’s stores
    • Our shrines irradiate or emblaze the floors;
    • No silver saints, by dying misers giv’n,
    • Here bribed the rage of ill-requited Heav’n;
    • But such plain roofs as piety could raise,
    • And only vocal with the Maker’s praise.140
    • In these lone walls (their day’s eternal bound),
    • These moss-grown domes with spiry turrents crown’d,
    • Where awful arches make a noonday night,
    • And the dim windows shed a solemn light,
    • Thy eyes diffused a reconciling ray,
    • And gleams of glory brighten’d all the day.
    • But now no face divine contentment wears,
    • ’T is all blank sadness, or continual tears.
    • See how the force of others’ prayers I try,
    • (O pious fraud of am’rous charity!)150
    • But why should I on others’ prayers depend?
    • Come thou, my father, brother, husband, friend!
    • Ah, let thy handmaid, sister, daughter, move,
    • And all those tender names in one, thy love!
    • The darksome pines, that o’er yon rocks reclin’d,
    • Wave high, and murmur to the hollow wind,
    • The wand’ring streams that shine between the hills,
    • The grots that echo to the tinkling rills,
    • The dying gales that pant upon the trees,
    • The lakes that quiver to the curling breeze—160
    • No more these scenes my meditation aid,
    • Or lull to rest the visionary maid:
    • But o’er the twilight groves and dusky caves,
    • Long-sounding aisles and intermingled graves,
    • Black Melancholy sits, and round her throws
    • A death-like silence, and a dread repose:
    • Her gloomy presence saddens all the scene,
    • Shades every flower, and darkens every green,
    • Deepens the murmur of the falling floods,
    • And breathes a browner horror on the woods.170
    • Yet here for ever, ever must I stay;
    • Sad proof how well a lover can obey!
    • Death, only Death can break the lasting chain;
    • And here, ev’n then shall my cold dust remain;
    • Here all its frailties, all its flames resign,
    • And wait till ’t is no sin to mix with thine.
    • Ah, wretch! believ’d the spouse of God in vain.
    • Confess’d within the slave of Love and man.
    • Assist me, Heav’n! but whence arose that prayer?
    • Sprung it from piety or from despair?180
    • Ev’n here, where frozen Chastity retires,
    • Love finds an altar for forbidden fires.
    • I ought to grieve, but cannot what I ought;
    • I mourn the lover, not lament the fault;
    • I view my crime, but kindle at the view,
    • Repent old pleasures, and solicit new;
    • Now turn’d to Heav’n, I weep my past offence,
    • Now think of thee, and curse my innocence.
    • Of all affliction taught a lover yet,
    • ’T is sure the hardest science to forget!190
    • How shall I lose the sin, yet keep the sense,
    • And love th’ offender, yet detest th’ offence?
    • How the dear object from the crime remove,
    • Or how distinguish Penitence from Love?
    • Unequal task! a passion to resign,
    • For hearts so touch’d, so pierced, so lost as mine:
    • Ere such a soul regains its peaceful state,
    • How often must it love, how often hate!
    • How often hope, despair, resent, regret,
    • Conceal, disdain—do all things but forget!200
    • But let Heav’n seize it, all at once ’t is fired;
    • Not touch’d, but rapt; not waken’d, but inspired!
    • O come! O teach me Nature to subdue,
    • Renounce my love, my life, myself—and You:
    • Fill my fond heart with God alone, for he
    • Alone can rival, can succeed to thee.
    • How happy is the blameless vestal’s lot!
    • The world forgetting, by the world forgot;
    • Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind,
    • Each prayer accepted, and each wish resign’d;210
    • Labour and rest, that equal periods keep;
    • Obedient slumbers that can wake and weep;
    • Desires composed, affections ever ev’n;
    • Tears that delight, and sighs that waft to Heav’n.
    • Grace shines around her with serenest beams,
    • And whisp’ring angels prompt her golden dreams.
    • For her th’ unfading rose of Eden blooms,
    • And wings of seraphs shed divine perfumes;
    • For her the spouse prepares the bridal ring;
    • For her white virgins hymeneals sing;220
    • To sounds of heav’nly harps she dies away,
    • And melts in visions of eternal day.
    • Far other dreams my erring soul employ,
    • Far other raptures of unholy joy.
    • When at the close of each sad, sorrowing day,
    • Fancy restores what vengeance snatch’d away,
    • Then conscience sleeps, and leaving Nature free,
    • All my loose soul unbounded springs to thee!
    • Oh curst, dear horrors of all-conscious night!
    • How glowing guilt exalts the keen delight!
    • Provoking demons all restraint remove,231
    • And stir within me every source of love.
    • I hear thee, view thee, gaze o’er all thy charms,
    • And round thy phantom glue my clasping arms.
    • I wake:—no more I hear, no more I view,
    • The phantom flies me, as unkind as you.
    • I call aloud; it hears not what I say:
    • I stretch my empty arms; it glides away.
    • To dream once more I close my willing eyes;
    • Ye soft illusions, dear deceits, arise!240
    • Alas, no more! methinks we wand’ring go
    • Thro’ dreary wastes, and weep each other’s woe,
    • Where round some mould’ring tower pale ivy creeps,
    • And low-brow’d rocks hang nodding o’er the deeps.
    • Sudden you mount, you beckon from the skies;
    • Clouds interpose, waves roar, and winds arise.
    • I shriek, start up, the same sad prospect find,
    • And wake to all the griefs I left behind.
    • For thee the Fates, severely kind, ordain
    • A cool suspense from pleasure and from pain;250
    • Thy life a long dead calm of fix’d repose;
    • No pulse that riots, and no blood that glows.
    • Still as the sea, ere winds were taught to blow,
    • Or moving spirit bade the waters flow;
    • Soft as the slumbers of a saint forgiv’n,
    • And mild as opening gleams of promised Heav’n.
    • Come, Abelard! for what hast thou to dread?
    • The torch of Venus burns not for the dead.
    • Nature stands check’d; Religion disapproves;
    • Ev’n thou art cold—yet Eloisa loves.260
    • Ah, hopeless, lasting flames; like those that burn
    • To light the dead, and warm th’ unfruitful urn!
    • What scenes appear where’er I turn my view;
    • The dear ideas, where I fly, pursue;
    • Rise in the grove, before the altar rise,
    • Stain all my soul, and wanton in my eyes.
    • I waste the matin lamp in sighs for thee,
    • Thy image steals between my God and me:
    • Thy voice I seem in every hymn to hear,
    • With every bead I drop too soft a tear.270
    • When from the censer clouds of fragrance roll,
    • And swelling organs lift the rising soul,
    • One thought of thee puts all the pomp to flight,
    • Priests, tapers, temples, swim before my sight:
    • In seas of flame my plunging soul is drown’d,
    • While altars blaze, and angels tremble round.
    • While prostrate here in humble grief I lie,
    • Kind virtuous drops just gath’ring in my eye,
    • While praying, trembling, in the dust I roll,
    • And dawning grace is opening on my soul:
    • Come, if thou dar’st, all charming as thou art!281
    • Oppose thyself to Heav’n; dispute my heart;
    • Come, with one glance of those deluding eyes
    • Blot out each bright idea of the skies;
    • Take back that grace, those sorrows and those tears,
    • Take back my fruitless penitence and prayers;
    • Snatch me, just mounting, from the blest abode:
    • Assist the fiends, and tear me from my God!
    • No, fly me, fly me, far as pole from pole;
    • Rise Alps between us! and whole oceans roll!290
    • Ah, come not, write not, think not once of me,
    • Nor share one pang of all I felt for thee.
    • Thy oaths I quit, thy memory resign;
    • Forget, renounce me, hate whate’er was mine.
    • Fair eyes, and tempting looks (which yet I view),
    • Long lov’d, ador’d ideas, all adieu!
    • O Grace serene! O Virtue heav’nly fair!
    • Divine Oblivion of low-thoughted care!
    • Fresh blooming Hope, gay daughter of the sky!
    • And Faith, our early immortality!300
    • Enter each mild, each amicable guest;
    • Receive, and wrap me in eternal rest!
    • See in her cell sad Eloisa spread,
    • Propt on some tomb, a neighbour of the dead.
    • In each low wind methinks a spirit calls,
    • And more than echoes talk along the walls.
    • Here, as I watch’d the dying lamps around,
    • From yonder shrine I heard a hollow sound:
    • ‘Come, sister, come! (it said, or seem’d to say)
    • Thy place is here, sad sister, come away;
    • Once, like thyself, I trembled, wept, and pray’d,311
    • Love’s victim then, tho’ now a sainted maid:
    • But all is calm in this eternal sleep;
    • Here grief forgets to groan, and love to weep;
    • Ev’n superstition loses ev’ry fear:
    • For God, not man, absolves our frailties here.’
    • I come, I come! prepare your roseate bowers,
    • Celestial palms, and ever-blooming flowers.
    • Thither, where sinners may have rest, I go,
    • Where flames refin’d in breasts seraphic glow;320
    • Thou, Abelard! the last sad office pay,
    • And smooth my passage to the realms of day:
    • See my lips tremble, and my eyeballs roll,
    • Suck my last breath, and catch my flying soul!
    • Ah, no—in sacred vestments mayst thou stand,
    • The hallow’d taper trembling in thy hand,
    • Present the cross before my lifted eye,
    • Teach me at once, and learn of me, to die.
    • Ah then, thy once lov’d Eloisa see!
    • It will be then no crime to gaze on me.330
    • See from my cheek the transient roses fly!
    • See the last sparkle languish in my eye!
    • Till ev’ry motion, pulse, and breath be o’er,
    • And ev’n my Abelard be lov’d no more.
    • O Death, all-eloquent! you only prove
    • What dust we doat on, when ’t is man we love.
    • Then too, when Fate shall thy fair frame destroy
    • (That cause of all my guilt, and all my joy),
    • In trance ecstatic may thy pangs be drown’d,
    • Bright clouds descend, and angels watch thee round;340
    • From opening skies may streaming glories shine,
    • And saints embrace thee with a love like mine.
    • May one kind grave unite each hapless name,
    • And graft my love immortal on thy fame!
    • Then, ages hence, when all my woes are o’er,
    • When this rebellious heart shall beat no more;
    • If ever chance two wand’ring lovers brings,
    • To Paraclete’s white walls and silver springs,
    • O’er the pale marble shall they join their heads,
    • And drink the falling tears each other sheds;350
    • Then sadly say, with mutual pity mov’d,
    • ‘O may we never love as these have lov’d!’
    • From the full choir, when loud hosannas rise,
    • And swell the pomp of dreadful sacrifice,
    • Amid that scene if some relenting eye
    • Glance on the stone where our cold relics lie,
    • Devotion’s self shall steal a thought from Heav’n,
    • One human tear shall drop, and be forgiv’n.
    • And sure if Fate some future bard shall join
    • In sad similitude of griefs to mine,360
    • Condemn’d whole years in absence to deplore,
    • And image charms he must behold no more,—
    • Such if there be, who loves so long, so well,
    • Let him our sad, our tender story tell;
    • The well-sung woes will soothe my pensive ghost;
    • He best can paint them who shall feel them most.
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POEMS WRITTEN BETWEEN 1718 AND 1727

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AN INSCRIPTION UPON A PUNCH-BOWL

IN THE SOUTH SEA YEAR, FOR A CLUB: CHASED WITH JUPITER PLACING CALLISTO IN THE SKIES, AND EUROPA WITH THE BULL

Pope himself became seriously involved in the South Sea speculations, and while he does not appear to have been a heavy loser in the end, his unwise action for friends, notably for Lady Mary Wortley seems to have gotten him into some difficulties. This was of course written before the bursting of the bubble; presumably in 1720.

  • Come, fill the South Sea goblet full;
  • The gods shall of our stock take care;
  • Europa pleased accepts the Bull,
  • And Jove with joy puts off the Bear.
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EPISTLE TO JAMES CRAGGS, ESQ.

SECRETARY OF STATE

Craggs was made Secretary of War in 1717, when Addison was Secretary of State. He succeeded Addison in 1720, and died in the following year. He was an intimate friend and correspondent of Pope’s after 1711.

  • A soul as full of Worth as void of Pride,
  • Which nothing seeks to show, or needs to hide,
  • Which nor to guilt nor fear its Caution owes,
  • And boasts a Warmth that from no passion flows;
  • A face untaught to feign; a judging eye,
  • That darts severe upon a rising lie,
  • And strikes a blush thro’ frontless Flattery—
  • All this thou wert; and being this before,
  • Know, Kings and Fortune cannot make thee more.
  • Then scorn to gain a friend by servile ways,
  • Nor wish to lose a foe these virtues raise;
  • But candid, free, sincere, as you began,
  • Proceed, a Minister, but still a Man.
  • Be not (exalted to whate’er degree)
  • Ashamed of any friend, not ev’n of me:
  • The patriot’s plain but untrod path pursue;
  • If not, ’t is I must be ashamed of you.
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A DIALOGUE

    • POPE

    • Since my old friend is grown so great,
    • As to be Minister of State,
    • I ’m told, but ’t is not true, I hope,
    • That Craggs will be ashamed of Pope.

    • CRAGGS

    • Alas! if I am such a creature,
    • To grow the worse for growing greater,
    • Why, faith, in spite of all my brags,
    • ’T is Pope must be ashamed of Craggs.
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VERSES TO MR. C.

ST. JAMES’S PALACE, LONDON, OCT. 22

Probably Craggs, who was in office at the time when Pope established himself at Twickenham. (Ward.)

    • Few words are best; I wish you well;
    • Bethel, I ’m told, will soon be here;
    • Some morning walks along the Mall,
    • And ev’ning friends, will end the year.
    • If, in this interval, between
    • The falling leaf and coming frost,
    • You please to see, on Twit’nam green,
    • Your friend, your poet, and your host:
    • For three whole days you here may rest
    • From Office bus’ness, news, and strife;
    • And (what most folks would think a jest)
    • Want nothing else, except your wife.
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TO MR. GAY

WHO HAD CONGRATULATED POPE ON FINISHING HIS HOUSE AND GARDENS

Written early in 1722.

    • Ah, friend! ’t is true—this truth you lovers know—
    • In vain my structures rise, my gardens grow,
    • In vain fair Thames reflects the double scenes
    • Of hanging mountains, and of sloping greens;
    • Joy lives not here, to happier seats it flies,
    • And only dwells where Wortley casts her eyes.
    • What are the gay Parterre, the chequer’d Shade,
    • The morning Bower, the ev’ning Colonnade,
    • But soft recesses of uneasy minds,
    • To sigh unheard in to the passing winds?
    • So the struck deer in some sequester’d part
    • Lies down to die, the arrow at his heart;
    • He stretch’d unseen in coverts hid from day,
    • Bleeds drop by drop, and pants his life away.
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ON DRAWINGS OF THE STATUES OF APOLLO, VENUS, AND HERCULES

MADE FOR POPE BY SIR GODFREY KNELLER

These drawings were made for the adornment of Pope’s house at Twickenham.

  • What god, what genius did the pencil move,
  • When Kneller painted these?
  • ’T was friendship, warm as Phœbus, kind as Love,
  • And strong as Hercules.
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EPISTLE TO ROBERT EARL OF OXFORD AND MORTIMER

PREFIXED TO PARNELL’S POEMS

    • Such were the notes thy once-lov’d Poet sung,
    • Till Death untimely stopp’d his tuneful tongue.
    • Oh, just beheld and lost! admired and mourn’d!
    • With softest manners, gentlest arts, adorn’d!
    • Bless’d in each science! bless’d in ev’ry strain!
    • Dear to the Muse! to Harley dear—in vain!
    • For him thou oft hast bid the world attend,
    • Fond to forget the statesman in the friend;
    • For Swift and him despised the farce of state,
    • The sober follies of the wise and great,10
    • Dext’rous the craving, fawning crowd to quit,
    • And pleas’d to ’scape from Flattery to Wit.
    • Absent or dead, still let a friend be dear
    • (A sigh the absent claims, the dead a tear);
    • Recall those nights that closed thy toilsome days,
    • Still hear thy Parnell in his living lays;
    • Who, careless now of Int’rest, Fame, or Fate,
    • Perhaps forgets that Oxford e’er was great;
    • Or deeming meanest what we greatest call,
    • Beholds thee glorious only in thy fall.20
    • And sure if aught below the seats divine
    • Can touch immortals, ’t is a soul like thine;
    • A soul supreme, in each hard instance tried,
    • Above all pain, all passion, and all pride,
    • The rage of power, the blast of public breath,
    • The lust of lucre, and the dread of death.
    • In vain to deserts thy retreat is made;
    • The Muse attends thee to thy silent shade;
    • ’T is hers the brave man’s latest steps to trace,
    • Rejudge his acts, and dignify disgrace.30
    • When Int’rest calls off all her sneaking train,
    • And all th’ obliged desert, and all the vain,
    • She waits, or to the scaffold or the cell,
    • When the last ling’ring friend has bid farewell.
    • Ev’n now she shades thy evening walk with bays
    • (No hireling she, no prostitute to praise);
    • Ev’n now, observant of the parting ray,
    • Eyes the calm sunset of thy various day,
    • Thro’ fortune’s cloud one truly great can see,
    • Nor fears to tell that Mortimer is he.40
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TWO CHORUSES TO THE TRAGEDY OF BRUTUS

Brutus, says Pope, was a play ‘altered from Shakespeare by the Duke of Buckingham, at whose desire these choruses were composed to supply as many wanting in his play.’ Marcus Brutus was one of two plays (the other retaining Shakespeare’s title) manufactured by John Sheffield, Duke of Buckinghamshire, out of Julius Cæsar. Both were published in 1722. Pope’s choruses stand after the first and second acts of Brutus. The plays have no literary merit.

CHORUS OF ATHENIANS

  • Strophe I

  • Ye shades, where sacred truth is sought,
  • Groves, where immortal sages taught,
  • Where heav’nly visions Plato fired,
  • And Epicurus lay inspired!
  • In vain your guiltless laurels stood
  • Unspotted long with human blood.
  • War, horrid war, your thoughtful walks invades,
  • And steel now glitters in the Muses’ shades.

  • Antistrophe I

  • O Heav’n-born sisters! source of Art!
  • Who charm the sense, or mend the heart;
  • Who lead fair Virtue’s train along,
  • Moral Truth and mystic Song!
  • To what new clime, what distant sky,
  • Forsaken, friendless, shall ye fly?
  • Say, will ye bless the bleak Atlantic shore?
  • Or bid the furious Gaul be rude no more?

  • Strophe II

  • When Athens sinks by fates unjust,
  • When wild Barbarians spurn her dust;
  • Perhaps ev’n Britain’s utmost shore
  • Shall cease to blush with strangers’ gore,
  • See Arts her savage sons control,
  • And Athens rising near the pole!
  • Till some new tyrant lifts his purple hand,
  • And civil madness tears them from the land.

  • Antistrophe II

  • Ye Gods! what justice rules the ball?
  • Freedom and Arts together fall;
  • Fools grant whate’er Ambition craves,
  • And men, once ignorant, are slaves.
  • O curs’d effects of civil hate,
  • In ev’ry age, in ev’ry state!
  • Still, when the lust of tyrant Power succeeds,
  • Some Athens perishes, some Tully bleeds.

CHORUS OF YOUTHS AND VIRGINS

  • Semichorus

  • O tyrant Love! hast thou possest
  • The prudent, learned, and virtuous breast?
  • Wisdom and wit in vain reclaim,
  • And arts but soften us to feel thy flame.
  • Love, soft intruder, enters here,
  • But ent’ring learns to be sincere.
  • Marcus with blushes owns he loves,
  • And Brutus tenderly reproves.
  • Why, Virtue, dost thou blame desire
  • Which Nature hath imprest?
  • Why, Nature, dost thou soonest fire
  • The mild and gen’rous breast?

  • Chorus

  • Love’s purer flames the Gods approve;
  • The Gods and Brutus bend to love:
  • Brutus for absent Portia sighs,
  • And sterner Cassius melts at Junia’s eyes.
  • What is loose love? a transient gust,
  • Spent in a sudden storm of lust,
  • A vapour fed from wild desire,
  • A wand’ring, self-consuming fire.
  • But Hymen’s kinder flames unite,
  • And burn for ever one;
  • Chaste as cold Cynthia’s virgin light,
  • Productive as the sun.

  • Semichorus

  • O source of ev’ry social tie,
  • United wish, and mutual joy!
  • What various joys on one attend,
  • As son, as father, brother, husband, friend?
  • Whether his hoary sire he spies,
  • While thousand grateful thoughts arise;
  • Or meets his spouse’s fonder eye,
  • Or views his smiling progeny;
  • What tender passions take their turns!
  • What home-felt raptures move!
  • His heart now melts, now leaps, now burns,
  • With Rev’rence, Hope, and Love.

  • Chorus

  • Hence guilty joys, distastes, surmises,
  • Hence false tears, deceits, disguises,
  • Dangers, doubts, delays, surprises,
  • Fires that scorch, yet dare not shine!
  • Purest Love’s unwasting treasure,
  • Constant faith, fair hope, long leisure,
  • Days of ease, and nights of pleasure,
  • Sacred Hymen! these are thine.
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TO MRS. M. B. ON HER BIRTHDAY

Written to Martha Blount in 1723. Lines 5-10 were elsewhere adapted for a versified celebration of his own birthday, and for an epitaph on a suicide!

    • Oh, be thou blest with all that Heav’n can send,
    • Long Health, long Youth, long Pleasure, and a Friend:
    • Not with those Toys the female world admire,
    • Riches that vex, and Vanities that tire.
    • With added years if Life bring nothing new,
    • But, like a sieve, let ev’ry blessing thro’,
    • Some joy still lost, as each vain year runs o’er,
    • And all we gain, some sad Reflection more;
    • Is that a birthday? ’t is alas! too clear,
    • ’T is but the funeral of the former year.
    • Let Joy or Ease, let Affluence or Content,
    • And the gay Conscience of a life well spent,
    • Calm ev’ry thought, inspirit ev’ry grace,
    • Glow in thy heart, and smile upon thy face.
    • Let day improve on day, and year on year,
    • Without a Pain, a Trouble, or a Fear;
    • Till Death unfelt that tender frame destroy,
    • In some soft dream, or extasy of joy,
    • Peaceful sleep out the Sabbath of the Tomb,
    • And wake to raptures in a life to come.
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ANSWER TO THE FOLLOWING QUESTION OF MRS. HOWE

Mary Howe was appointed Maid of Honour to Queen Caroline, in 1720. ‘Lepell’ was another Maid of Honour, referred to in The Challenge.

  • What is Prudery?
  • ’T is a beldam,
  • Seen with Wit and Beauty seldom.
  • ’T is a fear that starts at shadows;
  • ’T is (no, ’t is n’t) like Miss Meadows.
  • ’T is a virgin hard of feature,
  • Old, and void of all good-nature;
  • Lean and fretful; would seem wise,
  • Yet plays the fool before she dies.
  • ’T is an ugly envious shrew,
  • That rails at dear Lepell and you.
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ON A CERTAIN LADY AT COURT

Catharine Howard, one of Queen Caroline’s waiting-women; afterward Countess of Suffolk and mistress to George II. Her identification as the Chloe of Moral Essays, II., makes it easier to believe Walpole’s statement that this lady once reprieved a condemned criminal that ‘an experiment might be made on his ears for her benefit.’

    • I know the thing that ’s most uncommon;
    • (Envy, be silent, and attend!)
    • I know a reasonable Woman,
    • Handsome and witty, yet a friend:
    • Not warp’d by Passion, awed by Rumour,
    • Not grave thro’ Pride, nor gay thro’ Folly,
    • An equal mixture of Good-humour,
    • And sensible soft Melancholy.
    • ‘Has she no faults then (Envy says), sir?’
    • Yes, she has one, I must aver:
    • When all the world conspires to praise her,
    • The woman ’s deaf and does not hear.
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TO MR. JOHN MOORE

AUTHOR OF THE CELEBRATED WORM-POWDER

    • How much, egregious Moore! are we
    • Deceiv’d by shows and forms!
    • Whate’er we think, whate’er we see,
    • All humankind are Worms.
    • Man is a very Worm by birth,
    • Vile reptile, weak, and vain!
    • A while he crawls upon the earth,
    • Then shrinks to earth again.
    • That woman is a Worm we find,
    • E’er since our Grandam’s evil:
    • She first convers’d with her own kind,
    • That ancient Worm, the Devil.
    • The learn’d themselves we Bookworms name,
    • The blockhead is a Slowworm;
    • The nymph whose tail is all on flame,
    • Is aptly term’d a Glowworm.
    • The fops are painted Butterflies,
    • That flutter for a day;
    • First from a Worm they take their rise,
    • And in a Worm decay.
    • The flatterer an Earwig grows;
    • Thus worms suit all conditions;
    • Misers are Muckworms; Silkworms, beaux;
    • And Deathwatches, physicians.
    • That statesmen have the worm, is seen
    • By all their winding play;
    • Their conscience is a Worm within,
    • That gnaws them night and day.
    • Ah, Moore, thy skill were well employ’d,
    • And greater gain would rise,
    • If thou couldst make the courtier void
    • The Worm that never dies!
    • O learned friend of Abchurch-Lane,
    • Who sett’st our entrails free,
    • Vain is thy Art, thy Powder vain,
    • Since Worms shall eat ev’n thee.
    • Our fate thou only canst adjourn
    • Some few short years, no more!
    • Ev’n Button’s Wits to Worms shall turn,
    • Who Maggots were before.
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THE CURLL MISCELLANIES UMBRA

Though speculation has connected several other persons with this poem, it is probably still another hit at the luckless Ambrose Philips. It, with the three following poems, was first published in the Miscellanies, 1727.

    • Close to the best known author Umbra sits,
    • The constant index to old Button’s Wits.
    • ‘Who ’s here?’ cries Umbra. ‘Only Johnson.’—‘O!
    • Your slave,’ and exit; but returns with Rowe.
    • ‘Dear Rowe, let’s sit and talk of tragedies:’
    • Ere long Pope enters, and to Pope he flies.
    • Then up comes Steele: he turns upon his heel,
    • And in a moment fastens upon Steele;
    • But cries as soon, ‘Dear Dick, I must be gone,
    • For, if I know his tread, here’s Addison.’
    • Says Addison to Steele, ‘’T is time to go:’
    • Pope to the closet steps aside with Rowe.
    • Poor Umbra, left in this abandon’d pickle,
    • Ev’n sits him down, and writes to honest Tickell.
    • Fool! ’t is in vain from Wit to Wit to roam;
    • Know, Sense, like Charity, ‘begins at home.’

BISHOP HOUGH

  • A Bishop, by his neighbors hated,
  • Has cause to wish himself translated;
  • But why should Hough desire translation,
  • Loved and esteem’d by all the nation?
  • Yet if it be the old man’s case,
  • I’ll lay my life I know the place:
  • ’T is where God sent some that adore him,
  • And whither Enoch went before him.

SANDYS’ GHOST[ ]

OR, A PROPER NEW BALLAD ON THE NEW OVID’S METAMORPHOSES: AS IT WAS INTENDED TO BE TRANSLATED BY PERSONS OF QUALITY

This refers to the translation undertaken by Sir Samuel Garth, which aimed to complete Dryden’s translation of Ovid, avoiding the rigidness of Sandys’ method. The enterprise was begun in 1718, when these verses were probably written.

    • Ye Lords and Commons, men of wit
    • And pleasure about town,
    • Read this, ere you translate one bit
    • Of books of high renown.
    • Beware of Latin authors, all,
    • Nor think your verses sterling,
    • Tho’ with a golden pen you scrawl,
    • And scribble in a Berlin.
    • For not the desk with silver nails,
    • Nor bureau of expense,
    • Nor standish well japann’d, avails
    • To writing of good sense.
    • Hear how a Ghost in dead of night,
    • With saucer eyes of fire,
    • In woful wise did sore affright
    • A Wit and courtly Squire:
    • Rare imp of Phœbus, hopeful youth!
    • Like puppy tame, that uses
    • To fetch and carry in his mouth
    • The works of all the Muses.
    • Ah! why did he write poetry,
    • That hereto was so civil;
    • And sell his soul for vanity
    • To Rhyming and the Devil?
    • A desk he had of curious work,
    • With glitt’ring studs about;
    • Within the same did Sandys lurk,
    • Tho’ Ovid lay without.
    • Now, as he scratch’d to fetch up thought,
    • Forth popp’d the sprite so thin,
    • And from the keyhole bolted out,
    • All upright as a pin.
    • With whiskers, band, and pantaloon,
    • And ruff composed most duly,
    • This Squire he dropp’d his pen full soon,
    • While as the light burnt bluely.
    • Ho! master Sam, quoth Sandys’ sprite,
    • Write on, nor let me scare ye!
    • Forsooth, if rhymes fall not in right,
    • To Budgell seek or Carey .
    • I hear the beat of Jacob’s drums,
    • Poor Ovid finds no quarter!
    • See first the merry comes
    • In haste without his garter.
    • Then Lords and Lordlings, Squires and Knights,
    • Wits, Witlings, Prigs, and Peers:
    • Garth at St. James’s, and at White’s,
    • Beats up for volunteers.
    • What Fenton will not do, nor Gay,
    • Nor Congreve, Rowe, nor Stanyan,
    • Tom B[urne]t , or Tom D’Urfey may,
    • John Dunton, Steele, or any one.
    • If Justice Philips’ costive head
    • Some frigid rhymes disburses,
    • They shall like Persian tales be read,
    • And glad both babes and nurses.
    • Let W[a]rw[ic]k’s Muse with Ash[urs]t join,
    • And Ozell’s with Lord Hervey’s,
    • Tickell and Addison combine,
    • And P[o]pe translate with Jervas.
    • L[ansdowne] himself, that lively lord,
    • Who bows to every lady,
    • Shall join with F[rowde] in one accord,
    • And be like Tate and Brady.
    • Ye ladies, too, draw forth your pen;
    • I pray, where can the hurt lie?
    • Since you have brains as well as men,
    • As witness Lady Wortley.
    • Now, Tonson, list thy forces all,
    • Review them and tell noses;
    • For to poor Ovid shall befall
    • A strange metamorphosis;
    • A metamorphosis more strange
    • Than all his books can vapour—
    • ‘To what (quoth ’Squire) shall Ovid change?’
    • Quoth Sandys, ‘To waste paper.’

EPITAPH

Imitated from a Latin couplet on Joannes Mirandula:—

  • Joannes jacet hic Mirandula: cætera norunt
  • Et Tagus et Ganges—forsan et Antipodes.

First applied by Pope to Francis Chartres, but published in this form in 1727.

  • Here lies Lord Coningsby—be civil!
  • The rest God knows—perhaps the Devil.

THE THREE GENTLE SHEPHERDS

  • Of gentle Philips will I ever sing,
  • With gentle Philips shall the valleys ring.
  • My numbers too for ever will I vary,
  • With gentle Budgell, and with gentle Carey.
  • Or if in ranging of the names I judge ill,
  • With gentle Carey and with gentle Budgell.
  • Oh! may all gentle bards together place ye,
  • Men of good hearts, and men of delicacy.
  • May Satire ne’er befool ye or beknave ye,
  • And from all Wits that have a knack, God save ye!

ON THE COUNTESS OF BURLINGTON CUTTING PAPER

    • Pallas grew vapourish once and odd;
    • She would not do the least right thing,
    • Either for Goddess or for God,
    • Nor work, nor play, nor paint, nor sing.
    • Jove frown’d, and ‘Use (he cried) those eyes
    • So skilful, and those hands so taper;
    • Do something exquisite and wise—’
    • She bow’d, obey’d him, and cut paper.
    • This vexing him who gave her birth,
    • Thought by all Heav’n a burning shame,
    • What does she next, but bids, on earth,
    • Her Burlington do just the same.
    • Pallas, you give yourself strange airs;
    • But sure you ’ll find it hard to spoil
    • The Sense and Taste of one that bears
    • The name of Saville and of Boyle.
    • Alas! one bad example shown,
    • How quickly all the sex pursue!
    • See, madam, see the arts o’erthrown
    • Between John Overton and you!

EPIGRAM

AN EMPTY HOUSE

  • You beat your Pate, and fancy Wit will come:
  • Knock as you please, there ’s nobody at home.
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POEMS SUGGESTED BY GULLIVER

ODE TO QUINBUS FLESTRIN

THE MAN MOUNTAIN, BY TITTY TIT, POET LAUREATE TO HIS MAJESTY OF LILLIPUT. TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH

This ‘Ode’ and the three following poems, were written by Pope after reading Gulliver’s Travels, and first published in the Miscellanies of Pope and Swift, in 1727.

  • In amaze
  • Lost I gaze!
  • Can our eyes
  • Reach thy size!
  • May my lays
  • Swell with praise,
  • Worthy thee!
  • Worthy me!
  • Muse, inspire
  • All thy fire!
  • Bards of old
  • Of him told,
  • When they said
  • Atlas’ head
  • Propp’d the skies:
  • See! and believe your eyes!
  • See him stride
  • Valleys wide,
  • Over woods,
  • Over floods!
  • When he treads,
  • Mountains’ heads
  • Groan and shake,
  • Armies quake;
  • Lest his spurn
  • Overturn
  • Man and steed:
  • Troops, take beed!
  • Left and right,
  • Speed your flight!
  • Lest an host
  • Beneath his foot be lost;
  • Turn’d aside
  • From his hide
  • Safe from wound,
  • Darts rebound.
  • From his nose
  • Clouds he blows!
  • When he speaks,
  • Thunder breaks!
  • When he eats,
  • Famine threats!
  • When he drinks,
  • Neptune shrinks!
  • Nigh thy ear
  • In mid air,
  • On thy hand
  • Let me stand;
  • So shall I,
  • Lofty poet! touch the sky.

THE LAMENTATION OF GLUMDALCLITCH FOR THE LOSS OF GRILDRIG

A PASTORAL

    • Soon as Glumdalclitch miss’d her pleasing care,
    • She wept, she blubber’d, and she tore her hair;
    • No British miss sincerer grief has known,
    • Her squirrel missing, or her sparrow flown.
    • She furl’d her sampler, and haul’d in her thread,
    • And stuck her needle into Grildrig’s bed;
    • Then spread her hands, and with a bonnce let fall
    • Her baby, like the giant in Guildhall.
    • In peals of thunder now she roars, and now
    • She gently whimpers like a lowing cow:10
    • Yet lovely in her sorrow still appears:
    • Her locks dishevell’d, and her flood of tears,
    • Seem like the lofty barn of some rich swain,
    • When from the thatch drips fast a shower of rain.
    • In vain she search’d each cranny of the house,
    • Each gaping chink, impervious to a mouse.
    • ‘Was it for this (she cried) with daily care
    • Within thy reach I set the vinegar,
    • And fill’d the cruet with the acid tide,
    • While pepper-water worms thy bait supplied?20
    • Where twined the silver eel around thy hook,
    • And all the little monsters of the brook!
    • Sure in that lake he dropt; my Grilly’s drown’d!’
    • She dragg’d the cruet, but no Grildrig found.
    • ‘Vain is thy courage, Grilly, vain thy boast!
    • But little creatures enterprise the most.
    • Trembling I’ ve seen thee dare the kitten’s paw,
    • Nay, mix with children, as they play’d at taw,
    • Nor fear the marbles as they bounding flew;
    • Marbles to them, but rolling rocks to you!30
    • ‘Why did I trust thee with that giddy youth?
    • Who from a page can ever learn the truth?
    • Versed in court tricks, that money-loving boy
    • To some lord’s daughter sold the living toy;
    • Or rent him limb from limb in cruel play,
    • As children tear the wings of flies away.
    • From place to place o’er Brobdingnag I’ ll roam,
    • And never will return, or bring thee home.
    • But who hath eyes to trace the passing wind?
    • How then thy fairy footsteps can I find?40
    • Dost thou bewilder’d wander all alone
    • In the green thicket of a mossy stone;
    • Or, tumbled from the toadstool’s slipp’ry round,
    • Perhaps, all maim’d, lie grovelling on the ground
    • Dost thou, embosom’d in the lovely rose,
    • Or, sunk within the peach’s down repose?
    • Within the kingcup if thy limbs are spread,
    • Or in the golden cowslip’s velvet head,
    • O show me, Flora, midst those sweets, the flower
    • Where sleeps my Grildrig in the fragrant bower.50
    • ‘But ah! I fear thy little fancy roves
    • On little females, and on little loves;
    • Thy pigmy children, and thy tiny spouse,
    • The baby playthings that adorn thy house,
    • Doors, windows, chimneys, and the spacious rooms,
    • Equal in size to cells of honeycombs.
    • Hast thou for these now ventured from the shore,
    • Thy bark a bean shell, and a straw thy oar?
    • Or in thy box now bounding on the main,
    • Shall I ne’er bear thyself and house again?
    • And shall I set thee on my hand no more,61
    • To see thee leap the lines, and traverse o’er
    • My spacious palm; of stature scarce a span,
    • Mimic the actions of a real man?
    • No more behold thee turn my watch’s key,
    • As seamen at a capstan anchors weigh?
    • How wert thou wont to walk with cautious tread,
    • A dish of tea, like milkpail, on thy head!
    • How chase the mite that bore thy cheese away,
    • And keep the rolling maggot at a bay!’70
    • She spoke; but broken accents stopp’d her voice,
    • Soft as the speaking-trumpet’s mellow noise:
    • She sobb’d a storm, and wiped her flowing eyes,
    • Which seem’d like two broad suns in misty skies.
    • O squander not thy grief! those tears command
    • To weep upon our cod in Newfoundland;
    • The plenteous pickle shall preserve the fish,
    • And Europe taste thy sorrows in a dish.

TO MR. LEMUEL GULLIVER

THE GRATEFUL ADDRESS OF THE UNHAPPY HOUYHNHNMS NOW IN SLAVERY AND BONDAGE IN ENGLAND

    • To thee, we wretches of the Houyhnhnm band,
    • Condemn’d to labour in a barb’rous land,
    • Return our thanks. Accept our humble lays,
    • And let each grateful Houyhnhnms neigh thy praise.
    • O happy Yahoo, purged from human crimes,
    • By thy sweet sojourn in those virtuous climes,
    • Where reign our sires; there, to thy country’s shame,
    • Reason, you found, and Virtue were the same.
    • Their precepts razed the prejudice of youth,
    • And ev’n a Yahoo learn’d the love of Truth.10
    • Art thou the first who did the coast explore?
    • Did never Yahoo tread that ground before?
    • Yes, thousands! But in pity to their kind,
    • Or sway’d by envy, or thro’ pride of mind,
    • They hid their knowledge of a nobler race,
    • Which own’d, would all their sires and sons disgrace.
    • You, like the Samian, visit lands unknown,
    • And by their wiser morals mend your own.
    • Thus Orpheus travell’d to reform his kind,
    • Came back, and tamed the brutes he left behind.20
    • You went, you saw, you heard: with virtue fought,
    • Then spread those morals which the Houyhnhnms taught.
    • Our labours here must touch thy gen’rous heart,
    • To see us strain before the coach and cart;
    • Compell’d to run each knavish jockey’s heat!
    • Subservient to Newmarket’s annual cheat!
    • With what reluctance do we lawyers bear,
    • To fleece their country clients twice a year!
    • Or managed in your schools, for fops to ride,
    • How foam, how fret beneath a load of pride!30
    • Yes, we are slaves—but yet, by reason’s force,
    • Have learn’d to bear misfortune like a horse.
    • O would the stars, to ease my bonds ordain
    • That gentle Gulliver might guide my rein!
    • Safe would I bear him to his journey’s end,
    • For ’t is a pleasure to support a friend.
    • But if my life be doom’d to serve the bad,
    • Oh! mayst thou never want an easy pad!

    • Houyhnhnm

MARY GULLIVER TO CAPTAIN LEMUEL GULLIVER

AN EPISTLE

ARGUMENT

The captain, some time after his return, being retired to Mr. Sympson’s in the country, Mrs. Gulliver, apprehending from his late behaviour some estrangement of his affections, writes him the following expostulatory, soothing, and tenderly complaining epistle.

    • Welcome, thrice welcome to thy native place!
    • What, touch me not? what, shun a wife’s embrace?
    • Have I for this thy tedious absence borne,
    • And waked, and wish’d whole nights for thy return?
    • In five long years I took no second spouse;
    • What Redriff wife so long hath kept her vows?
    • Your eyes, your nose, inconstancy betray;
    • Your nose you stop, your eyes you turn away.
    • ’T is said, that thou shouldst ‘cleave unto thy wife;’
    • Once thou didst cleave, and I could cleave for life.10
    • Hear, and relent! hark how thy children moan!
    • Be kind at least to these; they are thy own:
    • Behold, and count them all; secure to find
    • The honest number that you left behind.
    • See how they bat thee with their pretty paws:
    • Why start you? are they snakes? or have they claws?
    • Thy Christian seed, our mutual flesh and bone:
    • Be kind at least to these; they are thy own.
    • Biddel, like thee, might farthest India rove;
    • He changed his country, but retain’d his love.20
    • There’s Captain Pannel, absent half his life,
    • Comes back, and is the kinder to his wife;
    • Yet Pannel’s wife is brown compared to me,
    • And Mrs. Biddel sure is fifty-three.
    • Not touch me! never neighbour call’d me slut!
    • Was Flimnap’s dame more sweet in Lilliput?
    • I’ve no red hair to breathe an odious fume;
    • At least thy Consort’s cleaner than thy Groom.
    • Why then that dirty stable-boy thy care?
    • What mean those visits to the Sorrel Mare?30
    • Say, by what witchcraft, or what demon led,
    • Preferr’st thou litter to the marriage-bed?
    • Some say the Devil himself is in that mare:
    • If so, our Dean shall drive him forth by prayer.
    • Some think you mad, some think you are possess’d,
    • That Bedlam and clean straw will suit you best.
    • Vain means, alas, this frenzy to appease!
    • That straw, that straw would heighten the disease.
    • My bed (the scene of all our former joys,
    • Witness two lovely girls, two lovely boys)
    • Alone I press: in dreams I call my dear,41
    • I stretch my hand; no Gulliver is there!
    • I wake, I rise, and shiv’ring with the frost
    • Search all the house; my Gulliver is lost!
    • Forth in the street I rush with frantic cries;
    • The windows open, all the neighbours rise:
    • ‘Where sleeps my Gulliver? O tell me where.’
    • The neighbours answer, ‘With the Sorrel Mare.’
    • At early morn I to the market haste
    • (Studious in every thing to please thy taste);50
    • A curious fowl and ’sparagus I chose
    • (For I remember’d you were fond of those);
    • Three shillings cost the first, the last seven groats;
    • Sullen you turn from both, and call for oats.
    • Others bring goods and treasure to their houses,
    • Something to deck their pretty babes and spouses:
    • My only token was a cup like horn,
    • That’s made of nothing but a lady’s corn.
    • ’T is not for that I grieve; O, ’t is to see
    • The Groom and Sorrel Mare preferr’d to me!60
    • These, for some moments when you deign to quit,
    • And at due distance sweet discourse admit,
    • ’T is all my pleasure thy past toil to know;
    • For pleas’d remembrance builds delight on woe.
    • At ev’ry danger pants thy consort’s breast,
    • And gaping infants squall to hear the rest.
    • How did I tremble, when by thousands bound,
    • I saw thee stretch’d on Lilliputian ground!
    • When scaling armies climb’d up every part,
    • Each step they trod I felt upon my heart.
    • But when thy torrent quench’d the dreadful blaze,71
    • King, Queen, and Nation staring with amaze,
    • Full in my view how all my husband came;
    • And what extinguish’d theirs increas’d my flame.
    • Those spectacles, ordain’d thine eyes to save,
    • Were once my present; love that armour gave.
    • How did I mourn at Bolgolam’s decree!
    • For when he sign’d thy death, he sentenc’d me.
    • When folks might see thee all the country round
    • For sixpence, I’d have giv’n a thousand pound.80
    • Lord! when the giant babe that head of thine
    • Got in his mouth, my heart was up in mine!
    • When in the marrow bone I see thee ramm’d,
    • Or on the housetop by the monkey cramm’d,
    • The piteous images renew my pain,
    • And all thy dangers I weep o’er again.
    • But on the maiden’s nipple when you rid,
    • Pray Heav’n, ’t was all a wanton maiden did!
    • Glumdalclitch, too! with thee I mourn her case,
    • Heaven guard the gentle girl from all disgrace!90
    • O may the king that one neglect forgive,
    • And pardon her the fault by which I live!
    • Was there no other way to set him free?
    • My life, alas! I fear prov’d death to thee.
    • O teach me, dear, new words to speak my flame;
    • Teach me to woo thee by thy best lov’d name!
    • Whether the style of Grildrig please thee most,
    • So call’d on Brobdingnag’s stupendous coast,
    • When on the monarch’s ample hand you sate,99
    • And halloo’d in his ear intrigues of state;
    • Or Quinbus Flestrin more endearment brings,
    • When like a mountain you look’d down on kings:
    • If ducal Nardac, Lilliputian peer,
    • Or Glumglum’s humbler title soothe thy ear:
    • Nay, would kind Jove my organs so dispose,
    • To hymn harmonious Houyhnhnm thro’ the nose,
    • I’d call thee Houyhnhnm, that high sounding name
    • Thy children’s noses all should twang the same;
    • So might I find my loving spouse of course
    • Endued with all the virtues of a horse.110
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LATER POEMS

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ON CERTAIN LADIES

  • When other fair ones to the shades go down,
  • Still Chloë, Flavia, Delia, stay in town:
  • Those ghosts of beauty wand’ring here reside,
  • And haunt the places where their honour died.
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CELIA

  • Celia, we know, is sixty-five,
  • Yet Celia’s face is seventeen;
  • Thus winter in her breast must live,
  • While summer in her face is seen.
  • How cruel Celia’s fate, who hence
  • Our heart’s devotion cannot try;
  • Too pretty for our reverence,
  • Too ancient for our gallantry!
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PROLOGUE

TO A PLAY FOR MR. DENNIS’S BENEFIT, IN 1733, WHEN HE WAS OLD, BLIND, AND IN GREAT DISTRESS, A LITTLE BEFORE HIS DEATH

  • As when that hero, who in each campaign
  • Had braved the Goth, and many a Vandal slain,
  • Lay fortune-struck, a spectacle of woe,
  • Wept by each friend, forgiv’n by ev’ry foe;
  • Was there a gen’rous, a reflecting mind,
  • But pitied Belisarius old and blind?
  • Was there a chief but melted at the sight?
  • A common soldier but who clubb’d his mite?
  • Such, such emotions should in Britons rise,
  • When, press’d by want and weakness, Dennis lies;
  • Dennis! who long had warr’d with modern Huns,
  • Their quibbles routed, and defied their puns;
  • A desp’rate bulwark, sturdy, firm, and fierce,
  • Against the Gothic sons of frozen verse.
  • How changed from him who made the boxes groan,
  • And shook the stage with thunders all his own!
  • Stood up to dash each vain pretender’s hope,
  • Maul the French tyrant, or pull down the Pope!
  • If there’s a Briton, then, true bred and born,
  • Who holds dragoons and wooden shoes in scorn;
  • If there’s a critic of distinguish’d rage;
  • If there’s a senior who contemns this age;
  • Let him to-night his just assistance lend,
  • And be the Critic’s, Briton’s, old man’s friend.
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SONG, BY A PERSON OF QUALITY

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1733

The public astonished Pope by taking this burlesque seriously, and praising it as poetry.

    • I

    • Flutt’ring spread thy purple Pinions,
    • Gentle Cupid, o’er my Heart;
    • I a Slave in thy Dominions;
    • Nature must give Way to Art.

    • II

    • Mild Arcadians, ever blooming,
    • Nightly nodding o’er your Flocks,
    • See my weary Days consuming,
    • All beneath you flow’ry Rocks.

    • III

    • Thus the Cyprian Goddess weeping,
    • Mourn’d Adonis, darling Youth:
    • Him the Boar in Silence creeping,
    • Gored with unrelenting Tooth.

    • IV

    • Cynthia, tune harmonious Numbers;
    • Fair Discretion, string the Lyre;
    • Soothe my ever-waking Slumbers:
    • Bright Apollo, lend thy Choir.

    • V

    • Gloomy Pluto, King of Terrors,
    • Arm’d in adamantine Chains,
    • Lead me to the Crystal Mirrors,
    • Wat’ring soft Elysian Plains.

    • VI

    • Mournful Cypress, verdant Willow,
    • Gilding my Aurelia’s Brows,
    • Morpheus hov’ring o’er my Pillow,
    • Hear me pay my dying Vows.

    • VII

    • Melancholy smooth Mœander,
    • Swiftly purling in a Round,
    • On thy Margin Lovers wander,
    • With thy flow’ry Chaplets crown’d.

    • VIII

    • Thus when Philomela drooping,
    • Softly seeks her silent Mate,
    • See the Bird of Juno stooping;
    • Melody resigns to Fate.
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VERSES LEFT BY MR. POPE

ON HIS LYING IN THE SAME BED WHICH WILMOT, THE CELEBRATED EARL OF ROCHESTER, SLEPT IN AT ADDERBURY, THEN BELONGING TO THE DUKE OF ARGYLE, JULY 9TH, 1739

    • With no poetic ardour fired
    • I press the bed where Wilmot lay;
    • That here he lov’d, or here expired,
    • Begets no numbers grave or gay.
    • Beneath thy roof, Argyle, are bred
    • Such thoughts as prompt the brave to lie
    • Stretch’d out in honour’s nobler bed,
    • Beneath a nobler roof—the sky.
    • Such flames as high in patriots burn,
    • Yet stoop to bless a child or wife;
    • And such as wicked kings may mourn,
    • When Freedom is more dear than Life.
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ON HIS GROTTO AT TWICKENHAM

COMPOSED OF MARBLES, SPARS, GEMS, ORES, AND MINERALS

These lines were enclosed in a letter to Bolingbroke, dated September 3, 1740.

  • Thou who shalt stop where Thames’ translucent wave
  • Shines a broad mirror thro’ the shadowy cave;
  • Where ling’ring drops from min’ral roofs distil,
  • And pointed crystals break the sparkling rill;
  • Unpolish’d gems no ray on pride bestow,
  • And latent metals innocently glow;
  • Approach. Great Nature studiously behold!
  • And eye the mine without a wish for gold.
  • Approach; but awful! lo! the Ægerian grot,
  • Where, nobly pensive, St. John sate and thought;
  • Where British sighs from dying Wyndham stole,
  • And the bright flame was shot thro’ Marchmont’s soul.
  • Let such, such only, tread this sacred floor,
  • Who dare to love their country, and be poor.
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ON RECEIVING FROM THE RIGHT HON. THE LADY FRANCES SHIRLEY A STANDISH AND TWO PENS

Lady Frances Shirley was daughter of Earl Ferrers, a neighbor of Pope’s at Twickenham.

    • Yes, I beheld th’ Athenian Queen
    • Descend in all her sober charms;
    • ‘And take’ (she said, and smiled serene),
    • ‘Take at this hand celestial arms:
    • ‘Secure the radiant weapons wield;
    • This golden lance shall guard Desert,
    • And if a Vice dares keep the field,
    • This steel shall stab it to the heart.’
    • Awed, on my bended knees I fell,
    • Received the weapons of the sky;10
    • And dipt them in the sable well,
    • The fount of Fame or Infamy.
    • ‘What well? what weapons?’ (Flavia cries,)
    • ‘A standish, steel and golden pen!
    • It came from Bertrand’s, not the skies;
    • I gave it you to write again.
    • ‘But, Friend, take heed whom you attack;
    • You ’ll bring a House (I mean of Peers)
    • Red, blue, and green, nay white and black,
    • L[ambeth] and all about your ears.
    • ‘You ’d write as smooth again on glass,
    • And run, on ivory, so glib,
    • As not to stick at Fool or Ass,
    • Nor stop at Flattery or Fib.
    • ‘Athenian Queen! and sober charms!
    • I tell ye, fool, there ’s nothing in ’t:
    • ’T is Venus, Venus gives these arms;
    • In Dryden’s Virgil see the print.
    • ‘Come, if you ’ll be a quiet soul,
    • That dares tell neither Truth nor Lies,
    • I ’ll lift you in the harmless roll
    • Of those that sing of these poor eyes.’
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ON BEAUFORT HOUSE GATE AT CHISWICK

The Lord Treasurer Middlesex’s house at Chelsea, after passing to the Duke of Beaufort, was called Beaufort House. It was afterwards sold to Sir Hans Sloane. When the house was taken down in 1740, its gateway, built by Inigo Jones, was given by Sir Hans Sloane to the Earl of Burlington, who removed it with the greatest care to his garden at Chiswick, where it may be still seen. (Ward.)

  • I was brought from Chelsea last year,
  • Batter’d with wind and weather;
  • Inigo Jones put me together;
  • Sir Hans Sloane let me alone;
  • Burlington brought me hither.
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TO MR. THOMAS SOUTHERN

ON HIS BIRTHDAY, 1742

Southern was invited to dine on his birthday with Lord Orrery, who had prepared the entertainment, of which the bill of fare is here set down.

  • Resign’d to live, prepared to die,
  • With not one sin but poetry,
  • This day Tom’s fair account has run
  • (Without a blot) to eighty-one.
  • Kind Boyle before his poet lays
  • A table with a cloth of bays;
  • And Ireland, mother of sweet singers,
  • Presents her harp still to his fingers.
  • The feast, his tow’ring Genius marks
  • In yonder wildgoose and the larks!
  • The mushrooms show his Wit was sudden!
  • And for his Judgment, lo, a pudden!
  • Roast beef, tho’ old, proclaims him stout,
  • And grace, although a bard, devout.
  • May Tom, whom Heav’n sent down to raise
  • The price of Prologues and of Plays,
  • Be ev’ry birthday more a winner,
  • Digest his thirty-thousandth dinner,
  • Walk to his grave without reproach,
  • And scorn a Rascal and a Coach.
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EPIGRAM

  • My Lord complains that Pope, stark mad with gardens,
  • Has cut three trees, the value of three farthings.
  • ‘But he’s my neighbour,’ cries the Peer polite:
  • ‘And if he visit me, I’ll waive the right.’
  • What! on compulsion, and against my will,
  • A lord’s acquaintance? Let him file his bill!

EPIGRAM

Explained by Carruthers to refer to the large sums of money given in charity on account of the severity of the weather about the year 1740.

    • Yes! ’t is the time (I cried), impose the chain,
    • Destin’d and due to wretches self-enslaved;
    • But when I saw such charity remain,
    • I half could wish this people should be saved.
    • Faith lost, and Hope, our Charity begins;
    • And ’t is a wise design in pitying Heav’n,
    • If this can cover multitude of sins,
    • To take the only way to be forgiv’n.
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1740: A POEM[ ]

‘I shall here,’ says Dr. Warton, ‘present the reader with a valuable literary curiosity, a Fragment of an unpublished Satire of Pope, entitled, One Thousand Seven Hundred and Forty; communicated to me by the kindness of the learned and worthy Dr. Wilson, formerly fellow and librarian of Trinity College, Dublin; who speaks of the Fragment in the following terms:—

‘ “This poem I transcribed from a rough draft in Pope’s own hand. He left many blanks for fear of the Argus eye of those who, if they cannot find, can fabricate treason; yet, spite of his precaution, it fell into the hands of his enemies. To the hieroglyphics there are direct allusions, I think, in some of the notes on the Dunciad. It was lent me by a grandson of Lord Chetwynd, an intimate friend of the famous Lord Bolingbroke, who gratified his curiosity by a boxful of the rubbish and sweepings of Pope’s study, whose executor he was, in conjunction with Lord Marchmont.” ’

    • O wretched B[ritain], jealous now of all,
    • What God, what Mortal shall prevent thy fall?
    • Turn, turn thy eyes from wicked men in place,
    • And see what succour from the patriot race.
    • C[ampbell], his own proud dupe, thinks Monarchs things
    • Made just for him, as other fools for Kings;
    • Controls, decides, insults thee ev’ry hour,
    • And antedates the hatred due to power.
    • Thro’ clouds of passion P[ulteney]’s views are clear;
    • He foams a Patriot to subside a Peer;10
    • Impatient sees his country bought and sold,
    • And damns the market where he takes no gold.
    • Grave, righteous S[andys] jogs on till, past belief,
    • He finds himself companion with a thief.
    • To purge and let thee blood with fire and sword
    • Is all the help stern S[hippen] would afford.
    • That those who bind and rob thee would not kill,
    • Good C[ornbury] hopes, and candidly sits still.
    • Of Ch[arle]s W[illiams] who speaks at all?19
    • No more than of Sir Har[r]y or Sir P[aul]:
    • Whose names once up, they thought it was not wrong
    • To lie in bed, but sure they lay too long.
    • G[owe]r, C[obha]m, B[athurs]t, pay thee due regards.
    • Unless the ladies bid them mind their cards.

with wit that must

  • And C[hesterfiel]d who speaks so well and writes,
  • Whom (saving W.) every S[harper bites,]

must needs

    • Whose wit and . . . equally provoke one,
    • Finds thee, at best, the butt to crack his joke on.
    • As for the rest, each winter up they run,
    • And all are clear, that something must be done.30
    • Then urged by C[artere]t, or by C[artere]t stopp’d,
    • Inflamed by P[ultene]y, and by P[ultene]y dropp’d;
    • They follow rev’rently each wondrous wight,
    • Amazed that one can read, that one can write
    • (So geese to gander prone obedience keep,
    • Hiss if he hiss, and if he slumber, sleep);
    • Till having done whate’er was fit or fine,
    • Utter’d a speech, and ask’d their friends to dine,
    • Each hurries back to his paternal ground,
    • Content but for five shillings in the pound,40
    • Yearly defeated, yearly hopes they give,
    • And all agree Sir Robert cannot live.
    • Rise, rise, great W[alpole], fated to appear,
    • Spite of thyself a glorious minister!
    • Speak the loud language princes . . .
    • And treat with half the . . .
    • At length to B[ritain] kind, as to thy . . .
    • Espouse the nation, you . . .
    • What can thy H[orace] . . .
    • Dress in Dutch . . .50
    • Though still he travels on no bad pretence,
    • To show . . .
    • Or those foul copies of thy face and tongue,
    • Veracious W[innington] and frontless Yonge;
    • Sagacious Bub, so late a friend, and there
    • So late a foe, yet more sagacious H[are]?
    • Hervey and Hervey’s school, F[ox], H[enle]y, H[into]n,
    • Yea, moral Ebor, or religious Winton.
    • How! what can O[nslo]w, what can D[elaware],
    • The wisdom of the one and other chair,60
    • N[ewcastle] laugh, or D[orset]’s sager [sneer],
    • Or thy dread truncheon M[arlboro]’s mighty Peer?
    • What help from J[ekyl]l’s opiates canst thou draw
    • Or H[ardwic]k’s quibbles voted into law?
    • C[ummins], that Roman in his nose alone,
    • Who hears all causes, B[ritain], but thy own,
    • Or those proud fools whom nature, rank, and fate
    • Made fit companions for the sword of state.
    • Can the light Packhorse, or the heavy Steer,69
    • The sowzing Prelate, or the sweating Peer,
    • Drag out with all its dirt and all its weight,
    • The lumb’ring carriage of thy broken state?
    • Alas! the people curse, the carman swears,
    • The drivers quarrel, and the master stares.
    • The plague is on thee, Britain, and who tries
    • To save thee, in th’ infectious office dies.
    • The first firm P[ultene]y soon resign’d his breath,
    • Brave S[carboro] loved thee, and was lied to death.
    • Good M[arch]m[on]t’s fate tore P[olwar]th from thy side,
    • And thy last sigh was heard when W[yndha]m died.80
    • Thy nobles sl[ave]s, thy se[nate]s bought with gold,
    • Thy clergy perjured, thy whole people sold,
    • An atheist , a ″′s ad. . . . . . . . .
    • Blotch thee all o’er, and sink. . . . . .
    • Alas! on one alone our all relies,
    • Let him be honest, and he must be wise.
    • Let him no trifler from his school,
    • Nor like his. . . . . . . . . still a. . . .
    • Be but a man! unminister’d, alone,
    • And free at once the Senate and the Throne;90
    • Esteem the public love his best supply,
    • A ’s true glory his integrity;
    • Rich with his. . . . . . in his. . . . . strong,
    • Affect no conquest, but endure no wrong.
    • Whatever his religion or his blood,
    • His public Virtue makes his title good.
    • Europe’s just balance and our own may stand,
    • And one man’s honesty redeem the land.
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POEMS OF UNCERTAIN DATE

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TO ERINNA

  • Tho’ sprightly Sappho force our love and praise,
  • A softer wonder my pleas’d soul surveys,
  • The mild Erinna, blushing in her bays.
  • So, while the sun’s broad beam yet strikes the sight,
  • All mild appears the moon’s more sober light;
  • Serene, in virgin majesty she shines,
  • And, unobserv’d, the glaring sun declines.
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LINES WRITTEN IN WINDSOR FOREST

Sent in an undated letter to Martha Blount.

  • All hail, once pleasing, once inspiring shade,
  • Scene of my youthful loves, and happier hours!
  • Where the kind Muses met me as I stray’d,
  • And gently press’d my hand, and said, ‘Be ours.’
  • Take all thou e’er shalt have, a constant Muse:
  • At Court thou mayst be liked, but nothing gain:
  • Stocks thou mayst buy and sell, but always lose;
  • And love the brightest eyes, but love in vain.
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VERBATIM FROM BOILEAU

FIRST PUBLISHED BY WARBURTON IN 1751

Un jour, dit un auteur, etc.

  • Once (says an author, where I need not say)
  • Two travellers found an Oyster in their way:
  • Both fierce, both hungry, the dispute grew strong,
  • While, scale in hand, dame Justice pass’d along.
  • Before her each with clamour pleads the laws,
  • Explain’d the matter, and would win the cause.
  • Dame Justice weighing long the doubtful right,
  • Takes, opens, swallows it before their sight.
  • The cause of strife remov’d so rarely well,
  • ‘There take (says Justice), take ye each a shell.
  • We thrive at Westminster on fools like you:
  • ’T was a fat Oyster—Live in peace—Adieu.’
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LINES ON SWIFT’S ANCESTORS

Swift set up a plain monument to his grandfather, and also presented a cup to the church of Goodrich, or Gotheridge (in Herefordshire). He sent a pencilled elevation of the monument (a simple tablet) to Mrs. Howard, who returned it with the following lines, inscribed on the drawing by Pope. The paper is endorsed, in Swift’s hand: ‘Model of a monument for my grandfather, with Pope’s roguery.’ (Scott’s Life of Swift.)

    • Jonathan Swift
    • Had the gift,
    • By fatherige, motherige,
    • And by brotherige
    • To come from Gotherige,
    • But now is spoil’d clean,
    • And an Irish dean;
    • In this church he has put
    • A stone of two foot,
    • With a cup and a can, sir,
    • In respect to his grandsire;
    • So, Ireland, change thy tone,
    • And cry, O hone! O hone!
    • For England hath its own.
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ON SEEING THE LADIES AT CRUX EASTON WALK IN THE WOODS BY THE GROTTO

EXTEMPORE BY MR. POPE

  • Authors the world and their dull brains have traced
  • To fix the ground where Paradise was placed;
  • Mind not their learned whims and idle talk;
  • Here, here ’s the place where these bright angels walk.
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INSCRIPTION ON A GROTTO, THE WORK OF NINE LADIES

  • Here, shunning idleness at once and praise,
  • This radiant pile nine rural sisters raise;
  • The glitt’ring emblem of each spotless dame,
  • Clear as her soul and shining as her frame;
  • Beauty which Nature only can impart,
  • And such a polish as disgraces Art;
  • But Fate disposed them in this humble sort,
  • And hid in deserts what would charm a Court.
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TO THE RIGHT HON. THE EARL OF OXFORD

UPON A PIECE OF NEWS IN MIST [MIST’S JOURNAL] THAT THE REV. MR. W. REFUSED TO WRITE AGAINST MR. POPE BECAUSE HIS BEST PATRON HAD A FRIENDSHIP FOR THE SAID POPE

    • Wesley, if Wesley ’t is they mean,
    • They say on Pope would fall,
    • Would his best Patron let his Pen
    • Discharge his inward gall.
    • What Patron this, a doubt must be,
    • Which none but you can clear,
    • Or father Francis, ’cross the sea,
    • Or else Earl Edward here.
    • That both were good must be confess’d,
    • And much to both he owes;
    • But which to him will be the best
    • The Lord of Oxford knows.
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EPIGRAMS AND EPITAPHS

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ON A PICTURE OF QUEEN CAROLINE

DRAWN BY LADY BURLINGTON

It is not known who the Bishop was. The ‘lying Dean’ refers to Dr. Alured Clarke, who preached a fulsome sermon upon the Queen’s death.

  • Peace, flatt’ring Bishop! lying Dean!
  • This portrait only paints the Queen!
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EPIGRAM ENGRAVED ON THE COLLAR OF A DOG WHICH I GAVE TO HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS

  • ‘His Highness’ was Frederick, Prince of Wales.
  • I am his Highness’ dog at Kew;
  • Pray tell me, Sir, whose dog are you?
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LINES WRITTEN IN EVELYN’S BOOK ON COINS

First printed in the Gentleman’s Magazine in 1735.

  • Tom Wood of Chiswick, deep divine,
  • To Painter Kent gave all this coin.
  • ’T is the first coin, I ’m bold to say,
  • That ever churchman gave to lay.
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FROM THE GRUB-STREET JOURNAL

This Journal was established in January, 1730, and carried on for eight years by Pope and his friends, in answer to the attacks provoked by the Dunciad. It corresponds in some measure to the Xenien of Goethe and Schiller. Only such pieces are here inserted as bear Pope’s distinguishing signature A.; several others are probably his. (Ward.)

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I

EPIGRAM

Occasioned by seeing some sheets of Dr. Bentley’s edition of Milton’s Paradise Lost.

  • Did Milton’s prose, O Charles, thy death defend?
  • A furious Foe unconscious proves a Friend.
  • On Milton’s verse does Bentley comment?—Know
  • A weak officious Friend becomes a Foe.
  • While he but sought his Author’s fame to further,
  • The murd’rous critic has avenged thy murder.
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II

EPIGRAM

  • Should D[enni]s print, how once you robb’d your brother,
  • Traduced your monarch, and debauch’d your mother;
  • Say, what revenge on D[enni]s can be had;
  • Too dull for laughter, for reply too mad?
  • Of one so poor you cannot take the law;
  • On one so old your sword you scorn to draw.
  • Uncaged then let the harmless monster rage,
  • Secure in dulness, madness, want, and age.
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III

MR. J. M. S[MYTH]E

CATECHISED ON HIS ONE EPISTLE TO MR. POPE

  • What makes you write at this odd rate?
  • Why, Sir, it is to imitate.
  • What makes you steal and trifle so?
  • Why, ’t is to do as others do.
  • But there ’s no meaning to be seen.
  • Why, that ’s the very thing I mean.
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IV

EPIGRAM

ON MR. M[OO]RE’S GOING TO LAW WITH MR. GILIVER: INSCRIBED TO ATTORNEY TIBBALD

  • Once in his life M[oo]re judges right:
  • His sword and pen not worth a straw,
  • An author that could never write,
  • A gentleman that dares not fight,
  • Has but one way to tease—by law.
  • This suit, dear Tibbald, kindly hatch;
  • Thus thou may’st help the sneaking elf;
  • And sure a printer is his match,
  • Who ’s but a publisher himself.
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V

EPIGRAM

  • A gold watch found on cinder whore,
  • Or a good verse on J[emm]y M[oor]e,
  • Proves but what either should conceal,
  • Not that they’re rich, but that they steal.
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VI

EPITAPH

ON JAMES MOORE-SMYTHE

  • Here lies what had nor birth, nor shape, nor fame;
  • No gentleman! no man! no-thing! no name!
  • For Jamie ne’er grew James; and what they call
  • More, shrunk to Smith—and Smith ’s no name at all.
  • Yet die thou can’st not, phantom, oddly fated:
  • For how can no-thing be annihilated?
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VII

A QUESTION BY ANONYMOUS

  • Tell, if you can, which did the worse,
  • Caligula or Gr[afto]n’s Gr[a]ce?
  • That made a Consul of a horse,
  • And this a Laureate of an ass.
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VIII

EPIGRAM

The sting of this epigram was for Cibber, then Poet Laureate.

  • Great G[eorge] such servants since thou well canst lack,
  • Oh! save the salary, and drink the sack.
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IX

EPIGRAM

  • Behold! ambitious of the British bays,
  • Cibber and Duck contend in rival lays,
  • But, gentle Colley, should thy verse prevail,
  • Thou hast no fence, alas! against his flail:
  • Therefore thy claim resign, allow his right:
  • For Duck can thresh, you know, as well as write.
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EPITAPHS

His saltem accumulem donis, et fungar inani Munere!

Virg. [Æn. vii. 885.]

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ON CHARLES EARL OF DORSET

IN THE CHURCH OF WITHYAM, SUSSEX

  • Dorset, the Grace of Courts, the Muses’ Pride,
  • Patron of Arts, and Judge of Nature, died.
  • The scourge of Pride, tho’ sanctified or great,
  • Of Fops in Learning, and of Knaves in State:
  • Yet soft his Nature, tho’ severe his Lay,
  • His Anger moral, and his Wisdom gay.
  • Bless’d Satirist! who touch’d the mean so true,
  • As show’d, Vice had his hate and pity too.
  • Bless’d Courtier! who could King and Country please,
  • Yet sacred keep his Friendships and his Ease.
  • Bless’d Peer! his great Forefathers’ ev’ry grace
  • Reflecting, and reflected in his race;
  • Where other Buckhursts, other Dorsets shine,
  • And Patriots still, or Poets, deck the line.
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ON SIR WILLIAM TRUMBULL

ONE OF THE PRINCIPAL SECRETARIES OF STATE TO KING WILLIAM III

Who, having resigned his Place, died in his retirement at Easthamsted, in Berkshire, 1716.

  • A pleasing Form, a firm, yet cautious Mind;
  • Sincere, tho’ prudent; constant, yet resign’d:
  • Honour unchanged, a Principle profest,
  • Fix’d to one side, but mod’rate to the rest:
  • An honest Courtier, yet a Patriot too,
  • Just to his Prince, and to his Country true:
  • Fill’d with the Sense of age, the Fire of youth,
  • A scorn of Wrangling, yet a zeal for Truth;
  • A gen’rous Faith, from superstition free,
  • A love to Peace, and hate of Tyranny;
  • Such this Man was, who now, from earth remov’d,
  • At length enjoys that Liberty he lov’d.
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ON THE HON. SIMON HARCOURT

ONLY SON OF THE LORD CHANCELLOR HARCOURT

At the Church of Stanton-Harcourt, Oxfordshire, 1720.

  • To this sad shrine, whoe’er thou art, draw near;
  • Here lies the Friend most lov’d, the Son most dear;
  • Who ne’er knew Joy but Friendship might divide,
  • Or gave his father grief but when he died.
  • How vain is Reason, Eloquence how weak!
  • If Pope must tell what Harcourt cannot speak.
  • Oh, let thy once-lov’d friend inscribe thy stone,
  • And with a father’s sorrows mix his own!
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ON JAMES CRAGGS, ESQ.

IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY

JACOBUS CRAGGS

REGI MAGNÆ BRITANNIÆ A SECRETIS, ET CONSILIIS SANCTIORIBUS: PRINCIPIS PARITER AC POPULI AMOR ET DELICIÆ: VIXIT TITULIS ET INVIDIA MAJOR ANNOS, HEU PAUCOS, XXXV. OB. FEB. XIV. MDCCXX.

  • Statesman, yet Friend to Truth! of Soul sincere,
  • In Action faithful, and in Honour clear!
  • Who broke no Promise, served no private end,
  • Who gain’d no Title, and who lost no Friend;
  • Ennobled by himself, by all approv’d,
  • Prais’d, wept, and honour’d, by the Muse he lov’d.
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ON MR. ROWE

IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY

    • Thy reliques, Rowe! to this sad shrine we trust,
    • And near thy Shakspeare place thy honour’d bust,
    • Oh, next him, skill’d to draw the tender tear—
    • For never heart felt passion more sincere—
    • To nobler sentiment to fire the brave—
    • For never Briton more disdain’d a slave!
    • Peace to thy gentle shade, and endless rest;
    • Blest in thy Genius, in thy Love too blest!
    • And blest, that timely from our scene remov’d,
    • Thy soul enjoys the Liberty it lov’d.
    • To these, so mourn’d in death, so lov’d in life,
    • The childless parent and the widow’d wife
    • With tears inscribes this monumental stone,
    • That holds their ashes and expects her own.
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ON MRS. CORBET

WHO DIED OF A CANCER IN HER BREAST

  • Here rests a Woman, good without pretence,
  • Bless’d with plain Reason and with sober Sense:
  • No Conquests she but o’er herself desired,
  • No Arts essay’d but not to be admired.
  • Passion and Pride were to her soul unknown,
  • Convinc’d that Virtue only is our own.
  • So unaffected, so composed, a mind,
  • So firm, yet soft, so strong, yet so refin’d,
  • Heav’n, as its purest gold, by Tortures tried:
  • The Saint sustain’d it, but the Woman died.
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ON THE MONUMENT OF THE HON. R. DIGBY AND OF HIS SISTER MARY

ERECTED BY THEIR FATHER, LORD DIGBY, IN THE CHURCH OF SHERBORNE, IN DORSETSHIRE, 1727.

    • Go! fair example of untainted youth,
    • Of modest Wisdom and pacific Truth:
    • Composed in Suff’rings, and in Joy sedate,
    • Good without noise, without pretension great:
    • Just of thy word, in ev’ry thought sincere,
    • Who knew no wish but what the world might hear:
    • Of softest Manners, unaffected Mind,
    • Lover of Peace, and Friend of humankind!
    • Go live! for Heav’n’s eternal year is thine;
    • Go, and exalt thy Mortal to Divine.
    • And thou, bless’d Maid! attendant on his doom,
    • Pensive hath follow’d to the silent Tomb,
    • Steer’d the same course to the same quiet shore,
    • Not parted long, and now to part no more!
    • Go then, where only bliss sincere is known!
    • Go where to love and to enjoy are one!
    • Yet take these tears, mortality’s relief,
    • And till we share your joys, forgive our grief:
    • These little rites, a Stone, a Verse, receive;
    • ’T is all a Father, all a Friend can give!
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ON SIR GODFREY KNELLER

IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY, 1723

    • Kneller, by Heav’n, and not a master, taught,
    • Whose Art was Nature, and whose pictures thought;
    • Now for two ages having snatch’d from fate
    • Whate’er was beauteous, or whate’er was great,
    • Lies crown’d with Princes’ honours, Poets’ lays,
    • Due to his Merit and brave thirst of Praise.
    • Living, great Nature fear’d he might outvie
    • Her works; and, dying, fears herself may die.
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ON GENERAL HENRY WITHERS

IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY, 1729

    • Here, Withers! rest; thou bravest, gentlest mind,
    • Thy Country’s friend, but more of Humankind.
    • O born to Arms! O Worth in youth approv’d!
    • O soft Humanity, in age belov’d!
    • For thee the hardy Vet’ran drops a tear,
    • And the gay Courtier feels the sigh sincere.
    • Withers, adieu! yet not with thee remove
    • Thy martial spirit or thy social love!
    • Amidst Corruption, Luxury, and Rage,
    • Still leave some ancient Virtues to our age;
    • Nor let us say (those English glories gone)
    • The last true Briton lies beneath this stone.
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ON MR. ELIJAH FENTON

AT EASTHAMSTEAD, BERKS, 1729

  • This modest stone, what few vain marbles can,
  • May truly say, Here lies an Honest Man;
  • A Poet bless’d beyond the Poet’s fate,
  • Whom Heav’n kept sacred from the proud and great;
  • Foe to loud Praise, and friend to learned Ease,
  • Content with Science in the vale of peace.
  • Calmly he look’d on either life, and here
  • Saw nothing to regret, or there to fear;
  • From Nature’s temp’rate feast rose satisfied,
  • Thank’d Heav’n that he had lived, and that he died.
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ON MR. GAY

IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY, 1730

  • Of Manners gentle, of Affections mild;
  • In Wit a man; Simplicity a child:
  • With native Humour temp’ring virtuous Rage,
  • Form’d to delight at once and lash the age:
  • Above temptation, in a low estate,
  • And uncorrupted ev’n among the Great:
  • A safe Companion, and an easy Friend,
  • Unblamed thro’ life, lamented in thy End.
  • These are thy Honours! not that here thy bust
  • Is mix’d with Heroes, or with Kings thy dust:
  • But that the Worthy and the Good shall say,
  • Striking their pensive bosoms—‘Here lies Gay!’
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INTENDED FOR SIR ISAAC NEWTON

IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY

ISAACUS NEWTONUS

QUEM IMMORTALEM TESTANTUR TEMPUS, NATURA, CŒLUM: MORTALEM HOC MARMOR FATETUR

  • Nature and Nature’s laws lay hid in Night:
  • God said, LetNewtonbe! and all was Light.
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ON DR. FRANCIS ATTERBURY

BISHOP OF ROCHESTER, WHO DIED IN EXILE AT PARIS, 1732

His only daughter having expired in his arms immediately after she arrived in France to see him.

DIALOGUE

    • She.Yes, we have liv’d—One pang, and then we part!
    • May Heav’n, dear Father! now have all thy heart.
    • Yet ah! how once we lov’d, remember still,
    • Till you are dust like me.
    • He. Dear Shade! I will:
    • Then mix this dust with thine—O spotless Ghost!
    • O more than Fortune, Friends, or Country lost!
    • Is there on earth one care, one wish beside?
    • Yes—‘Save my country, Heav’n!’ he said, and died.
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ON EDMUND DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM

WHO DIED IN THE NINETEENTH YEAR OF HIS AGE, 1735

  • If modest Youth, with cool Reflection crown’d,
  • And ev’ry opening Virtue blooming round,
  • Could save a Parent’s justest Pride from fate,
  • Or add one Patriot to a sinking state,
  • This weeping marble had not ask’d thy tear,
  • Or sadly told, how many hopes lie here!
  • The living Virtue now had shone approv’d;
  • The Senate heard him, and his country lov’d.
  • Yet softer honours and less noisy fame
  • Attend the shade of gentle Buckingham:
  • In whom a race, for Courage famed and Art,
  • Ends in the milder merit of the Heart;
  • And, Chiefs or Sages long to Britain giv’n,
  • Pays the last tribute of a Saint to Heav’n.
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FOR ONE WHO WOULD NOT BE BURIED IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY

  • Heroes and Kings! your distance keep;
  • In peace let one poor Poet sleep,
  • Who never flatter’d folks like you:
  • Let Horace blush, and Virgil too.
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ANOTHER ON THE SAME

  • Under this Marble, or under this Sill,
  • Or under this Turf, or ev’n what they will,
  • Whatever an Heir, or a Friend in his stead,
  • Or any good creature shall lay o’er my head,
  • Lies one who ne’er cared, and still cares not, a pin
  • What they said, or may say, of the mortal within;
  • But who, living and dying, serene, still and free,
  • Trusts in God that as well as he was he shall be.
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ON TWO LOVERS STRUCK DEAD BY LIGHTNING

John Hughes and Sarah Drew. See Pope’s letter to Lady Mary written in September, 1718.

  • I

  • When Eastern lovers feed the Funeral Fire,
  • On the same pile their faithful Fair expire;
  • Here pitying Heav’n that Virtue mutual found,
  • And blasted both, that it might neither wound.
  • Hearts so sincere th’ Almighty saw well pleas’d,
  • Sent his own lightning, and the victims seiz’d.

  • II

  • Think not by rig’rous judgment seiz’d,
  • A pair so faithful could expire;
  • Victims so pure Heav’n saw well pleas’d,
  • And snatch’d them in celestial fire.

  • III

  • Live well, and fear no sudden fate:
  • When God calls Virtue to the grave,
  • Alike ’t is Justice, soon or late,
  • Mercy alike to kill or save.
  • Virtue unmov’d can hear the call,
  • And face the flash that melts the ball.
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EPITAPH

The subject is supposed to be John Gay.

  • Well, then, poor G— lies underground!
  • So there ’s an end of honest Jack—
  • So little justice here be found,
  • ’T is ten to one he ’ll ne’er come back.
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AN ESSAY ON MAN[ ]

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IN FOUR EPISTLES TO LORD BOLINGBROKE

The first two epistles of the Essay on Man were written in 1732, the third in the year following, and the fourth in 1734, when the complete Essay was published as we have it.

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THE DESIGN

Having proposed to write some pieces on Human Life and Manners, such as, to use my Lord Bacon’s expression, ‘come home to men’s business and bosoms,’ I thought it more satisfactory to begin with considering Man in the abstract, his nature and his state: since to prove any moral duty, to enforce any moral precept, or to examine the perfection or imperfection of any creature whatsoever, it is necessary first to know what condition and relation it is placed in, and what is the proper end and purpose of its being.

The science of Human Nature is, like all other sciences, reduced to a few clear points: there are not many certain truths in this world. It is therefore in the anatomy of the mind, as in that of the body; more good will accrue to mankind by attending to the large, open, and perceptible parts, than by studying too much such finer nerves and vessels, the conformations and uses of which will for ever escape our observation. The disputes are all upon these last; and, I will venture to say, they have less sharpened the wits than the hearts of men against each other, and have diminished the practice more than advanced the theory of morality. If I could flatter myself that this Essay has any merit, it is in steering betwixt the extremes of doctrines seemingly opposite, in passing over terms utterly unintelligible and in forming a temperate, yet not inconsistent, and a short, yet not imperfect, system of ethics.

This I might have done in prose; but I chose verse, and even rhyme, for two reasons. The one will appear obvious; that principles, maxims, or precepts, so written, both strike the reader more strongly at first, and are more easily retained by him afterwards: the other may seem odd, but it is true: I found I could express them more shortly this way than in prose itself; and nothing is more certain than that much of the force as well as grace of arguments or instructions depends on their conciseness. I was unable to treat this part of my subject more in detail without becoming dry and tedious; or more poetically without sacrificing perspicuity to ornament, without wandering from the precision, or breaking the chain of reasoning. If any man can unite all these without diminution of any of them, I freely confess he will compass a thing above my capacity.

What is now published is only to be considered as a general Map of Man, marking out no more than the greater parts, their extent, their limits, and their connexion, but leaving the particular to be more fully delineated in the charts which are to follow; consequently these epistles in their progress (if I have health and leisure to make any progress) will be less dry, and more susceptible of poetical ornament. I am here only opening the fountains, and clearing the passage: to deduce the rivers, to follow them in their course, and to observe their effects, may be a task more agreeable.

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EPISTLE I

OF THE NATURE AND STATE OF MAN, WITH RESPECT TO THE UNIVERSE

ARGUMENT

Of Man in the abstract. I. That we can judge only with regard to our own system, being ignorant of the relations of systems and things, verse 17, etc. II. That Man is not to be deemed imperfect, but a being suited to his place and rank in the creation, agreeable to the general order of things, and conformable to ends and relations to him unknown, verse 35, etc. III. That it is partly upon his ignorance of future events, and partly upon the hope of a future state, that all his happiness in the present depends, verse 77, etc. IV. The pride of aiming at more knowledge, and pretending to more perfection, the cause of Man’s error and misery. The impiety of putting himself in the place of God, and judging of the fitness or unfitness, perfection or imperfection, justice or injustice, of his dispensations, verse 113, etc. V. The absurdity of conceiting himself the final cause of the creation, or expecting that perfection in the moral world which is not in the natural, verse 131, etc. VI. The unreasonableness of his complaints against Providence, while, on the one hand, he demands the perfections of the angels, and, on the other, the bodily qualifications of the brutes; though to possess any of the sensitive faculties in a higher degree would render him miserable, verse 173, etc. VII. That throughout the whole visible world a universal order and gradation in the sensual and mental faculties is observed, which causes a subordination of creature to creature, and of all creatures to man. The gradations of Sense, Instinct, Thought, Reflection, Reason: that Reason alone countervails all the other faculties, verse 207, etc. VIII. How much further this order and subordination of living creatures may extend above and below us; were any part of which broken, not that part only, but the whole connected creation must be destroyed, verse 213, etc. IX. The extravagance, madness, and pride of such a desire, verse 209, etc. X. The consequence of all, the absolute submission due to Providence, both as to our present and future state, verse 281, etc., to the end.

    • Awake, my St. John ! leave all meaner things
    • To low ambition and the pride of Kings.
    • Let us, since life can little more supply
    • Than just to look about us and to die,
    • Expatiate free o’er all this scene of man;
    • A mighty maze ! but not without a plan;
    • A wild, where weeds and flowers promiscuous shoot,
    • Or garden, tempting with forbidden fruit.
    • Together let us beat this ample field,
    • Try what the open, what the covert yield;10
    • The latent tracts, the giddy heights, explore
    • Of all who blindly creep or sightless soar;
    • Eye Nature’s walks, shoot folly as it flies,
    • And catch the manners living as they rise;
    • Laugh where we must, be candid where we can,
    • But vindicate the ways of God to man.
    • I. Say first, of God above or Man below
    • What can we reason but from what we know?
    • Of man what see we but his station here,
    • From which to reason, or to which refer?20
    • Thro’ worlds unnumber’d tho’ the God be known,
    • ’T is ours to trace him only in our own.
    • He who thro’ vast immensity can pierce,
    • See worlds on worlds compose one universe,
    • Observe how system into system runs,
    • What other planets circle other suns,
    • What varied being peoples every star,
    • May tell why Heav’n has made us as we are:
    • But of this frame, the bearings and the ties,
    • The strong connexions, nice dependencies,
    • Gradations just, has thy pervading soul31
    • Look’d thro’; or can a part contain the whole?
    • Is the great chain that draws all to agree,
    • And drawn supports, upheld by God or thee?
    • II. Presumptuous man! the reason wouldst thou find,
    • Why form’d so weak, so little, and so blind?
    • First, if thou canst, the harder reason guess
    • Why form’d no weaker, blinder, and no less!
    • Ask of thy mother earth why oaks are made
    • Taller or stronger than the weeds they shade!40
    • Or ask of yonder argent fields above
    • Why Jove’s satellites are less than Jove!
    • Of systems possible, if ’t is confest
    • That wisdom infinite must form the best,
    • Where all must fall or not coherent be,
    • And all that rises rise in due degree;
    • Then in the scale of reas’ning life ’t is plain
    • There must be, somewhere, such a rank as Man:
    • And all the question (wrangle e’er so long)
    • Is only this,—if God has placed him wrong?50
    • Respecting Man, whatever wrong we call,
    • May, must be right, as relative to all.
    • In human works, tho’ labour’d on with pain,
    • A thousand movements scarce one purpose gain;
    • In God’s, one single can its end produce,
    • Yet serve to second too some other use:
    • So man, who here seems principal alone,
    • Perhaps acts second to some sphere unknown,
    • Touches some wheel, or verges to some goal:
    • ’T is but a part we see, and not a whole.60
    • When the proud steed shall know why man restrains
    • His fiery course, or drives him o’er the plains;
    • When the dull ox, why now he breaks the clod,
    • Is now a victim, and now Egypt’s God;
    • Then shall man’s pride and dulness comprehend
    • His actions’, passions’, being’s, use and end;
    • Why doing, suff’ring, check’d, impell’d; and why
    • This hour a Slave, the next a Deity.
    • Then say not man’s imperfect, Heav’n in fault;
    • Say rather man’s as perfect as he ought;70
    • His knowledge measured to his state and place,
    • His time a moment, and a point his space.
    • If to be perfect in a certain sphere,
    • What matter soon or late, or here or there?
    • The blest to-day is as completely so
    • As who began a thousand years ago.
    • III. Heav’n from all creatures hides the book of Fate,
    • All but the page prescribed, their present state;
    • From brutes what men, from men what spirits know;
    • Or who could suffer being here below?80
    • The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day,
    • Had he thy reason would he skip and play?
    • Pleas’d to the last he crops the flowery food,
    • And licks the hand just rais’d to shed his blood.
    • O blindness to the future! kindly giv’n,
    • That each may fill the circle mark’d by Heav’n;
    • Who sees with equal eye, as God of all,
    • A hero perish or a sparrow fall,
    • Atoms or systems into ruin hurl’d,89
    • And now a bubble burst, and now a world.
    • Hope humbly then; with trembling pinions soar;
    • Wait the great teacher Death, and God adore.
    • What future bliss He gives not thee to know,
    • But gives that hope to be thy blessing now.
    • Hope springs eternal in the human breast:
    • Man never is, but always to be, blest.
    • The soul, uneasy and confin’d from home,
    • Rests and expatiates in a life to come.
    • Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutor’d mind
    • Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind;100
    • His soul proud Science never taught to stray
    • Far as the solar walk or milky way;
    • Yet simple nature to his hope has giv’n,
    • Behind the cloud-topt hill, an humbler Heav’n,
    • Some safer world in depth of woods embraced,
    • Some happier island in the wat’ry waste,
    • Where slaves once more their native land behold,
    • No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold.
    • To be, contents his natural desire;109
    • He asks no Angel’s wing, no Seraph’s fire;
    • But thinks, admitted to that equal sky,
    • His faithful dog shall bear him company.
    • IV. Go, wiser thou! and in thy scale of sense
    • Weigh thy opinion against Providence;
    • Call imperfection what thou fanciest such;
    • Say, here he gives too little, there too much;
    • Destroy all creatures for thy sport or gust,
    • Yet cry, if man ’s unhappy, God ’s unjust;
    • If man alone engross not Heav’n’s high care,119
    • Alone made perfect here, immortal there:
    • Snatch from his hand the balance and the rod,
    • Rejudge his justice, be the god of God.
    • In pride, in reas’ning pride, our error lies;
    • All quit their sphere, and rush into the skies!
    • Pride still is aiming at the bless’d abodes,
    • Men would be Angels, Angels would be Gods.
    • Aspiring to be Gods if Angels fell,
    • Aspiring to be Angels men rebel:
    • And who but wishes to invert the laws
    • Of order, sins against th’ Eternal Cause.130
    • V. Ask for what end the heav’nly bodies shine,
    • Earth for whose use,—Pride answers, ‘’T is for mine:
    • For me kind Nature wakes her genial power,
    • Suckles each herb, and spreads out ev’ry flower;
    • Annual for me the grape, the rose, renew
    • The juice nectareous and the balmy dew;
    • For me the mine a thousand treasures brings;
    • For me health gushes from a thousand springs;
    • Seas roll to waft me, suns to light me rise;
    • My footstool earth, my canopy the skies.’
    • But errs not Nature from this gracious end,141
    • From burning suns when livid deaths descend,
    • When earthquakes swallow, or when tempests sweep
    • Towns to one grave, whole nations to the deep?
    • ‘No,’ ’t is replied, ‘the first Almighty Cause
    • Acts not by partial but by gen’ral laws;
    • Th’ exceptions few; some change since all began
    • And what created perfect?’—Why then man?
    • If the great end be human happiness,
    • Then Nature deviates; and can man do less?150
    • As much that end a constant course requires
    • Of showers and sunshine, as of man’s desires;
    • As much eternal springs and cloudless skies,
    • As men for ever temp’rate, calm, and wise.
    • If plagues or earthquakes break not Heav’n’s design,
    • Why then a Borgia or a Catiline?
    • Who knows but He, whose hand the lightning forms,
    • Who heaves old ocean, and who wings the storms;
    • Pours fierce ambition in a Cæsar’s mind,
    • Or turns young Ammon loose to scourge mankind?160
    • From pride, from pride, our very reas’ning springs;
    • Account for moral as for natural things:
    • Why charge we Heav’n in those, in these acquit?
    • In both, to reason right is to submit.
    • Better for us, perhaps, it might appear,
    • Were there all harmony, all virtue here;
    • That never air or ocean felt the wind,
    • That never passion discomposed the mind:
    • But all subsists by elemental strife;
    • And passions are the elements of life .170
    • The gen’ral order, since the whole began,
    • Is kept in Nature, and is kept in Man.
    • VI. What would this Man? Now upward will he soar,
    • And little less than Angel, would be more;
    • Now looking downwards, just as griev’d appears
    • To want the strength of bulls, the fur of bears.
    • Made for his use all creatures if he call,
    • Say what their use, had he the powers of all?
    • Nature to these without profusion kind,179
    • The proper organs, proper powers assign’d;
    • Each seeming want compensated of course,
    • Here with degrees of swiftness, there of force;
    • All in exact proportion to the state;
    • Nothing to add, and nothing to abate;
    • Each beast, each insect, happy in its own:
    • Is Heav’n unkind to man, and man alone?
    • Shall he alone, whom rational we call,
    • Be pleas’d with nothing if not bless’d with all?
    • The bliss of man (could pride that blessing find)
    • Is not to act or think beyond mankind;190
    • No powers of body or of soul to share,
    • But what his nature and his state can bear.
    • Why has not man a microscopic eye?
    • For this plain reason, man is not a fly.
    • Say, what the use, were finer optics giv’n,
    • T’ inspect a mite, not comprehend the Heav’n?
    • Or touch, if tremblingly alive all o’er,
    • To smart and agonize at every pore?
    • Or quick effluvia darting thro’ the brain,
    • Die of a rose in aromatic pain?200
    • If Nature thunder’d in his opening ears,
    • And stunn’d him with the music of the spheres,
    • How would he wish that Heav’n had left him still
    • The whisp’ring zephyr and the purling rill?
    • Who finds not Providence all good and wise,
    • Alike in what it gives and what denies?
    • VII. Far as creation’s ample range extends,
    • The scale of sensual, mental powers ascends.
    • Mark how it mounts to man’s imperial race
    • From the green myriads in the peopled grass:210
    • What modes of sight betwixt each wide extreme,
    • The mole’s dim curtain and the lynx’s beam:
    • Of smell, the headlong lioness between
    • And hound sagacious on the tainted green:
    • Of hearing, from the life that fills the flood
    • To that which warbles thro’ the vernal wood.
    • The spider’s touch, how exquisitely fine,
    • Feels at each thread, and lives along the line:
    • In the nice bee what sense so subtly true,
    • From pois’nous herbs extracts the healing dew!220
    • How instinct varies in the grovelling swine,
    • Compared, half-reas’ning elephant, with thine!
    • ’Twixt that and reason what a nice barrier!
    • For ever separate, yet for ever near!
    • Remembrance and reflection how allied!
    • What thin partitions Sense from Thought divide!
    • And middle natures how they long to join,
    • Yet never pass th’ insuperable line!
    • Without this just gradation could they be
    • Subjected these to those, or all to thee!230
    • The powers of all subdued by thee alone,
    • Is not thy Reason all these powers in one?
    • VIII. See thro’ this air, this ocean, and this earth
    • All matter quick, and bursting into birth:
    • Above, how high progressive life may go!
    • Around, how wide! how deep extend below!
    • Vast chain of being! which from God began;
    • Natures ethereal, human, angel, man,
    • Beast, bird, fish, insect, who no eye can see,
    • No glass can reach; from infinite to thee;
    • From thee to nothing.—On superior powers241
    • Were we to press, inferior might on ours;
    • Or in the full creation leave a void,
    • Where, one step broken, the great scale ’s destroy’d:
    • From Nature’s chain whatever link you like,
    • Tenth, or ten thousandth, breaks the chain alike.
    • And if each system in gradation roll,
    • Alike essential to th’ amazing Whole,
    • The least confusion but in one, not all
    • That system only, but the Whole must fall.250
    • Let earth unbalanced from her orbit fly,
    • Planets and stars run lawless thro’ the sky;
    • Let ruling angels from their spheres be hurl’d,
    • Being on being wreck’d, and world on world;
    • Heav’n’s whole foundations to their centre nod,
    • And Nature tremble to the throne of God!
    • All this dread order break—for whom? for thee?
    • Vile worm!—O madness! pride! impiety!
    • IX. What if the foot, ordain’d the dust to tread,
    • Or hand to toil, aspired to be the head?260
    • What if the head, the eye, or ear repin’d
    • To serve mere engines to the ruling mind?
    • Just as absurd for any part to claim
    • To be another in this gen’ral frame;
    • Just as absurd to mourn the tasks or pains
    • The great directing Mind of All ordains.
    • All are but parts of one stupendous Whole,
    • Whose body Nature is, and God the soul;
    • That changed thro’ all, and yet in all the same,269
    • Great in the earth as in th’ ethereal frame,
    • Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze,
    • Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees;
    • Lives thro’ all life, extends thro’ all extent,
    • Spreads undivided, operates unspent;
    • Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part,
    • As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart;
    • As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns,
    • As the rapt Seraph that adores and burns.
    • To him no high, no low, no great, no small;
    • He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all!
    • X. Cease, then, nor Order imperfection name;281
    • Our proper bliss depends on what we blame.
    • Know thy own point: this kind, this due degree
    • Of blindness, weakness, Heav’n bestows on thee.
    • Submit: in this or any other sphere,
    • Secure to be as bless’d as thou canst bear;
    • Safe in the hand of one disposing Power,
    • Or in the natal or the mortal hour.
    • All Nature is but Art unknown to thee;
    • All chance direction, which thou canst not see;290
    • All discord, harmony not understood;
    • All partial evil, universal good:
    • And spite of Pride, in erring Reason’s spite,
    • One truth is clear, Whatever is, is right.
[Back to Table of Contents]

EPISTLE II

OF THE NATURE AND STATE OF MAN WITH RESPECT TO HIMSELF AS AN INDIVIDUAL

ARGUMENT

I. The business of Man not to pry into God, but to study himself. His middle nature; his powers and frailties, verses 1 to 19. The limits of his capacity, verse 19, etc. II. The two principles of Man, Self-love and Reason, both necessary. Self-love the stronger, and why. Their end the same, verse 81, etc. III. The Passions, and their use. The predominant passion, and its force. Its necessity, in directing men to different purposes. Its providential use, in fixing our principle, and ascertaining our virtue, verse 93, etc. IV. Virtue and Vice joined in our mixed nature; the limits near, yet the things separate and evident: what is the office of Reason, verse 203, etc. V. How odious Vice in itself, and how we deceive ourselves into it, verse 217, etc. VI. That, however, the ends of Providence, and general goods, are answered in our passions and imperfections. How usefully these are distributed to all orders of men: how useful they are to Society; and to individuals; in every state, and every age of life, verse 238, etc., to the end.

    • I. Know then thyself, presume not God to scan,
    • The proper study of mankind is Man.
    • Placed on this isthmus of a middle state,
    • A being darkly wise and rudely great:
    • With too much knowledge for the Sceptic side,
    • With too much weakness for the Stoic’s pride,
    • He hangs between, in doubt to act or rest;
    • In doubt to deem himself a God or Beast;
    • In doubt his mind or body to prefer;
    • Born but to die, and reas’ning but to err;10
    • Alike in ignorance, his reason such,
    • Whether he thinks too little or too much;
    • Chaos of thought and passion, all confused;
    • Still by himself abused or disabused;
    • Created half to rise, and half to fall;
    • Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all;
    • Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurl’d;
    • The glory, jest, and riddle of the world!
    • Go, wondrous creature! mount where Science guides;
    • Go, measure earth, weigh air, and state the tides;20
    • Instruct the planets in what orbs to run,
    • Correct old Time , and regulate the sun;
    • Go, soar with Plato to th’ empyreal sphere,
    • To the first good, first perfect, and first fair;
    • Or tread the mazy round his followers trod,
    • And quitting sense call imitating God;
    • As eastern priests in giddy circles run,
    • And turn their heads to imitate the sun.
    • Go, teach Eternal Wisdom how to rule—
    • Then drop into thyself, and be a fool!30
    • Superior beings, when of late they saw
    • A mortal man unfold all Nature’s law,
    • Admired such wisdom in an earthly shape,
    • And show’d a Newton as we show an ape.
    • Could he, whose rules the rapid comet bind,
    • Describe or fix one movement of his mind?
    • Who saw its fires here rise, and there descend,
    • Explain his own beginning or his end?
    • Alas! what wonder! Man’s superior part
    • Uncheck’d may rise, and climb from art to art;40
    • But when his own great work is but begun,
    • What Reason weaves, by Passion is undone.
    • Trace Science then, with modesty thy guide;
    • First strip off all her equipage of pride;
    • Deduct what is but vanity or dress,
    • Or learning’s luxury, or idleness,
    • Or tricks to show the stretch of human brain,
    • Mere curious pleasure, or ingenious pain;
    • Expunge the whole, or lop th’ excrescent parts;
    • Of all our vices have created arts;50
    • Then see how little the remaining sum,
    • Which serv’d the past, and must the times to come!
    • II. Two principles in Human Nature reign,
    • Self-love to urge, and Reason to restrain;
    • Nor this a good, nor that a bad we call;
    • Each works its end, to move or govern all:
    • And to their proper operation still
    • Ascribe all good, to their improper, ill.
    • Self-love, the spring of motion, acts the soul;
    • Reason’s comparing balance rules the whole.60
    • Man but for that no action could attend,
    • And but for this were active to no end:
    • Fix’d like a plant on his peculiar spot,
    • To draw nutrition, propagate, and rot;
    • Or meteor-like, flame lawless thro’ the void,
    • Destroying others, by himself destroy’d.
    • Most strength the moving principle requires;
    • Active its task, it prompts, impels, inspires:
    • Sedate and quiet the comparing lies,
    • Form’d but to check, delib’rate, and advise.70
    • Self-love still stronger , as its objects nigh;
    • Reason’s at distance and in prospect lie:
    • That sees immediate good by present sense;
    • Reason, the future and the consequence.
    • Thicker than arguments, temptations throng;
    • At best more watchful this, but that more strong.
    • The action of the stronger to suspend,
    • Reason still use, to Reason still attend.
    • Attention habit and experience gains;
    • Each strengthens Reason, and Self-love restrains.80
    • Let subtle schoolmen teach these friends to fight,
    • More studious to divide than to unite;
    • And Grace and Virtue, Sense and Reason split,
    • With all the rash dexterity of Wit.
    • Wits, just like fools, at war about a name,
    • Have full as oft no meaning, or the same.
    • Self-love and Reason to one end aspire,
    • Pain their aversion, Pleasure their desire;
    • But greedy that, its object would devour;
    • This taste the honey, and not wound the flower:90
    • Pleasure, or wrong or rightly understood,
    • Our greatest evil or our greatest good.
    • III. Modes of Self-love the passions we may call;
    • ’Tis real good or seeming moves them all:
    • But since not every good we can divide,
    • And Reason bids us for our own provide,
    • Passions, tho’ selfish, if their means be fair,
    • List under Reason, and deserve her care;
    • Those that imparted court a nobler aim,
    • Exalt their kind, and take some virtue’s name.100
    • In lazy apathy let Stoics boast
    • Their virtue fix’d; ’t is fix’d as in a frost;
    • Contracted all, retiring to the breast;
    • But strength of mind is Exercise, not Rest:
    • The rising tempest puts in act the soul,
    • Parts it may ravage, but preserves the whole.
    • On life’s vast ocean diversely we sail,
    • Reason the card, but Passion is the gale;
    • Nor God alone in the still calm we find,
    • He mounts the storm, and walks upon the wind.110
    • Passions, like elements, tho’ born to fight,
    • Yet, mix’d and soften’d, in his work unite:
    • These ’t is enough to temper and employ;
    • But what composes man can man destroy?
    • Suffice that Reason keep to Nature’s road;
    • Subject, compound them, follow her and God.
    • Love, Hope, and Joy, fair Pleasure’s smiling train,
    • Hate, Fear, and Grief, the family of Pain,
    • These mix’d with art, and to due bounds confin’d,
    • Make and maintain the balance of the mind;120
    • The lights and shades, whose well-accorded strife
    • Gives all the strength and colour of our life.
    • Pleasures are ever in our hands or eyes,
    • And when in act they cease, in prospect rise:
    • Present to grasp, and future still to find,
    • The whole employ of body and of mind.
    • All spread their charms, but charm not all alike;
    • On diff’rent senses diff’rent objects strike;
    • Hence diff’rent passions more or less inflame,129
    • As strong or weak the organs of the frame;
    • And hence one Master-passion in the breast,
    • Like Aaron’s serpent, swallows up the rest.
    • As man, perhaps, the moment of his breath,
    • Receives the lurking principle of death,
    • The young disease, that must subdue at length,
    • Grows with his growth, and strengthens with his strength:
    • So, cast and mingled with his very frame,
    • The mind’s disease, its Ruling Passion, came;
    • Each vital humour, which should feed the whole,
    • Soon flows to this in body and in soul;140
    • Whatever warms the heart or fills the head,
    • As the mind opens and its functions spread,
    • Imagination plies her dangerous art,
    • And pours it all upon the peccant part.
    • Nature its mother, Habit is its nurse;
    • Wit, spirit, faculties, but make it worse;
    • Reason itself but gives it edge and power,
    • As Heav’n’s bless’d beam turns vinegar more sour.
    • We, wretched subjects, tho’ to lawful sway,149
    • In this weak queen some fav’rite still obey:
    • Ah! if she lend not arms as well as rules,
    • What can she more than tell us we are fools?
    • Teach us to mourn our nature, not to mend,
    • A sharp accuser, but a helpless friend!
    • Or from a judge turn pleader, to persuade
    • The choice we make, or justify it made;
    • Proud of an easy conquest all along,
    • She but removes weak passions for the strong:
    • So when small humours gather to a gout,
    • The doctor fancies he has driv’n them out.
    • Yes, Nature’s road must ever be preferr’d;161
    • Reason is here no guide, but still a guard;
    • ’T is hers to rectify, not overthrow,
    • And treat this passion more as friend than foe:
    • A mightier Power the strong direction sends,
    • And sev’ral men impels to sev’ral ends:
    • Like varying winds, by other passions toss’d,
    • This drives them constant to a certain coast.
    • Let Power or Knowledge, Gold or Glory, please,
    • Or (oft more strong than all) the love of ease;170
    • Thro’ life ’t is follow’d, ev’n at life’s expense;
    • The merchant’s toil, the sage’s indolence,
    • The monk’s humility, the hero’s pride,
    • All, all alike, find Reason on their side.
    • Th’ Eternal Art educing good from ill,
    • Grafts on this passion our best principle:
    • ’T is thus the mercury of man is fix’d,
    • Strong grows the virtue with his nature mix’d;
    • The dross cements what else were too refin’d,
    • And in one int’rest body acts with mind.180
    • As fruits ungrateful to the planter’s care,
    • On savage stocks inserted, learn to bear,
    • The surest Virtues thus from Passions shoot,
    • Wild Nature’s vigour working at the root.
    • What crops of wit and honesty appear
    • From spleen, from obstinacy, hate, or fear!
    • See anger, zeal, and fortitude supply;
    • Ev’n av’rice prudence, sloth philosophy;
    • Lust, thro’ some certain strainers well refin’d,189
    • Is gentle love, and charms all womankind;
    • Envy, to which th’ ignoble mind ’s a slave,
    • Is emulation in the learn’d or brave;
    • Nor virtue male or female can we name,
    • But what will grow on pride or grow on shame.
    • Thus Nature gives us (let it check our pride)
    • The Virtue nearest to our Vice allied:
    • Reason the bias turns to good from ill,
    • And Nero reigns a Titus if he will.
    • The fiery soul abhorr’d in Catiline,
    • In Decius charms, in Curtius is divine:200
    • The same ambition can destroy or save,
    • And makes a patriot as it makes a knave.
    • IV. This light and darkness in our chaos join’d,
    • What shall divide?—the God within the mind.
    • Extremes in Nature equal ends produce;
    • In Man they join to some mysterious use;
    • Tho’ each by turns the other’s bounds invade,
    • As in some well-wrought picture light and shade;
    • And oft so mix, the diff’rence is too nice
    • Where ends the Virtue or begins the Vice.
    • Fools! who from hence into the notion fall211
    • That Vice or Virtue there is none at all.
    • If white and black blend, soften, and unite
    • A thousand ways, is there no black or white?
    • Ask your own heart, and nothing is so plain;
    • ’T is to mistake them costs the time and pain.
    • V. Vice is a monster of so frightful mien,
    • As to be hated needs but to be seen;
    • Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face,
    • We first endure, then pity, then embrace.
    • But where th’ extreme of Vice was ne’er agreed:221
    • Ask where ’s the north?—at York ’t is on the Tweed;
    • In Scotland at the Orcades; and there
    • At Greenland, Zembla, or the Lord knows where.
    • No creature owns it in the first degree,
    • But thinks his neighbour farther gone than he;
    • Ev’n those who dwell beneath its very zone,
    • Or never feel the rage or never own;
    • What happier natures shrink at with affright,
    • The hard inhabitant contends is right.230
    • Virtuous and vicious ev’ry man must be,
    • Few in th’ extreme, but all in the degree:
    • The rogue and fool by fits is fair and wise,
    • And ev’n the best by fits what they despise.
    • ’T is but by parts we follow good or ill;
    • For Vice or Virtue, Self directs it still;
    • Each individual seeks a sev’ral goal;
    • But Heav’n’s great view is one, and that the Whole.
    • That counterworks each folly and caprice;
    • That disappoints th’ effect of every vice;240
    • That, happy frailties to all ranks applied,
    • Shame to the virgin, to the matron pride,
    • Fear to the statesman, rashness to the chief,
    • To kings presumption, and to crowds belief:
    • That, virtue’s ends from vanity can raise,
    • Which seeks no int’rest, no reward but praise;
    • And build on wants, and on defects of mind,
    • The joy, the peace, the glory of mankind.
    • Heav’n forming each on other to depend,
    • A master, or a servant, or a friend,250
    • Bids each on other for assistance call,
    • Till one man’s weakness grows the strength of all.
    • Wants, frailties, passions, closer still ally
    • The common int’rest, or endear the tie.
    • To these we owe true friendship, love sincere,
    • Each home-felt joy that life inherits here;
    • Yet from the same we learn, in its decline,
    • Those joys, those loves, those int’rests to resign;
    • Taught, half by Reason, half by mere decay,
    • To welcome Death, and calmly pass away.
    • Whate’er the passion—knowledge, fame or pelf—261
    • Not one will change his 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 giv’n,
    • The poor contents him with the care of Heav’n.
    • See the blind beggar dance, the cripple sing,
    • The sot a hero, lunatic a king,
    • The starving chymist in his golden views
    • Supremely bless’d, the poet in his Muse.270
    • See some strange comfort ev’ry state attend,
    • And Pride bestow’d on all, a common friend:
    • See some fit passion every age supply;
    • Hope travels thro’, nor quits us when we die.
    • Behold the child, by Nature’s kindly law,
    • Pleas’d with a rattle, tickled with a straw:
    • Some livelier plaything gives his youth delight,
    • A little louder, but as empty quite:
    • Scarfs, garters, gold, amuse his riper stage,
    • And beads and prayer-books are the toys of age:280
    • Pleas’d with this bauble still, as that before,
    • Till tired he sleeps, and life’s poor play is o’er.
    • Meanwhile opinion gilds with varying rays
    • Those painted clouds that beautify our days;
    • Each want of happiness by Hope supplied,
    • And each vacuity of sense by Pride:
    • These build as fast as Knowledge can destroy;
    • In Folly’s cup still laughs the bubble joy;
    • One prospect lost, another still we gain,
    • And not a vanity is giv’n in vain:290
    • Ev’n mean Self-love becomes, by force divine,
    • The scale to measure others’ wants by thine.
    • See! and confess one comfort still must rise;
    • ’T is this, Though Man ’s a fool, yet God is wise.
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EPISTLE III

OF THE NATURE AND STATE OF MAN WITH RESPECT TO SOCIETY

ARGUMENT

I. The whole Universe one system of Society. Nothing made wholly for itself, nor yet wholly for another. The happiness of animals mutual, verse 7, etc. II. Reason or Instinct operates alike to the good of each individual. Reason or Instinct operates also to Society in all animals, verse 49, etc. III. How far Society carried by Instinct;—how much farther by reason, verse 109, etc. IV. Of that which is called the state of nature. Reason instructed by Instinct in the invention of arts;—and in the forms of Society, verse 144, etc. V. Origin of political societies;—origin of Monarchy;—patriarchal government, verse 199, etc. VI. Origin of true Religion and Government, from the same principle of Love;—origin of Superstition and Tyranny, from the same principle of Fear. The influence of Self-love operating to the social and public good. Restoration of true Religion and Government on their first principle. Mixed government. Various forms of each, and the true end of all, verse 215, etc.

    • Here then we rest:—‘The Universal Cause
    • Acts to one end, but acts by various laws.’
    • In all the madness of superfluous Health,
    • The trim of Pride, the impudence of Wealth,
    • Let this great truth be present night and day:
    • But most be present, if we preach or pray.
    • I. Look round our world; behold the chain of love
    • Combining all below and all above.
    • See plastic Nature working to this end,
    • The single atoms each to other tend,10
    • Attract, attracted to, the next in place,
    • Form’d and impell’d its neighbour to embrace.
    • See matter next, with various life endued,
    • Press to one centre still, the gen’ral good:
    • See dying vegetables life sustain,
    • See life dissolving vegetate again.
    • All forms that perish other forms supply
    • (By turns we catch the vital breath, and die),
    • Like bubbles on the sea of Matter borne,
    • They rise, they break, and to that sea return.20
    • Nothing is foreign; parts relate to whole;
    • One all-extending, all-preserving, soul
    • Connects each being, greatest with the least;
    • Made beast in aid of man, and man of beast;
    • All serv’d, all serving: nothing stands alone;
    • The chain holds on, and where it ends unknown.
    • Has God, thou fool! work’d solely for thy good,
    • Thy joy, thy pastime, thy attire, thy food?
    • Who for thy table feeds the wanton fawn,
    • For him as kindly spreads the flowery lawn.30
    • Is it for thee the lark ascends and sings?
    • Joy tunes his voice, joy elevates his wings.
    • Is it for thee the linnet pours his throat?
    • Loves of his own and raptures swell the note.
    • The bounding steed you pompously bestride
    • Shares with his lord the pleasure and the pride.
    • Is thine alone the seed that strews the plain?
    • The birds of Heav’n shall vindicate their grain.
    • Thine the full harvest of the golden year?
    • Part pays, and justly, the deserving steer.40
    • The hog that ploughs not, nor obeys thy call,
    • Lives on the labours of this lord of all.
    • Know Nature’s children all divide her care;
    • The fur that warms a monarch warm’d a bear.
    • While Man exclaims, ‘See all things for my use!’
    • ‘See man for mine!’ replies a pamper’d goose:
    • And just as short of Reason he must fall,
    • Who thinks all made for one, not one for all.
    • Grant that the pow’rful still the weak control;
    • Be Man the wit and tyrant of the whole:50
    • Nature that tyrant checks; he only knows,
    • And helps, another creature’s wants and woes.
    • Say will the falcon, stooping from above,
    • Smit with her varying plumage, spare the dove?
    • Admires the jay the insect’s gilded wings?
    • Or hears the hawk when Philomela sings?—
    • Man cares for all: to birds he gives his woods,
    • To beasts his pastures, and to fish his floods.
    • For some his Int’rest prompts him to provide,
    • For more his Pleasure, yet for more his Pride:60
    • All feed on one vain patron, and enjoy
    • Th’ extensive blessing of his luxury.
    • That very life his learned hunger craves,
    • He saves from famine, from the savage saves;
    • Nay, feasts the animal he dooms his feast,
    • And till he ends the being makes it blest;
    • Which sees no more the stroke, or feels the pain,
    • Than favour’d man by touch ethereal slain.
    • The creature had his feast of life before;
    • Thou too must perish when thy feast is o’er!70
    • To each unthinking being, Heav’n, a friend,
    • Gives not the useless knowledge of its end:
    • To man imparts it, but with such a view
    • As while he dreads it, makes him hope it too;
    • The hour conceal’d, and so remote the fear,
    • Death still draws nearer, never seeming near.
    • Great standing miracle! that Heav’n assign’d
    • Its only thinking thing this turn of mind.
    • II. Whether with Reason or with Instinct blest,
    • Know all enjoy that power which suits them best;80
    • To bliss alike by that direction tend,
    • And find the means proportion’d to their end.
    • Say, where full Instinct is th’ unerring guide,
    • What Pope or Council can they need beside?
    • Reason, however able, cool at best,
    • Cares not for service, or but serves when prest,
    • Stays till we call, and then not often near;
    • But honest Instinct comes a volunteer,
    • Sure never to o’ershoot, but just to hit,89
    • While still too wide or short is human wit;
    • Sure by quick Nature happiness to gain,
    • Which heavier Reason labours at in vain.
    • This, too, serves always; Reason, never long;
    • One must go right, the other may go wrong.
    • See then the acting and comparing powers
    • One in their nature, which are two in ours;
    • And Reason raise o’er Instinct as you can,
    • In this ’t is God directs, in that ’t is Man.
    • Who taught the nations of the field and wood
    • To shun their poison and to choose their food?100
    • Prescient, the tides or tempests to withstand,
    • Build on the wave, or arch beneath the sand?
    • Who made the spider parallels design,
    • Sure as Demoivre , without rule or line?
    • Who bade the stork, Columbus-like, explore
    • Heav’ns not his own, and worlds unknown before?
    • Who calls the council, states the certain day,
    • Who forms the phalanx, and who points the way?
    • III. God in the nature of each being founds109
    • Its proper bliss, and sets its proper bounds;
    • But as he framed a whole the whole to bless,
    • On mutual wants built mutual happiness:
    • So from the first eternal order ran,
    • And creature link’d to creature, man to man.
    • Whate’er of life all-quick’ning ether keeps,
    • Or breathes thro’ air, or shoots beneath the deeps,
    • Or pours profuse on earth, one Nature feeds
    • The vital flame, and swells the genial seeds.
    • Not man alone, but all that roam the wood,
    • Or wing the sky, or roll along the flood,120
    • Each loves itself, but not itself alone,
    • Each sex desires alike, till two are one.
    • Nor ends the pleasure with the fierce embrace:
    • They love themselves a third time in their race.
    • Thus beast and bird their common charge attend,
    • The mothers nurse it, and the sires defend;
    • The young dismiss’d to wander earth or air,
    • There stops the instinct, and there ends the care;
    • The link dissolves, each seeks a fresh embrace,
    • Another love succeeds, another race.130
    • A longer care man’s helpless kind demands;
    • That longer care contracts more lasting bands:
    • Reflection, Reason, still the ties improve,
    • At once extend the int’rest and the love;
    • With choice we fix, with sympathy we burn;
    • Each virtue in each passion takes its turn;
    • And still new needs, new helps, new habits rise,
    • That graft benevolence on charities.
    • Still as one brood and as another rose,
    • These natural love maintain’d, habitual those:140
    • The last, scarce ripen’d into perfect man,
    • Saw helpless him from whom their life began:
    • Mem’ry and forecast just returns engage,
    • That pointed back to youth, this on to age;
    • While pleasure, gratitude, and hope, combin’d,
    • Still spread the int’rest, and preserv’d the kind.
    • IV. Nor think in Nature’s state they blindly trod;
    • The state of Nature was the reign of God:
    • Self-love and Social at her birth began,
    • Union the bond of all things, and of Man;
    • Pride then was not, nor arts, that pride to aid;151
    • Man walk’d with beast, joint tenant of the shade;
    • The same his table, and the same his bed;
    • No murder clothed him, and no murder fed.
    • In the same temple, the resounding wood,
    • All vocal beings hymn’d their equal God:
    • The shrine with gore unstain’d, with gold undrest,
    • Unbribed, unbloody, stood the blameless priest:
    • Heav’n’s attribute was universal care,
    • And man’s prerogative to rule, but spare.160
    • Ah! how unlike the man of times to come!
    • Of half that live the butcher and the tomb;
    • Who, foe to Nature, hears the gen’ral groan,
    • Murders their species, and betrays his own.
    • But just disease to luxury succeeds,
    • And ev’ry death its own avenger breeds;
    • The fury-passions from that blood began,
    • And turn’d on man a fiercer savage, man.
    • See him from Nature rising slow to Art!
    • To copy Instinct then was Reason’s part:170
    • Thus then to man the voice of Nature spake—
    • ‘Go, from the creatures thy instructions take:
    • Learn from the birds what food the thickets yield,
    • Learn from the beasts the physic of the field;
    • Thy arts of building from the bee receive;
    • Learn of the mole to plough, the worm to weave;
    • Learn of the little nautilus to sail,
    • Spread the thin oar, and catch the driving gale.
    • Here too all forms of social union find,
    • And hence let Reason late instruct mankind.180
    • Here subterranean works and cities see;
    • There towns aërial on the waving tree;
    • Learn each small people’s genius, policies,
    • The ants’ republic, and the realm of bees:
    • How those in common all their wealth bestow,
    • And anarchy without confusion know;
    • And these for ever, tho’ a monarch reign,
    • Their sep’rate cells and properties maintain.
    • Mark what unvaried laws preserve each state,189
    • Laws wise as Nature, and as fix’d as Fate.
    • In vain thy Reason finer webs shall draw,
    • Entangle justice in her net of law,
    • And right, too rigid, harden into wrong,
    • Still for the strong too weak, the weak too strong.
    • Yet go! and thus o’er all the creatures sway,
    • Thus let the wiser make the rest obey;
    • And for those arts mere Instinct could afford,
    • Be crown’d as Monarchs, or as Gods ador’d.’
    • V. Great Nature spoke; observant man obey’d;
    • Cities were built, societies were made:200
    • Here rose one little state; another near
    • Grew by like means, and join’d thro’ love or fear.
    • Did here the trees with ruddier burdens bend,
    • And there the streams in purer rills descend?
    • What war could ravish, commerce could bestow,
    • And he return’d a friend who came a foe.
    • Converse and love mankind might strongly draw,
    • When Love was liberty, and Nature law.
    • Thus states were form’d, the name of King unknown,
    • Till common int’rest placed the sway in one.210
    • ’T was Virtue only (or in arts or arms,
    • Diffusing blessings, or averting harms),
    • The same which in a sire the sons obey’d,
    • A prince the father of a people made.
    • VI. Till then, by Nature crown’d, each patriarch sate
    • King, priest, and parent of his growing state;
    • On him, their second Providence, they hung,
    • Their law his eye, their oracle his tongue.
    • He from the wond’ring furrow call’d the food,
    • Taught to command the fire, control the flood,220
    • Draw forth the monsters of th’ abyss profound,
    • Or fetch th’ aërial eagle to the ground;
    • Till drooping, sick’ning, dying, they began
    • Whom they revered as God to mourn as Man:
    • Then, looking up from sire to sire, explor’d
    • One great first Father, and that first ador’d:
    • Or plain tradition that this all begun,
    • Convey’d unbroken faith from sire to son;
    • The worker from the work distinct was known,
    • And simple Reason never sought but one.
    • Ere Wit oblique had broke that steady light,231
    • Man, like his Maker, saw that all was right;
    • To virtue in the paths of pleasure trod,
    • And own’d a father when he own’d a God.
    • Love all the faith, and all th’ allegiance then,
    • For Nature knew no right divine in men;
    • No ill could fear in God, and understood
    • A sov’reign being but a sov’reign good;
    • True faith, true policy, united ran;
    • That was but love of God, and this of Man.240
    • Who first taught souls enslaved, and realms undone,
    • Th’ enormous faith of many made for one;
    • That proud exception to all Nature’s laws,
    • T’ invert the world, and counterwork its cause?
    • Force first made conquest, and that conquest law;
    • Till Superstition taught the tyrant awe,
    • Then shared the tyranny, then lent it aid,
    • And Gods of conquerors, Slaves of subjects made.
    • She, ’midst the lightning’s blaze and thunder’s sound,
    • When rock’d the mountains, and when groan’d the ground,250
    • She taught the weak to bend, the proud to pray,
    • To Power unseen, and mightier far than they:
    • She, from the rending earth and bursting skies,
    • Saw Gods descend, and Fiends infernal rise:
    • Here fix’d the dreadful, there the bless’d abodes;
    • Fear made her Devils, and weak hope her Gods;
    • Gods, partial, changeful, passionate, unjust,
    • Whose attributes were rage, revenge, or lust;
    • Such as the souls of cowards might conceive,
    • And, form’d like tyrants, tyrants would believe.260
    • Zeal then, not Charity, became the guide,
    • And Hell was built on spite, and Heav’n on pride:
    • Then sacred seem’d th’ ethereal vault no more;
    • Altars grew marble then, and reek’d with gore:
    • Then first the flamen tasted living food,
    • Next his grim idol smear’d with human blood;
    • With Heav’n’s own thunders shook the world below,
    • And play’d the God an engine on his foe.
    • So drives Self-love thro’ just and thro’ unjust,269
    • To one man’s power, ambition, lucre, lust:
    • The same Self-love in all becomes the cause
    • Of what restrains him, government and laws.
    • For, what one likes if others like as well,
    • What serves one will, when many wills rebel?
    • How shall he keep what, sleeping or awake,
    • A weaker may surprise, a stronger take?
    • His safety must his liberty restrain:
    • All join to guard what each desires to gain.
    • Forc’d into virtue thus by self-defence,
    • Ev’n kings learn’d justice and benevolence:280
    • Self-love forsook the path it first pursued,
    • And found the private in the public good.
    • ’T was then the studious head, or gen’rous mind
    • Follower of God, or friend of human kind,
    • Poet or patriot, rose but to restore
    • The faith and moral Nature gave before;
    • Relumed her ancient light, not kindled new;
    • If not God’s image, yet his shadow drew;
    • Taught power’s due use to people and to kings,
    • Taught nor to slack nor strain its tender strings,290
    • The less or greater set so justly true,
    • That touching one must strike the other too;
    • Till jarring int’rests of themselves create
    • Th’ according music of a well-mix’d state.
    • Such is the world’s great harmony, that springs
    • From order, union, full consent of things;
    • Where small and great, where weak and mighty made
    • To serve, not suffer, strengthen, not invade;
    • More powerful each as needful to the rest,
    • And, in proportion as it blesses, blest;300
    • Draw to one point, and to one centre bring
    • Beast, man, or angel, servant, lord, or king.
    • For forms of government let fools contest;
    • Whate’er is best administer’d is best:
    • For modes of faith let graceless zealots fight;
    • His can’t be wrong whose life is in the right.
    • In Faith and Hope the world will disagree,
    • But all mankind’s concern is Charity:
    • All must be false that thwart this one great end,
    • And all of God that bless mankind or mend.310
    • Man, like the gen’rous vine, supported lives;
    • The strength he gains is from th’ embrace he gives.
    • On their own axis as the planets run,
    • Yet make at once their circle round the sun;
    • So two consistent motions act the soul,
    • And one regards itself, and one the Whole.
    • Thus God and Nature link’d the gen’ral frame,
    • And bade Self-love and Social be the same.
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EPISTLE IV

OF THE NATURE AND STATE OF MAN, WITH RESPECT TO HAPPINESS

ARGUMENT

I. False notions of Happiness, philosophical and popular, answered, from verses 19 to 26. II. It is the end of all men, and attainable by all. God intends Happiness to be equal; and, to be so, it must be social, since all particular Happiness depends on general, and since he governs by general, and since he governs by general, not particular laws. As it is necessary for order, and the peace and welfare of Society, that external goods should be unequal, Happiness is not made to consist in these. But notwithstanding that inequality, the balance of Happiness among mankind is kept even by Providence, by the two passions of Hope and Fear, verse 29, etc. III. What the Happiness of individuals is, as far as is consistent with the constitution of this world; and that the good man has here the advantage. The error of imputing to virtue what are only the calamities of Nature, or of Fortune, verse 77, etc. IV. The folly of expecting that God should alter his general laws in favour of particulars, verse 123, etc. V. That we are not judges who are good; but that whoever they are, they must be happiest, verse 131, etc. VI. That external goods are not the proper rewards, but often inconsistent with, or destructive of Virtue. That even these can make no man happy without Virtue:—instanced in Riches; Honours; Nobility; Greatness; Fame; Superior Talents, with pictures of human infelicity in men possessed of them all, verse 149, etc. VII. That Virtue only constitutes a Happiness, whose object is universal, and whose prospect eternal. That the perfection of Virtue and Happiness consists in a conformity to the Order of Providence here, and a resignation to it here and hereafter, verse 327, etc.

    • O Happiness! our being’s end and aim!
    • Good, Pleasure, Ease, Content! whate’er thy name,
    • That something still which prompts th’ eternal sigh,
    • For which we bear to live, or dare to die;
    • Which still so near us, yet beyond us lies,
    • O’erlook’d, seen double, by the fool and wise:
    • Plant of celestial seed! if dropt below,
    • Say in what mortal soil thou deign’st to grow?
    • Fair opening to some court’s propitious shine,
    • Or deep with diamonds in the flaming mine?10
    • Twin’d with the wreaths Parnassian laurels yield,
    • Or reap’d in iron harvests of the field?
    • Where grows?—where grows it not? If vain our toil,
    • We ought to blame the culture, not the soil:
    • Fix’d to no spot is Happiness sincere;
    • ’T is nowhere to be found, or ev’rywhere:
    • ’T is never to be bought, but always free,
    • And fled from monarchs, St. John! dwells with thee.
    • I. Ask of the Learn’d the way? the Learn’d are blind,
    • This bids to serve, and that to shun mankind:20
    • Some place the bliss in Action, some in Ease,
    • Those call it Pleasure, and Contentment these;
    • Some sunk to beasts, find pleasure end in Pain;
    • Some swell’d to Gods, confess ev’n Virtue vain;
    • Or indolent, to each extreme they fall,
    • To trust in everything, or doubt of all.
    • Who thus define it, say they more or less
    • Than this, that happiness is happiness?
    • II. Take Nature’s path and mad Opinion’s leave;
    • All states can reach it, and all heads conceive;30
    • Obvious her goods, in no extreme they dwell;
    • There needs but thinking right and meaning well:
    • And, mourn our various portions as we please,
    • Equal is common sense and common ease.
    • Remember, Man, ‘the Universal Cause
    • Acts not by partial but by gen’ral laws,’
    • And makes what Happiness we justly call
    • Subsist not in the good of one, but all.
    • There’s not a blessing individuals find,
    • But some way leans and hearkens to the kind;40
    • No bandit fierce, no tyrant mad with pride,
    • No cavern’d hermit, rests self-satisfied;
    • Who most to shun or hate mankind pretend,
    • Seek an admirer, or would fix a friend.
    • Abstract what others feel, what others think,
    • All pleasures sicken, and all glories sink:
    • Each has his share; and who would more obtain,
    • Shall find the pleasure pays not half the pain.
    • Order is Heav’n’s first law; and, this confest,
    • Some are and must be greater than the rest,50
    • More rich, more wise: but who infers from hence
    • That such are happier, shocks all common sense.
    • Heav’n to mankind impartial we confess,
    • If all are equal in their happiness:
    • But mutual wants this happiness increase;
    • All Nature’s diff’rence keeps all Nature’s peace.
    • Condition, circumstance, is not the thing;
    • Bliss is the same in subject or in king,
    • In who obtain defence, or who defend,59
    • In him who is, or him who finds a friend:
    • Heav’n breathes thro’ every member of the whole
    • One common blessing, as one common soul.
    • But Fortune’s gifts, if each alike possest,
    • And each were equal, must not all contest?
    • If then to all men happiness was meant,
    • God in externals could not place content.
    • Fortune her gifts may variously dispose,
    • And these be happy call’d, unhappy those;
    • But Heav’n’s just balance equal will appear,
    • While those are placed in hope and these in fear:70
    • Not present good or ill the joy or curse,
    • But future views of better or of worse.
    • O sons of earth! attempt ye still to rise
    • By mountains piled on mountains to the skies?
    • Heav’n still with laughter the vain toil surveys,
    • And buries madmen in the heaps they raise.
    • Know all the good that individuals find,
    • Or God and Nature meant to mere mankind,
    • Reason’s whole pleasure, all the joys of sense,
    • Lie in three words—Health, Peace, and Competence.80
    • But health consists with temperance alone,
    • And peace, O Virtue! peace is all thy own.
    • The good or bad the gifts of fortune gain;
    • But these less taste them as they worse obtain.
    • Say, in pursuit of profit or delight,
    • Who risk the most, that take wrong means or right?
    • Of vice or virtue, whether blest or curst,
    • Which meets contempt, or which compassion first?
    • Count all th’ advantage prosp’rous vice attains,
    • ’T is but what virtue flies from and disdains:90
    • And grant the bad what happiness they would,
    • One they must want, which is, to pass for good.
    • O blind to truth and God’s whole scheme below,
    • Who fancy bliss to vice, to virtue woe!
    • Who sees and follows that great scheme the best,
    • Best knows the blessing, and will most be blest.
    • But fools the good alone unhappy call,
    • For ills or accidents that chance to all.
    • See Falkland dies, the virtuous and the just!99
    • See Godlike Turenne prostrate on the dust!
    • See bleeds amid the martial strife!—
    • Was this their virtue, or contempt of life?
    • Say, was it virtue, more tho’ Heav’n ne’er gave,
    • Lamented Digby ! sunk thee to the grave?
    • Tell me, if virtue made the son expire,
    • Why full of days and honour lives the sire?
    • Why drew Marseilles’ good bishop purer breath
    • When Nature sicken’d, and each gale was death?
    • Or why so long (in life if long can be)109
    • Lent Heav’n a parent to the poor and me?
    • What makes all physical or moral ill?
    • There deviates Nature, and here wanders Will.
    • God sends not ill, if rightly understood,
    • Or partial ill is universal good,
    • Or change admits, or Nature lets it fall,
    • Short and but rare till man improv’d it all.
    • We just as wisely might of Heav’n complain
    • The Righteous Abel was destroy’d by Cain,
    • As that the virtuous son is ill at ease
    • When his lewd father gave the dire disease.120
    • Think we, like some weak prince, th’ Eternal Cause
    • Prone for his fav’rites to reverse his laws?
    • IV. Shall burning Ætna , if a sage requires,
    • Forget to thunder, and recall her fires?
    • On air or sea new motions be imprest,
    • O blameless Bethel ! to relieve thy breast?
    • When the loose mountain trembles from on high,
    • Shall gravitation cease if you go by?
    • Or some old temple, nodding to its fall,
    • For Chartres’ head reserve the hanging wall?130
    • V. But still this world, so fitted for the knave,
    • Contents us not.—A better shall we have?
    • A kingdom of the just then let it be;
    • But first consider how those just agree.
    • The good must merit God’s peculiar care;
    • But who but God can tell us who they are?
    • One thinks on Calvin Heav’n’s own spirit fell;
    • Another deems him instrument of Hell:
    • If Calvin feel Heav’n’s blessing or its rod,
    • This cries there is, and that, there is no God.140
    • What shocks one part will edify the rest;
    • Nor with one system can they all be blest.
    • The very best will variously incline,
    • And what rewards your virtue punish mine.
    • Whatever is, is right.—This world, ’t is true,
    • Was made for Cæsar—but for Titus too:
    • And which more bless’d? who chain’d his country, say,
    • Or he whose virtue sigh’d to lose a day?
    • VI. ‘But sometimes Virtue starves while Vice is fed.’149
    • What then? is the reward of virtue bread?
    • That vice may merit; ’t is the price of toil;
    • The knave deserves it when he tills the soil,
    • The knave deserves it when he tempts the main,
    • Where Folly fights for kings or dives for gain.
    • The good man may be weak, be indolent;
    • Nor is his claim to plenty but content.
    • But grant him riches, your demand is o’er.
    • ‘No: shall the good want health, the good want power?’
    • Add health and power, and every earthly thing.
    • ‘Why bounded power? why private? why no king?160
    • Nay, why external for internal giv’n?
    • Why is not man a God, and earth a Heav’n?’
    • Who ask and reason thus will scarce conceive
    • God gives enough while he has more to give:
    • Immense the power, immense were the demand;
    • Say at what part of Nature will they stand?
    • What nothing earthly gives or can destroy,
    • The soul’s calm sunshine and the heartfelt joy,
    • Is Virtue’s prize. A better would you fix?
    • Then give humility a coach and six,170
    • Justice a conqueror’s sword, or truth a gown,
    • Or public spirit its great cure, a crown.
    • Weak, foolish man! will Heav’n reward us there
    • With the same trash mad mortals wish for here?
    • The boy and man an individual makes,
    • Yet sigh’st thou now for apples and for cakes?
    • Go, like the Indian, in another life
    • Expect thy dog, thy bottle, and thy wife;
    • As well as dream such trifles are assign’d,
    • As toys and empires, for a godlike mind:180
    • Rewards, that either would to Virtue bring
    • No joy, or be destructive of the thing:
    • How oft by these at sixty are undone
    • The virtues of a saint at twenty-one!
    • To whom can Riches give repute or trust,
    • Content or pleasure, but the good and just?
    • Judges and senates have been bought for gold,
    • Esteem and Love were never to be sold.
    • O fool! to think God hates the worthy mind,
    • The lover and the love of humankind,190
    • Whose life is healthful, and whose conscience clear,
    • Because he wants a thousand pounds a year.
    • Honour and shame from no condition rise;
    • Act well your part: there all the honour lies.
    • Fortune in men has some small diff’rence made;
    • One flaunts in rags, one flutters in brocade,
    • The cobbler apron’d, and the parson gown’d;
    • The friar hooded, and the monarch crown’d.
    • ‘What differ more,’ you cry, ‘than crown and cowl?’
    • I ’ll tell you, friend! a wise man and a fool.200
    • You ’ll find, if once the monarch acts the monk,
    • Or, cobbler-like, the parson will be drunk,
    • Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow,
    • The rest is all but leather or prunella.
    • Stuck o’er with titles, and hung round with strings,
    • That thou mayst be by kings, or whores of kings,
    • Boast the pure blood of an illustrious race,
    • In quiet flow from Lucrece to Lucrece:
    • But by your fathers’ worth if yours you rate,
    • Count me those only who were good and great.210
    • Go! if your ancient but ignoble blood
    • Has crept thro’ scoundrels ever since the flood,
    • Go! and pretend your family is young,
    • Nor own your fathers have been fools so long.
    • What can ennoble sots, or slaves, or cowards?
    • Alas! not all the blood of all the Howards.
    • Look next on Greatness: say where Greatness lies.
    • ‘Where but among the heroes and the wise?’
    • Heroes are much the same, the point’s agreed,219
    • From Macedonia’s madman to the Swede;
    • The whole strange purpose of their lives to find,
    • Or make, an enemy of all mankind!
    • Not one looks backward, onward still he goes,
    • Yet ne’er looks forward further than his nose.
    • No less alike the politic and wise;
    • All sly slow things with circumspective eyes:
    • Men in their loose unguarded hours they take,
    • Not that themselves are wise, but others weak.
    • But grant that those can conquer, these can cheat:229
    • ’T is phrase absurd to call a villain great.
    • Who wickedly is wise, or madly brave,
    • Is but the more a fool, the more a knave.
    • Who noble ends by noble means obtains,
    • Or failing, smiles in exile or in chains,
    • Like good Aurelius let him reign, or bleed
    • Like Socrates:—that man is great indeed!
    • What ’s fame? a fancied life in others’ breath;
    • A thing beyond us, ev’n before our death.
    • Just what you hear you have; and what ’s unknown
    • The same, my lord, if Tully’s or your own.240
    • All that we feel of it begins and ends
    • In the small circle of our foes or friends;
    • To all beside as much an empty shade,
    • An Eugene living as a Cæsar dead;
    • Alike or when or where, they shone or shine,
    • Or on the Rubicon or on the Rhine.
    • A Wit ’s a feather, and a Chief a rod;
    • An Honest Man ’s the noblest work of God.
    • Fame but from death a villain’s name can save,249
    • As Justice tears his body from the grave;
    • When what t’ oblivion better were resign’d
    • Is hung on high, to poison half mankind.
    • All fame is foreign but of true desert,
    • Plays round the head, but comes not to the heart:
    • One self-approving hour whole years outweighs
    • Of stupid starers and of loud huzzas:
    • And more true joy Marcellus exiled feels
    • Than Cæsar with a senate at his heels.
    • In Parts superior what advantage lies?
    • Tell (for you can) what is it to be wise?260
    • ’T is but to know how little can be known,
    • To see all others’ faults, and feel our own:
    • Condemn’d in bus’ness or in arts to drudge,
    • Without a second, or without a judge.
    • Truths would you teach, or save a sinking land?
    • All fear, none aid you, and few understand.
    • Painful preëminence! yourself to view
    • Above life’s weakness, and its comforts too.
    • Bring then these blessings to a strict account;
    • Make fair deductions; see to what they mount;270
    • How much of other each is sure to cost;
    • How each for other oft is wholly lost;
    • How inconsistent greater goods with these;
    • How sometimes life is risk’d, and always ease.
    • Think, and if still the things thy envy call,
    • Say, wouldst thou be the man to whom they fall?
    • To sigh for ribands if thou art so silly,
    • Mark how they grace Lord Umbra or Sir Billy.
    • Is yellow dirt the passion of thy life?
    • Look but on Gripus or on Gripus’ wife.280
    • If parts allure thee, think how Bacon shined,
    • The wisest, brightest, meanest of mankind!
    • Or, ravish’d with the whistling of a name,
    • See Cromwell damn’d to everlasting fame!
    • If all united thy ambition call,
    • From ancient story learn to scorn them all:
    • There in the rich, the honour’d, famed, and great,
    • See the false scale of Happiness complete!
    • In hearts of Kings or arms of Queens who lay,
    • How happy those to ruin, these betray.290
    • Mark by what wretched steps their glory grows,
    • From dirt and sea-weed, as proud Venice rose;
    • In each how guilt and greatness equal ran,
    • And all that rais’d the Hero sunk the Man:
    • Now Europe’s laurels on their brows behold,
    • But stain’d with blood, or ill-exchanged for gold;
    • Then see them broke with toils, or sunk in ease,
    • Or infamous for plunder’d provinces.
    • O wealth ill-fated! which no act of fame
    • E’er taught to shine, or sanctified from shame!300
    • What greater bliss attends their close of life?
    • Some greedy minion, or imperious wife,
    • The trophied arches, storied halls invade,
    • And haunt their slumbers in the pompous shade.
    • Alas! not dazzled with their noontide ray,
    • Compute the morn and ev’ning to the day;
    • The whole amount of that enormous fame,
    • A tale that blends their glory with their shame!
    • VII. Know then this truth (enough for man to know),
    • ‘Virtue alone is happiness below;’310
    • The only point where human bliss stands still,
    • And tastes the good without the fall to ill;
    • Where only merit constant pay receives,
    • Is bless’d in what it takes and what it gives;
    • The joy unequall’d if its end it gain,
    • And, if it lose, attended with no pain;
    • Without satiety, tho’ e’er so bless’d,
    • And but more relish’d as the more distress’d:
    • The broadest mirth unfeeling Folly wears,
    • Less pleasing far than Virtue’s very tears:
    • Good from each object, from each place acquired,321
    • For ever exercised, yet never tired;
    • Never elated while one man ’s oppress’d;
    • Never dejected while another ’s bless’d:
    • And where no wants, no wishes can remain,
    • Since but to wish more virtue is to gain.
    • See the sole bliss Heav’n could on all bestow!
    • Which who but feels can taste, but thinks can know:
    • Yet poor with fortune, and with learning blind,
    • The bad must miss, the good untaught will find:330
    • Slave to no sect, who takes no private road,
    • But looks thro’ Nature up to Nature’s God;
    • Pursues that chain which links th’ immense design,
    • Joins Heav’n and earth, and mortal and divine;
    • Sees that no being any bliss can know,
    • But touches some above and some below;
    • Learns from this union of the rising whole
    • The first, last purpose of the human soul;
    • And knows where faith, law, morals, all began,
    • All end, in love of God and love of Man.
    • For him alone Hope leads from goal to goal,341
    • And opens still and opens on his soul,
    • Till lengthen’d on to faith, and unconfin’d,
    • It pours the bliss that fills up all the mind.
    • He sees why Nature plants in man alone
    • Hope of known bliss, and faith in bliss unknown
    • (Nature, whose dictates to no other kind
    • Are giv’n in vain, but what they seek they find):
    • Wise is her present; she connects in this
    • His greatest virtue with his greatest bliss;
    • At once his own bright prospect to be blest,351
    • And strongest motive to assist the rest.
    • Self-love thus push’d to social, to Divine,
    • Gives thee to make thy neighbour’s blessing thine.
    • Is this too little for the boundless heart?
    • Extend it, let thy enemies have part:
    • Grasp the whole world of reason, life, and sense,
    • In one close system of benevolence:
    • Happier as kinder, in whate’er degree,
    • And height of Bliss but height of Charity.
    • God loves from whole to parts: but human soul361
    • Must rise from individual to the whole.
    • Self-love but serves the virtuous mind to wake,
    • As the small pebble stirs the peaceful lake;
    • The centre mov’d, a circle straight succeeds,
    • Another still, and still another spreads;
    • Friends, parent, neighbour, first it will embrace;
    • His country next; and next all human race;
    • Wide and more wide, th’ o’erflowings of the mind
    • Take ev’ry creature in of ev’ry kind:370
    • Earth smiles around, with boundless bounty blest,
    • And Heav’n beholds its image in his breast.
    • Come then, my Friend! my Genius! come along,
    • O master of the poet and the song!
    • And while the Muse now stoops, or now ascends,
    • To man’s low passions, or their glorious ends,
    • Teach me, like thee, in various nature wise,
    • To fall with dignity, with temper rise:
    • Form’d by thy converse, happily to steer
    • From grave to gay, from lively to severe;
    • Correct with spirit, eloquent with ease,381
    • Intent to reason, or polite to please.
    • O! while along the stream of time thy name
    • Expanded flies, and gathers all its fame,
    • Say, shall my little bark attendant sail,
    • Pursue the triumph, and partake the gale?
    • When statesmen, heroes, kings, in dust repose,
    • Whose sons shall blush their fathers were thy foes,
    • Shall then this verse to future age pretend
    • Thou wert my guide, philosopher, and friend?390
    • That, urged by thee, I turn’d the tuneful art
    • From sounds to things, from fancy to the heart:
    • For Wit’s false mirror held up Nature’s light,
    • Show’d erring pride, Whatever is, is right;
    • That Reason, Passion, answer one great aim;
    • That true Self-love and Social are the same;
    • That Virtue only makes our bliss below,
    • And all our knowledge is, ourselves to know.
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MORAL ESSAYS

  • Est brevitate opus, ut currat sententia, neu se
  • Impediat verbis lassas onerantibus aures:
  • Et sermone opus est modo tristi, sæpe jocoso,
  • Defendente vicem modo rhetoris atque poetæ,
  • Interdum urbani, parcentis viribus, atque
  • Extenuantis eas consulto.

  • Horace.

The present order of the Moral Essays is very different from that of their original publication. The fifth epistle (to Addison) was written in 1715, and published five years later in Tickell’s edition of Addison’s works. The fourth epistle (to the Earl of Burlington) was published in 1731, under the title Of Taste. The third epistle (to Lord Bathurst) was published in 1732, and followed in 1733 by the first epistle (to Lord Cobham). The second epistle (to a Lady) was published in 1735. The whole series appeared in their present order, under the direction of Warburton, after Pope’s death.

Though it is doubtful how far it suggests Pope’s primary intention, Warburton’s Advertisement is here printed because Pope undoubtedly wished it, with its flattering implication of his philosophical breadth, to be accepted as a true statement of a plan which was plainly broader than its execution.

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ADVERTISEMENT

by dr. warburton

The Essay on Man was intended to be comprised in four books:—

The first of which the author has given us under that title in four epistles.

The second was to have consisted of the same number: 1. Of the extent and limits of human reason. 2. Of those arts and sciences, and of the parts of them, which are useful, and therefore attainable; together with those which are unuseful, and therefore unattainable. 3. Of the nature, ends, use, and application of the different capacities of men. 4. Of the use of learning; of the science of the world; and of wit; concluding with a satire against the misapplication of them, illustrated by pictures, characters, and examples.

The third book regarded civil regimen, or the science of politics; in which the several forms of a republic were to be examined and explained; together with the several modes of religious worship, as far forth as they affect society: between which the author always supposed there was the most interesting relation and closest connection. So that this part would have treated of civil and religious society in their full extent.

The fourth and last book concerned private ethics, or practical morality, considered in all the circumstances, orders, professions, and stations of human life.

The scheme of all this had been maturely digested, and communicated to Lord Bolingbroke, Dr. Swift, and one or two more; and was intended for the only work of his riper years; but was, partly through ill health, partly through discouragements from the depravity of the times; and partly on prudential and other considerations, interrupted, postponed, and lastly, in a manner, laid aside.

But as this was the author’s favourite work, which more exactly reflected the image of his strong capacious mind, and as we can have but a very imperfect idea of it from the disjecta membra poetœ that now remain, it may not be amiss to be a little more particular concerning each of these projected books.

The first, as it treats of man in the abstract, and considers him in general under every one of his relations, becomes the foundation, and furnishes out the subjects of the three following: so that—

The second book was to take up again the first and second epistles of the first book, and to treat of man in his intellectual capacity at large, as has been explained above. Of this only a small part of the conclusion (which, as we said, was to have contained a satire against the misapplication of wit and learning) may be found in the fourth book of the Dunciad; and up and down, occasionally, in the other three.

The third book, in like manner, was to reassume the subject of the third epistle of the first, which treats of man in his social, political, and religious capacity. But this part the poet afterwards conceived might be best executed in an epic poem, as the action would make it more animated, and the fable less invidious; in which all the great principles of true and false governments and religions should be chiefly delivered in feigned examples.

The fourth and last book was to pursue the subject of the fourth epistle of the first, and to treat of ethics, or practical morality; and would have consisted of many members, of which the four following epistles are detached portions; the two first, on the characters of men and women, being the introductory part of this concluding book.

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EPISTLE I[ ]

TO SIR RICHARD TEMPLE, LORD COBHAM

of the knowledge and characters of men

ARGUMENT

I. That it is not sufficient for this knowledge to consider Man in the abstract; Books will not serve the purpose, nor yet our own Experience singly. General maxims, unless they be formed upon both, will be but notional. Some peculiarity in every man, characteristic to himself, yet varying from himself. Difficulties arising from our own Passions, Fancies, Faculties, &c. The shortness of Life to observe in, and the uncertainty of the Principles of action in men to observe by. Our own Principle of action often hid from ourselves. Some few Characters plain, but in general confounded, dissembled, or inconsustent. The same man utterly different in different places and seasons. Unimaginable weaknesses in the greatest. Nothing constant and certain but God and Nature. No judging of the Motives from the actions; the same actions proceeding from contrary Motives, and the same Motives influencing contrary actions. II. Yet to form Characters we can only take the strongest actions of a man’s life, and try to make them agree: the utter uncertainty of this, from Nature itself, and from Policy. Characters given according to the rank of men of the world; and some reason for it. Education alters the Nature, or at least the Character, of many. Actions, Passions, Opinions, Manners, Humours, or Principles, all subject to change. No judging by Nature. III. It only remains to find (if we can) his Ruling Passion: that will certainly influence all the rest, and can reconcile the seeming or real inconsistency of all his actions. Instanced in the extraordinary character of Clodio. A caution against mistaking second qualities for first, which will destroy all possibility of the knowledge of mankind. Examples of the strength of the Ruling Passion, and its continuation to the last breath.

    • Yes, you despise the man to books confin’d,
    • Who from his study rails at humankind;
    • Tho’ what he learns he speaks, and may advance
    • Some gen’ral maxims, or be right by chance.
    • The coxcomb bird, so talkative and grave,
    • That from his cage cries cuckold, whore, and knave,
    • Tho’ many a passenger he rightly call,
    • You hold him no philosopher at all.
    • And yet the fate of all extremes is such,
    • Men may be read, as well as books, too much.10
    • To observations which ourselves we make,
    • We grow more partial for th’ observer’s sake;
    • To written wisdom, as another’s, less:
    • Maxims are drawn from Notions, those from Guess.
    • There ’s some peculiar in each leaf and grain,
    • Some unmark’d fibre, or some varying vein.
    • Shall only man be taken in the gross?
    • Grant but as many sorts of mind as moss.
    • That each from other differs, first confess;
    • Next, that he varies from himself no less:
    • And Nature’s, Custom’s, Reason’s, Passion’s strife,21
    • And all Opinion’s colours cast on life.
    • Our depths who fathoms, or our shallows finds,
    • Quick whirls and shifting eddies of our minds?
    • On human actions reason tho’ you can,
    • It may be Reason, but it is not Man:
    • His Principle of action once explore,
    • That instant ’t is his Principle no more.
    • Like following life thro’ creatures you dissect,
    • You lose it in the moment you detect.30
    • Yet more; the diff’rence is as great between
    • The optics seeing as the objects seen.
    • All Manners take a tincture from our own,
    • Or come discolour’d thro’ our Passions shown;
    • Or Fancy’s beam enlarges, multiplies,
    • Contracts, inverts, and gives ten thousand dyes.
    • Nor will life’s stream for observation stay,
    • It hurries all too fast to mark their way:
    • In vain sedate reflections we would make,
    • When half our knowledge we must snatch, not take.40
    • Oft in the Passions’ wide rotation toss’d,
    • Our spring of action to ourselves is lost:
    • Tired, not determin’d, to the last we yield,
    • And what comes then is master of the field.
    • As the last image of that troubled heap,
    • When Sense subsides, and Fancy sports in sleep
    • (Tho’ past the recollection of the thought),
    • Becomes the stuff of which our dream is wrought:
    • Something as dim to our internal view49
    • Is thus, perhaps, the cause of most we do.
    • True, some are open, and to all men known;
    • Others so very close they ’re hid from none
    • (So darkness strikes the sense no less than light):
    • Thus gracious Chandos is belov’d at sight;
    • And ev’ry child hates Shylock, tho’ his soul
    • Still sits at squat, and peeps not from its hole.
    • At half mankind when gen’rous Manly raves,
    • All know ’t is virtue, for he thinks them knaves:
    • When universal homage Umbra pays,
    • All see ’t is vice, and itch of vulgar praise.
    • When Flatt’ry glares, all hate it in a Queen ,61
    • While one there is who charms us with his spleen.
    • But these plain Characters we rarely find;
    • Tho’ strong the bent, yet quick the turns of mind:
    • Or puzzling contraries confound the whole;
    • Or affectations quite reverse the soul.
    • The dull flat falsehood serves for policy;
    • And in the cunning truth itself ’s a lie:
    • Unthought-of frailties cheat us in the wise:
    • The fool lies hid in inconsistencies.70
    • See the same man, in vigour, in the gout;
    • Alone, in company, in place, or out;
    • Early at bus’ness, and at hazard late,
    • Mad at a fox-chase, wise at a debate,
    • Drunk at a Borough, civil at a Ball,
    • Friendly at Hackney, faithless at Whitehall!
    • Catius is ever moral, ever grave,
    • Thinks who endures a knave is next a knave,
    • Save just at dinner—then prefers, no doubt,
    • A rogue with ven’son to a saint without.80
    • Who would not praise Patricio’s high desert,
    • His hand unstain’d, his uncorrupted heart,
    • His comprehensive head? all int’rests weigh’d,
    • All Europe saved, yet Britain not betray’d!
    • He thanks you not, his pride is in Piquet,
    • Newmarket fame, and judgment at a bet.
    • What made (say, Montaigne, or more sage Charron)
    • Otho a warrior, Cromwell a buffoon?
    • A perjured prince a leaden saint revere,
    • A godless regent tremble at a star ?90
    • The throne a bigot keep, a genius quit,
    • Faithless thro’ piety, and duped thro’ wit?
    • Europe a woman, child, or dotard, rule;
    • And just her wisest monarch made a fool?
    • Know, God and Nature only are the same:
    • In man the judgment shoots at flying game;
    • A bird of passage! gone as soon as found;
    • Now in the moon, perhaps now under ground.
    • In vain the sage, with retrospective eye,
    • Would from th’ apparent What conclude the Why,100
    • Infer the Motive from the Deed, and show
    • That what we chanced was what we meant to do.
    • Behold! if Fortune or a Mistress frowns,
    • Some plunge in bus’ness, others shave their crowns:
    • To ease the soul of one oppressive weight,
    • This quits an empire, that embroils a state
    • The same adust complexion has impell’d
    • Charles to the convent, Philip to the field.
    • Not always Actions show the man: we find109
    • Who does a kindness is not therefore kind;
    • Perhaps Prosperity becalm’d his breast;
    • Perhaps the wind just shifted from the east:
    • Not therefore humble he who seeks retreat;
    • Pride guides his steps, and bids him shun the great:
    • Who combats bravely is not therefore brave;
    • He dreads a death-bed like the meanest slave:
    • Who reasons wisely is not therefore wise;
    • His pride in reas’ning, not in acting, lies.
    • But grant that Actions best discover man;
    • Take the most strong, and sort them as you can:120
    • The few that glare each character must mark;
    • You balance not the many in the dark.
    • What will you do with such as disagree?
    • Suppress them, or miscall them Policy?
    • Must then at once (the character to save)
    • The plain rough hero turn a crafty knave?
    • Alas! in truth the man but changed his mind;
    • Perhaps was sick, in love, or had not din’d.
    • Ask why from Britain Cæsar would retreat?129
    • Cæsar himself might whisper he was beat.
    • Why risk the world’s great empire for a punk?
    • Cæsar perhaps might answer, he was drunk.
    • But, sage historians! ’t is your task to prove
    • One action, Conduct, one, heroic Love.
    • ’T is from high life high characters are drawn;
    • A saint in crape is twice a saint in lawn;
    • A judge is just, a chancellor juster still;
    • A gownman learn’d; a bishop what you will;
    • Wise if a minister; but if a king,
    • More wise, more learn’d, more just, more ev’rything.140
    • Court-virtues bear, like gems, the highest rate,
    • Born where Heav’n’s influence scarce can penetrate.
    • In life’s low vale, the soil the virtues like,
    • They please as beauties, here as wonders strike.
    • Tho’ the same sun, with all-diffusive rays,
    • Blush in the rose, and in the diamond blaze,
    • We prize the stronger effort of his power,
    • And justly set the gem above the flower.
    • ’T is education forms the common mind;
    • Just as the twig is bent the tree’s inclin’d.
    • Boastful and rough, your first son is a Squire;151
    • The next a Tradesman, meek, and much a liar;
    • Tom struts a Soldier, open, bold, and brave;
    • Will sneaks a Scriv’ner, an exceeding knave.
    • Is he a Churchman? then he ’s fond of power: }
    • A Quaker? sly: a Presbyterian? sour: }
    • A smart Free-thinker? all things in an hour. }
    • Ask men’s opinions! Scoto now shall tell
    • How trade increases, and the world goes well:
    • Strike off his pension by the setting sun,160
    • And Britain, if not Europe, is undone.
    • That gay Free-thinker, a fine talker once,
    • What turns him now a stupid silent dunce?
    • Some god or spirit he has lately found,
    • Or chanced to meet a Minister that frown’d.
    • Judge we by Nature? Habit can efface,
    • Int’rest o’ercome, or Policy take place:
    • By Actions? those Uncertainty divides:
    • By Passions? these Dissimulation hides:
    • Opinions? they still take a wider range:
    • Find, if you can, in what you cannot change.171
    • Manners with Fortunes, Humours turn with Climes,
    • Tenets with Books, and Principles with Times.
    • Search then the Ruling Passion: there alone,
    • The wild are constant, and the cunning known;
    • The fool consistent, and the false sincere;
    • Priests, princes, women, no dissemblers here.
    • This clue once found unravels all the rest,
    • The prospect clears, and Wharton stands confest:
    • Wharton! the scorn and wonder of our days,180
    • Whose Ruling Passion was the lust of praise:
    • Born with whate’er could win it from the wise,
    • Women and fools must like him, or he dies:
    • Tho’ wond’ring Senates hung on all he spoke,
    • The Club must hail him master of the joke.
    • Shall parts so various aim at nothing new?
    • He ’ll shine a Tully and a Wilmot too:
    • Then turns repentant, and his God adores
    • With the same spirit that he drinks and whores;
    • Enough if all around him but admire,190
    • And now the Punk applaud, and now the Friar.
    • Thus with each gift of Nature and of Art,
    • And wanting nothing but an honest heart;
    • Grown all to all, from no one vice exempt,
    • And most contemptible, to shun contempt;
    • His passion still to covet gen’ral praise;
    • His life, to forfeit it a thousand ways;
    • A constant bounty which no friend has made;
    • An angel tongue which no man can persuade!
    • A fool with more of wit than half mankind,200
    • Too rash for thought, for action too refin’d;
    • A tyrant to the wife his heart approves;
    • A rebel to the very king he loves—
    • He dies, sad outcast of each church and state,
    • And, harder still! flagitious, yet not great!
    • Ask you why Wharton broke thro’ ev’ry rule?
    • ’T was all for fear the Knaves should call him Fool.
    • Nature well known, no prodigies remain;
    • Comets are regular, and Wharton plain.
    • Yet in this search the wisest may mistake,210
    • If second qualities for first they take.
    • When Catiline by rapine swell’d his store,
    • When Cæsar made a noble dame a whore,
    • In this the Lust, in that the Avarice
    • Were means, not ends; Ambition was the vice.
    • That very Cæsar, born in Scipio’s days,
    • Had aim’d, like him, by chastity at praise,
    • Lucullus, when Frugality could charm,
    • Had roasted turnips in the Sabine farm.
    • In vain th’ observer eyes the builder’s toil,
    • But quite mistakes the scaffold for the pile.221
    • In this one passion man can strength enjoy,
    • As fits give vigour just when they destroy.
    • Time, that on all things lays his lenient hand,
    • Yet tames not this; it sticks to our last sand.
    • Consistent in our follies and our sins,
    • Here honest Nature ends as she begins.
    • Old politicians chew on wisdom past,
    • And totter on in bus’ness to the last;
    • As weak, as earnest, and as gravely out230
    • As sober Lanesb’row dancing in the gout.
    • Behold a rev’rend sire, whom want of grace
    • Has made the father of a nameless race,
    • Shov’d from the wall perhaps, or rudely press’d
    • By his own son, that passes by unbless’d;
    • Still to his wench he crawls on knocking knees,
    • And envies ev’ry sparrow that he sees.
    • A salmon’s belly, Helluo, was thy fate;
    • The doctor call’d, declares all help too late.
    • ‘Mercy!’ cries Helluo, ‘mercy on my soul!
    • Is there no hope?—Alas!—then bring the jowl.’241
    • The frugal crone, whom praying priests attend,
    • Still strives to save the hallow’d taper’s end,
    • Collects her breath, as ebbing life retires,
    • For one puff more, and in that puff expires.
    • ‘Odious! in woollen! ’t would a saint provoke’
    • (Were the last words that poor Narcissa spoke);
    • ‘No, let a charming chintz and Brussels lace
    • Wrap my cold limbs, and shade my lifeless face:
    • One would not, sure, be frightful when one ’s dead—250
    • And—Betty—give this cheek a little red.’
    • The courtier smooth, who forty years had shined
    • An humble servant to all humankind,
    • Just brought out this, when scarce his tongue could stir:—
    • ‘If—where I ’m going—I could serve you, sir?’
    • ‘I give and I devise (old Euclio said,
    • And sigh’d) my lands and tenements to Ned.’
    • ‘Your money, sir?’—‘My money, sir! what, all?
    • Why—if I must—(then wept) I give it Paul.’
    • ‘The manor, sir?’—‘The manor! hold,’ he cried,260
    • ‘Not that—I cannot part with that!’—and died.
    • And you, brave Cobham! to the latest breath
    • Shall feel your Ruling Passion strong in death;
    • Such in those moments as in all the past,
    • ‘O save my country, Heav’n!’ shall be your last.
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EPISTLE II[ ]

TO A LADY OF THE CHARACTERS OF WOMEN

ARGUMENT

That the particular Characters of women are not so strongly marked as those of men, seldom so fixed, and still more inconsistent with themselves. Instances of contrarieties given, even from such Characters as are more strongly marked, and seemingly, therefore, most consistent: as, 1. In the affected. 2. In the soft-natured. 3. In the cunning and artful. 4. In the whimsical. 5. In the lewd and vicious. 6. In the witty and refined. 7. In the stupid and simple. The former part having shown that the particular characters of women are more various than those of men, it is nevertheless observed that the general characteristic of the sex, as to the Ruling Passion, is more uniform. This is occasioned partly by their Nature, partly by their Education, and in some degree by Necessity. What are the aims and the fate of this sex: 1. As to Power. 2. As to Pleasure. Advice for their true interest. The picture of an estimable woman, with the best kind of contrarieties.

    • Nothing so true as what you once let fall,
    • ‘Most women have no Characters at all:’
    • Matter too soft a lasting mark to bear,
    • And best distinguish’d by black, brown, or fair.
    • How many pictures of one nymph we view,
    • And how unlike each other, all how true!
    • Arcadia’s countess here, in ermined pride,
    • Is there, Pastora by a fountain side:
    • Here Fannia, leering on her own good man,
    • And there a naked Leda with a swan.10
    • Let then the fair one beautifully cry,
    • In Magdalen’s loose hair and lifted eye;
    • Or drest in smiles of sweet Cecilia shine,
    • With simp’ring angels, palms, and harps divine;
    • Whether the charmer sinner it, or saint it,
    • If folly grow romantic, I must paint it.
    • Come, then, the colours and the ground prepare;
    • Dip in the rainbow, trick her off in air;
    • Choose a firm cloud before it fall, and in it
    • Catch, ere she change, the Cynthia of this minute.20
    • Rufa, whose eye quick glancing o’er the park,
    • Attracts each light gay meteor of a spark,
    • Agrees as ill with Rufa studying Locke,
    • As Sappho’s diamonds with her dirty smock,
    • Or Sappho at her toilet’s greasy task,
    • With Sappho fragrant at an ev’ning Masque:
    • So morning insects, that in muck begun,
    • Shine, buzz, and fly-blow in the setting sun.
    • How soft is Silia! fearful to offend;
    • The frail one’s advocate, the weak one’s friend.30
    • To her Calista proved her conduct nice,
    • And good Simplicius asks of her advice.
    • Sudden she storms! she raves! you tip the wink:
    • But spare your censure; Silia does not drink.
    • All eyes may see from what the change arose;
    • All eyes may see—a Pimple on her nose.
    • Papillia, wedded to her am’rous spark,
    • Sighs for the shades—‘How charming is a park!’
    • A park is purchased; but the Fair he sees
    • All bathed in tears—‘Oh, odious, odious trees!’40
    • Ladies, like variegated tulips, show;
    • ’T is to their changes half their charms we owe:
    • Fine by defect, and delicately weak,
    • Their happy spots the nice admirer take.
    • ’T was thus Calypso once each heart alarm’d,
    • Awed without virtue, without beauty charm’d;
    • Her tongue bewitch’d as oddly as her eyes;
    • Less Wit than Mimic, more a Wit than wise.
    • Strange graces still, and stranger flights, she had,
    • Was just not ugly, and was just not mad;50
    • Yet ne’er so sure our passion to create,
    • As when she touch’d the brink of all we hate.
    • Narcissa’s nature, tolerably mild,
    • To make a wash would hardly stew a child;
    • Has ev’n been prov’d to grant a lover’s prayer,
    • And paid a tradesman once to make him stare;
    • Gave alms at Easter in a Christian trim,
    • And made a widow happy for a whim.
    • Why then declare Good-nature is her scorn,59
    • When ’t is by that alone she can be borne?
    • Why pique all mortals, yet affect a name?
    • A fool to Pleasure, yet a slave to Fame:
    • Now deep in Taylor and the Book of Martyrs,
    • Now drinking citron with his Grace and Chartres:
    • Now conscience chills her, and now passion burns,
    • And atheism and religion take their turns:
    • A very heathen in the carnal part,
    • Yet still a sad good Christian at her heart.
    • See Sin in state, majestically drunk,
    • Proud as a peeress, prouder as a punk;70
    • Chaste to her husband, frank to all beside,
    • A teeming mistress, but a barren bride.
    • What then? let blood and body bear the fault;
    • Her head ’s untouch’d, that noble seat of Thought:
    • Such this day’s doctrine—in another fit
    • She sins with poets thro’ pure love of Wit.
    • What has not fired her bosom or her brain?
    • Cæsar and Tall-boy, Charles and Charlemagne.
    • As Helluo, late dictator of the feast,
    • The nose of Hautgout, and the tip of Taste,
    • Critiqued your wine, and analyzed your meat,81
    • Yet on plain pudding deign’d at home to eat:
    • So Philomede , lecturing all mankind
    • On the soft passion, and the taste refin’d,
    • The address, the delicacy—stoops at once,
    • And makes her hearty meal upon a dunce.
    • Flavia ’s a Wit, has too much sense to pray;
    • To toast our wants and wishes is her way;
    • Nor asks of God, but of her stars, to give
    • The mighty blessing ‘while we live to live.’90
    • Then all for death, that opiate of the soul!
    • Lucretia’s dagger, Rosamonda’s bowl.
    • Say, what can cause such impotence of mind?
    • A Spark too fickle, or a Spouse too kind.
    • Wise wretch! with pleasures too refin’d to please;
    • With too much spirit to be e’er at ease;
    • With too much quickness ever to be taught;
    • With too much thinking to have common thought:
    • You purchase Pain with all that Joy can give,
    • And die of nothing but a rage to live.100
    • Turn then from Wits, and look on Simo’s mate,
    • No ass so meek, no ass so obstinate:
    • Or her that owns her faults but never mends,
    • Because she ’s honest, and the best of friends:
    • Or her whose life the church and scandal share,
    • For ever in a Passion or a Prayer:
    • Or her who laughs at Hell, but (like her Grace )
    • Cries, ‘Ah! how charming if there ’s no such place!’
    • Or who in sweet vicissitude appears109
    • Of Mirth and Opium, Ratifie and Tears;
    • The daily anodyne and nightly draught,
    • To kill those foes to fair ones, Time and Thought.
    • Woman and fool are two hard things to hit;
    • For true No-meaning puzzles more than Wit.
    • But what are these to great Atossa’s mind?
    • Scarce once herself, by turns all womankind!
    • Who with herself, or others, from her birth
    • Finds all her life one warfare upon earth;
    • Shines in exposing knaves and painting fools,
    • Yet is whate’er she hates and ridicules;120
    • No thought advances, but her eddy brain
    • Whisks it about, and down it goes again.
    • Full sixty years the World has been her Trade,
    • The wisest fool much time has ever made:
    • From loveless youth to unrespected age,
    • No passion gratified except her rage:
    • So much the Fury still outran the Wit,
    • The pleasure miss’d her, and the scandal hit.
    • Who breaks with her provokes revenge from Hell,
    • But he ’s a bolder man who dares be well.
    • Her ev’ry turn with violence pursued,131
    • Nor more a storm her hate than gratitude:
    • To that each Passion turns or soon or late;
    • Love, if it makes her yield, must make her hate.
    • Superiors? death! and equals? what a curse!
    • But an inferior not dependent? worse.
    • Offend her, and she knows not to forgive;
    • Oblige her, and she ’ll hate you while you live:
    • But die, and she ’ll adore you—then the bust
    • And temple rise —then fall again to dust.
    • Last night her lord was all that ’s good and great;141
    • A knave this morning, and his will a cheat.
    • Strange! by the means defeated of the ends,
    • By Spirit robb’d of power, by Warmth of friends,
    • By Wealth of foll’wers! without one distress,
    • Sick of herself thro’ very selfishness!
    • Atossa, curs’d with ev’ry granted prayer,
    • Childless with all her children, wants an heir:
    • To heirs unknown descends th’ unguarded store,
    • Or wanders, Heav’n-directed, to the poor.
    • Pictures like these, dear Madam! to design,151
    • Asks no firm hand and no unerring line;
    • Some wand’ring touches, some reflected light,
    • Some flying stroke, alone can hit ’em right:
    • For how should equal colours do the knack?
    • Chameleons who can paint in white and black?
    • ‘Yet Chloë sure was form’d without a spot.’
    • Nature in her then err’d not, but forgot.
    • ‘With ev’ry pleasing, ev’ry prudent part,
    • Say, what can Chloë want?’—She wants a Heart,160
    • She speaks, behaves, and acts just as she ought,
    • But never, never reach’d one gen’rous thought.
    • Virtue she finds too painful an endeavour,
    • Content to dwell in decencies for ever.
    • So very reasonable, so unmov’d,
    • As never yet to love or to be lov’d.
    • She, while her lover pants upon her breast,
    • Can mark the figures on an Indian chest;
    • And when she sees her friend in deep despair,
    • Observes how much a chintz exceeds mohair.170
    • Forbid it, Heav’n! a favour or a debt
    • She e’er should cancel!—but she may forget.
    • Safe is your secret still in Chloë’s ear;
    • But none of Chloë’s shall you ever hear.
    • Of all her Dears she never slander’d one,
    • But cares not if a thousand are undone.
    • Would Chloë know if you ’re alive or dead?
    • She bids her footman put it in her head.
    • Chloë is prudent—Would you too be wise?
    • Then never break your heart when Chloë dies.180
    • One certain portrait may (I grant) be seen,
    • Which Heav’n has varnish’d out and made a queen;
    • The same for ever! and described by all
    • With truth and goodness, as with crown and ball.
    • Poets heap virtues, painters gems, at will,
    • And show their zeal, and hide their want of skill.
    • ’T is well—but, artists! who can paint or write,
    • To draw the naked is your true delight.
    • That robe of Quality so struts and swells,
    • None see what parts of Nature it conceals:
    • Th’ exactest traits of body or of mind,191
    • We owe to models of an humble kind.
    • If Queensbury to strip there ’s no compelling,
    • ’T is from a handmaid we must take a Helen.
    • From peer or bishop ’t is no easy thing
    • To draw the man who loves his God or king.
    • Alas! I copy (or my draught would fail)
    • From honest Mah’met or plain parson Hale.
    • But grant, in public, men sometimes are shown;
    • A woman’s seen in private life alone:200
    • Our bolder talents in full light display’d;
    • Your virtues open fairest in the shade.
    • Bred to disguise, in public ’t is you hide;
    • There none distinguish ’twixt your shame or pride,
    • Weakness or delicacy; all so nice,
    • That each may seem a Virtue or a Vice.
    • In men we various Ruling Passions find;
    • In women two almost divide the kind;
    • Those only fix’d, they first or last obey,
    • The love of Pleasure, and the love of Sway.
    • That Nature gives; and where the lesson taught211
    • Is but to please, can Pleasure seem a fault?
    • Experience this: by man’s oppression curst,
    • They seek the second not to lose the first.
    • Men some to bus’ness, some to pleasure take;
    • But ev’ry woman is at heart a rake:
    • Men some to quiet, some to public strife;
    • But ev’ry lady would be queen for life.
    • Yet mark the fate of a whole sex of queens!
    • Power all their end, but Beauty all the means.220
    • In youth they conquer with so wild a rage,
    • As leaves them scarce a subject in their age:
    • For foreign glory, foreign joy they roam;
    • No thought of peace or happiness at home.
    • But wisdom’s triumph is well-timed retreat,
    • As hard a science to the Fair as Great!
    • Beauties, like tyrants, old and friendless grown,
    • Yet hate repose, and dread to be alone;
    • Worn out in public, weary ev’ry eye,
    • Nor leave one sigh behind them when they die.230
    • Pleasures the sex, as children birds, pursue,
    • Still out of reach, yet never out of view;
    • Sure, if they catch, to spoil the toy at most,
    • To covet flying, and regret when lost:
    • At last to follies youth could scarce defend,
    • It grows their age’s prudence to pretend;
    • Ashamed to own they gave delight before,
    • Reduced to feign it when they give no more.
    • As hags hold Sabbaths less for joy than spite,
    • So these their merry miserable night;240
    • Still round and round the Ghosts of Beauty glide,
    • And haunt the places where their Honour died.
    • See how the world its veterans rewards!
    • A youth of frolics, an old age of cards;
    • Fair to no purpose, artful to no end,
    • Young without lovers, old without a friend;
    • A Fop their passion, but their prize a Sot,
    • Alive ridiculous, and dead forgot!
    • Ah! friend! to dazzle let the vain design;
    • To raise the thought and touch the heart be thine!250
    • That charm shall grow, while what fatigues the Ring
    • Flaunts and goes down an unregarded thing.
    • So when the sun’s broad beam has tired the sight,
    • All mild ascends the moon’s more sober light,
    • Serene in virgin modesty she shines,
    • And unobserv’d the glaring orb declines.
    • O! blest with temper, whose unclouded ray257
    • Can make to-morrow cheerful as to-day;
    • She who can love a sister’s charms, or hear
    • Sighs for a daughter with unwounded ear;
    • She who ne’er answers till a husband cools,
    • Or, if she rules him, never shows she rules;
    • Charms by accepting, by submitting sways,
    • Yet has her humour most when she obeys;
    • Let Fops or Fortune fly which way they will,
    • Disdains all loss of tickets or Codille;
    • Spleen, Vapours, or Smallpox, above them all,
    • And mistress of herself, tho’ china fall.
    • And yet believe me, good as well as ill,
    • Woman ’s at best a contradiction still.270
    • Heav’n when it strives to polish all it can
    • Its last best work, but forms a softer Man;
    • Picks from each sex to make the fav’rite blest,
    • Your love of pleasure, our desire of rest;
    • Blends, in exception to all gen’ral rules,
    • Your taste of follies with our scorn of fools;
    • Reserve with Frankness, Art with Truth allied,
    • Courage with Softness, Modesty with Pride;
    • Fix’d principles, with fancy ever new:279
    • Shakes all together, and produces—You.
    • Be this a woman’s fame; with this unblest,
    • Toasts live a scorn, and Queens may die a jest.
    • This Phœbus promis’d (I forget the year)
    • When those blue eyes first open’d on the sphere;
    • Ascendant Phœbus watch’d that hour with care,
    • Averted half your parents’ simple prayer,
    • And gave you beauty, but denied the pelf
    • That buys your sex a tyrant o’er itself.
    • The gen’rous God, who wit and gold refines,
    • And ripens spirits as he ripens mines,290
    • Kept dross for Duchesses, the world shall know it,
    • To you gave Sense, Good-humour, and a Poet.
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EPISTLE III[ ]

TO ALLEN, LORD BATHURST

of the use of riches

ARGUMENT

That it is known to few, most falling into one of the extremes, Avarice or Profusion. The point discussed, whether the invention of money has been more commodious or pernicious to mankind. That Riches, either to the Avaricious or the Prodigal, cannot afford happiness, scarcely necessaries. That Avarice is an absolute frenzy, without an end or purpose. Conjectures about the motives of avaricious men. That the conduct of men, with respect to Riches, can only be accounted for by the Order of Providence, which works the general good out of extremes, and brings all to its great end by perpetual revolutions. How a Miser acts upon principles which appear to him reasonable. How a Prodigal does the same. The due medium and true use of riches. The Man of Ross. The fate of the Profuse and the Covetous, in two examples; both miserable in life and in death. The story of Sir Balaam.

    • P. Who shall decide when doctors disagree,
    • And soundest casuists doubt, like you and me?
    • You hold the word from Jove to Momus giv’n,
    • That Man was made the standing jest of Heav’n,
    • And gold but sent to keep the fools in play,
    • For some to heap, and some to throw away.
    • But I, who think more highly of our kind
    • (And surely Heav’n and I are of a mind),
    • Opine that Nature, as in duty bound,
    • Deep hid the shining mischief under ground:10
    • But when by man’s audacious labour won,
    • Flamed forth this rival to its sire the sun,
    • Then careful Heav’n supplied two sorts of men,
    • To squander these, and those to hide again.
    • Like doctors thus, when much dispute has past,
    • We find our tenets just the same at last:
    • Both fairly owning riches, in effect,
    • No grace of Heavn’n, or token of th’ elect;
    • Giv’n to the fool, the mad, the vain, the evil,
    • To Ward , to Waters, Chartres, and the Devil.20
    • B. What Nature wants, commodious gold bestows;
    • ’T is thus we eat the bread another sows.
    • P. But how unequal it bestows, observe;
    • ’T is thus we riot, while who sow it starve.
    • What Nature wants (a phrase I much distrust)
    • Extends to luxury, extends to lust.
    • Useful I grant, it serves what life requires,
    • But dreadful too, the dark assassin hires.
    • B. Trade it may help, Society extend.
    • P. But lures the pirate, and corrupts the friend.30
    • B. It raises armies in a nation’s aid.
    • P. But bribes a senate, and the land ’s betray’d.
    • In vain may heroes fight and patriots rave,
    • If secret gold sap on from knave to knave.
    • Once, we confess, beneath the patriot’s cloak,
    • From the crack’d bag the dropping guinea spoke,
    • And jingling down the back-stairs, told the crew
    • ‘Old Cato is as great a rogue as you.’
    • Blest paper-credit! last and best supply!
    • That lends Corruption lighter wings to fly!40
    • Gold imp’d by thee, can compass hardest things,
    • Can pocket states, can fetch or carry kings ;
    • A single leaf shall waft an army o’er,
    • Or ship off senates to some distant shore;
    • A leaf, like Sibyl’s, scatter to and fro
    • Our fates and fortunes as the winds shall blow;
    • Pregnant with thousands flits the scrap unseen,
    • And silent sells a King or buys a Queen.
    • Oh, that such bulky bribes as all might see,
    • Still, as of old, incumber’d villany!50
    • Could France or Rome divert our brave designs
    • With all their brandies or with all their wines?
    • What could they more than Knights and Squires confound,
    • Or water all the Quorum ten miles round?
    • A statesman’s slumbers how this speech would spoil,
    • ‘Sir, Spain has sent a thousand jars of oil;
    • Huge bales of British cloth blockade the door;
    • A hundred oxen at your levee roar.’
    • Poor Avarice one torment more would find,59
    • Nor could Profusion squander all in kind.
    • Astride his cheese Sir Morgan might we meet;
    • And Worldly crying coals from street to street,
    • Whom with a wig so wild and mien so ’mazed,
    • Pity mistakes for some poor tradesman crazed.
    • Had Colepepper’s whole wealth been hops and hogs,
    • Could he himself have sent it to the dogs?
    • His Grace will game: to White’s a bull be led,
    • With spurning heels and with a butting head.
    • To White’s be carried, as to ancient games,
    • Fair coursers, vases, and alluring dames.70
    • Shall then Uxorio, if the stakes he sweep,
    • Bear home six whores, and make his lady weep?
    • Or soft Adonis, so perfumed and fine,
    • Drive to St. James’s a whole herd of swine?
    • Oh, filthy check on all industrious skill,
    • To spoil the nation’s last great trade,—Quadrille!
    • Since then, my lord, on such a world we fall,
    • What say you? B. Say? Why, take it, gold and all.
    • P. What Riches give us let us then inquire:
    • Meat, Fire, and Clothes. B. What more? P. Meat, Clothes, and Fire.80
    • Is this too little? would you more than live?
    • Alas! ’t is more than Turner finds, they give.
    • Alas! ’t is more than (all his visions past)
    • Unhappy Wharton waking found at last!
    • What can they give? To dying Hopkins , heirs?
    • To Chartres, vigour? Japhet, nose and ears ?
    • Can they in gems bid pallid Hippia glow?
    • In Fulvia’s buckle ease the throbs below?
    • Or heal, old Narses, thy obscener ail,
    • With all th’ embroidery plaster’d at thy tail?90
    • They might (were Harpax not too wise to spend)
    • Give Harpax’ self the blessing of a friend;
    • Or find some doctor that would save the life
    • Of wretched Shylock, spite of Shylock’s wife.
    • But thousands die without or this or that,
    • Die, and endow a College or a Cat .
    • To some indeed Heav’n grants the happier fate
    • T’ enrich a bastard; or a son they hate.
    • Perhaps you think the poor might have their part?
    • Bond damns the poor , and hates them from his heart:100
    • The grave Sir Gilbert holds it for a rule
    • That ev’ry man in want is knave or fool.
    • ‘God cannot love (says Blunt, with tearless eyes)
    • The wretch he starves’—and piously denies:
    • But the good bishop, with a meeker air,
    • Admits, and leaves them, Providence’s care.
    • Yet, to be just to these poor men of pelf,
    • Each does but hate his neighbour as himself:
    • Damn’d to the mines, an equal fate betides
    • The slave that digs it and the slave that hides.110
    • B. Who suffer thus, mere charity should own,
    • Must act on motives powerful tho’ unknown.
    • P. Some war, some plague or famine, they foresee,
    • Some revelation hid from you and me.
    • Why Shylock wants a meal the cause is found;
    • He thinks a loaf will rise to fifty pound.
    • What made directors cheat in South-sea year ?
    • To live on ven’son , when it sold so dear.
    • Ask you why Phryne the whole auction buys?
    • Phryne foresees a general excise.120
    • Why she and Sappho raise that monstrous sum?
    • Alas! they fear a man will cost a plum.
    • Wise Peter sees the world’s respect for gold,
    • And therefore hopes this nation may be sold.
    • Glorious ambition! Peter, swell thy store,
    • And be what Rome’s great Didius was before.
    • The crown of Poland , venal twice an age,
    • To just three millions stinted modest Gage .
    • But nobler scenes Maria’s dreams unfold,
    • Hereditary realms, and worlds of gold.130
    • Congenial souls! whose life one av’rice joins,
    • And one fate buries in th’ Asturian mines.
    • Much-injured Blunt ! why bears he Britain’s hate?
    • A wizard told him in these words our fate:
    • ‘At length Corruption, like a gen’ral flood
    • (So long by watchful ministers withstood),
    • Shall deluge all; and Av’rice, creeping on,
    • Spread like a low-born mist and blot the sun;
    • Statesman and Patriot ply alike the stocks,
    • Peeress and Butler share alike the Box,140
    • And judges job, and bishops bite the town,
    • And mighty Dukes pack cards for half a crown:
    • See Britain sunk in lucre’s sordid charms,
    • And France revenged of Anne’s and Edward’s arms!’
    • ’T was no court-badge, great Scriv’ner! fired thy brain,
    • Nor lordly luxury, nor city gain:
    • No, ’t was thy righteous end, ashamed to see
    • Senates degen’rate, patriots disagree,
    • And nobly wishing party-rage to cease,
    • To buy both sides, and give thy country peace.150
    • ‘All this is madness,’ cries a sober sage:
    • ‘But who, my friend, has Reason in his rage?
    • The Ruling Passion, be it what it will,
    • The Ruling Passion conquers Reason still.’
    • Less mad the wildest whimsy we can frame
    • Than ev’n that Passion, if it has no aim;
    • For tho’ such motives folly you may call,
    • The folly ’s greater to have none at all.
    • Hear then the truth:—‘’T is Heav’n each Passion sends,159
    • And diff’rent men directs to diff’rent ends.
    • Extremes in Nature equal good produce;
    • Extremes in Man concur to gen’ral use.’
    • Ask me what makes one keep, and one bestow?
    • That power who bids the ocean ebb and flow,
    • Bids seed-time, harvest, equal course maintain,
    • Thro’ reconciled extremes of drought and rain;
    • Builds life on death, on change duration founds,
    • And gives th’ eternal wheels to know their rounds.
    • Riches, like insects, when conceal’d they lie,169
    • Wait but for wings, and in their season fly.
    • Who sees pale Mammon pine amidst his store,
    • Sees but a backward steward for the poor;
    • This year a reservoir to keep and spare;
    • The next a fountain spouting thro’ his heir
    • In lavish streams to quench a country’s thirst,
    • And men and dogs shall drink him till they burst.
    • Old Cotta shamed his fortune and his birth,
    • Yet was not Cotta void of wit or worth.
    • What tho’ (the use of barb’rous spits forgot)
    • His kitchen vied in coolness with his grot?
    • His court with nettles, moats with cresses stor’d,181
    • With soups unbought, and salads, bless’d his board;
    • If Cotta lived on pulse, it was no more
    • Than Bramins, Saints, and Sages did before;
    • To cram the rich was prodigal expense,
    • And who would take the poor from Providence?
    • Like some lone Chartreux stands the good old hall,
    • Silence without, and fasts within the wall;
    • No rafter’d roofs with dance and tabor sound,
    • No noontide bell invites the country round;
    • Tenants with sighs the smokeless towers survey,191
    • And turn th’ unwilling steeds another way;
    • Benighted wanderers, the forest o’er,
    • Curse the saved candle and unopening door;
    • While the gaunt mastiff, growling at the gate,
    • Affrights the beggar whom he longs to eat.
    • Not so his son; he mark’d this oversight,
    • And then mistook reverse of wrong for right:
    • (For what to shun will no great knowledge need
    • But what to follow is a task indeed!)200
    • Yet sure, of qualities deserving praise,
    • More go to ruin fortunes than to raise.
    • What slaughter’d hecatombs, what floods of wine,
    • Fill the capacious Squire and deep Divine!
    • Yet no mean motive this profusion draws;
    • His oxen perish in his country’s cause;
    • ’T is George and Liberty that crowns the cup,
    • And zeal for that great House which eats him up.
    • The woods recede around the naked seat,
    • The sylvans groan—no matter—for the fleet;210
    • Next goes his wool—to clothe our valiant bands;
    • Last, for his country’s love, he sells his lands.
    • To town he comes, completes the nation’s hope,
    • And heads the bold train-bands, and burns a pope.
    • And shall not Britain now reward his toils,
    • Britain, that pays her patriots with her spoils?
    • In vain at court the bankrupt pleads his cause;
    • His thankless country leaves him to her laws.
    • The sense to value Riches, with the art
    • T’ enjoy them, and the virtue to impart;
    • Not meanly nor ambitiously pursued,221
    • Not sunk by sloth, nor raised by servitude;
    • To balance fortune by a just expense,
    • Join with economy magnificence;
    • With splendour charity, with plenty health;
    • O teach us, Bathurst! yet unspoil’d by wealth,
    • That secret rare, between th’ extremes to move
    • Of mad Good-nature and of mean Self-love.
    • B. To worth or want well weigh’d be bounty giv’n
    • And ease or emulate the care of Heav’n
    • (Whose measure full o’erflows on human race):231
    • Mend Fortune’s fault, and justify her grace.
    • Wealth in the gross is death, but life diffused,
    • As poison heals in just proportion used:
    • In heaps, like ambergris, a stink it lies,
    • But well dispers’d is incense to the skies.
    • P. Who starves by nobles, or with nobles eats?
    • The wretch that trusts them, and the rogue that cheats.
    • Is there a lord who knows a cheerful noon
    • Without a fiddler, flatt’rer, or buffoon?240
    • Whose table Wit or modest Merit share,
    • Unelbow’d by a gamester, pimp, or player?
    • Who copies yours or Oxford’s better part,
    • To ease th’ oppress’d, and raise the sinking heart?
    • Where’er he shines, O Fortune! gild the scene,
    • And angels guard him in the golden mean!
    • There English bounty yet a while may stand,
    • And honour linger ere it leaves the land.
    • But all our praises why should Lords engross?
    • Rise, honest Muse! and sing the Man of Ross :250
    • Pleas’d Vaga echoes thro’ her winding bounds,
    • And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds.
    • Who hung with woods yon mountain’s sultry brow?
    • From the dry rock who bade the waters flow?
    • Not to the skies in useless columns tost,
    • Or in proud falls magnificently lost,
    • But clear and artless, pouring thro’ the plain
    • Health to the sick, and solace to the swain.
    • Whose causeway parts the vale with shady rows?
    • Whose seats the weary traveller repose?260
    • Who taught that Heav’n-directed spire to rise?
    • The Man of Ross, each lisping babe replies.
    • Behold the market-place with poor o’erspread!
    • The Man of Ross divides the weekly bread:
    • He feeds yon almshouse, neat, but void of state,
    • Where age and want sit smiling at the gate:
    • Him portion’d maids, apprenticed orphans blest,
    • The young who labour, and the old who rest.
    • Is any sick? the Man of Ross relieves,
    • Prescribes, attends, the medicine makes and gives:270
    • Is there a variance? enter but his door,
    • Balk’d are the courts, and contest is no more:
    • Despairing quacks with curses fled the place,
    • And vile attorneys, now a useless race.
    • B. Thrice happy man! enabled to pursue
    • What all so wish, but want the power to do!
    • Oh say, what sums that gen’rous hand supply?
    • What mines to swell that boundless charity?
    • P. Of debts and taxes, wife and children clear,
    • This man possess’d—five hundred pounds a year.280
    • Blush, Grandeur, blush! proud courts, withdraw your blaze!
    • Ye little stars, hide your diminish’d rays!
    • B. And what? no monument, inscription, stone,
    • His race, his form, his name almost unknown?
    • P. Who builds a church to God, and not to Fame,
    • Will never mark the marble with his name:
    • Go, search it there, where to be born and die,
    • Of rich and poor makes all the history;
    • Enough that Virtue fill’d the space between,
    • Prov’d by the ends of being to have been.
    • When Hopkins dies, a thousand lights attend291
    • The wretch who living saved a candle’s end:
    • Should’ring God’s altar a vile image stands,
    • Belies his features, nay, extends his hands;
    • That livelong wig, which Gorgon’s self might own,
    • Eternal buckle takes in Parian stone.
    • Behold what blessings Wealth to life can lend!
    • And see what comfort it affords our end.
    • In the worst inn’s worst room, with mat half-hung,
    • The floors of plaster, and the walls of dung,
    • On once a flock-bed, but repair’d with straw,301
    • With tape-tied curtains, never meant to draw,
    • The George and Garter dangling from that bed
    • Where tawdry yellow strove with dirty red,
    • Great Villiers lies —alas! how changed from him,
    • That life or pleasure and that soul of whim!
    • Gallant and gay, in Cliveden’s proud alcove,
    • The bower of wanton Shrewsbury and Love;
    • Or just as gay at council, in a ring
    • Of mimic statesmen and their merry King.
    • No Wit to flatter, left of all his store—311
    • No Fool to laugh at, which he valued more—
    • There, victor of his health, of fortune, friends,
    • And fame, this lord of useless thousands ends!
    • His Grace’s fate sage Cutler could foresee,
    • And well (he thought) advised him, ‘Live like me.’
    • And well his Grace replied, ‘Like you, Sir John?
    • That I can do when all I have is gone!’
    • Resolve me, Reason, which of these is worse,
    • Want with a full or with an empty purse?
    • Thy life more wretched, Cutler! was confess’d;321
    • Arise, and tell me, was thy death more bless’d?
    • Cutler saw tenants break and houses fall,
    • For very want; he could not build a wall:
    • His only daughter in a stranger’s power,
    • For very want; he could not pay a dower:
    • A few gray hairs his rev’rend temples crown’d;
    • ’T was very want that sold them for two pound.
    • What ev’n denied a cordial at his end,
    • Banish’d the doctor, and expell’d the friend?330
    • What but a want, which you perhaps think mad,
    • Yet numbers feel,—the want of what he had!
    • Cutler and Brutus dying both exclaim,
    • ‘Virtue! and wealth! what are ye but a name!’
    • Say, for such worth are other worlds prepared?
    • Or are they both in this their own reward?
    • A knotty point! to which we now proceed.
    • But you are tired—I’ll tell a tale—B. Agreed.
    • P.Where London’s column , pointing at the skies,
    • Like a tall bully, lifts the head and lies,340
    • There dwelt a citizen of sober fame,
    • A plain good man, and Balaam was his name.
    • Religious, punctual, frugal, and so forth,
    • His word would pass for more than he was worth;
    • One solid dish his week-day meal affords,
    • An added pudding solemnized the Lord’s;
    • Constant at Church and ’Change; his gains were sure,
    • His givings rare, save farthings to the poor.
    • The Devil was piqued such saintship to behold,
    • And long’d to tempt him like good Job of old;350
    • But Satan now is wiser than of yore,
    • And tempts by making rich, not making poor.
    • Rous’d by the Prince of Air, the whirlwinds sweep
    • The surge, and plunge his father in the deep;
    • Then full against his Cornish lands they roar,
    • And two rich shipwrecks bless the lucky shore.
    • Sir Balaam now, he lives like other folks,
    • He takes his chirping pint, and cracks his jokes.
    • ‘Live like yourself,’ was soon my lady’s word;
    • And lo! two puddings smoked upon the board.360
    • Asleep and naked as an Indian lay,
    • An honest factor stole a gem away:
    • He pledg’d it to the knight; the knight had wit,
    • So kept the diamond, and the rogue was bit.
    • Some scruple rose, but thus he eas’d his thought:
    • ‘I ’ll now give sixpence where I gave a groat;
    • Where once I went to church I’ll now go twice—
    • And am so clear too of all other vice.’
    • The tempter saw his time; the work he plied;
    • Stocks and subscriptions pour on ev’ry side,370
    • Till all the demon makes his full descent
    • In one abundant shower of cent per cent,
    • Sinks deep within him, and possesses whole,
    • Then dubs Director, and secures his soul.
    • Behold Sir Balaam, now a man of Spirit,
    • Ascribes his gettings to his parts and merit;
    • What late he call’d a blessing now was wit,
    • And God’s good providence a lucky hit.
    • Things change their titles as our manners turn,
    • His counting-house employ’d the Sunday morn:380
    • Seldom at church (’t was such a busy life),
    • But duly sent his family and wife.
    • There (so the Devil ordain’d) one Christmas-tide
    • My good old lady catch’d a cold and died.
    • A nymph of quality admires our knight;
    • He marries, bows at court, and grows polite;
    • Leaves the dull cits, and joins (to please the fair)
    • The well-bred cuckolds in St. James’s air:
    • First for his son a gay commission buys,
    • Who drinks, whores, fights, and in a duel dies;390
    • His daughter flaunts a viscount’s tawdry wife;
    • She bears a coronet and p—x for life.
    • In Britain’s senate he a seat obtains,
    • And one more pensioner St. Stephen gains.
    • My lady falls to play; so bad her chance,
    • He must repair it; takes a bribe from France:
    • The house impeach him; Coningsby harangues;
    • The court forsake him, and Sir Balaam hangs.
    • Wife, son, and daughter, Satan! are thy own,
    • His wealth, yet dearer, forfeit to the crown:400
    • The Devil and the King divide the prize,
    • And sad Sir Balaam curses God and dies.
[Back to Table of Contents]

EPISTLE IV

TO RICHARD BOYLE, EARL OF BURLINGTON

OF THE USE OF RICHES

ARGUMENT

The vanity of Expense in people of wealth and quality. The abuse of the word Taste. That the first principle and foundation in this, as in every thing else, is Good Sense. The chief proof of it is to follow Nature, even in works of mere luxury and elegance. Instanced in Architecture and Gardening, where all must be adapted to the genius and use of the place, and the beauties not forced into it, but resulting from it. How men are disappointed in their most expensive undertakings for want of this true foundation, without which nothing can please long, if at all; and the best examples and rules will but be perverted into something burdensome and ridicculous. A description of the false taste of Magnificence; the first grand error of which is to imagine that greatness consists in the size and dimension, instead of the proportion and harmony, of the whole; and the second, either in joining together parts incoherent, or too minutely resembling, or, in the repetition of the same too frequently. A word or two of false taste in books, in music, in painting, even in preaching and prayer, and lastly in entertainments. Yet Providence is justified in giving wealth to be squandered in this manner, since it is dispersed to the poor and laborious part of mankind. [Recurring to what is laid down in the first book, ep. ii. and in the epistle preceding this.] What are the proper objects of Magnificence, and a proper field for the expense of great men. And, finally, the great and public works which become a Prince.

    • ’T is strange the Miser should his cares employ
    • To gain those riches he can ne’er enjoy:
    • Is it less strange the Prodigal should waste
    • His wealth to purchase what he ne’er can taste?
    • Not for himself he sees, or hears, or eats;
    • Artists must choose his pictures, music, meats:
    • He buys for Topham drawings and designs;
    • For Pembroke statues, dirty gods, and coins;
    • Rare monkish manuscripts for Hearne alone,
    • And books for Mead , and butterflies for Sloane.10
    • Think we all these are for himself? no more
    • Than his fine wife, alas! or finer whore.
    • For what has Virro painted, built, and planted?
    • Only to show how many tastes he wanted.
    • What brought Sir Visto’s ill-got wealth to waste?
    • Some demon whisper’d, ‘Visto! have a Taste.’
    • Heav’n visits with a Taste the wealthy fool,
    • And needs no rod but Ripley with a rule.
    • See! sportive Fate, to punish awkward pride,
    • Bids Bubo build, and sends him such a guide:20
    • A standing sermon at each year’s expense,
    • That never coxcomb reach’d Magnificence!
    • You show us Rome was glorious, not profuse,
    • And pompous buildings once were things of use;
    • Yet shall, my Lord, your just, your noble rules
    • Fill half the land with imitating fools;
    • Who random drawings from your sheets shall take,
    • And of one Beauty many Blunders make;
    • Load some vain church with old theatric state,
    • Turn arcs of triumph to a garden gate;30
    • Reverse your ornaments, and bang them all
    • On some patch’d dog-hole eked with ends of wall,
    • Then clap four slices of pilaster on ’t,
    • That laced with bits of rustic makes a front;
    • Shall call the winds thro’ long arcades to roar,
    • Proud to catch cold at a Venetian door:
    • Conscious they act a true Palladian part,
    • And if they starve, they starve by rules of Art.
    • Oft have you hinted to your brother peer
    • A certain truth, which many buy too dear:
    • Something there is more needful than expense,41
    • And something previous ev’n to Taste—’t is Sense;
    • Good Sense, which only is the gift of Heav’n,
    • And tho’ no science, fairly worth the sev’n;
    • A light which in yourself you must perceive;
    • Jones and Le Nôtre have it not to give.
    • To build, to plant, whatever you intend,
    • To rear the column, or the arch to bend,
    • To swell the terrace, or to sink the grot,
    • In all, let Nature never be forgot.50
    • But treat the Goddess like a modest Fair,
    • Nor overdress, nor leave her wholly bare;
    • Let not each beauty everywhere be spied,
    • Where half the skill is decently to hide.
    • He gains all points who pleasingly confounds,
    • Surprises, varies, and conceals the bounds.
    • Consult the genius of the place in all;
    • That tells the waters or to rise or fall;
    • Or helps th’ ambitious hill the heav’ns to scale,
    • Or scoops in circling theatres the vale,60
    • Calls in the country, catches opening glades,
    • Joins willing woods, and varies shades from shades,
    • Now breaks, or now directs, th’ intending lines;
    • Paints as you plant, and as you work designs.
    • Still follow Sense, of every art the soul;
    • Parts answering parts shall slide into a whole,
    • Spontaneous beauties all around advance,
    • Start ev’n from difficulty, strike from chance:
    • Nature shall join you; time shall make it grow
    • A work to wonder at—perhaps a Stowe .70
    • Without it, proud Versailles! thy glory falls,
    • And Nero’s terraces desert their walls:
    • The vast parterres a thousand hands shall make,
    • Lo! Cobham comes, and floats them with a lake;
    • Or cut wide views thro’ mountains to the plain,
    • You ’ll wish your hill or shelter’d seat again.
    • Ev’n in an ornament its place remark,
    • Nor in a hermitage set Dr. Clarke .
    • Behold Villario’s ten years’ toil complete:
    • His quincunx darkens, his espaliers meet,
    • The wood supports the plain, the parts unite,81
    • And strength of shade contends with strength of light;
    • A waving glow the bloomy beds display,
    • Blushing in bright diversities of day,
    • With silver quiv’ring rills meander’d o’er—
    • Enjoy them, you! Villario can no more:
    • Tired of the scene parterres and fountains yield,
    • He finds at last he better likes a field.
    • Thro’ his young woods how pleased Sabinus stray’d,
    • Or sat delighted in the thick’ning shade,90
    • With annual joy the redd’ning shoots to greet,
    • Or see the stretching branches long to meet.
    • His son’s fine Taste an opener vista loves,
    • Foe to the dryads of his father’s groves;
    • One boundless green or flourish’d carpet views,
    • With all the mournful family of yews;
    • The thriving plants, ignoble broomsticks made,
    • Now sweep those alleys they were born to shade.
    • At Timon’s villa let us pass a day,
    • Where all cry out, ‘What sums are thrown away;’100
    • So proud, so grand; of that stupendous air,
    • Soft and agreeable come never there;
    • Greatness with Timon dwells in such a draught
    • As brings all Brobdingnag before your thought.
    • To compass this, his building is a town,
    • His pond an ocean, his parterre a down:
    • Who but must laugh, the master when he sees,
    • A puny insect shiv’ring at a breeze!108
    • Lo, what huge heaps of littleness around!
    • The whole a labour’d quarry above ground.
    • Two Cupids squirt before: a lake behind
    • Improves the keenness of the northern wind.
    • His gardens next your admiration call;
    • On every side you look, behold the wall!
    • No pleasing intricacies intervene;
    • No artful wildness to perplex the scene;
    • Grove nods at grove, each alley has a brother,
    • And half the platform just reflects the other.
    • The suff’ring eye inverted Nature sees,119
    • Trees cut to statues, statues thick as trees;
    • With here a fountain never to be play’d,
    • And there a summer-house that knows no shade,
    • Here Amphitrite sails thro’ myrtle bowers,
    • There gladiators fight or die in flowers;
    • Unwater’d, see the drooping seahorse mourn,
    • And swallows roost in Nilus’ dusty urn.
    • My Lord advances with majestic mien,
    • Smit with the mighty pleasure to be seen:
    • But soft! by regular approach—not yet—
    • First thro’ the length of yon hot terrace sweat;130
    • And when up ten steep slopes you ’ve dragg’d your thighs,
    • Just at his study door he ’ll bless your eyes.
    • His study! with what authors is it stor’d?
    • In books, not authors, curious is my lord.
    • To all their dated backs he turns you round;
    • These Aldus printed, those Du Sueil has bound;
    • Lo, some are vellum, and the rest as good,
    • For all his lordship knows,—but they are wood.
    • For Locke or Milton ’t is in vain to look;
    • These shelves admit not any modern book.
    • And now the chapel’s silver bell you hear,141
    • That summons you to all the pride of prayer.
    • Light quirks of music, broken and unev’n,
    • Make the soul dance upon a jig to Heav’n:
    • On painted ceilings you devoutly stare,
    • Where sprawl the saints of Verrio or Laguerre,
    • On gilded clouds in fair expansion lie,
    • And bring all paradise before your eye:
    • To rest, the cushion and soft dean invite,
    • Who never mentions Hell to ears polite.150
    • But hark! the chiming clocks to dinner call:
    • A hundred footsteps scrape the marble hall;
    • The rich buffet well-colour’d serpents grace,
    • And gaping Tritons spew to wash your face.
    • Is this a dinner? this a genial room?
    • No, ’t is a temple and a hecatomb;
    • A solemn sacrifice perform’d in state;
    • You drink by measure, and to minutes eat.
    • So quick retires each flying course, you ’d swear
    • Sancho’s dread doctor and his wand were there.160
    • Between each act the trembling salvers ring,
    • From soup to sweet wine, and God bless the King.
    • In plenty starving, tantalized in state,
    • And complaisantly help’d to all I hate,
    • Treated, caress’d, and tired, I take my leave,
    • Sick of his civil pride from morn to eve;
    • I curse such lavish Cost and little Skill,
    • And swear no day was ever pass’d so ill.
    • Yet hence the poor are clothed, the hungry fed;169
    • Health to himself, and to his infants bread
    • The lab’rer bears; what his hard heart denies,
    • His charitable vanity supplies.
    • Another age shall see the golden ear
    • Imbrown the slope, and nod on the parterre,
    • Deep harvests bury all his pride has plann’d,
    • And laughing Ceres reassume the land.
    • Who then shall grace, or who improve the soil?
    • Who plants like Bathurst, or who builds like Boyle?
    • ’T is use alone that sanctifies expense,
    • And splendour borrows all her rays from sense.180
    • His father’s acres who enjoys in peace,
    • Or makes his neighbours glad if he increase;
    • Whose cheerful tenants bless their yearly toil,
    • Yet to their Lord owe more than to the soil;
    • Whose ample lawns are not ashamed to feed
    • The milky heifer and deserving steed;
    • Whose rising forests, not for pride or show,
    • But future buildings, future navies, grow:
    • Let his plantations stretch from down to down,
    • First shade a country, and then raise a town.190
    • You, too, proceed! make falling arts your care;
    • Erect new wonders, and the old repair;
    • Jones and Palladio to themselves restore
    • And be whate’er Vitruvius was before,
    • Till kings call forth th’ ideas of your mind
    • (Proud to accomplish what such hands design’d),
    • Bid harbours open, public ways extend,
    • Bid temples, worthier of the God, ascend,
    • Bid the broad arch the dangerous flood contain,
    • The mole projected break the roaring main,200
    • Back to his bounds their subject sea command,
    • And roll obedient rivers thro’ the land.
    • These honours Peace to happy Britain brings;
    • These are imperial works, and worthy Kings.
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EPISTLE V

TO MR. ADDISON

OCCASIONED BY HIS DIALOGUES ON MEDALS

‘This was originally written,’ says Pope, ‘in the year 1715, when Mr. Addison intended to publish his book Of Medals; it was some time before he was Secretary of State; but not published till Mr. Tickell’s edition of his works; at which time the verses on Mr. Craggs, which conclude the poem, were added, viz., in 1720.’

Warburton connects the epistle with the preceding Essays in this ingenious way: ‘As the third epistle treated the extremes of Avarice and Profusion, and the fourth took up one particular branch of the latter, namely the vanity of expense in people of wealth and quality, and was therefore corollary to the third; so this treats of one circumstance of that vanity, as it appears in the common collections of old coins; and is therefore a corollary to the fourth.’

    • See the wild waste of all-devouring years!
    • How Rome her own sad sepulchre appears!
    • With nodding arches, broken temples spread,
    • The very tombs now vanish’d like their dead!
    • Imperial wonders raised on nations spoil’d,
    • Where mix’d with slaves the groaning martyr toil’d;
    • Huge theatres, that now unpeopled woods,
    • Now drain’d a distant country of her floods;
    • Fanes, which admiring Gods with pride survey,9
    • Statues of men, scarce less alive than they!
    • Some felt the silent stroke of mould’ring age,
    • Some hostile fury, some religious rage:
    • Barbarian blindness, Christian zeal conspire,
    • And Papal piety, and Gothic fire.
    • Perhaps, by its own ruins saved from flame,
    • Some buried marble half preserves a name:
    • That name the learn’d with fierce disputes pursue
    • And give to Titus old Vespasian’s due.
    • Ambition sigh’d: she found it vain to trust
    • The faithless column and the crumbling bust;20
    • Huge moles, whose shadow stretch’d from shore to shore,
    • Their ruins perish’d, and their place no more!
    • Convinced, she now contracts her vast design,
    • And all her triumphs shrink into a coin.
    • A narrow orb each crowded conquest keeps,
    • Beneath her palm here sad Judea weeps:
    • Now scantier limits the proud arch confine,
    • And scarce are seen the prostrate Nile or Rhine:
    • A small Euphrates thro’ the piece is roll’d,29
    • And little eagles wave their wings in gold.
    • The Medal, faithful to its charge of fame,
    • Thro’ climes and ages bears each form and name:
    • In one short view subjected to our eye,
    • Gods, Emp’rors, Heroes, Sages, Beauties, lie.
    • With sharpen’d sight pale antiquaries pore,
    • Th’ inscription value, but the rust adore.
    • This the blue varnish, that the green endears,
    • The sacred rust of twice ten hundred years!
    • To gain Pescennius one employs his schemes,
    • One grasps a Cecrops in ecstatic dreams.40
    • Poor Vadius, long with learned spleen devour’d,
    • Can taste no pleasure since his shield was scour’d;
    • And Curio, restless by the fair one’s side,
    • Sighs for an Otho, and neglects his bride.
    • Theirs is the vanity, the learning thine:
    • Touch’d by thy hand, again Rome’s glories shine;
    • Her Gods and godlike Heroes rise to view,
    • And all her faded garlands bloom anew.
    • Nor blush these studies thy regard engage:
    • These pleas’d the fathers of poetic rage;50
    • The verse and sculpture bore an equal part,
    • And art reflected images to art.
    • Oh, when shall Britain, conscious of her claim,
    • Stand emulous of Greek and Roman fame?
    • In living medals see her wars enroll’d,
    • And vanquish’d realms supply recording gold?
    • Here, rising bold, the patriot’s honest face,
    • There warriors frowning in historic brass.
    • Then future ages with delight shall see
    • How Plato’s, Bacon’s, Newton’s looks agree;60
    • Or in fair series laurell’d bards be shown,
    • A Virgil there, and here an Addison.
    • Then shall thy Craggs (and let me call him mine)
    • On the cast ore another Pollio shine;
    • With aspect open shall erect his head,
    • And round the orb in lasting notes be read,
    • ‘Statesman, yet friend to truth; of soul sincere,
    • In action faithful, and in honour clear;
    • Who broke no promise, serv’d no private end,69
    • Who gain’d no title, and who lost no friend;
    • Ennobled by himself, by all approv’d
    • And prais’d, unenvied by the Muse he lov’d.’
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UNIVERSAL PRAYER

DEO OPT. MAX.

This was written in 1738 to correct the impression of fatalism which Warburton’s ingenious exposition had failed to remove. Pope had really as little mind for dogma as most poets; but these verses represent what, in view of the instructions of Bolingbroke, corrected by Warburton, he now believed himself to believe.

    • Father of all! in ev’ry age,
    • In ev’ry clime ador’d,
    • By saint, by savage, and by sage,
    • Jehovah, Jove, or Lord!
    • Thou Great First Cause, least understood,
    • Who all my sense confin’d
    • To know but this, that thou art good,
    • And that myself am blind:
    • Yet gave me, in this dark estate,
    • To see the good from ill;
    • And binding Nature fast in Fate,
    • Left free the human Will.
    • What Conscience dictates to be done,
    • Or warns me not to do;
    • This teach me more than Hell to shun,
    • That more than Heav’n pursue.
    • What blessings thy free bounty gives
    • Let me not cast away;
    • For God is paid when man receives;
    • T’ enjoy is to obey.
    • Yet not to earth’s contracted span
    • Thy goodness let me bound,
    • Or think thee Lord alone of man,
    • When thousand worlds are round.
    • Let not this weak unknowing hand
    • Presume thy bolts to throw,
    • And deal damnation round the land
    • On each I judge thy foe.
    • If I am right, thy grace impart,
    • Still in the right to stay;
    • If I am wrong, O teach my heart
    • To find that better way.
    • Save me alike from foolish Pride
    • Or impious Discontent,
    • At aught thy wisdom has denied,
    • Or aught thy goodness lent.
    • Teach me to feel another’s woe,
    • To hide the fault I see:
    • That mercy I to others show,
    • That mercy show to me.
    • Mean tho’ I am, not wholly so,
    • Since quicken’d by thy breath;
    • O lead me, whereso’er I go,
    • Thro’ this day’s life or death!
    • This day be bread and peace my lot:
    • All else beneath the sun
    • Thou know’st if best bestow’d or not,
    • And let thy will be done.
    • To Thee, whose temple is all Space,
    • Whose altar earth, sea, skies,
    • One chorus let all Being raise,
    • All Nature’s incense rise!
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SATIRES

The Satires retain nearly the order of their original publication. They appeared between 1733 and 1738. It is said that Bolingbroke suggested the translation of the First Satire of the Second Book of Horace, and that the translation of the others was done somewhat at random, as Pope saw his opportunity of adapting them to his own day.

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EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT[ ]

BEING THE PROLOGUE TO THE SATIRES

ADVERTISEMENT

This paper is a sort of bill of complaint, begun many years since, and drawn up by snatches, as the several occasions offered. I had no thoughts of publishing it, till it pleased some Persons of Rank and Fortune (the authors of ‘Verses to the Imitator of Horace,’ and of an ‘Epistle to a Doctor of Divinity from a Nobleman at Hampton Court’) to attack, in a very extraordinary manner, not only my Writings (of which, being public, the Public is judge), but my Person, Morals, and Family; whereof, to those who know me not, a truer information may be requisite. Being divided between the necessity to say something of myself, and my own laziness to undertake so awkward a task, I thought it the shortest way to put the last hand to this epistle. If it have any thing pleasing, it will be that by which I am most desirous to please, the Truth and the Sentiment; and if any thing offensive, it will be only to those I am least sorry to offend, the vicious or the ungenerous.

Many will know their own pictures in it, there being not a circumstance but what is true; but I have, for the most part, spared their names, and they may escape being laughed at if they please.

I would have some of them know it was owing to the request of the learned and candid Friend to whom it is inscribed, that I make not as free use of theirs as they have done of mine. However, I shall have this advantage and honour on my side, that whereas, by their proceeding, any abuse may be directed at any man, no injury can possibly be done by mine, since a nameless character can never be found out but by its truth and likeness.

    • P. ‘Shut, shut the door, good John!’ fatigued, I said;
    • ‘Tie up the knocker, say I ’m sick, I ’m dead.’
    • The Dog-star rages! nay, ’t is past a doubt
    • All Bedlam or Parnassus is let out:
    • Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand,
    • They rave, recite, and madden round the land.
    • What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide?
    • They pierce my thickets, thro’ my grot they glide,
    • By land, by water, they renew the charge,
    • They stop the chariot, and they board the barge.10
    • No place is sacred, not the church is free,
    • Ev’n Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me:
    • Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme,
    • Happy to catch me just at dinner time.
    • Is there a Parson much bemused in beer,
    • A maudlin Poetess, a rhyming Peer,
    • A clerk foredoom’d his father’s soul to cross,
    • Who pens a stanza when he should engross?
    • Is there who, lock’d from ink and paper, scrawls
    • With desp’rate charcoal round his darken’d walls?20
    • All fly to Twit’nam, and in humble strain
    • Apply to me to keep them mad or vain,
    • Arthur , whose giddy son neglects the laws,
    • Imputes to me and my damn’d works the cause:
    • Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope,
    • And curses Wit and Poetry, and Pope.
    • Friend to my life (which did not you prolong,
    • The world had wanted many an idle song)!
    • What Drop or Nostrum can this plague remove?
    • Or which must end me, a fool’s wrath or love?30
    • A dire dilemma! either way I ’m sped;
    • If foes, they write, if friends, they read me dead.
    • Seiz’d and tied down to judge, how wretched I!
    • Who can’t be silent, and who will not lie.
    • To laugh were want to goodness and of grace,
    • And to be grave exceeds all power of face.
    • I sit with sad civility, I read
    • With honest anguish and an aching head,
    • And drop at last, but in unwilling ears,
    • This saving counsel, ‘Keep your piece nine years .’40
    • ‘Nine years!’ cries he, who, high in Drury lane,
    • Lull’d by soft zephyrs thro’ the broken pane,
    • Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before Term ends,
    • Obliged by hunger and request of friends:
    • ‘The piece, you think, is incorrect? why, take it!
    • I ’m all submission: what you ’d have it—make it.’
    • Three things another’s modest wishes bound,
    • ‘My friendship, and a Prologue, and ten pound.’
    • Pitholeon sends to me: “You know his Grace,
    • I want a patron; ask him for a place.’50
    • Pitholeon libell’d me—‘But here ’s a letter
    • Informs you, Sir, ’twas when he knew no better.
    • Dare you refuse him? Curll invites to dine,
    • He ’ll write a Journal, or he ’ll turn Divine.’
    • Bless me! a packet.—’T is a stranger sues,
    • A Virgin Tragedy, an Orphan Muse.
    • If I dislike it, ‘Furies, death, and rage!’
    • If I approve, ‘Commend it to the stage.’
    • There (thank my stars) my whole commission ends,59
    • The players and I are, luckily, no friends.
    • Fired that the house rejects him, ‘’Sdeath, I ’ll print it,
    • And shame the fools—your int’rest, Sir, with Lintot .’
    • Lintot, dull rogue, will think your price too much:
    • ‘Not, Sir, if you revise it, and retouch.’
    • All my demurs but double his attacks;
    • At last he whispers, ‘Do, and we go snacks.’
    • Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door;
    • ‘Sir, let me see your works and you no more.’
    • ’T is sung, when Midas’ ears began to spring
    • (Midas, a sacred person and a king),70
    • His very Minister who spied them first
    • (Some say his Queen) was forc’d to speak or burst.
    • And is not mine, my friend, a sorer case,
    • When ev’ry coxcomb perks them in my face?
    • A. Good friend, forbear! you deal in dangerous things;
    • I ’d never name Queens, Ministers, or Kings;
    • Keep close to ears, and those let asses prick,
    • ’T is nothing— P. Nothing! if they bite and kick?
    • Out with it, Dunciad! let the secret pass,
    • That secret to each fool, that he ’s an ass:
    • The truth once told (and wherefore should we lie?)81
    • The Queen of Midas slept, and so may I.
    • You think this cruel? take it for a rule,
    • No creature smarts so little as a fool.
    • Let peals of laughter, Codrus! round thee break,
    • Thou unconcern’d canst hear the mighty crack:
    • Pit, Box, and Gall’ry in convulsions hurl’d,
    • Thou stand’st unshook amidst a bursting world.
    • Who shames a Scribbler? break one cobweb thro’,
    • He spins the slight self-pleasing thread anew:90
    • Destroy his fib, or sophistry—in vain!
    • The creature ’s at his dirty work again,
    • Throned in the centre of his thin designs,
    • Proud of a vast extent of flimsy lines.
    • Whom have I hurt? has Poet yet or Peer
    • Lost the arch’d eyebrow or Parnassian sneer?
    • And has not Colley still his lord and whore?
    • His butchers Henley? his freemasons Moore?
    • Does not one table Bavius still admit?
    • Still to one Bishop Philips seem a wit?100
    • Still Sappho — A. Hold! for God’s sake—you ’ll offend.
    • No names—be calm—learn prudence of a friend.
    • I too could write, and I am twice as tall;
    • But foes like these— P. One flatt’rer ’s worse than all.
    • Of all mad creatures, if the learn’d are right,
    • It is the slaver kills, and not the bite.
    • A fool quite angry is quite innocent:
    • Alas! ’t is ten times worse when they repent.
    • One dedicates in high heroic prose,
    • And ridicules beyond a hundred foes;110
    • One from all Grub-street will my fame defend,
    • And, more abusive, calls himself my friend:
    • This prints my Letters, that expects a bribe,
    • And others roar aloud, ‘Subscribe, subscribe!’
    • There are who to my person pay their court:
    • I cough like Horace; and tho’ lean, am short;
    • Ammon’s great son one shoulder had too high,
    • Such Ovid’s nose, and ‘Sir! you have an eye —’
    • Go on, obliging creatures! make me see
    • All that disgraced my betters met in me.
    • Say, for my comfort, languishing in bed,121
    • ‘Just so immortal Maro held his head:’
    • And when I die, be sure you let me know
    • Great Homer died three thousand years ago.
    • Why did I write? what sin to me unknown
    • Dipp’d me in ink, my parents’, or my own?
    • As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame,
    • I lisp’d in numbers , for the numbers came:
    • I left no calling for this idle trade,
    • No duty broke, no father disobey’d:130
    • The Muse but serv’d to ease some friend, not wife,
    • To help me thro’ this long disease my life,
    • To second, Arbuthnot! thy art and care,
    • And teach the being you preserv’d, to bear.
    • A. But why then publish? P.Granville the polite,
    • And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could write;
    • Well-natured Garth inflamed with early praise,
    • And Congreve lov’d, and Swift endured my lays;
    • The courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheffield , read;
    • Ev’n mitred Rochester would nod the head,140
    • And St. John’s self (great Dryden’s friends before)
    • With open arms receiv’d one poet more.
    • Happy my studies, when by these approv’d!
    • Happier their author, when by these belov’d!
    • From these the world will judge of men and books,
    • Not from the Burnets , Oldmixons, and Cookes.
    • Soft were my numbers; who could take offence
    • While pure description held the place of sense?
    • Like gentle Fanny’s was my flowery theme,
    • ‘A painted mistress, or a purling stream.’
    • Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill;151
    • I wish’d the man a dinner, and sat still:
    • Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret;
    • I never answer’d; I was not in debt.
    • If want provoked, or madness made them print,
    • I waged no war with Bedlam or the Mint.
    • Did some more sober critic come abroad;
    • If wrong, I smiled, if right, I kiss’d the rod.
    • Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence,
    • And all they want is spirit, taste, and sense.160
    • Commas and points they set exactly right,
    • And ’t were a sin to rob them of their mite.
    • Yet ne’er one sprig of laurel graced these ribalds,
    • From slashing Bentleys down to piddling Tibbalds.
    • Each wight who reads not, and but scans and spells,
    • Each word-catcher that lives on syllables,
    • Ev’n such small critics some regard may claim,
    • Preserv’d in Milton’s or in Shakespeare’s name.
    • Pretty! in amber to observe the forms
    • Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms!170
    • The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare,
    • But wonder how the devil they got there.
    • Were others angry: I excused them too;
    • Well might they rage, I gave them but their due.
    • A man’s true merit ’t is not hard to find;
    • But each man’s secret standard in his mind,
    • That casting-weight Pride adds to emptiness,
    • This, who can gratify? for who can guess?
    • The bard whom pilfer’d pastorals renown ,
    • Who turns a Persian tale for half-a-crown,180
    • Just writes to make his barrenness appear,
    • And strains from hard-bound brains eight lines a year;
    • He who still wanting, tho’ he lives on theft,
    • Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left;
    • And he who now to sense, now nonsense, leaning,
    • Means not, but blunders round about a meaning:
    • And he whose fustian’s so sublimely bad,
    • It is not poetry, but prose run mad:
    • All these my modest satire bade translate,
    • And own’d that nine such poets made a Tate .190
    • How did they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe!
    • And swear not Addison himself was safe.
    • Peace to all such! but were there one whose fires
    • True Genius kindles, and fair Fame inspires,
    • Bless’d with each talent and each art to please,
    • And born to write, converse, and live with ease;
    • Should such a man, too fond to rule alone,
    • Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne;
    • View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes,
    • And hate for arts that caus’d himself to rise;200
    • Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer,
    • And without sneering teach the rest to sneer;
    • Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike,
    • Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike;
    • Alike reserv’d to blame or to commend,
    • A tim’rous foe, and a suspicious friend;
    • Dreading ev’n fools; by flatterers besieged,
    • And so obliging that he ne’er obliged;
    • Like Cato, give his little Senate laws,
    • And sit attentive to his own applause:210
    • While Wits and Templars ev’ry sentence raise,
    • And wonder with a foolish face of praise—
    • Who but must laugh if such a man there be?
    • Who would not weep, if Atticus were he?
    • What tho’ my name stood rubric on the walls,
    • Or plaster’d posts, with claps, in capitals?
    • Or smoking forth, a hundred hawkers load,
    • On wings of winds came flying all abroad?
    • I sought no homage from the race that write;
    • I kept, like Asian Monarchs, from their sight:220
    • Poems I heeded (now berhymed so long)
    • No more than thou, great George! a birthday song.
    • I ne’er with Wits or Witlings pass’d my days
    • To spread about the itch of verse and praise;
    • Nor like a puppy daggled thro’ the town
    • To fetch and carry sing-song up and down;
    • Nor at rehearsals sweat, and mouth’d, and cried,
    • With handkerchief and orange at my side;
    • But sick of fops, and poetry, and prate,
    • To Bufo left the whole Castalian state.230
    • Proud as Apollo on his forked hill
    • Sat full-blown Bufo , puff’d by ev’ry quill:
    • Fed with soft dedication all day long,
    • Horace and he went hand in hand in song.
    • His library (where busts of poets dead,
    • And a true Pindar stood without a head )
    • Receiv’d of Wits an undistinguish’d race,
    • Who first his judgment ask’d, and then a place:
    • Much they extoll’d his pictures, much his seat,
    • And flatter’d ev’ry day, and some days eat:240
    • Till grown more frugal in his riper days,
    • He paid some bards with port, and some with praise;
    • To some a dry rehearsal was assign’d,
    • And others (harder still) he paid in kind.
    • Dryden alone (what wonder?) came not nigh;
    • Dryden alone escaped this judging eye:
    • But still the great have kindness in reserve;
    • He help’d to bury whom he help’d to starve.
    • May some choice patron bless each gray goose quill!
    • May every Bavius have his Bufo still!250
    • So when a statesman wants a day’s defence,
    • Or Envy holds a whole week’s war with Sense,
    • Or simple Pride for flatt’ry makes demands,
    • May dunce by dunce be whistled off my hands!
    • Bless’d be the great! for those they take away,
    • And those they left me—for they left me Gay ;
    • Left me to see neglected Genius bloom,
    • Neglected die, and tell it on his tomb:
    • Of all thy blameless life the sole return
    • My Verse, and Queensb’ry weeping o’er thy urn!260
    • Oh let me live my own, and die so too
    • (To live and die is all I have to do)!
    • Maintain a poet’s dignity and ease,
    • And see what friends, and read what books I please;
    • Above a Patron, tho’ I condescend
    • Sometimes to call a minister my Friend.
    • I was not born for courts or great affairs;
    • I pay my debts, believe, and say my prayers;
    • Can sleep without a poem in my head,
    • Nor know if Dennis be alive or dead.270
    • Why am I ask’d what next shall see the light?
    • Heav’ns! was I born for nothing but to write?
    • Has life no joys for me? or (to be grave)
    • Have I no friend to serve, no soul to save?
    • ‘I found him close with Swift’—‘Indeed? no doubt
    • (Cries prating Balbus) something will come out.’
    • ’T is all in vain, deny it as I will;
    • ‘No, such a genius never can lie still:’
    • And then for mine obligingly mistakes279
    • The first lampoon Sir Will or Bubo makes.
    • Poor guiltless I! and can I choose but smile,
    • When ev’ry coxcomb knows me by my style?
    • Curst be the verse, how well soe’er it flow,
    • That tends to make one worthy man my foe,
    • Give Virtue scandal, Innocence a fear,
    • Or from the soft-eyed virgin steal a tear!
    • But he who hurts a harmless neighbour’s peace,
    • Insults fall’n Worth, or Beauty in distress,
    • Who loves a lie, lame Slander helps about,
    • Who writes a libel, or who copies out;290
    • That fop whose pride affects a patron’s name,
    • Yet absent, wounds an author’s honest fame;
    • Who can your merit selfishly approve,
    • And show the sense of it without the love;
    • Who has the vanity to call you friend,
    • Yet wants the honour, injured, to defend;
    • Who tells whate’er you think, whate’er you say,
    • And, if he lie not, must at least betray;
    • Who to the Dean and Silver Bell can swear,299
    • And sees at Canons what was never there;
    • Who reads but with a lust to misapply,
    • Make satire a lampoon, and fiction lie:
    • A lash like mine no honest man shall dread,
    • But all such babbling blockheads in his stead.
    • Let Sporus tremble—A. What? that thing of silk,
    • Sporus, that mere white curd of Ass’s milk?
    • Satire or sense, alas! can Sporus feel?
    • Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?
    • P. Yet let me flap this bug with gilded wings,
    • This painted child of dirt, that stinks and stings;310
    • Whose buzz the witty and the fair annoys,
    • Yet Wit ne’er tastes, and Beauty ne’er enjoys;
    • So well-bred spaniels civilly delight
    • In mumbling of the game they dare not bite.
    • Eternal smiles his emptiness betray,
    • As shallow streams run dimpling all the way,
    • Whether in florid impotence he speaks,
    • And, as the prompter breathes, the puppet squeaks,
    • Or at the ear of Eve, familiar toad,
    • Half froth, half venom, spits himself abroad,320
    • In puns, or politics, or tales, or lies,
    • Or spite, or smut, or rhymes, or blasphemies;
    • His wit all see-saw between that and this, }
    • Now high, now low, now master up, now miss, }
    • And he himself one vile Antithesis. }
    • Amphibious thing! that acting either part,
    • The trifling head, or the corrupted heart;
    • Fop at the toilet, flatt’rer at the board,
    • Now trips a lady, and now struts a lord.
    • Eve’s tempter thus the Rabbins have exprest,330
    • A cherub’s face, a reptile all the rest;
    • Beauty that shocks you, Parts that none will trust,
    • Wit that can creep, and Pride that licks the dust.
    • Not Fortune’s worshipper, nor Fashion’s fool,
    • Not Lucre’s madman, nor Ambition’s tool,
    • Not proud nor servile;—be one poet’s praise,
    • That if he pleas’d, he pleas’d by manly ways:
    • That flatt’ry ev’n to Kings, he held a shame,
    • And thought a lie in verse or prose the same;339
    • That not in fancy’s maze he wander’d long,
    • But stoop’d to truth, and moralized his song;
    • That not for Fame, but Virtue’s better end,
    • He stood the furious foe, the timid friend,
    • The damning critic, half approving wit,
    • The coxcomb hit, or fearing to be hit;
    • Laugh’d at the loss of friends he never had,
    • The dull, the proud, the wicked, and the mad;
    • The distant threats of vengeance on his head,
    • The blow unfelt, the tear he never shed;349
    • The tale revived , the lie so oft o’erthrown,
    • Th’ imputed trash and dulness not his own;
    • The morals blacken’d when the writings ’scape,
    • The libell’d person, and the pictured shape;
    • Abuse on all he lov’d, or lov’d him, spread,
    • A friend in exile, or a father dead;
    • The whisper, that, to greatness still too near,
    • Perhaps yet vibrates on his Sov’reign’s ear—
    • Welcome for thee, fair Virtue! all the past:
    • For thee, fair Virtue! welcome ev’n the last!
    • A. But why insult the poor? affront the great?360
    • P. A knave ’s a knave to me in ev’ry state;
    • Alike my scorn, if he succeed or fail,
    • Sporus at court, or Japhet in a jail;
    • A hireling scribbler, or a hireling peer,
    • Knight of the post corrupt , or of the shire;
    • If on a Pillory, or near a Throne,
    • He gain his prince’s ear, or lose his own.
    • Yet soft by nature, more a dupe than wit,
    • Sappho can tell you how this man was bit:
    • This dreaded Satirist Dennis will confess
    • Foe to his pride, but friend to his distress :371
    • So humble, he has knock’d at Tibbald’s door,
    • Has drunk with Cibber, nay, has rhymed for Moore.
    • Full ten years slander’d, did he once reply?
    • Three thousand suns went down on Welsted’s lie .
    • To please a mistress one aspers’d his life;
    • He lash’d him not, but let her be his wife:
    • Let Budgell charge low Grub-street on his quill,
    • And write whate’er he pleased, except his will;379
    • Let the two Curlls of town and court abuse
    • His father, mother, body, soul, and muse:
    • Yet why? that father held it for a rule,
    • It was a sin to call our neighbour fool;
    • That harmless mother thought no wife a whore:
    • Hear this, and spare his family, James Moore!
    • Unspotted names, and memorable long,
    • If there be force in Virtue, or in Song.
    • Of gentle blood (part shed in honour’s cause,
    • While yet in Britain honour had applause)
    • Each parent sprung—A. What fortune, pray?—
    • P. Their own;390
    • And better got than Bestia’s from the throne.
    • Born to no pride, inheriting no strife,
    • Nor marrying discord in a noble wife ,
    • Stranger to civil and religious rage,
    • The good man walk’d innoxious thro’ his age.
    • No courts he saw, no suits would ever try,
    • Nor dared an oath, nor hazarded a lie.
    • Unlearn’d, he knew no schoolman’s subtle art,
    • No language but the language of the heart.
    • By Nature honest, by Experience wise,400
    • Healthy by Temp’rance and by Exercise;
    • His life, tho’ long, to sickness pass’d unknown,
    • His death was instant and without a groan.
    • O grant me thus to live, and thus to die!
    • Who sprung from kings shall know less joy than I.
    • O friend! may each domestic bliss be thine!
    • Be no unpleasing melancholy mine:
    • Me, let the tender office long engage
    • To rock the cradle of reposing Age,409
    • With lenient arts extend a Mother’s breath,
    • Make Languor smile, and smooth the bed of Death;
    • Explore the thought, explain the asking eye,
    • And keep a while one parent from the sky!
    • On cares like these if length of days attend,
    • May Heav’n, to bless those days, preserve my friend!
    • Preserve him social, cheerful, and serene,
    • And just as rich as when he serv’d a Queen .
    • A. Whether that blessing be denied or giv’n,
    • Thus far was right;—the rest belongs to Heav’n.
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SATIRES, EPISTLES, AND ODES OF HORACE IMITATED[ ]

Ludentis speciem dabit, et torquebitur.—Hor.

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ADVERTISEMENT

The occasion of publishing these Imitations was the clamour raised on some of my Epistles. An answer from Horace was both more full and of more dignity than any I could have made in my own person; and the example of much greater freedom in so eminent a divine as Dr. Donne, seemed a proof with what indignation and contempt a Christian may treat Vice or Folly, in ever so low or ever so high a station. Both these authors were acceptable to the Princes and Ministers under whom they lived. The satires of Dr. Donne I versified at the desire of the Earl of Oxford, while he was Lord Treasurer, and of the Duke of Shrewsbury, who had been Secretary of State; neither of whom looked upon a satire on vicious courts as any reflection on those they served in. And indeed there is not in the world a greater error than that which fools are so apt to fall into, and knaves with good reason to encourage,—the mistaking a Satirist for a Libeller; whereas to a true Satirist nothing is so odious as a Libeller, for the same reason as to a man truly virtuous nothing is so hateful as a hypocrite.

Uni sequus virtuti atque ejus amicis.

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THE FIRST SATIRE OF THE SECOND BOOK OF HORACE

This satire was first published in 1733, under the title A Dialogue between Alexander Pope of Twickenham, on the one part, and the Learned Counsel on the other.

TO MR. FORTESCUE

    • P.There are (I scarce can think it, but am told),
    • There are to whom my satire seems too bold;
    • Scarce to wise Peter complaisant enough,
    • And something said of Chartres much too rough.
    • The lines are weak, another ’s pleas’d to say;
    • Lord Fanny spins a thousand such a day.
    • Tim’rous by nature, of the rich in awe,
    • I come to counsel learned in the law:
    • You ’ll give me, like a friend both sage and free,
    • Advice; and (as you use) without a fee.10
    • F. I’d write no more.
    • P. Not write? but then I think,
    • And for my soul I cannot sleep a wink.
    • I nod in company, I wake at night;
    • Fools rush into my head, and so I write.
    • F. You could not do a worse thing for your life.
    • Why, if the night seem tedious—take a wife:
    • Or rather, truly, if your point be rest,
    • Lettuce and cowslip wine: probatum est.
    • But talk with Celsus, Celsus will advise
    • Hartshorn, or something that shall close your eyes.20
    • Or if you needs must write, write Cæsar’s praise;
    • You ’ll gain at least a Knighthood or the Bays.
    • P. What? like Sir Richard , rumbling, rough, and fierce,
    • With Arms, and George, and Brunswick, crowd the verse;
    • Rend with tremendous sound your ears asunder,
    • With gun, drum, trumpet, blunderbuss, and thunder?
    • Or nobly wild, with Budgell’s fire and force,
    • Paint angels trembling round his falling horse?
    • F. Then all your Muse’s softer art display,
    • Let Carolina smooth the tuneful lay;30
    • Lull with Amelia’s liquid name the Nine,
    • And sweetly flow thro’ all the royal line.
    • P. Alas! few verses touch their nicer ear;
    • They scarce can bear their Laureate twice a year;
    • And justly Cæsar scorns the poet’s lays;
    • It is to history he trusts for praise.
    • F. Better be Cibber, I ’ll maintain it still,
    • Than ridicule all Taste, blaspheme Quadrille,
    • Abuse the city’s best good men in metre,
    • And laugh at peers that put their trust in Peter .40
    • Ev’n those you touch not, hate you.
    • P. What should ail ’em?
    • F. A hundred smart in Timon and in Balaam.
    • The fewer still you name, you wound the more;
    • Bond is but one, but Harpax is a score.
    • P. Each mortal has his pleasure: none deny
    • Scarsdale his bottle , Darty his ham-pie:
    • Ridotta sips and dances till she see
    • The doubling lustres dance as fast as she:
    • F[ox] loves the Senate, Hockley-hole his brother,
    • Like in all else, as one egg to another.50
    • I love to pour out all myself as plain
    • As downright Shippen , or as old Montaigne:
    • In them, as certain to be lov’d as seen,
    • The soul stood forth, nor kept a thought within;
    • In me what spots (for spots I have) appear,
    • Will prove at least the medium must be clear.
    • In this impartial glass my Muse intends
    • Fair to expose myself, my foes, my friends;
    • Publish the present age; but where my text
    • Is vice too high, reserve it for the next;60
    • My foes shall wish my life a longer date,
    • And ev’ry friend the less lament my fate.
    • My head and heart thus flowing thro’ my quill,
    • Verse-man or prose-man, term me which you will,
    • Papist or Protestant, or both between,
    • Like good Erasmus, in an honest mean,
    • In moderation placing all my glory,
    • While Tories call me Whig, and Whigs a Tory.
    • Satire ’s my weapon, but I ’m too discreet
    • To run amuck, and tilt at all I meet;70
    • I only wear it in a land of Hectors,
    • Thieves, supercargoes, sharpers, and directors.
    • Save but our Army! and let Jove incrust
    • Swords, pikes, and guns, with everlasting rust!
    • Peace is my dear delight—not Fleury’s more:
    • But touch me, and no minister so sore.
    • Whoe’er offends, at some unlucky time
    • Slides into verse, and hitches in a rhyme,
    • Sacred to ridicule his whole life long,79
    • And the sad burden of some merry song.
    • Slander or poison dread from Delia’s rage;
    • Hard words or hanging, if your judge be Page ;
    • From furious Sappho scarce a milder fate,
    • Pox’d by her love, or libell’d by her hate.
    • Its proper power to hurt each creature feels;
    • Bulls aim their horns, and asses lift their heels;
    • ’T is a bear’s talent not to kick, but hug;
    • And no man wonders he ’s not stung by Pug.
    • So drink with Walters, or with Chartres eat,
    • They ’ll never poison you, they ’ll only cheat.90
    • Then, learned Sir! (to cut the matter short)
    • Whate’er my fate,—or well or ill at court,
    • Whether old age, with faint but cheerful ray,
    • Attends to gild the ev’ning of my day,
    • Or death’s black wing already be display’d,
    • To wrap me in the universal shade;
    • Whether the darken’d room to muse invite,
    • Or whiten’d wall provoke the skewer to write;
    • In durance, exile, Bedlam, or the Mint,—
    • Like Lee or Budgell I will rhyme and print.100
    • F. Alas, young man, your days can ne’er be long:
    • In flower of age you perish for a song!
    • Plums and directors, Shylock and his wife,
    • Will club their testers now to take your life.
    • P. What? arm’d for Virtue when I point the pen,
    • Brand the bold front of shameless guilty men,
    • Dash the proud Gamester in his gilded car,
    • Bare the mean heart that lurks beneath a Star;
    • Can there be wanting, to defend her cause,
    • Lights of the Church, or guardians of the Laws?110
    • Could pension’d Boileau lash in honest strain
    • Flatt’rers and bigots ev’n in Louis’ reign?
    • Could Laureate Dryden pimp and friar engage,
    • Yet neither Charles nor James be in a rage?
    • And I not strip the gilding off a knave,
    • Unplaced, unpension’d, no man’s heir or slave?
    • I will, or perish in the gen’rous cause;
    • Hear this, and tremble! you who ’scape the laws.
    • Yes, while I live, no rich or noble knave
    • Shall walk the world in credit to his grave:120
    • To Virtue only and her Friends a friend,
    • The world beside may murmur or commend.
    • Know, all the distant din that world can keep,
    • Rolls o’er my grotto and but soothes my sleep.
    • There my retreat the best companions grace,
    • Chiefs out of war, and statesmen out of place:
    • There St. John mingles with my friendly bowl
    • The feast of reason and the flow of soul:
    • And he, whose lightning pierced th’ Iberian lines,
    • Now forms my quincunx, and now ranks my vines;130
    • Or tames the genius of the stubborn plain,
    • Almost as quickly as he conquer’d Spain.
    • Envy must own I live among the great,
    • No pimp of Pleasure, and no spy of State,
    • With eyes that pry not, tongue that ne’er repeats,
    • Fond to spread friendships, but to cover heats;
    • To help who want, to forward who excel;
    • This all who know me, know; who love me, tell;
    • And who unknown defame me, let them be
    • Scribblers or peers, alike are Mob to me.140
    • This is my plea, on this I rest my cause—
    • What saith my counsel, learned in the laws?
    • F. Your plea is good; but still I say, beware!
    • Laws are explain’d by men—so have a care.
    • It stands on record, that in Richard’s times
    • A man was hang’d for very honest rhymes.
    • Consult the statute; quart. I think it is,
    • Edwardi sext. or prim. et quint. Eliz.
    • See Libels, Satires—here you have it—read.
    • P. Libels and Satires! lawless things indeed!150
    • But grave epistles, bringing Vice to light,
    • Such as a King might read, a Bishop write,
    • Such as Sir Robert would approve—F. Indeed!
    • The case is alter’d—you may then proceed:
    • In such a cause the Plaintiff will be hiss’d,
    • My Lords the Judges laugh, and you ’re dismiss’d.
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THE SECOND SATIRE OF THE SECOND BOOK OF HORACE[ ]

TO MR. BETHEL

    • What, and how great, the Virtue and the Art
    • To live on little with a cheerful heart!
    • (A doctrine sage, but truly none of mine)
    • Let ’s talk, my friends, but talk before we dine;
    • Not when a gilt buffet’s reflected pride
    • Turns you from sound Philosophy aside;
    • Not when from plate to plate your eyeballs roll,
    • And the brain dances to the mantling bowl.
    • Hear Bethel’s sermon, one not vers’d in schools
    • But strong in sense, and wise without the rules.10
    • ‘Go work, hunt, exercise! (he thus began)
    • Then scorn a homely dinner if you can.
    • Your wine lock’d up, your butler stroll’d abroad,
    • Or fish denied (the river yet unthaw’d);
    • If then plain bread and milk will do the feat,
    • The pleasure lies in you, and not the meat.’
    • Preach as I please, I doubt our curious men
    • Will choose a pheasant still before a hen;
    • Yet hens of Guinea full as good I hold,
    • Except you eat the feathers green and gold.20
    • Of carps and mullets why prefer the great,
    • (Tho’ cut in pieces ere my Lord can eat)
    • Yet for small turbots such esteem profess?
    • Because God made these large, the other less.
    • Oldfield , with more than harpy throat endued,
    • Cries, ‘Send me, Gods! a whole Hog barbecued!’
    • O blast it, South-winds! till a stench exhale
    • Rank as the ripeness of a rabbit’s tail.
    • By what criterion do you eat, d’ ye think,
    • If this is prized for sweetness, that for stink?30
    • When the tired glutton labours thro’ a treat,
    • He finds no relish in the sweetest meat;
    • He calls for something bitter, something sour,
    • And the rich feast concludes extremely poor:
    • Cheap eggs, and herbs, and olives, still we see;
    • Thus much is left of old Simplicity!
    • The robin-redbreast till of late had rest,
    • And children sacred held a martin’s nest,
    • Till becaficos sold so devilish dear
    • To one that was, or would have been, a Peer.40
    • Let me extol a cat on oysters fed;
    • I ’ll have a party at the Bedford-head :
    • Or ev’n to crack live crawfish recommend;
    • I ’d never doubt at court to make a friend!
    • ’T is yet in vain, I own, to keep a pother
    • About one vice, and fall into the other:
    • Between Excess and Famine lies a mean;
    • Plain, but not sordid; tho’ not splendid, clean.
    • Avidien or his wife (no matter which,49
    • For him you ’ll call a dog, and her a bitch)
    • Sell their presented partridges and fruits,
    • And humbly live on rabbits and on roots:
    • One half-pint bottle serves them both to dine,
    • And is at once their vinegar and wine:
    • But on some lucky day (as when they found
    • A lost bank-bill, or heard their son was drown’d)
    • At such a feast, old vinegar to spare,
    • Is what two souls so gen’rous cannot bear:
    • Oil, tho’ it stink, they drop by drop impart,
    • But souse the cabbage with a bounteous heart.60
    • He knows to live who keeps the middle state,
    • And neither leans on this side nor on that;
    • Nor stops for one bad cork his butler’s pay,
    • Swears, like Albutius, a good cook away;
    • Nor lets, like Nævius, ev’ry error pass,
    • The musty wine, foul cloth, or greasy glass.
    • Now hear what blessings Temperance can bring
    • (Thus said our friend, and what he said I sing):
    • First Health: the stomach (cramm’d from ev’ry dish,
    • A tomb of boil’d and roast, and flesh and fish,70
    • Where bile, and wind, and phlegm, and acid, jar,
    • And all the man is one intestine war)
    • Remembers oft the schoolboy’s simple fare,
    • The temp’rate sleeps, and spirits light as air.
    • How pale each worshipful and rev’rend guest
    • Rise from a clergy or a city feast!
    • What life in all that ample body, say?
    • What heav’nly particle inspires the clay?
    • The Soul subsides, and wickedly inclines
    • To seem but mortal ev’n in sound Divines.
    • On morning wings how active springs the mind81
    • That leaves the load of yesterday behind!
    • How easy every labour it pursues!
    • How coming to the Poet ev’ry Muse!
    • Not but we may exceed, some holy-time,
    • Or tired in search of Truth or search of Rhyme:
    • Ill health some just indulgence may engage,
    • And more the sickness of long life, old age:
    • For fainting age what cordial drop remains,
    • If our intemp’rate youth the vessel drains?
    • Our fathers prais’d rank venison. You suppose,91
    • Perhaps, young men! our fathers had no nose.
    • Not so: a buck was then a week’s repast,
    • And ’t was their point, I ween, to make it last;
    • More pleas’d to keep it till their friends could come,
    • Than eat the sweetest by themselves at home.
    • Why had not I in those good times my birth,
    • Ere coxcomb-pies or coxcombs were on earth?
    • Unworthy he the voice of Fame to hear,
    • That sweetest music to an honest ear100
    • (For ’faith, Lord Fanny! you are in the wrong,
    • The world’s good word is better than a song),
    • Who has not learn’d fresh sturgeon and ham-pie
    • Are no rewards for want and infamy!
    • When Luxury has lick’d up all thy pelf,
    • Curs’d by thy neighbours, thy trustees, thyself;
    • To friends, to fortune, to mankind a shame,
    • Think how posterity will treat thy name;
    • And buy a rope, that future times may tell
    • Thou hast at least bestow’d one penny well.
    • ‘Right,’ cries his lordship, ‘for a rogue in need111
    • To have a taste is insolence indeed:
    • In me ’t is noble, suits my birth and state,
    • My wealth unwieldy, and my heap too great.’
    • Then, like the sun, let Bounty spread her ray,
    • And shine that superfluity away.
    • Oh impudence of wealth! with all thy store
    • How darest thou let one worthy man be poor?
    • Shall half the new-built churches round thee fall?
    • Make quays, build bridges, or repair Whitehall;120
    • Or to thy country let that heap be lent,
    • As M[arlbor]o’s was, but not at five per cent.
    • ‘Who thinks that Fortune cannot change her mind,
    • Prepares a dreadful jest for all mankind.
    • And who stands safest? tell me, is it he
    • That spreads and swells in puff’d prosperity,
    • Or bless’d with little, whose preventing care
    • In peace provides fit arms against a war?’
    • Thus Bethel spoke, who always speaks his thought,
    • And always thinks the very thing he ought:
    • His equal mind I copy what I can,131
    • And as I love, would imitate the man.
    • In South-Sea days, not happier, when surmised
    • The lord of thousands, than if now excised;
    • In forest planted by a father’s hand,
    • Than in five acres now of rented land.
    • Content with little, I can piddle here
    • On brocoli and mutton round the year;
    • But ancient friends (tho’ poor, or out of play)
    • That touch my bell, I cannot turn away.140
    • ’T is true, no turbots dignify my boards,
    • But gudgeons, flounders, what my Thames affords:
    • To Hounslow Heath I point, and Banstead Down,
    • Thence comes your mutton, and these chicks my own:
    • From you old walnut tree a shower shall fall,
    • And grapes long ling’ring on my only wall;
    • And figs from standard and espalier join;
    • The devil is in you if you cannot dine:
    • Then cheerful healths (your Mistress shall have place),
    • And, what’s more rare, a Poet shall say grace.150
    • Fortune not much of humbling me can boast;
    • Tho’ double tax’d, how little have I lost!
    • My life’s amusements have been just the same,
    • Before and after standing armies came.
    • My lands are sold, my father’s house is gone;
    • I ’ll hire another’s; is not that my own—
    • And yours, my friends—thro’ whose free opening gate
    • None comes too early, none departs too late?
    • (For I, who hold sage Homer’s rule the best,
    • Welcome the coming, speed the going guest.)160
    • ‘Pray Heav’n it last! (cries Swift) as you go on:
    • I wish to God this house had been your own!
    • Pity! to build without a son or wife:
    • Why, you ’ll enjoy it only all your life.’
    • Well, if the use be mine, can it concern one
    • Whether the name belong to Pope or Vernon?
    • What ’s property? dear Swift! you see it alter
    • From you to me, from me to Peter Walter;
    • Or in a mortgage prove a lawyer’s share,
    • Or in a jointure vanish from the heir;170
    • Or in pure equity (the case not clear)
    • The Chancery takes your rents for twenty year:
    • At best it falls to some ungracious son,
    • Who cries, ‘My father ’s damn’d, and all ’s my own.’
    • Shades, that to Bacon could retreat afford,
    • Become the portion of a booby lord;
    • And Hemsley, once proud Buckingham’s delight,
    • Slides to a scriv’ner or a city knight.
    • Let lands and houses have what lords they will,179
    • Let us be fix’d, and our own masters still.
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THE FIRST EPISTLE OF THE FIRST BOOK OF HORACE[ ]

TO LORD BOLINGBROKE

    • St. John, whose love indulged my labours past,
    • Matures my present, and shall bound my last,
    • Why will you break the Sabbath of my days?
    • Now sick alike of envy and of praise.
    • Public too long, ah! let me hide my Age:
    • See modest Cibber now has left the Stage:
    • Our gen’rals now, retired to their estates,
    • Hang their old trophies o’er the garden gates;
    • In life’s cool ev’ning satiate of applause,
    • Nor fond of bleeding ev’n in Brunswick’s cause.10
    • A voice there is, that whispers in my ear
    • (’T is Reason’s voice, which sometimes one can hear),
    • ‘Friend Pope! be prudent, let your Muse take breath,
    • And never gallop Pegasus to death;
    • Lest stiff and stately, void of fire or force,
    • You limp, like Blackmore, on a lord mayor’s horse.’
    • Farewell then Verse, and Love, and ev’ry toy,
    • The rhymes and rattles of the Man or Boy;
    • What right, what true, what fit, we justly call,
    • Let this be all my care—for this is all;20
    • To lay this harvest up, and hoard with haste
    • What ev’ry day will want, and most the last.
    • But ask not to what Doctors I apply;
    • Sworn to no master, of no sect am I:
    • As drives the storm, at any door I knock,
    • And house with Montaigne now, or now with Locke.
    • Sometimes a patriot, active in debate,
    • Mix with the world, and battle for the state;
    • Free as young Lyttleton, her cause pursue,
    • Still true to Virtue, and as warm as true:30
    • Sometimes with Aristippus or St. Paul,
    • Indulge my candour, and grow all to all;
    • Back to my native Moderation slide,
    • And win my way by yielding to the tide.
    • Long as to him who works for debt the day,
    • Long as the night to her whose love ’s away,
    • Long as the year’s dull circle seems to run
    • When the brisk minor pants for twenty-one;
    • So slow th’ unprofitable moments roll
    • That lock up all the functions of my soul,40
    • That keep me from myself, and still delay
    • Life’s instant business to a future day;
    • That task which as we follow or despise,
    • The eldest is a fool, the youngest wise;
    • Which done, the poorest can no wants endure;
    • And which not done, the richest must be poor.
    • Late as it is, I put myself to school,
    • And feel some comfort not to be a fool.
    • Weak tho’ I am of limb, and short of sight,
    • Far from a lynx, and not a giant quite,50
    • I ’ll do what Mead and Cheselden advise,
    • To keep these limbs, and to preserve these eyes.
    • Not to go back is somewhat to advance,
    • And men must walk, at least, before they dance.
    • Say, does thy blood rebel, thy bosom move
    • With wretched Av’rice, or as wretched Love?
    • Know there are words and spells which can control,
    • Between the fits, this fever of the soul;
    • Know there are rhymes which, fresh and fresh applied,59
    • Will cure the arrant’st puppy of his pride.
    • Be furious, envious, slothful, mad, or drunk,
    • Slave to a wife, or vassal to a punk,
    • A Switz, a High-Dutch or a Low-Dutch bear;
    • All that we ask is but a patient ear.
    • ’T is the first virtue vices to abhor,
    • And the first wisdom to be fool no more:
    • But to the world no bugbear is so great
    • As want of figure and a small Estate.
    • To either India see the merchant fly,
    • Scared at the spectre of pale Poverty!70
    • See him with pains of body, pangs of soul,
    • Burn thro’ the Tropics, freeze beneath the Pole!
    • Wilt thou do nothing for a nobler end,
    • Nothing to make Philosophy thy friend?
    • To stop thy foolish views, thy long desires,
    • And ease thy heart of all that it admires?
    • Here Wisdom calls, ‘Seek Virtue first, be bold!
    • As gold to silver, Virtue is to gold.’
    • There London’s voice, ‘Get money, money still!
    • And then let Virtue follow if she will.’80
    • This, this the saving doctrine preach’d to all,
    • From low St. James’s up to high St. Paul;
    • From him whose quills stand quiver’d at his ear,
    • To him who notches sticks at Westminster.
    • Barnard in spirit, sense, and truth abounds;
    • ‘Pray then what wants he?’ Fourscore thousand pounds;
    • A pension, or such harness for a slave
    • As Bug now has, and Dorimant would have.
    • Barnard, thou art a cit, with all thy worth;
    • But Bug and D*ltheir Honours! and so forth.90
    • Yet ev’ry child another song will sing,
    • ‘Virtue, brave boys! ’t is Virtue makes a King.’
    • True, conscious Honour is to feel no sin;
    • He’s arm’d without that’s innocent within:
    • Be this thy screen, and this thy wall of brass;
    • Compared to this a Minister’s an Ass.
    • And say, to which shall our applause belong,
    • This new Court jargon, or the good old song?
    • The modern language of corrupted peers,
    • Or what was spoke at Cressy and Poictiers?100
    • Who counsels best? who whispers, ‘Be but great,
    • With praise or infamy—leave that to Fate;
    • Get Place and Wealth, if possible with grace;
    • If not, by any means get Wealth and Place:’
    • (For what? to have a Box where eunuchs sing,
    • And foremost in the circle eye a King?)
    • Or he who bids thee face with steady view }
    • Proud Fortune, and look shallow Greatness thro’, }
    • And, while he bids thee, sets th’ example too? }
    • If such a doctrine, in St. James’s air,110
    • Should chance to make the well-drest rabble stare;
    • If honest S[chut]z take scandal at a spark
    • That less admires the Palace than the Park;
    • Faith, I shall give the answer Reynard gave:
    • ‘I cannot like, dread Sir! your royal cave;
    • Because I see, by all the tracks about,
    • Full many a beast goes in, but none come out.’
    • Adieu to Virtue, if you’re once a slave:
    • Send her to Court, you send her to her grave.
    • Well, if a King’s a lion, at the least120
    • The people are a many-headed beast;
    • Can they direct what measures to pursue,
    • Who know themselves so little what to do?
    • Alike in nothing but one lust of gold,
    • Just half the land would buy, and half be sold:
    • Their country’s wealth our mightier misers drain,
    • Or cross, to plunder provinces, the main;
    • The rest, some farm the Poor-box, some the Pews;
    • Some keep Assemblies, and would keep the Stews;
    • Some with fat bucks on childless dotards fawn;130
    • Some win rich widows by their chine and brawn;
    • While with the silent growth of ten per cent.,
    • In dirt and darkness, hundreds stink content.
    • Of all these ways, if each pursues his own,
    • Satire, be kind, and let the wretch alone;
    • But show me one who has it in his power
    • To act consistent with himself an hour.
    • Sir Job sail’d forth, the ev’ning bright and still,
    • ‘No place on earth (he cried) like Greenwich hill!’139
    • Up starts a palace: lo, th’ obedient base }
    • Slopes at its foot, the woods its sides embrace, }
    • The silver Thames reflects its marble face. }
    • Now let some whimsy, or that Devil within }
    • Which guides all those who know not what they mean, }
    • But give the Knight (or give his Lady) spleen; }
    • ‘Away, away! take all your scaffolds down,
    • For snug’s the word: My dear! we’ll live in town.’
    • At am’rous Flavio is the stocking thrown?
    • That very night he longs to lie alone.
    • The fool whose wife elopes some thrice a quarter,150
    • For matrimonial solace dies a martyr.
    • Did ever Proteus, Merlin, any witch, }
    • Transform themselves so strangely as the Rich? }
    • Well, but the Poor—the Poor have the same itch; }
    • They change their weekly barber, weekly news,
    • Prefer a new japanner to their shoes,
    • Discharge their garrets, move their beds, and run
    • (They know not whither) in a chaise and one;
    • They hire their sculler, and when once aboard
    • Grow sick, and damn the climate—like a Lord.160
    • You laugh, half Beau, half Sloven if I stand,
    • My wig all powder, and all snuff my band;
    • You laugh if coat and breeches strangely vary,
    • White gloves, and linen worthy Lady Mary!
    • But when no prelate’s lawn, with hair-shirt lin’d,
    • Is half so incoherent as my mind,
    • When (each opinion with the next at strife,
    • One ebb and flow of follies all my life)
    • I plant, root up, I build, and then confound;
    • Turn round to square, and square again to round;170
    • You never change one muscle of your face,
    • You think this madness but a common case;
    • Nor once to Chancery nor to Hale apply,
    • Yet hang your lip to see a seam awry!
    • Careless how ill I with myself agree,
    • Kind to my dress, my figure,—not to me.
    • Is this my Guide, Philosopher, and Friend ?
    • This he who loves me, and who ought to mend?
    • Who ought to make me (what he can, or none)
    • That man divine whom Wisdom calls her own;180
    • Great without Title, without Fortune bless’d;
    • Rich ev’n when plunder’d, honour’d while oppress’d;
    • Lov’d without youth, and follow’d without power;
    • At home tho’ exiled, free tho’ in the Tower;
    • In short, that reas’ning, high, immortal thing,
    • Just less than Jove, and much above a King;
    • Nay, half in Heav’n—except (what’s mighty odd)
    • A fit of Vapours clouds this Demigod.
[Back to Table of Contents]

THE SIXTH EPISTLE OF THE FIRST BOOK OF HORACE[ ]

TO MR. MURRAY

    • ‘Not to admire , is all the art I know,
    • To make men happy, and to keep them so.’
    • (Plain truth, dear Murray! needs no flowers of speech,
    • So take it in the very words of Creech.)
    • This vault of air, this congregated ball,
    • Self-centred sun, and stars that rise and fall,
    • There are, my Friend! whose philosophic eyes
    • Look thro’, and trust the Ruler with his skies;
    • To him commit the hour, the day, the year,
    • And view this dreadful All—without a fear.10
    • Admire we then what earth’s low entrails hold, }
    • Arabian sbores, or Indian seas infold; }
    • All the mad trade of fools and slaves for gold? }
    • Or Popularity? or Stars and Strings?
    • The Mob’s applauses, or the gifts of Kings?
    • Say with what eyes we ought at courts to gaze,
    • And pay the great our homage of amaze?
    • If weak the pleasure that from these can spring,
    • The fear to want them is as weak a thing:
    • Whether we dread, or whether we desire,20
    • In either case, believe me, we admire:
    • Whether we joy or grieve, the same the curse,
    • Surprised at better, or surprised at worse.
    • Thus good or bad, to one extreme betray
    • Th’ unbalanc’d mind, and snatch the man away;
    • For Virtue’s self may too much zeal be had;
    • The worst of madmen is a saint run mad.
    • Go then, and if you can, admire the state
    • Of beaming diamonds and reflected plate;
    • Procure a Taste to double the surprise,30
    • And gaze on Parian charms with learned eyes;
    • Be struck with bright brocade or Tyrian dye,
    • Our birthday nobles’ splendid livery.
    • If not so pleas’d, at council-board rejoice
    • To see their judgments hang upon thy voice;
    • From morn to night, at Senate, Rolls, and Hall,
    • Plead much, read more, dine late, or not at all.
    • But wherefore all this labour, all this strife?
    • For Fame, for Riches, for a noble Wife?
    • Shall one whom Nature, Learning, Birth, conspired40
    • To form, not to admire, but be admired,
    • Sigh while his Chloë, blind to Wit and Worth,
    • Weds the rich dulness of some son of earth?
    • Yet Time ennobles or degrades each line;
    • It brighten’d Craggs’s , and may darken thine.
    • And what is Fame? the meanest have their day;
    • The greatest can but blaze and pass away.
    • Graced as thou art with all the power of words,
    • So known, so honour’d, at the House of Lords:
    • Conspicuous scene! another yet is nigh50
    • (More silent far), where Kings and Poets lie;
    • Where Murray (long enough his country’s pride)
    • Shall be no more than Tully or than Hyde !
    • Rack’d with sciatics, martyr’d with the stone,
    • Will any mortal let himself alone?
    • See Ward, by batter’d Beaux invited over,
    • And desp’rate misery lays hold on Dover.
    • The case is easier in the mind’s disease;
    • There all men may be cured whene’er they please.
    • Would ye be bless’d? despise low joys, low gains;60 }
    • Disdain whatever Cornbury disdains; }
    • Be virtuous, and be happy for your pains. }
    • But art thou one whom new opinions sway,
    • One who believes as Tindal leads the way?
    • Who Virtue and a Church alike disowns,
    • Thinks that but words, and this but brick and stones?
    • Fly then on all the wings of wild desire,
    • Admire whate’er the maddest can admire.
    • Is Wealth thy passion? hence! from pole to pole,
    • Where winds can carry, or where waves can roll,70
    • For Indian spices, for Peruvian gold,
    • Prevent the greedy, and outbid the bold:
    • Advance thy golden mountain to the skies;
    • On the broad base of fifty thousand rise;
    • Add one round hundred, and (if that ’s not fair)
    • Add fifty more, and bring it to a square:
    • For, mark th’ advantage; just so many score
    • Will gain a wife with half as many more,
    • Procure her beauty, make that beauty chaste,
    • And then such friends—as cannot fail to last.80
    • A man of Wealth is dubb’d a man of Worth;
    • Venus shall give him form, and Antis birth.
    • (Believe me, many a German Prince is worse,
    • Who proud of pedigree is poor of purse.)
    • His Wealth brave Timon gloriously confounds;
    • Ask’d for a groat, he gives a hundred pounds;
    • Or if three ladies like a luckless play ,
    • Takes the whole house upon the poet’s day.
    • Now, in such exigencies not to need,
    • Upon my word you must be rich indeed:90
    • A noble superfluity it craves,
    • Not for yourself, but for your fools and knaves;
    • Something which for your honour they may cheat,
    • And which it much becomes you to forget.
    • If Wealth alone then make and keep us blest,
    • Still, still be getting; never, never rest.
    • But if to Power and Place your passion lie,
    • If in the pomp of life consist the joy;
    • Then hire a slave, or (if you will) a Lord,
    • To do the honours, and to give the word;
    • Tell at your Levee, as the crowds approach,101
    • To whom to nod, whom take into your coach,
    • Whom honour with your hand; to make remarks,
    • Who rules in Cornwall, or who rules in Berks:
    • ‘This may be troublesome, is near the chair;
    • That makes three Members, this can choose a Mayor.’
    • Instructed thus, you bow, embrace, protest, }
    • Adopt him son, or cousin at the least, }
    • Then turn about, and laugh at your own jest. }
    • Or if your life be one continued treat,110
    • If to live well means nothing but to eat;
    • Up, up! cries Gluttony, ’t is break of day,
    • Go drive the deer, and drag the finny prey:
    • With hounds and horns go hunt an appetite—
    • So Russell did, but could not eat at night;
    • Call’d happy dog the beggar at his door,
    • And envied thirst and hunger to the poor.
    • Or shall we every decency confound,
    • Thro’ Taverns, Stews, and Bagnios, take our round?119
    • Go dine with Chartres, in each vice outdo
    • K[innou]l’s lewd cargo , or Ty[rawle]y’s crew,
    • From Latian Syrens, French Circean feasts,
    • Return well travell’d, and transform’d to beasts;
    • Or for a titled punk, or foreign flame,
    • Renounce our country, and degrade our name?
    • If, after all, we must with Wilmot own
    • The cordial drop of life is Love alone,
    • And Swift cry wisely, ‘Vive la bagatelle!’
    • The man that loves and laughs must sure do well.
    • Adieu—if this advice appear the worst,130
    • Ev’n take the counsel which I gave you first:
    • Or better precepts if you can impart,
    • Why do; I ’ll follow them with all my heart.
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THE FIRST EPISTLE OF THE SECOND BOOK OF HORACE[ ]

The identification of Augustus with George II. makes it necessary to take much of this poem ironically. George II., since his accession ten years before this was written (1737), had shown absolute indifference to the literature of England. The critical portions of the satire undoubtedly present Pope’s real judgment of contemporary literature.

ADVERTISEMENT

The reflections of Horace, and the judgments passed in his Epistle to Augustus, seemed so seasonable to the present times, that I could not help applying them to the use of my own country. The author thought them considerable enough to address them to his prince, whom he paints with all the great and good qualities of a monarch upon whom the Romans depended for the increase of an absolute Empire; but to make the poem entirely English, I was willing to add one or two of those which contribute to the happiness of a Free People, and are more consistent with the welfare of our neighbours.

This epistle will show the learned world to have fallen into two mistakes: one, that Augustus was a Patron of poets in general; whereas he not only prohibited all but the best writers to name him, but recommended that care even to the civil magistrate; Admonebat prœtores, ne paterentur nomen suum obsolefieri, &c.; the other, that this piece was only a general Discourse of Poetry; whereas it was an Apology for the Poets, in order to render Augustus more their patron. Horace here pleads the cause of his contemporaries; first, against the Taste of the town, whose humour it was to magnify the authors of the preceding age; secondly, against the Court and Nobility, who encouraged only the writers for the Theatre; and, lastly, against the Emperor himself, who had conceived them of little use to the Government. He shows (by a view of the progress of Learning, and the change of Taste among the Romans) that the introduction of the Polite Arts of Greece had given the writers of his time great advantages over their predecessors; that their Morals were much improved, and the license of those ancient poets restrained; that Satire and Comedy were become more just and useful; that whatever extravagancies were left on the stage were owing to the ill taste of the nobility; that poets, under due regulations, were in many respects useful to the State; and concludes, that it was upon them the Emperor himself must depend for his Fame with posterity.

We may further learn from this Epistle, that Horace made his court to this great Prince, by writing with a decent freedom toward him, with a just contempt of his low flatterers, and with a manly regard to his own character.

TO AUGUSTUS

    • While you, great Patron of Mankind! sustain
    • The balanced world, and open all the main;
    • Your country, chief, in Arms abroad defend,
    • At home with Morals, Arts, and Laws amend;
    • How shall the Muse, from such a monarch, steal
    • An hour, and not defraud the public weal?
    • Edward and Henry, now the boast of Fame,
    • And virtuous Alfred, a more sacred name,
    • After a life of gen’rous toils endured,—
    • The Gaul subdued, or property secured,10
    • Ambition humbled, mighty cities storm’d,
    • Or laws establish’d, and the world reform’d—
    • Closed their long glories with a sigh, to find
    • Th’ unwilling gratitude of base Mankind!
    • All human Virtue, to its latest breath,
    • Finds Envy never conquer’d but by Death.
    • The great Alcides, ev’ry labour past,
    • Had still this monster to subdue at last:
    • Sure fate of all, beneath whose rising ray
    • Each star of meaner merit fades away!20
    • Oppress’d we feel the beam directly beat;
    • Those suns of glory please not till they set.
    • To thee the World its present homage pays,
    • The harvest early, but mature the praise:
    • Great friend of Liberty! in Kings a name
    • Above all Greek, above all Roman fame;
    • Whose word is truth, as sacred and revered
    • As Heav’n’s own oracles from altars heard.
    • Wonder of Kings! like whom to mortal eyes
    • None e’er has risen, and none e’er shall rise.30
    • Just in one instance, be it yet confest
    • Your people, sir, are partial in the rest;
    • Foes to all living worth except your own,
    • And advocates for folly dead and gone.
    • Authors, like coins, grow dear as they grow old;
    • It is the Rust we value, not the Gold.
    • Chaucer’s worst ribaldry is learn’d by rote,
    • And beastly Skelton heads of houses quote;
    • One likes no language but the Faery Queen;
    • A Scot will flight for Christ’s Kirk o’ the Green ;40
    • And each true Briton is to Ben so civil,
    • He swears the Muses met him at the Devil .
    • Tho’ justly Greece her eldest sons admires,
    • Why should not we be wiser than our sires?
    • In every public virtue we excel,
    • We build, we paint, we sing, we dance, as well;
    • And learned Athens to our art must stoop,
    • Could she behold us tumbling thro’ a hoop.
    • If time improve our Wit as well as Wine,
    • Say at what age a poet grows divine?50
    • Shall we, or shall we not, account him so
    • Who died, perhaps, a hundred years ago?
    • End all dispute; and fix the year precise
    • When British bards begin t’ immortalize?
    • ‘Who lasts a century can have no flaw;
    • I hold that Wit a classic, good in law.’
    • Suppose he wants a year, will you compound?
    • And shall we deem him ancient, right, and sound,
    • Or damn to all eternity at once
    • At ninety-nine a modern and a dunce?60
    • ‘We shall not quarrel for a year or two;
    • By courtesy of England he may do.’
    • Then by the rule that made the horsetail bare,
    • I pluck out year by year, as hair by hair,
    • And melt down Ancients like a heap of snow,
    • While you, to measure merits, look in Stowe ,
    • And estimating authors by the year,
    • Bestow a garland only on a bier.
    • Shakespeare (whom you and every playhouse bill
    • Style the divine! the matchless! what you will)70
    • For Gain, not Glory, wing’d his roving flight,
    • And grew immortal in his own despite.
    • Ben, old and poor, as little seem’d to heed
    • The life to come in every poet’s creed.
    • Who now reads Cowley? if he pleases yet,
    • His Moral pleases, not his pointed Wit:
    • Forgot his Epic, nay, Pindaric art,
    • But still I love the language of his heart.
    • ‘Yet surely, surely these were famous men!
    • What boy but hears the sayings of old Ben?
    • In all debates where Critics bear a part,81
    • Not one but nods, and talks of Jonson’s Art,
    • Of Shakespeare’s Nature, and of Cowley’s Wit;
    • How Beaumont’s judgment check’d what Fletcher writ;
    • How Shadwell hasty, Wycherley was slow;
    • But for the passions, Southern sure, and Rowe!
    • These, only these, support the crowded stage,
    • From eldest Heywood down to Cibber’s age.’
    • All this may be; the People’s voice is odd;
    • It is, and it is not, the voice of God.90
    • To Gammer Gurton if it give the bays,
    • And yet deny the Careless Husband praise,
    • Or say our fathers never broke a rule;
    • Why then, I say, the Public is a fool.
    • But let them own that greater faults than we
    • They had, and greater virtues, I’ll agree.
    • Spenser himself affects the obsolete,
    • And Sidney’s verse halts ill on Roman feet;
    • Milton’s strong pinion now not Heav’n can bound,
    • Now, serpent-like, in prose he sweeps the ground.100
    • In quibbles Angel and Archangel join,
    • And God the Father turns a School-divine.
    • Not that I’d lop the beauties from his book,
    • Like slashing Bentley with his desp’rate hook;
    • Or damn all Shakespeare, like th’ affected fool
    • At Court, who hates whate’er he read at School.
    • But for the Wits of either Charles’s days,
    • The mob of gentlemen who wrote with ease;
    • Sprat, Carew, Sedley , and a hundred more
    • (Like twinkling stars the Miscellanies o’er),110
    • One simile that solitary shines
    • In the dry Desert of a thousand lines,
    • Or lengthen’d thought, that gleams thro’ many a page,
    • Has sanctified whole poems for an age.
    • I lose my patience, and I own it too,
    • When works are censured not as bad, but new;
    • While, if our elders break all Reason’s laws,
    • These fools demand not pardon, but applause.
    • On Avon’s bank, where flowers eternal blow,
    • If I but ask if any weed can grow,120
    • One tragic sentence if I dare deride,
    • Which Betterton’s grave action dignified,
    • Or well-mouth’d Booth with emphasis proclaims,
    • (Tho’ but perhaps a muster-roll of names),
    • How will our fathers rise up in a rage,
    • And swear all shame is lost in George’s age!
    • You’d think no fools disgraced the former reign,
    • Did not some grave examples yet remain,
    • Who scorn a lad should teach his father skill,
    • And having once been wrong, will be so still.130
    • He who, to seem more deep than you or I,
    • Extols old bards, or Merlin’s prophecy,
    • Mistake him not; he envies, not admires,
    • And to debase the sons exalts the sires.
    • Had ancient times conspired to disallow
    • What then was new, what had been ancient now?
    • Or what remain’d, so worthy to be read
    • By learned critics of the mighty dead?
    • In days of ease, when now the weary sword
    • Was sheath’d, and luxury with Charles restor’d,140
    • In every taste of foreign courts improv’d,
    • ‘All by the King’s example liv’d and lov’d,’
    • Then peers grew proud in horsemanship t’ excel;
    • Newmarket’s glory rose, as Britain’s fell;
    • The soldier breathed the gallantries of France,
    • And ev’ry flowery Courtier writ Romance.
    • Then marble, soften’d into life, grew warm,
    • And yielding metal flow’d to human form;
    • Lely on animated canvas stole
    • The sleepy eye, that spoke the melting soul.150
    • No wonder then, when all was love and sport,
    • The willing Muses were debauch’d at court;
    • On each enervate string they taught the note
    • To pant, or tremble thro’ a Eunuch’s throat.
    • But Britain, changeful as a child at play,
    • Now calls in princes, and now turns away.
    • Now Whig, now Tory, what we loved we hate;
    • Now all for Pleasure, now for Church and State;
    • Now for Prerogatives, and now for laws;
    • Effects unhappy, from a noble cause.160
    • Time was, a sober Englishman would knock
    • His servants up, and rise by five o’clock;
    • Instruct his family in ev’ry rule,
    • And send his wife to church, his son to school.
    • To worship like his fathers was his care;
    • To teach their frugal virtues to his heir;
    • To prove that Luxury could never hold,
    • And place on good security his gold.
    • Now times are changed, and one poetic itch
    • Has seized the Court and City, Poor and Rich;170
    • Sons, sires, and grandsires, all will wear the bays;
    • Our wives read Milton, and our daughters plays;
    • To theatres and to rehearsals throng,
    • And all our grace at table is a song.
    • I, who so oft renounce the Muses, lie:
    • Not ** ’s self e’er tells more fibs than I.
    • When sick of Muse, our follies we deplore,
    • And promise our best friends to rhyme no more,
    • We wake next morning in a raging fit,
    • And call for pen and ink to show our wit.
    • He served a ’prenticeship who sets up shop;181
    • Ward tried on puppies and the poor his drop;
    • Ev’n Radcliff’s doctors travel first to France,
    • Nor dare to practise till they ’ve learn’d to dance.
    • Who builds a bridge that never drove a pile?
    • (Should Ripley venture, all the world would smile),
    • But those who cannot write, and those who can,
    • All rhyme, and scrawl, and scribble, to a man.
    • Yet, Sir, reflect; the mischief is not great;
    • These madmen never hurt the Church or State:190
    • Sometimes the folly benefits mankind,
    • And rarely av’rice taints the tuneful mind.
    • Allow him but his plaything of a Pen,
    • He ne’er rebels, or plots, like other men:
    • Flight of cashiers, or mobs, he ’ll never mind,
    • And knows no losses while the Muse is kind.
    • To cheat a friend or ward, he leaves to Peter ;
    • The good man heaps up nothing but mere metre,
    • Enjoys his Garden and his Book in quiet;
    • And then—a perfect hermit in his diet.200
    • Of little use the man you may suppose
    • Who says in verse what others say in prose;
    • Yet let me show a Poet ’s of some weight,
    • And (tho’ no soldier) useful to the State.
    • What will a child learn sooner than a song?
    • What better teach a foreigner the tongue—
    • What ’s long or short, each accent where to place,
    • And speak in public with some sort of grace?
    • I scarce can think him such a worthless thing,209
    • Unless he praise some monster of a King;
    • Or virtue or religion turn to sport,
    • To please a lewd or unbelieving Court.
    • Unhappy Dryden!—In all Charles’s days
    • Roscommon only boasts unspotted bays;
    • And in our own (excuse some courtly stains)
    • No whiter page than Addison remains.
    • He from the taste obscene reclaims our youth,
    • And sets the passions on the side of Truth,
    • Forms the soft bosom with the gentlest Art,219
    • And pours each human virtue in the heart.
    • Let Ireland tell how wit upheld her cause,
    • Her trade supported, and supplied her laws;
    • And leave on Swift this grateful verse engraved,
    • ‘The rights a Court attack’d, a Poet saved .’
    • Behold the hand that wrought a Nation’s cure,
    • Stretch’d to relieve the idiot and the poor;
    • Proud vice to brand, or injured worth adorn,
    • And stretch the ray to ages yet unborn.
    • Not but there are, who merit other palms;
    • Hopkins and Sternhold glad the heart with psalms;230
    • The boys and girls whom charity maintains
    • Implore your help in these pathetic strains:
    • How could Devotion touch the country pews
    • Unless the Gods bestow’d a proper Muse?
    • Verse cheers their leisure, verse assists their work,
    • Verse prays for peace, or sings down pope and Turk.
    • The silenced preacher yields to potent strain,
    • And feels that Grace his prayer besought in vain;
    • The blessing thrills thro’ all the lab’ring throng,
    • And Heav’n is won by violence of song.240
    • Our rural ancestors, with little blest,
    • Patient of labour when the end was rest,
    • Indulged the day that housed their annual grain
    • With feasts, and off’rings, and a thankful strain.
    • The joy their wives, their sons, and servants share,
    • Ease of their toil, and partners of their care:
    • The Laugh, the Jest, attendants on the bowl,
    • Smooth’d ev’ry brow, and open’d ev’ry soul:
    • With growing years the pleasing license grew,
    • And taunts alternate innocently flew.250
    • But Times corrupt, and Nature, ill inclin’d,
    • Produced the point that left a sting behind;
    • Till friend with friend, and families at strife,
    • Triumphant malice raged thro’ private life.
    • Who felt the wrong, or fear’d it, took th’ alarm,
    • Appeal’d to law, and Justice lent her arm.
    • At length by wholesome dread of statutes bound,
    • The poets learn’d to please, and not to wound:
    • Most warp’d to Flatt’ry’s side; but some, more nice,
    • Preserv’d the freedom, and forbore the vice.260
    • Hence Satire rose, that just the medium hit,
    • And heals with morals what it hurts with wit.
    • We conquer’d France, but felt our captive’s charms,
    • Her arts victorious triumph’d o’er our arms;
    • Britain to soft refinements less a foe,
    • Wit grew polite, and numbers learn’d to flow.
    • Waller was smooth; but Dryden taught to join }
    • The varying verse, the full resounding line, }
    • The long majestic march, and energy divine: }
    • Tho’ still some traces of our rustic vein
    • And splay-foot verse remain’d, and will remain.271
    • Late, very late, correctness grew our care,
    • When the tired nation breathed from civil war
    • Exact Racine and Corneille’s noble fire
    • Show’d us that France had something to admire.
    • Not but the tragic spirit was our own,
    • And full in Shakespeare, fair in Otway, shone;
    • But Otway fail’d to polish or refine,
    • And fluent Shakespeare scarce effaced a line.
    • Ev’n copious Dryden wanted, or forgot,280
    • The last and greatest art—the art to blot.
    • Some doubt if equal pains or equal fire
    • The humbler Muse of Comedy require.
    • But in known images of life I guess
    • The labour greater, as th’ indulgence less.
    • Observe how seldom ev’n the best succeed:
    • Tell me if Congreve’s fools are fools indeed?
    • What pert low dialogue has Farquhar writ!
    • How Van wants grace, who never wanted wit:
    • The stage how loosely does Astrea tread,
    • Who fairly puts all characters to bed!291
    • And idle Cibber, how he breaks the laws,
    • To make poor Pinkey eat with vast applause!
    • But fill their purse, our poet’s work is done,
    • Alike to them by pathos or by pun.
    • O you! whom Vanity’s light bark conveys
    • On Fame’s mad voyage by the wind of praise,
    • With what a shifting gale your course you ply,
    • For ever sunk too low, or borne too high.
    • Who pants for glory finds but short repose;
    • A breath revives him, or a breath o’erthrows.301
    • Farewell the Stage! if just as thrives the play
    • The silly bard grows fat or falls away.
    • There still remains, to mortify a Wit,
    • The many-headed monster of the pit;
    • A senseless, worthless, and unhonour’d crowd,
    • Who, to disturb their betters, mighty proud,
    • Clatt’ring their sticks before ten lines are spoke,
    • Call for the Farce, the Bear, or the Blackjoke.309
    • What dear delight to Britons farce affords!
    • Ever the taste of Mobs, but now of Lords:
    • (Taste! that eternal wanderer, which flies
    • From heads to ears, and now from ears to eyes .)
    • The play stands still; damn action and discourse!
    • Back fly the scenes, and enter foot and horse;
    • Pageants on pageants, in long order drawn,
    • Peers, heralds, bishops, ermine, gold, and lawn;
    • The Champion too! and, to complete the jest,
    • Old Edward’s armour beams on Cibber’s breast.319
    • With laughter sure Democritus had died,
    • Had he beheld an audience gape so wide.
    • Let bear or elephant be e’er so white,
    • The people sure, the people are the sight!
    • Ah, luckless Poet! stretch thy lungs and roar,
    • That bear or elephant shall heed thee more;
    • While all its throats the gallery extends,
    • And all the thunder of the pit ascends!
    • Loud as the wolves on Orcas’ stormy steep
    • How! to the roarings of the northern deep,
    • Such is the shout, the long applauding note,330
    • At Quin’s high plume, or Oldfield’s petticoat;
    • Or when from court a birthday suit bestow’d,
    • Sinks the lost actor in the tawdry load.
    • Booth enters—hark! the universal peal!
    • ‘But has he spoken?’—Not a syllable.
    • ‘What shook the stage, and made the people stare?’
    • Cato’s long wig, flower’d gown, and lacker’d chair.
    • Yes, lest you think I rally more than teach,
    • Or praise malignly arts I cannot reach,
    • Let me for once presume t’ instruct the times,340
    • To know the Poet from the man of rhymes:
    • ’T is he who gives my breast a thousand pains,
    • Can make me feel each passion that he feigns,
    • Enrage, compose, with more than magic art,
    • With pity and with terror tear my heart,
    • And snatch me o’er the earth, or thro’ the air,
    • To Thebes, to Athens, when he will, and where.
    • But not this part of the poetic state
    • Alone deserves the favour of the great.
    • Think of those authors, Sir, who would rely350
    • More on a reader’s sense than gazer’s eye.
    • Or who shall wander where the Muses sing?
    • Who climb their mountain, or who taste their spring?
    • How shall we fill a library with Wit,
    • When Merlin’s Cave is half unfurnish’d yet?
    • My liege! why writers little claim your thought
    • I guess, and, with their leave, will tell the fault.
    • We Poets are (upon a poet’s word)
    • Of all mankind the creatures most absurd:
    • The season when to come, and when to go,
    • To sing, or cease to sing, we never know;
    • And if we will recite nine hours in ten,362
    • You lose your patience just like other men.
    • Then, too, we hurt ourselves when, to defend
    • A single verse, we quarrel with a friend;
    • Repeat, unask’d; lament, the wit ’s too fine
    • For vulgar eyes, and point out every line:
    • But most when straining with too weak a wing
    • We needs will write epistles to the King;
    • And from the moment we oblige the town,
    • Expect a Place or Pension from the Crown;
    • Or dubb’d historians by express command,
    • T’ enrol your triumphs o’er the seas and land,373
    • Be call’d to Court to plan some work divine,
    • As once for Louis, Boileau and Racine.
    • Yet think, great Sir! (so many virtues shown)
    • Ah! think what poet best may make them known;
    • Or choose at least some minister of grace,
    • Fit to bestow the Laureate’s weighty place.
    • Charles, to late times to be transmitted fair,380
    • Assign’d his figure to Bernini’s care;
    • And great Nassau to Kneller’s hand decreed
    • To fix him graceful on the bounding steed:
    • So well in paint and stone they judg’d of merit;
    • But Kings in Wit may want discerning spirit.
    • The hero William, and the martyr Charles,
    • One knighted Blackmore, and one pension’d Quarles ,
    • Which made old Ben and surly Dennis swear
    • ‘No Lord’s anointed, but a Russian bear.’
    • Not with such majesty, such bold relief,
    • The forms august of King, or conquering Chief,391
    • E’er swell’d on marble, as in verse have shined
    • (In polish’d verse) the manners and the mind.
    • O! could I mount on the Mæonian wing,
    • Your arms, your actions, your repose, to sing!
    • What seas you travers’d, and what fields you fought!
    • Your country’s peace how oft, how dearly bought!
    • How barb’rous rage subsided at your word,
    • And nations wonder’d while they dropp’d the sword!
    • How, when you nodded, o’er the land and deep,400
    • Peace stole her wing, and wrapt the world in sleep,
    • Till earth’s extremes your mediation own,
    • And Asia’s tyrants tremble at your throne!
    • But verse, alas! your Majesty disdains;
    • And I’m not used to panegyric strains.
    • The zeal of fools offends at any time,
    • But most of all the zeal of fools in rhyme.
    • Besides, a Fate attends on all I write,
    • That when I aim at praise they say I bite.
    • A vile encomium doubly ridicules:410
    • There ’s nothing blackens like the ink of fools.
    • If true, a woful likeness; and, if lies,
    • ‘Praise undeserv’d is scandal in disguise.’
    • Well may he blush who gives it, or receives;
    • And when I flatter, let my dirty leaves
    • (Like Journals, Odes, and such forgotten things,
    • As Eusden, Philips, Settle , writ of Kings)
    • Clothe spice, line trunk, or, flutt’ring in a row,
    • Befringe the rails of Bedlam and Soho.
[Back to Table of Contents]

THE SECOND EPISTLE OF THE SECOND BOOK OF HORACE[ ]

Ludentis speciem dabit, et torquebitur.

—Hor.

    • Dear Colonel , Cobham’s and your country’s friend,
    • You love a verse; take such as I can send.
    • A Frenchman comes, presents you with his boy,
    • Bows and begins—‘This lad, sir, is of Blois :
    • Observe his shape how clean! his locks how curl’d.
    • My only son, I’d have him see the world:
    • His French is pure; his voice too—you shall hear—
    • Sir, he’s your slave for twenty pound a year.
    • Mere wax as yet, you fashion him with ease,
    • Your barber, cook, upholst’rer; what you please:10
    • A perfect genius at an opera song—
    • To say too much might do my honour wrong.
    • Take him with all his virtues on my word;
    • His whole ambition was to serve a Lord.
    • But, Sir, to you with what would I not part?
    • Tho’, faith, I fear, ’t will break his mother’s heart.
    • Once (and but once) I caught him in a lie,
    • And then, unwhipp’d, he had the grace to cry:
    • The fault he has I fairly shall reveal
    • (Could you o’erlook but that), it is—to steal.’20
    • If, after this, you took the graceless lad,
    • Could you complain, my friend, he prov’d so bad?
    • Faith, in such case, if you should prosecute,
    • I think Sir Godfrey should decide the suit;
    • Who sent the thief that stole the cash away,
    • And punish’d him that put it in his way.
    • Consider then, and judge me in this light;
    • I told you when I went I could not write;
    • You said the same; and are you discontent
    • With laws to which you gave your own assent?30
    • Nay, worse, to ask for verse at such a time!
    • D’ ye think me good for nothing but to rhyme?
    • In Anna’s wars a Soldier, poor and old,
    • Had dearly earn’d a little purse of gold:
    • Tired in a tedious march, one luckless night
    • He slept, (poor dog!) and lost it to a doit.
    • This put the man in such a desp’rate mind, }
    • Between revenge, and grief, and hunger join’d }
    • Against the foe, himself, and all mankind, }
    • He leap’d the trenches, scaled a castle wall,40
    • Tore down a standard, took the fort and all.
    • ‘Prodigious well!’ his great commander cried,
    • Gave him much praise, and some reward beside.
    • Next pleas’d His Excellence a town to batter
    • (Its name I know not, and ’t is no great matter);
    • ‘Go on, my friend (he cried), see yonder walls!
    • Advance and conquer! go where Glory calls!
    • More honours, more rewards, attend the brave.’
    • Don’t you remember what reply he gave?—
    • ‘D’ ye think me, noble Gen’ral, such a sot?50
    • Let him take castles who has ne’er a groat.’
    • Bred up at home, full early I begun
    • To read in Greek the wrath of Peleus’ son:
    • Besides, my father taught me from a lad
    • The better art, to know the good from bad
    • (And little sure imported to remove,
    • To hunt for truth in Maudlin’s learned grove ).
    • But knottier points we knew not half so well,
    • Deprived us soon of our paternal cell;
    • And certain laws, by suff’rers thought unjust,60
    • Denied all posts of profit or of trust.
    • Hopes after hopes of pious papists fail’d,
    • While mighty William’s thund’ring arm prevail’d;
    • For right hereditary tax’d and fin’d
    • He stuck to poverty with peace of mind;
    • And me, the Muses help’d to undergo it;
    • Convict a Papist he, and I a Poet.
    • But (thanks to Homer) since I live and thrive,
    • Indebted to no prince or peer alive,
    • Sure I should want the care of ten Monroes ,70
    • If I would scribble rather than repose.
    • Years foll’wing years steal something ev’ry day,
    • At last they steal us from ourselves away;
    • In one our frolics, one amusements end,
    • In one a Mistress drops, in one a Friend.
    • This subtle thief of life, this paltry time,
    • What will it leave me if it snatch my rhyme?
    • If ev’ry wheel of that unwearied mill
    • That turn’d ten thousand verses, now stands still?
    • But, after all, what would ye have me do,80
    • When out of twenty I can please not two?
    • When this Heroics only deigns to praise,
    • Sharp Satire that, and that Pindaric lays?
    • One likes the pheasant’s wing, and one the leg;
    • The vulgar boil, the learned roast an egg:
    • Hard task to hit the palate of such guests,
    • When Oldfield loves what Dartineuf detests!
    • But grant I may relapse, for want of grace,
    • Again to rhyme, can London be the place?
    • Who there his muse, or self, or soul attends,90
    • In Crowds, and Courts, Law, Bus’ness, Feasts, and Friends?
    • My counsel sends to execute a deed:
    • A poet begs me I will hear him read.
    • In Palace yard at nine you ’ll find me there—
    • At ten, for certain, sir, in Bloomsbury-square—
    • Before the Lords at twelve my cause comes on—
    • There ’s a rehearsal, Sir, exact at one.—
    • ‘Oh! but a Wit can study in the streets,
    • And raise his mind above the mob he meets.’
    • Not quite so well, however, as one ought:100
    • A hackney-coach may chance to spoil a thought,
    • And then a nodding beam, or pig of lead,
    • God knows, may hurt the very ablest head.
    • Have you not seen, at Guildhall’s narrow pass,
    • Two Aldermen dispute it with an Ass?
    • And Peers give way, exalted as they are,
    • Ev’n to their own s-r-v—nce in a car?
    • Go, lofty Poet, and in such a crowd
    • Sing thy sonorous verse—but not aloud.
    • Alas! to grottos and to groves we run,110
    • To ease and silence, ev’ry Muse’s son:
    • Blackmore himself, for any grand effort
    • Would drink and doze at Tooting or Earl’s-court .
    • How shall I rhyme in this eternal roar?
    • How match the bards whom none e’er match’d before?
    • The man who, stretch’d in Isis’ calm retreat,
    • To books and study gives sev’n years complete,
    • See! strew’d with learned dust, his nightcap on,
    • He walks an object new beneath the sun!
    • The boys flock round him, and the people stare:120 }
    • So stiff, so mute; some Statue you would swear }
    • Stept from its pedestal to take the air! }
    • And here, while town, and court, and city roars,
    • With Mobs, and Duns, and Soldiers, at their doors,
    • Shall I, in London, act this idle part,
    • Composing songs for fools to get by heart?
    • The Temple late two brother sergeants saw,
    • Who deem’d each other oracles of law;
    • With equal talents these congenial souls,
    • One lull’d th’ Exchequer, and one stunn’d the Rolls;130
    • Each had a gravity would make you split,
    • And shook his head at Murray as a wit;
    • ’T was, ‘Sir, your law’—and ‘Sir, your eloquence,’
    • ‘Yours, manner’—and ‘Yours, sense.’
    • Thus we dispose of all poetic merit,
    • Yours Milton’s genius, and mine Homer’s spirit.
    • Call Tibbald Shakespeare, and he ’ll swear the Nine,
    • Dear Cibber! never match’d one ode of thine.
    • Lord! how we strut thro’ Merlin’s Cave , to see139
    • No poets there but Stephen , you, and me.
    • Walk with respect behind, while we at ease
    • Weave laurel crowns, and take what names we please.
    • ‘My dear Tibullus! (if that will not do)
    • Let me be Horace, and be Ovid you:
    • Or, I ’m content, allow me Dryden’s strains,
    • And you shall rise up Otway for your pains.’
    • Much do I suffer, much, to keep in peace
    • This jealous, waspish, wronghead, rhyming race;
    • And much must flatter, if the whim should bite149
    • To court applause by printing what I write:
    • But let the fit pass o’er; I ’m wise enough
    • To stop my ears to their confounded stuff.
    • In vain bad rhymers all mankind reject,
    • They treat themselves with most profound respect;
    • ’T is to small purpose that you hold your tongue,
    • Each, prais’d within, is happy all day long:
    • But how severely with themselves proceed
    • The men who write such verse as we can read?
    • Their own strict judges, not a word they spare
    • That wants or force, or light, or weight, or care;160
    • Howe’er unwillingly it quits its place,
    • Nay, tho’ at Court (perhaps) it may find grace.
    • Such they ’ll degrade; and, sometimes in its stead,
    • In downright charity revive the dead;
    • Mark where a bold expressive phrase appears,
    • Bright thro’ the rubbish of some hundred years;
    • Command old words, that long have slept, to wake,
    • Words that wise Bacon or brave Raleigh spake;
    • Or bid the new be English ages hence
    • (For Use will father what’s begot by Sense);170
    • Pour the full tide of eloquence along, }
    • Serenely pure, and yet divinely strong, }
    • Rich with the treasures of each foreign tongue; }
    • Prune the luxuriant, the uncouth refine,
    • But show no mercy to an empty line;
    • Then polish all with so much life and ease,
    • You think ’t is Nature, and a knack to please;
    • But ease in writing flows from Art, not Chance,
    • As those move easiest who have learn’d to dance.
    • If such the plague and pains to write by rule,180
    • Better (say I) be pleas’d, and play the fool;
    • Call, if you will, bad rhyming a disease,
    • It gives men happiness, or leaves them ease.
    • There lived in primo Georgii (they record)
    • A worthy member, no small fool, a Lord;
    • Who, tho’ the House was up, delighted sate,
    • Heard, noted, answer’d, as in full debate:
    • In all but this a man of sober life,
    • Fond of his friend, and civil to his wife;
    • Not quite a madman tho’ a pasty fell,190
    • And much too wise to walk into a well.
    • Him the damn’d doctors and his friends immured,
    • They bled, they cupp’d, they purged; in short they cured;
    • Whereat the gentleman began to stare—
    • ‘My friends! (he cried) pox take you for your care!
    • That, from a patriot of distinguish’d note,
    • Have bled and purged me to a simple vote.’
    • Well, on the whole, plain prose must be my fate:
    • Wisdom (curse on it!) will come soon or late.
    • There is a time when poets will grow dull:200
    • I’ll ev’n leave verses to the boys at school.
    • To rules of poetry no more confin’d,
    • I’ll learn to smooth and harmonize my mind,
    • Teach ev’ry thought within its bounds to roll,
    • And keep the equal measure of the soul.
    • Soon as I enter at my country door,
    • My mind resumes the thread it dropt before;
    • Thoughts which at Hyde-park Corner I forgot,
    • Meet and rejoin me in the pensive grot:
    • There all alone, and compliments apart,210
    • I ask these sober questions of my heart:
    • If, when the more you drink the more you crave,
    • You tell the doctor; when the more you have
    • The more you want, why not, with equal ease,
    • Confess as well your folly as disease?
    • The heart resolves this matter in a trice,
    • ‘Men only feel the smart, but not the vice.’
    • When golden angels cease to cure the evil,
    • You give all royal witchcraft to the devil:
    • When servile Chaplains cry , that birth and place220
    • Endue a Peer with Honour, Truth, and Grace,
    • Look in that breast, most dirty D[uke]! be fair,
    • Say, can you find out one such lodger there?
    • Yet still, not heeding what your heart can teach,
    • You go to church to hear these flatt’rers preach.
    • Indeed, could wealth bestow or Wit or Merit,
    • A grain of Courage, or a spark of Spirit,
    • The wisest man might blush, I must agree,
    • If D[evonshire] lov’d sixpence more than he.
    • If there be truth in law, and use can give230
    • A property, that’s yours on which you live.
    • Delightful Abs-court, if its fields afford
    • Their fruits to you, confesses you its lord:
    • All Worldly’s hens, nay, partridge, sold to town,
    • His venison too, a guinea makes your own:
    • He bought at thousands what with better wit
    • You purchase as you want, and bit by bit:
    • Now, or long since, what diff’rence will be found?
    • You pay a penny, and he paid a pound.
    • Heathcote himself, and such large-acred men,240
    • Lords of fat E’sham, or of Lincoln Fen,
    • Buy every stick of wood that lends them heat,
    • Buy every pullet they afford to eat;
    • Yet these are wights who fondly call their own
    • Half that the Devil o’erlooks from Lincoln town.
    • The laws of God, as well as of the land,
    • Abhor a perpetuity should stand:
    • Estates have wings, and hang in Fortune’s power,
    • Loose on the point of ev’ry wav’ring hour,
    • Ready by force, or of your own-accord,250
    • By sale, at least by death, to change their lord.
    • Man? and for ever? Wretch! what wouldst thou have?
    • Heir urges heir, like wave impelling wave.
    • All vast possessions (just the same the case
    • Whether you call them Villa, Park, or Chase),
    • Alas, my Bathurst! what will they avail?
    • Join Cotswood hills to Saperton’s fair dale;
    • Let rising granaries and temples here,
    • There mingled farms and pyramids, appear;
    • Link towns to towns with avenues of oak,260
    • Enclose whole towns in walls; ’t is all a joke!
    • Inexorable death shall level all,
    • And trees, and stones, and farms, and farmer fall.
    • Gold, silver, ivory, vases sculptured high,
    • Paint, marble, gems, and robes of Persian dye,
    • There are who have not—and, thank Heav’n, there are
    • Who, if they have not, think not worth their care.
    • Talk what you will of Taste, my friend, you’ll find
    • Two of a face as soon as of a mind.
    • Why, of two brothers, rich and restless one270
    • Ploughs, burns, manures, and toils from sun to sun,
    • The other slights, for women, sports, and wines,
    • All Townshend’s turnips, and all Grosvenor’s mines:
    • Why one, like Bubb , with pay and scorn content,
    • Bows and votes on in Court and Parliament;
    • One, driv’n by strong benevolence of soul,
    • Shall fly, like Oglethorpe , from pole to pole;
    • Is known alone to that directing Power278
    • Who forms the genius in the natal hour;
    • That God of Nature, who, within us still,
    • Inclines our action, not constrains our will;
    • Various of temper, as of face or frame,
    • Each individual: His great end the same.
    • Yes, Sir, how small soever be my heap,
    • A part I will enjoy as well as keep.
    • My heir may sigh, and think it want of grace
    • A man so poor would live without a place;
    • But sure no statute in his favour says,
    • How free or frugal I shall pass my days;
    • I who at some times spend, at others spare,
    • Divided between carelessness and care.291
    • ’T is one thing, madly to disperse my store;
    • Another, not to heed to treasure more;
    • Glad, like a boy, to snatch the first good day,
    • And pleas’d, if sordid want be far away.
    • What is’t to me (a passenger, God wot)
    • Whether my vessel be first-rate or not?
    • The ship itself may make a better figure,
    • But I that sail, am neither less nor bigger.
    • I neither strut with ev’ry fav’ring breath,300
    • Nor strive with all the tempest in my teeth;
    • In Power, Wit, Figure, Virtue, Fortune, placed
    • Behind the foremost, and before the last.
    • ‘But why all this of Av’rice? I have none.’
    • I wish you joy, sir, of a tyrant gone:
    • But does no other lord it at this hour,
    • As wild and mad? the avarice of Pow’r?
    • Does neither Rage inflame nor Fear appall?
    • Not the black fear of Death, that saddens all?
    • With terrors round, can Reason hold her throne,310
    • Despise the known, nor tremble at th’unknown?
    • Survey both worlds, intrepid and entire,
    • In spite of witches, devils, dreams, and fire?
    • Pleas’d to look forward, pleas’d to look behind,
    • And count each birthday with a grateful mind?
    • Has life no sourness, drawn so near its end?
    • Canst thou endure a foe, forgive a friend?
    • Has age but melted the rough parts away,
    • As winter fruits grow mild ere they decay?
    • Or will you think, my friend! your bus’ness done,320
    • When of a hundred thorns you pull out one?
    • Learn to live well, or fairly make your will;
    • You ’ve play’d and lov’d, and ate and drank, your fill.
    • Walk sober off, before a sprightlier age
    • Comes titt’ring on, and shoves you from the stage;
    • Leave such to trifle with more grace and ease,
    • Whom Folly pleases, and whose follies please.
[Back to Table of Contents]

SATIRES OF DR. JOHN DONNE, DEAN OF ST. PAUL’S, VERSIFIED[ ]

  • Quid vetat et nosmet Lucili scripta legentes
  • Quærere, num illius, num rerum dura negarit
  • Versiculos natura magis factos, et euntes
  • Mollius?

  • Horace.

The paraphrases of Donne were, by Pope’s statement, done several years before their publication in 1735.

SATIRE II

    • Yes, thank my stars! as early as I knew
    • This town, I had the sense to hate it too;
    • Yet here, as ev’n in Hell, there must be still
    • One giant vice, so excellently ill,
    • That all beside one pities, not abhors;
    • As who knows Sappho , smiles at other whores.
    • I grant that Poetry ’s a crying sin;
    • It brought (no doubt) th’ excise and army in:
    • Catch’d like the plague, or love, the Lord knows how,
    • But that the cure is starving, all allow.10
    • Yet like the Papist’s is the Poet’s state,
    • Poor and disarm’d, and hardly worth your hate!
    • Here a lean bard, whose wit could never give
    • Himself a dinner, makes an actor live:
    • The thief condemn’d, in law already dead,
    • So prompts and saves a rogue who cannot read.
    • Thus as the pipes of some carv’d organ move,
    • The gilded puppets dance and mount above,
    • Heav’d by the breath th’ inspiring bellows blow:
    • Th’ inspiring bellows lie and pant below.20
    • One sings the Fair; but songs no longer move;
    • No rat is rhymed to death, nor maid to love:
    • In Love’s, in Nature’s spite the siege they hold,
    • And scorn the flesh, the Devil, and all but gold.
    • These write to Lords, some mean reward to get,
    • As needy beggars sing at doors for meat:
    • Those write because all write, and so have still
    • Excuse for writing, and for writing ill.
    • Wretched, indeed! but far more wretched yet
    • Is he who makes his meal on others’ wit:30
    • ’T is changed, no doubt, from what it was before;
    • His rank digestion makes it wit no more:
    • Sense pass’d thro’ him no longer is the same;
    • For food digested takes another name.
    • I pass o’er all those confessors and martyrs,
    • Who live like S[u]tt[o]n , or who die like Chartres,
    • Out-cant old Esdras, or out-drink his heir,
    • Out-usure Jews, or Irishmen out-swear;
    • Wicked as pages, who in early years
    • Act sins which Prisca’s confessor scarce hears.40
    • Ev’n those I pardon, for whose sinful sake
    • Schoolmen new tenements in hell must make;
    • Of whose strange crimes no canonist can tell
    • In what commandment’s large contents they dwell.
    • One, one man only breeds my just offence,
    • Whom crimes gave wealth, and wealth gave impudence:
    • Time, that at last matures a clap to pox,
    • Whose gentle progress makes a calf an ox,
    • And brings all natural events to pass,
    • Hath made him an attorney of an ass.50
    • No young Divine, new beneficed, can be
    • More pert, more proud, more positive than he.
    • What further could I wish the fop to do,
    • But turn a Wit, and scribble verses too?
    • Pierce the soft labyrinth of a lady’s ear
    • With rhymes of this per cent. and that per year;
    • Or court a wife, spread out his wily parts,
    • Like nets, or lime twigs, for rich widows’ hearts;
    • Call himself barrister to ev’ry wench,
    • And woo in language of the Pleas and Bench;60
    • Language which Boreas might to Auster hold,
    • More rough than forty Germans when they scold.
    • Curs’d be the wretch, so venal and so vain,
    • Paltry and proud as drabs in Drury Lane.
    • ’T is such a bounty as was never known,
    • If Peter deigns to help you to your own.
    • What thanks, what praise, if Peter but supplies!
    • And what a solemn face if he denies!
    • Grave, as when pris’ners shake the head, and swear
    • ’T was only suretyship that brought them there.70
    • His office keeps your parchment fates entire,
    • He starves with cold to save them from the fire;
    • For you he walks the streets thro’ rain or dust,
    • For not in chariots Peter puts his trust;
    • For you he sweats and labours at the laws,
    • Takes God to witness he affects your cause,
    • And lies to ev’ry Lord in ev’rything,
    • Like a King’s favourite—or like a King.
    • These are the talents that adorn them all,
    • From wicked Waters ev’n to godly [Paul] .
    • Not more of simony beneath black gowns,
    • Nor more of bastardy in heirs to crowns.82
    • In shillings and in pence at first they deal,
    • And steal so little, few perceive they steal;
    • Till like the sea, they compass all the land,
    • From Scots to Wight, from Mount to Dover strand;
    • And when rank widows purchase luscious nights,
    • Or when a Duke to Jansen punts at White’s,
    • Or city heir in mortgage melts away,
    • Satan himself feels far less joy than they.90
    • Piecemeal they win this acre first, then that,
    • Glean on, and gather up the whole estate;
    • Then strongly fencing ill-got wealth by law,
    • Indentures, cov’nants, articles, they draw,
    • Large as the fields themselves, and larger far
    • Than civil codes, with all their glosses, are;
    • So vast, our new divines, we must confess,
    • Are fathers of the church for writing less.
    • But let them write; for you each rogue impairs99
    • The deeds, and dext’rously omits ses heires:
    • No commentator can more slily pass
    • O’er a learn’d unintelligible place;
    • Or in quotation shrewd divines leave out
    • Those words that would against them clear the doubt.
    • So Luther thought the Paternoster long,
    • When doom’d to say his beads and even-song;
    • But having cast his cowl, and left those laws,
    • Adds to Christ’s prayer, the Power and Glory clause.
    • The lands are bought; but where are to be found
    • Those ancient woods that shaded all the ground?110
    • We see no new-built palaces aspire,
    • No kitchens emulate the vestal fire.
    • Where are those troops of Poor, that throng’d of yore
    • The good old Landlord’s hospitable door?
    • Well I could wish that still, in lordly domes,
    • Some beasts were kill’d, tho’ not whole hecatombs;
    • That both extremes were banish’d from their walls,
    • Carthusian fasts and fulsome Bacchanals;
    • And all mankind might that just mean observe,
    • In which none e’er could surfeit, none could starve.120
    • These are good works, ’t is true, we all allow,
    • But, oh! these works are not in fashion now:
    • Like rich old wardrobes, things extremely rare,
    • Extremely fine, but what no man will wear.
    • Thus much I ’ve said, I trust without offence;
    • Let no Court Sycophant pervert my sense,
    • Nor sly informer watch, these words to draw
    • Within the reach of Treason or the Law.

SATIRE IV[ ]

    • Well, if it be my time to quit the stage,
    • Adieu to all the follies of the age!
    • I die in charity with fool and knave,
    • Secure of peace at least beyond the grave.
    • I ’ve had my Purgatory here betimes,
    • And paid for all my satires, all my rhymes.
    • The poet’s Hell, its tortures, fiends, and flames,
    • To this were trifles, toys, and empty names.
    • With foolish pride my heart was never fired,9
    • Nor the vain itch t’ admire or be admired:
    • I hoped for no commission from His Grace;
    • I bought no benefice, I begg’d no place;
    • Had no new verses nor new suit to show,
    • Yet went to Court!—the Devil would have it so.
    • But as the fool that in reforming days
    • Would go to mass in jest (as story says)
    • Could not but think to pay his fine was odd,
    • Since ’t was no form’d design of serving God;
    • So was I punish’d, as if full as proud
    • As prone to ill, as negligent of good,20
    • As deep in debt, without a thought to pay, }
    • As vain, as idle, and as false as they }
    • Who live at Court, for going once that way! }
    • Scarce was I enter’d, when, behold! there came
    • A thing which Adam had been posed to name;
    • Noah had refused it lodging in his ark,
    • Where all the race of reptiles might embark;
    • A verier monster than on Afric’s shore
    • The sun e’er got, or slimy Nilus bore,
    • Or Sloane or Woodward’s wondrous shelves contain,30
    • Nay, all that lying travellers can feign.
    • The watch would hardly let him pass at noon,
    • At night would swear him dropp’d out of the moon:
    • One whom the Mob, when next we find or make
    • A Popish plot, shall for a Jesuit take,
    • And the wise justice, starting from his chair,
    • Cry, ‘By your priesthood, tell me what you are!’
    • Such was the wight: th’ apparel on his back,
    • Tho’ coarse, was rev’rend, and tho’ bare, was black.
    • The suit, if by the fashion one might guess,40
    • Was velvet in the youth of good Queen Bess,
    • But mere tuff-taffety what now remain’d:
    • So Time, that changes all things, had ordain’d!
    • Our sons shall see it leisurely decay,
    • First turn plain rash, then vanish quite away.
    • This thing has travell’d, speaks each language too,
    • And knows what ’s fit for ev’ry state to do;
    • Of whose best phrase and courtly accent join’d
    • He forms one tongue, exotic and refin’d.
    • Talkers I ’ve learn’d to bear; Motteux I knew,50
    • Henley himself I ’ve heard, and Budgell too,
    • The Doctor’s wormwood style, the hash of tongues
    • A Pedant makes, the storm of Gonson’s lungs,
    • The whole artill’ry of the terms of War,
    • And (all those plagues in one) the bawling Bar:
    • These I could bear; but not a rogue so civil
    • Whose tongue will compliment you to the Devil:
    • A tongue that can cheat widows, cancel scores,
    • Make Scots speak treason, cozen subtlest whores,
    • With royal favourites in flatt’ry vie,60
    • And Oldmixon and Burnet both outlie.
    • He spies me out; I whisper, ‘Gracious God!
    • What sin of mine could merit such a rod,
    • That all the shot of dulness now must be
    • From this thy blunderbuss discharged on me!’
    • ‘Permit,’ he cries, ‘no stranger to your fame,
    • To crave your sentiment, if * * * ’s your name.
    • What speech esteem you most? ‘The King’s,’ said I.
    • But the best words?—‘O, sir, the Diction’ry.’69
    • You miss my aim; I mean the most acute,
    • And perfect speaker?—‘Onslow, past dispute.’
    • But, Sir, of writers?—‘Swift, for closer style,
    • But Hoadley for a period of a mile.’
    • Why, yes, ’t is granted, these indeed may pass;
    • Good common linguists, and so Panurge was;
    • Nay, troth, th’ Apostles (tho’ perhaps too rough)
    • Had once a pretty gift of tongues enough:
    • Yet these were all poor gentlemen! I dare
    • Affirm ’t was Travel made them what they were.
    • Thus others’ talents having nicely shown,80
    • He came by sure transition to his own;
    • Till I cried out, ‘You prove yourself so able,
    • Pity you was not druggerman at Babel;
    • For had they found a linguist half so good,
    • I make no question but the tower had stood.’
    • ‘Obliging Sir! for courts you sure were made,
    • Why then for ever buried in the shade?
    • Spirits like you should see and should be seen;
    • The King would smile on you—at least the Queen.
    • Ah, gentle Sir! you courtiers so cajole us—90
    • But Tully has it Nunquam minus solus:
    • And as for courts, forgive me if I say,
    • No lessons now are taught the Spartan way.
    • Tho’ in his pictures lust be full display’d,
    • Few are the converts Aretine has made;
    • And tho’ the court show Vice exceeding clear,
    • None should, by my advice, learn Virtue there.’
    • At this entranc’d, he lifts his hands and eyes,
    • Squeaks like a high-stretch’d lutestring, and replies,
    • ‘Oh! ’t is the sweetest of all earthly things100
    • To gaze on Princes, and to talk of Kings!’
    • ‘Then, happy man who shows the tombs! (said I)
    • He dwells amidst the royal family;
    • He ev’ry day from King to King can walk,
    • Of all our Harries, all our Edwards talk,
    • And get, by speaking truth of monarchs dead,
    • What few can of the living: Ease and Bread.’
    • ‘Lord, Sir, a mere mechanic! strangely low,
    • And coarse of phrase—your English all are so.
    • How elegant your Frenchmen!’—‘Mine, d’ye mean?110
    • I have but one; I hope the fellow’s clean.’
    • ‘O Sir, politely so! nay, let me die,
    • Your only wearing is your paduasoy.’
    • ‘Not, Sir, my only; I have better still,
    • And this you see is but my dishabille.’—
    • Wild to get loose, his patience I provoke,
    • Mistake, confound, object at all he spoke:
    • But as coarse iron, sharpen’d, mangles more,
    • And itch most hurts when anger’d to a sore,
    • So when you plague a fool, ’t is still the curse,120
    • You only make the matter worse and worse.
    • He pass’d it o’er; affects an easy smile
    • At all my peevishness, and turns his style.
    • He asks, ‘What news?’ I tell him of new Plays,
    • New Eunuchs, Harlequins, and Operas.
    • He hears, and as a still, with simples in it,
    • Between each drop it gives stays half a minute,
    • Loath to enrich me with too quick replies,
    • By little and by little drops his lies.
    • Mere household trash! of birthnights, balls, and shows,130
    • More than ten Holinsheds, or Halls, or Stowes .
    • When the Queen frown’d or smiled he knows, and what
    • A subtle minister may make of that:
    • Who sins, with whom: who got his pension rug,
    • Or quicken’d a reversion by a drug:
    • Whose place is quarter’d but three parts in four,
    • And whether to a Bishop or a Whore:
    • Who having lost his credit, pawn’d his rent,
    • Is therefore fit to have a government:
    • Who, in the secret, deals in stocks secure,
    • And cheats th’ unknowing widow and the poor:141
    • Who makes a trust or charity a job,
    • And gets an act of Parliament to rob:
    • Why turnpikes rise, and how no cit nor clown
    • Can gratis see the country or the town:
    • Shortly no lad shall chuck, or lady vole,
    • But some excising courtier will have toll:
    • He tells what strumpet places sells for life,
    • What ’squire his lands, what citizen his wife:
    • And last (which proves him wiser still than all)150
    • What lady’s face is not a whited wall.
    • As one of Woodward’s patients, sick, and sore,
    • I puke, I nauseate—yet he thrusts in more;
    • Trims Europe’s balance, tops the statesman’s part,
    • And talks Gazettes and Postboys o’er by heart.
    • Like a big wife at sight of loathsome meat
    • Ready to cast, I yawn, I sigh, and sweat.
    • Then as a licens’d spy, whom nothing can
    • Silence or hurt, he libels the great man;
    • Swears ev’ry place entail’d for years to come,160
    • In sure succession to the day of doom.
    • He names the price for every office paid,
    • And says our wars thrive ill because delay’d:
    • Nay, hints ’t is by connivance of the Court
    • That Spain robs on, and Dunkirk’s still a port.
    • Not more amazement seiz’d on Circe’s guests
    • To see themselves fall endlong into beasts,
    • Than mine, to find a subject staid and wise
    • Already half turn’d traitor by surprise.
    • I felt th’ infection slide from him to me,170
    • As in the pox some give it to get free;
    • And quick to swallow me, methought I saw
    • One of our Giant Statues ope its jaw.
    • In that nice moment, as another lie
    • Stood just a-tilt, the Minister came by.
    • To him he flies, and bows and bows again,
    • Then, close as Umbra , joins the dirty train,
    • Not Fannius’ self more impudently near,
    • When half his nose is in his prince’s ear.
    • I quaked at heart; and, still afraid to see
    • All the court fill’d with stranger things than he,181
    • Ran out as fast as one that pays his bail
    • And dreads more actions, hurries from a jail.
    • Bear me, some God! Oh, quickly bear me hence
    • To wholesome Solitude, the nurse of sense,
    • Where contemplation prunes her ruffled wings,
    • And the free soul looks down to pity Kings!
    • There sober thought pursued th’ amusing theme,
    • Till Fancy colour’d it, and form’d a dream:
    • A vision hermits can to Hell transport,190
    • And forced ev’n me to see the damn’d at court.
    • Not Dante, dreaming all th’ infernal state,
    • Beheld such scenes of envy, sin, and hate.
    • Base fear becomes the guilty, not the free,
    • Suits tyrants, plunderers, but suits not me:
    • Shall I, the terror of this sinful town,
    • Care if a liv’ried Lord or smile or frown?
    • Who cannot flatter, and detest who can,
    • Tremble before a noble serving man?
    • O my fair mistress, Truth! shall I quit thee200
    • For huffing, braggart, puff nobility?
    • Thou who, since yesterday, hast roll’d o’er all
    • The busy idle blockheads of the ball,
    • Hast thou, O sun! beheld an emptier sort
    • Than such as swell this bladder of a court?
    • Now pox on those who show a Court in Wax !
    • It ought to bring all courtiers on their backs;
    • Such painted puppets! such a varnish’d race
    • Of hollow gewgaws, only dress and face!
    • Such waxen noses, stately staring things210
    • No wonder some folks bow, and think them Kings.
    • See! where the British youth, engaged no more
    • At Fig’s , at White’s, with felons, or a whore,
    • Pay their last duty to the Court, and come
    • All fresh and fragrant to the drawing room;
    • In hues as gay, and odours as divine,
    • As the fair fields they sold to look so fine.
    • ‘That’s velvet for a king!’ the flatt’rer swears;
    • ’T is true, for ten days hence ’t will be King Lear’s.
    • Our Court may justly to our Stage give rules,220
    • That helps it both to fools’ coats and to fools.
    • And why not players strut in courtiers’ clothes?
    • For these are actors too as well as those:
    • Wants reach all states; they beg but better drest,
    • And all is splendid poverty at best.
    • Painted for sight, and essenced for the smell,
    • Like frigates fraught with spice and cochineal,
    • Sail in the Ladies: how each pirate eyes
    • So weak a vessel and so rich a prize!
    • Top-gallant he, and she in all her trim:230
    • He boarding her, she striking sail to him.
    • ‘Dear countess! you have charms all hearts to hit!’
    • And, ‘Sweet Sir Fopling! you have so much wit!’
    • Such wits and beauties are not prais’d for nought,
    • For both the beauty and the wit are bought.
    • ’T would burst ev’n Heraclitus with the spleen
    • To see those antics, Fopling and Courtin:
    • The Presence seems, with things so richly odd,
    • The mosque of Mahound, or some queer pagod.
    • See them survey their limbs by Durer’s rules,240
    • Of all beau-kind the best proportion’d fools!
    • Adjust their clothes, and to confession draw
    • Those venial sins, an atom, or a straw:
    • But oh! what terrors must distract the soul
    • Convicted of that mortal crime, a hole;
    • Or should one pound of powder less bespread
    • Those monkey tails that wag behind their head!
    • Thus finish’d, and corrected to a hair,
    • They march, to prate their hour before the Fair.
    • So first to preach a white-glov’d Chaplain goes,250
    • With band of lily, and with cheek of rose,
    • Sweeter than Sharon, in immaculate trim,
    • Neatness itself impertinent in him.
    • Let but the ladies smile, and they are blest:
    • Prodigious! how the things protest, protest.
    • Peace, fools! or Gonson will for papists seize you,
    • If once he catch you at your Jesu! Jesu!
    • Nature made ev’ry Fop to plague his brother,
    • Just as one Beauty mortifies another.
    • But here’s the captain that will plague them both;260
    • Whose air cries, Arm! whose very look’s an oath.
    • The captain’s honest, Sirs, and that’s enough,
    • Tho’ his soul’s bullet, and his body buff.
    • He spits foreright; his haughty chest before,
    • Like batt’ring rams, beats open ev’ry door;
    • And with a face as red, and as awry,
    • As Herod’s hang-dogs in old tapestry,
    • Scarecrow to boys, the breeding woman’s curse,
    • Has yet a strange ambition to look worse;
    • Confounds the civil, keeps the rude in awe,
    • Jests like a licens’d Fool, commands like law.271
    • Frighted, I quit the room, but leave it so
    • As men from jails to execution go;
    • For hung with deadly sins I see the wall,
    • And lin’d with giants deadlier than them all.
    • Each man an Ask apart, of strength to toss,
    • For quoits, both Temple-bar and Charing-cross.
    • Scared at the grisly forms, I sweat, I fly,
    • And shake all o’er, like a discover’d spy.
    • Courts are too much for wits so weak as mine;280
    • Charge them with Heav’n’s Artill’ry, bold Divine!
    • From such alone the Great rebukes endure,
    • Whose satire’s sacred, and whose rage secure:
    • ’T is mine to wash a few light stains, but theirs
    • To deluge sin, and drown a Court in tears.
    • Howe’er, what’s now apocrypha, my wit,
    • In time to come, may pass for Holy Writ.
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EPILOGUE TO THE SATIRES[ ]

IN TWO DIALOGUES. WRITTEN IN 1738

The first dialogue was originally entitled One Thousand Seven Hundred and thirty-eight, a Dialogue something like Horace. Johnson’s London is said by Boswell to have been published on the same morning of May, 1738, and in spite of its anonymity to have made more stir than Pope’s satire.

DIALOGUE I

    • Fr.Not twice a twelvemonth you appear in print,
    • And when it comes, the Court see nothing in ’t:
    • You grow correct, that once with rapture writ,
    • And are, besides, too moral for a Wit.
    • Decay of parts, alas! we all must feel—
    • Why now, this moment, don’t I see you steal?
    • ’T is all from Horace; Horace long before ye
    • Said ‘Tories call’d him whig, and whigs a tory;’
    • And taught his Romans, in much better metre,
    • ‘To laugh at fools who put their trust in Peter.’10
    • But Horace, sir, was delicate, was nice;
    • Bubo observes, he lash’d no sort of vice:
    • Horace would say, Sir Billy served the crown,
    • Blunt could do business, Higgins knew the town;
    • In Sappho touch the failings of the sex,
    • In rev’rend bishops note some small neglects,
    • And own the Spaniards did a waggish thing,
    • Who cropt our ears, and sent them to the King.
    • His sly, polite, insinuating style
    • Could please at court, and make Augustus smile:20
    • An artful manager, that crept between
    • His friend and shame, and was a kind of screen.
    • But, ’faith, your very Friends will soon be sore;
    • Patriots there are who wish you ’d jest no more.
    • And where ’s the glory? ’t will be only thought
    • The great man never offer’d you a groat.
    • Go see Sir Robert—
    • P. See Sir Robert!—hum—
    • And never laugh—for all my life to come;
    • Seen him I have; but in his happier hour
    • Of social Pleasure, ill exchanged for Power;
    • Seen him, uncumber’d with a venal tribe,
    • Smile without art, and win without a bribe.
    • Would he oblige me? let me only find33
    • He does not think me what he thinks mankind.
    • Come, come, at all I laugh he laughs, no doubt;
    • The only diff’rence is—I dare laugh out.
    • F. Why, yes: with Scripture still you may be free;
    • A horse-laugh, if you please, at Honesty;
    • A joke on Jeky! , or some odd Old Whig,
    • Who never changed his principle or wig.40
    • A patriot is a fool in ev’ry age,
    • Whom all Lord Chamberlains allow the stage:
    • These nothing hurts; they keep their fashion still,
    • And wear their strange old virtue as they will.
    • If any ask you, ‘Who ’s the man so near
    • His Prince, that writes in verse, and has his ear?’
    • Why, answer, Lyttelton! and I ’ll engage
    • The worthy youth shall ne’er be in a rage;
    • But were his verses vile, his whisper base,
    • You ’d quickly find him in Lord Fanny’s case.50
    • Sejanus, Wolsey , hurt not honest Fleury,
    • But well may put some statesmen in a fury.
    • Laugh then at any but at Fools or Foes;
    • These you but anger, and you mend not those.
    • Laugh at your friends, and if your friends are sore,
    • So much the better, you may laugh the more.
    • To Vice and Folly to confine the jest
    • Sets half the world, God knows, against the rest,
    • Did not the sneer of more impartial men
    • At Sense and Virtue, balance all again.60
    • Judicious Wits spread wide the ridicule,
    • And charitably comfort knave and fool.
    • P. Dear sir, forgive the prejudice of youth:
    • Adieu Distinction, Satire, Warmth, and Truth!
    • Come, harmless characters that no one hit;
    • Come, Henley’s oratory, Osborne’s wit!
    • The honey dropping from Favonio’s tongue,
    • The flowers of Bubo, and the flow of Yonge!
    • The gracious dew of pulpit Eloquence,
    • And all the well-whipt cream of courtly Sense70
    • That first was H[er]vey’s, F[ox]’s next, and then
    • The S[ena]te’s, and then H[er]vey’s once again,
    • O come! that easy Ciceronian style,
    • So Latin, yet so English all the while,
    • As, tho’ the pride of Middleton and Bland ,
    • All boys may read, and girls may understand!
    • Then might I sing without the least offence,
    • And all I sung should be the ‘Nation’s Sense;’
    • Or teach the melancholy Muse to mourn,
    • Hang the sad verse on Carolina’s urn,80
    • And hail her passage to the realms of rest,
    • All parts perform’d, and all her children blest!
    • So—Satire is no more—I feel it die—
    • No Gazetteer more innocent than I—
    • And let, a’ God’s name! ev’ry Fool and Knave
    • Be graced thro’ life, and flatter’d in his grave.
    • F. Why so? if Satire knows its time and place,
    • You still may lash the greatest—in disgrace;
    • For merit will by turns forsake them all;
    • Would you know when? exactly when they fall.90
    • But let all Satire in all changes spare
    • Immortal S[elkir]k, and grave De[lawa]re .
    • Silent and soft, as saints remove to Heav’n,
    • All ties dissolv’d, and ev’ry sin forgiv’n,
    • These may some gentle ministerial wing
    • Receive, and place for ever near a King!
    • There where no Passion, Pride, or Shame transport,
    • Lull’d with the sweet Nepenthe of a Court:
    • There where no father’s, brother’s, friend’s disgrace
    • Once break their rest, or stir them from their place;100
    • But past the sense of human miseries,
    • All tears are wiped for ever from all eyes;
    • No cheek is known to blush, no heart to throb,
    • Save when they lose a Question or a Job.
    • P. Good Heav’n forbid that I should blast their glory,
    • Who know how like Whig ministers to Tory,
    • And when three Sov’reigns died could scarce be vext,
    • Consid’ring what a gracious Prince was next.
    • Have I, in silent wonder, seen such things
    • As pride in slaves, and avarice in Kings?
    • And at a peer or peeress shall I fret,111
    • Who starves a sister or forswears a debt?
    • Virtue, I grant you, is an empty boast;
    • But shall the dignity of Vice be lost?
    • Ye Gods! shall Cibber’s son, without rebuke,
    • Swear like a Lord; or Rich outwhore a Duke?
    • A fav’rite’s porter with his master vie,
    • Be bribed as often, and as often lie?
    • Shall Ward draw contracts with a statesman’s skill?119
    • Or Japhet pocket, like His Grace, a will?
    • Is it for Bond or Peter (paltry things)
    • To pay their debts, or keep their faith, like Kings?
    • If Blount dispatch’d himself, he play’d the man,
    • And so mayst thou, illustrious Passeran!
    • But shall a printer , weary of his life,
    • Learn from their books to hang himself and wife?
    • This, this, my friend, I cannot, must not bear;
    • Vice thus abused demands a nation’s care;
    • This calls the Church to deprecate our sin ,
    • And hurls the thunder of the Laws on Gin.130
    • Let modest Foster, if he will, excel
    • Ten Metropolitans in preaching well;
    • A simple quaker, or a quaker’s wife,
    • Outdo Landaff in doctrine—yea, in life;
    • Let humble Allen, with an awkward shame,
    • Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame.
    • Virtue may choose the high or low degree,
    • ’T is just alike to Virtue and to me;
    • Dwell in a monk, or light upon a King,
    • She ’s still the same belov’d, contented thing.140
    • Vice is undone, if she forgets her birth,
    • And stoops from angels to the dregs of earth;
    • But ’t is the Fall degrades her to a whore;
    • Let Greatness own her, and she’s mean no more:
    • Her birth, her beauty, crowds and courts confess;
    • Chaste Matrons praise her, and grave Bishops bless;
    • In golden chains the willing world she draws,
    • And hers the Gospel is, and hers the Laws;
    • Mounts the tribunal, lifts her scarlet head,
    • And sees pale Virtue carted in her stead.
    • Lo! at the wheels of her triumphal car,151
    • Old England’s genius, rough with many a scar,
    • Dragg’d in the dust! his arms hang idly round,
    • His flag inverted trails along the ground!
    • Our youth, all liv’ried o’er with foreign gold,
    • Before her dance! behind her crawl the old!
    • See thronging millions to the pagod run,
    • And offer country, parent, wife, or son!
    • Hear her black trumpet thro’ the land proclaim,
    • That not to be corrupted is the shame.160
    • In Soldier, Churchman, Patriot, Man in Power,
    • ’T is Av’rice all, Ambition is no more!
    • See all our nobles begging to be slaves!
    • See all our fools aspiring to be knaves!
    • The wit of cheats, the courage of a whore,
    • Are what ten thousand envy and adore:
    • All, all look up with reverential awe,
    • At crimes that ’scape, or triumph o’er the law:
    • While Truth, Worth, Wisdom, daily they decry—
    • ‘Nothing is sacred now but Villany.’170
    • Yet may this verse (if such a verse remain)
    • Show there was one who held it in disdain.

DIALOGUE II[ ]

    • Fr. ’T is all a libel—Paxton, Sir, will say. }
    • P. Not yet, my friend! to-morrow ’faith it may; }
    • And for that very cause I print to-day. }
    • How should I fret to mangle ev’ry line
    • In rev’rence to the sins of Thirty-nine!
    • Vice with such giant strides comes on amain,
    • Invention strives to be before in vain;
    • Feign what I will, and paint it e’er so strong,
    • Some rising genius sins up to my song.
    • F. Yet none but you by name the guilty lash;10
    • Ev’n Guthry saves half Newgate by a dash.
    • Spare then the Person, and expose the Vice.
    • P. How, Sir! not damn the Sharper, but the Dice?
    • Come on them, Satire! gen’ral, unconfin’d,
    • Spread thy broad wing, and souse on all the kind.
    • Ye statesmen, priests, of one religion all!
    • Ye tradesmen vile, in army, court, or hall!
    • Ye rev’rend atheists! F. Scandal! name them, who?
    • P. Why that’s the thing you bid me not to do.
    • Who starv’d a sister, who forswore a debt,
    • I never named; the town’s inquiring yet.21
    • The pois’ning Dame—F. You mean—P. I don’t. F. You do.
    • P. See, now I keep the secret, and not you!
    • The bribing Statesman—F. Hold, too high you go.
    • P. The bribed Elector—F. There you stoop too low.
    • P. I fain would please you, if I knew with what.
    • Tell me, which knave is lawful game, which not?
    • Must great offenders, once escaped the crown,
    • Like royal harts, be never more run down?
    • Admit your law to spare the Knight requires,30
    • As beasts of Nature may we hunt the Squires?
    • Suppose I censure—you know what I mean—
    • To save a Bishop, may I name a Dean?
    • F. A Dean, sir? no: his fortune is not made;
    • You hurt a man that’s rising in the trade.
    • P. If not the tradesman who set up today,
    • Much less the ’prentice who to-morrow may.
    • Down, down, proud Satire! tho’ a realm be spoil’d,
    • Arraign no mightier thief than wretched Wild ;
    • Or, if a court or country’s made a job,40
    • Go drench a pickpocket, and join the Mob.
    • But, Sir, I beg you—for the love of Vice—
    • The matter’s weighty, pray consider twice—
    • Have you less pity for the needy cheat,
    • The poor and friendless villain, than the great?
    • Alas! the small discredit of a bribe
    • Scarce hurts the Lawyer, but undoes the Scribe.
    • Then better sure it charity becomes
    • To tax Directors, who (thank God!) have plums;
    • Still better Ministers, or if the thing50
    • May pinch ev’n there—why, lay it on a King.
    • F. Stop! stop!
    • P. Must Satire then nor rise nor fall?
    • Speak out, and bid me blame no rogues at all.
    • F. Yes, strike that Wild, I’ll justify the blow.
    • F. What, always Peter? Peter thinks you mad;
    • You make men desp’rate, if they once are bad;
    • Else might he take to Virtue some years hence—60
    • P. As S[elkir]k, if he lives, will love the Prince.
    • F. Strange spleen to S[elkir]k!
    • P. Do I wrong the man?
    • God knows I praise a Courtier where I can.
    • When I confess there is who feels for fame,
    • And melts to goodness, need I Scarb’row name?
    • Pleased let me own, in Esher’s peaceful grove
    • (Where Kent and Nature vie for Pelham’s love),
    • The scene, the master, opening to my view,
    • I sit and dream I see my Craggs anew!
    • Ev’n in a Bishop I can spy desert;70
    • Secker is decent, Rundel has a heart;
    • Manners with candour are to Benson giv’n;
    • To Berkley ev’ry virtue under Heav’n.
    • But does the Court a worthy man remove?
    • That instant, I declare, he has my love:
    • I shun his zenith, court his mild decline.
    • Thus Somers once and Halifax were mine:
    • Oft in the clear still mirror of retreat
    • I studied Shrewsbury, the wise and great:
    • Carleton’s calm sense and Stanhope’s noble flame80
    • Compared, and knew their gen’rous end the same;
    • How pleasing Atterbury’s softer hour!
    • How shined the soul, unconquer’d, in the Tower!
    • How can I Pulteney, Chesterfield, forget,
    • While Roman Spirit charms, and Attic Wit?
    • Argyle, the state’s whole thunder born to wield,
    • And shake alike the senate and the field?
    • Or Wyndham , just to freedom and the throne,
    • The Master of our Passions and his own?
    • Names which I long have lov’d, nor lov’d in vain,90
    • Rank’d with their friends, not number’d with their train;
    • And if yet higher the proud list should end,
    • Still let me say,—no foll’wer, but a Friend.
    • Yet think not friendship only prompts my lays;
    • I follow Virtue; where she shines I praise,
    • Point she to priest or elder, Whig, or Tory,
    • Or round a quaker’s beaver cast a glory.
    • I never (to my sorrow I declare)
    • Dined with the Man of Ross or my Lord Mayor.
    • Some in their choice of friends (nay, look not grave)100
    • Have still a secret bias to a knave:
    • To find an honest man I beat about,
    • And love him, court him, praise him, in or out.
    • F. Then why so few commended?
    • P. Not so fierce;
    • Find you the Virtue, and I’ll find the Verse.
    • But random praise—the task can ne’er be done;
    • Each mother asks it for her booby son;
    • Each widow asks it for the best of men,
    • For him she weeps, for him she weds again.
    • Praise cannot stoop, like Satire, to the ground;110
    • The number may be hang’d, but not be crown’d.
    • Enough for half the greatest of these days
    • To ’scape my Censure, not expect my Praise.
    • Are they not rich? what more can they pretend?
    • Dare they to hope a poet for their friend?—
    • What Richelieu wanted, Louis scarce could gain,
    • And what young Ammon wish’d, but wish’d in vain.
    • No power the Muse’s friendship can command;
    • No power, when Virtue claims it, can withstand.
    • To Cato, Virgil paid one honest line;120
    • O let my country’s friends illumine mine!
    • —What are you thinking? F. Faith, the thought’s no sin;
    • I think your friends are out, and would be in.
    • P. If merely to come in, Sir, they go out,
    • The way they take is strangely round about.
    • F. They too may be corrupted, you’ll allow?
    • P. I only call those knaves who are so now.
    • Is that too little? come, then, I’ll comply—
    • Spirit of Arnall, aid me while I lie!129
    • Cobham’s a coward! Polworth is a slave!
    • And Lyttelton a dark designing knave!
    • St. John has ever been a wealthy fool!—
    • But let me add, Sir Robert’s mighty dull,
    • Has never made a friend in private life,
    • And was, besides, a tyrant to his wife!
    • But pray, when others praise him, do I blame?
    • Call Verres, Wolsey, any odious name?
    • Why rail they then if but a wreath of mine,
    • O all-accomplish’d St. John! deck thy shrine?
    • What! shall each spur-gall’d hackney of the day,140
    • When Paxton gives him double pots and pay,
    • Or each new-pension’d Sycophant, pretend
    • To break my windows if I treat a friend;
    • Then, wisely plead, to me they meant no hurt,
    • But ’t was my guest at whom they threw the dirt?
    • Sure if I spare the Minister, no rules
    • Of honour bind me not to maul his Tools;
    • Sure if they cannot cut, it may be said
    • His saws are toothless, and his hatchet’s lead.
    • It anger’d Turenne, once upon a day,150
    • To see a footman kick’d that took his pay;
    • But when he heard th’ affront the fellow gave,
    • Knew one a Man of Honour, one a Knave,
    • The prudent Gen’ral turn’d it to a jest,
    • And begg’d he’d take the pains to kick the rest;
    • Which not at present having time to do—
    • F. Hold, Sir! for God’s sake, where’s th’ affront to you?
    • Against your worship when had S[herloc]k writ,
    • Or P[a]ge pour’d forth the torrent of his wit?
    • Or grant the bard whose distich all commend160
    • (‘In power a servant, out of power a friend’)
    • To W[alpo]le guilty of some venial sin,
    • What’s that to you who ne’er was out nor in?
    • The Priest whose flattery bedropp’d the crown,
    • How hurt he you? he only stain’d the gown.
    • And how did, pray, the florid youth offend,
    • Whose speech you took, and gave it to a friend?
    • P. Faith, it imports not much from whom it came; }
    • Whoever borrow’d could not be to blame, }
    • Since the whole House did afterwards the same.170 }
    • Let courtly Wits to Wits afford supply,
    • As hog to hog in huts of Westphaly:
    • If one, thro’ Nature’s bounty or his Lord’s
    • Has what the frugal dirty soil affords,
    • From him the next receives it, thick or thin,
    • As pure a mess almost as it came in;
    • The blessed benefit, not there confin’d,
    • Drops to the third, who nuzzles close behind;
    • From tail to mouth they feed and they carouse;
    • The last full fairly gives it to the House.180
    • F. This filthy simile, this beastly line,
    • Quite turns my stomach—P. So does flatt’ry mine;
    • And all your courtly civet-cats can vent,
    • Perfume to you, to me is excrement.
    • But hear me further—Japhet , ’t is agreed,
    • Writ not, and Chartres scarce could write or read
    • In all the courts of Pindus, guiltless quite;
    • But pens can forge, my friend, that cannot write,
    • And must no egg in Japhet’s face be thrown,
    • Because the deed he forged was not my own?190
    • Must never Patriot then declaim at Gin
    • Unless, good man! he has been fairly in?
    • No zealous Pastor blame a failing spouse
    • Without a staring reason on his brows?
    • And each blasphemer quite escape the rod,
    • Because the insult’s not on man but God?
    • Ask you what provocation I have had?
    • The strong antipathy of good to bad.
    • When Truth or Virtue an affront endures,
    • Th’ affront is mine, my friend, and should be yours.200
    • Mine, as a foe profess’d to false pretence,
    • Who think a coxcomb’s honour like his sense;
    • Mine, as a friend to ev’ry worthy mind;
    • And mine as man, who feel for all mankind.
    • F. You’re strangely proud. }
    • P. So proud, I am no slave; }
    • So impudent, I own myself no knave; }
    • So odd, my country’s ruin makes me grave. }
    • Yes, I am proud; I must be proud to see
    • Men, not afraid of God, afraid of me;
    • Safe from the Bar, the Pulpit, and the Throne,210
    • Yet touch’d and shamed by Ridicule alone.
    • O sacred weapon! left for Truth’s defence,
    • Sole dread of Folly, Vice, and Insolence,
    • To all but Heav’n-directed hands denied,
    • The Muse may give thee, but the Gods must guide!
    • Rev’rent I touch thee! but with honest zeal,
    • To rouse the watchmen of the public weal,
    • To Virtue’s work provoke the tardy hall,
    • And goad the Prelate, slumb’ring in his stall.
    • Ye tinsel insects! whom a Court maintains,
    • That counts your beauties only by your stains,221
    • Spin all your cobwebs o’er the eye of day!
    • The Muse’s wing shall brush you all away.
    • All His Grace preaches, all His Lordship sings,
    • All that makes Saints of Queens, and Gods of Kings;
    • All, all but Truth, drops dead-born from the press,
    • Like the last Gazette, or the last Address.
    • Not so when, diadem’d with rays divine,
    • Touch’d with the flame that breaks from Virtue’s shrine,
    • Her priestess Muse forbids the good to die,
    • And opes the Temple of Eternity.
    • There other trophies deck the truly brave
    • Than such as Anstis casts into the grave;
    • Far other stars than [Kent] and [Grafton] wear,
    • And may descend to Mordington from Stair;—
    • Such as on Hough’s unsullied mitre shine,
    • Or beam, good Digby! from a heart like thine.241
    • Let envy howl, while heav’n’s whole chorus sings,
    • And bark at honour not conferr’d by Kings;
    • Let Flatt’ry sick’ning see the incense rise,
    • Sweet to the world, and grateful to the skies:
    • Truth guards the Poet, sanctifies the line,
    • And makes immortal, verse as mean as mine.
    • Yes, the last pen for Freedom let me draw,
    • When Truth stands trembling on the edge of law
    • Here, last of Britons! let your names be read;250
    • Are none, none living? let me praise the dead;
    • And for that cause which made your fathers shine
    • Fall by the votes of their degen’rate line.
    • F. Alas! alas! pray end what you began,
    • And write next winter more Essays on Man.
[Back to Table of Contents]

THE SIXTH SATIRE OF THE SECOND BOOK OF HORACE[ ]

THE FIRST PART IMITATED IN THE YEAR 1714 BY DR. SWIFT; THE LATTER PART ADDED AFTERWARDS

Of the following Imitations of Horace the first two are rather imitations of Swift, Horace merely supplying the text for the travesty. For (as previous editors have not failed to point out) no styles could be found less like one another than the bland and polite style of Horace and the downright, and often cynically plain, manner of Swift. With Pope the attempt to write in Swift’s style was a mere tour de force, which he could indeed carry out with success through a few lines, but not further, without relapsing into his own more elaborate manner. Swift’s marvellous precision and netteté of expression are something very different from Pope’s pointed and rhetorical elegance. The Ode to Venus, which was first published in 1737, more nearly approaches the character of a translation. (Ward.)

    • I’ve often wish’d that I had clear
    • For life six hundred pounds a year,
    • A handsome house to lodge a friend,
    • A river at my garden’s end,
    • A terrace walk, and half a rood
    • Of land set out to plant a wood.
    • Well, now I have all this, and more,
    • I ask not to increase my store;
    • But here a grievance seems to lie,
    • All this is mine but till I die;10
    • I can’t but think ’t would sound more clever,
    • To me and to my heirs for ever.
    • If I ne’er got or lost a groat
    • By any trick or any fault;
    • And if I pray by Reason’s rules,
    • And not like forty other fools,
    • As thus: ‘Vouchsafe, O gracious Maker!
    • To grant me this and t’ other acre;
    • Or, if it be thy will and pleasure,
    • Direct my plough to find a treasure;20
    • But only what my station fits,
    • And to be kept in my right wits,
    • Preserve, almighty Providence!
    • Just what you gave me, Competence;
    • And let me in these shades compose
    • Something in verse as true as prose,
    • Remov’d from all th’ ambitious scene,
    • Nor puff’d by Pride, nor sunk by Spleen.’
    • In short, I’m perfectly content,
    • Let me but live on this side Trent,30
    • Nor cross the channel twice a year,
    • To spend six months with statesmen here.
    • I must by all means come to town,
    • ’T is for the service of the Crown;
    • ‘Lewis, the Dean will be of use;
    • Send for him up; take no excuse.’
    • The toil, the danger of the seas,
    • Great ministers ne’er think of these;
    • Or, let it cost five hundred pound,
    • No matter where the money’s found;40
    • It is but so much more in debt,
    • And that they ne’er consider’d yet.
    • ‘Good Mr. Dean, go change your gown,
    • Let my Lord know you’re come to town.’
    • I hurry me in haste away,
    • Not thinking it is Levee day,
    • And find His Honour in a pound,
    • Hemm’d by a triple circle round,
    • Chequer’d with ribbons blue and green:
    • How should I thrust myself between?50
    • Some wag observes me thus perplex’d,
    • And smiling, whispers to the next,
    • ‘I thought the Dean had been too proud
    • To jostle here among a crowd.’
    • Another, in a surly fit,
    • Tells me I have more zeal than wit;
    • ‘So eager to express your love,
    • You ne’er consider whom you shove,
    • But rudely press before a Duke.’
    • I own I’m pleas’d with this rebuke,60
    • And take it kindly meant, to show
    • What I desire the world should know.
    • I get a whisper, and withdraw;
    • When twenty fools I never saw
    • Come with petitions fairly penn’d,
    • Desiring I would stand their friend.
    • This humbly offers me his Case—
    • That begs my int’rest for a Place—
    • A hundred other men’s affairs,
    • Like bees, are humming in my ears;70
    • ‘To-morrow my appeal comes on,
    • Without your help the cause is gone.’
    • ‘The Duke expects my Lord and you
    • About some great affair at two.’
    • ‘Put my Lord Bolingbroke in mind
    • To get my warrant quickly sign’d:
    • Consider, ’t is my first request.’—
    • ‘Be satisfied, I’ll do my best:’—
    • Then presently he falls to tease,
    • ‘You may be certain, if you please;80
    • I doubt not, if his Lordship knew—
    • And, Mr. Dean, one word from you.’—
    • ’T is (let me see) three years and more
    • (October next it will be four)
    • Since Harley bid me first attend,
    • And chose me for an humble friend:
    • Would take me in his coach to chat,
    • And question me of this and that;
    • As, ‘What’s o’clock?’ and, ‘How’s the wind?’
    • ‘Whose chariot’s that we left behind?’90
    • Or gravely try to read the lines
    • Writ underneath the country signs;
    • Or, ‘Have you nothing new to-day
    • From Pope, from Parnell, or from Gay?’
    • Such tattle often entertains
    • My Lord and me as far as Staines,
    • As once a week we travel down
    • To Windsor, and again to town,
    • Where all that passes inter nos
    • Might be proclaim’d at Charing-cross.100
    • Yet some I know with envy swell
    • Because they see me used so well.
    • ‘How think you of our friend the Dean?
    • I wonder what some people mean;
    • My lord and he are grown so great,
    • Always together tête-à-tête.
    • What! they admire him for his jokes—
    • See but the fortune of some folks!’
    • There flies about a strange report
    • Of some express arrived at Court;110
    • I’m stopp’d by all the fools I meet,
    • And catechised in every street.
    • ‘You, Mr. Dean, frequent the Great:
    • Inform us, will the Emp’ror treat?
    • Or do the prints and papers lie?’
    • ‘Faith, Sir, you know as much as I.’
    • ‘Ah, Doctor, how you love to jest!
    • ’T is now no secret.’—‘I protest
    • ’T is one to me.’—‘Then tell us, pray,
    • When are the troops to have their pay?’120
    • And tho’ I solemnly declare
    • I know no more than my Lord Mayor,
    • They stand amazed, and think me grown
    • The closest mortal ever known.
    • Thus in a sea of folly tost,
    • My choicest hours of life are lost;
    • Yet always wishing to retreat:
    • O, could I see my country-seat!
    • There leaning near a gentle brook,
    • Sleep, or peruse some ancient book,130
    • And there, in sweet oblivion drown
    • Those cares that haunt the Court and town.
    • O charming Noons! and Nights divine!
    • Or when I sup, or when I dine,
    • My friends above, my folks below,
    • Chatting and laughing all-a-row,
    • The beans and bacon set before ’em,
    • The grace-cup served with all decorum;
    • Each willing to be pleas’d, and please,
    • And ev’n the very dogs at ease!140
    • Here no man prates of idle things,
    • How this or that Italian sings,
    • A Neighbour’s madness, or his Spouse’s,
    • Or what’s in either of the Houses;
    • But something much more our concern,
    • And quite a scandal not to learn;
    • Which is the happier or the wiser,
    • A man of merit, or a miser?
    • Whether we ought to choose our friends
    • For their own worth or our own ends?150
    • What good, or better, we may call,
    • And what the very best of all?
    • Our friend Dan Prior told (you know)
    • A tale extremely à-propos:
    • Name a town life, and in a trice
    • He had a story of two mice.
    • Once on a time (so runs the Fable)
    • A Country Mouse right hospitable,
    • Received a Town Mouse at his board,
    • Just as a farmer might a Lord.160
    • A frugal mouse, upon the whole,
    • Yet lov’d his friend, and had a soul;
    • Knew what was handsome, and would do ’t,
    • On just occasion, coûte qui coûte.
    • He brought him bacon (nothing lean),
    • Pudding that might have pleas’d a Dean;
    • Cheese, such as men in Suffolk make,
    • But wish’d it Stilton for his sake;
    • Yet, to his guest tho’ no way sparing,
    • He ate himself the rind and paring.170
    • Our Courtier scarce could touch a bit,
    • But show’d his breeding and his wit;
    • He did his best to seem to eat,
    • And cried, ‘I vow you’re mighty neat:
    • But lord, my friend, this savage scene!
    • For God’s sake come and live with men;
    • Consider, mice, like men, must die,
    • Both small and great, both you and I;
    • Then spend your life in joy and sport,
    • (This doctrine, friend, I learn’d at court).’
    • The veriest hermit in the nation181
    • May yield, God knows, to strong temptation.
    • Away they came, thro’ thick and thin,
    • To a tall house near Lincoln’s-Inn
    • (’T was on the night of a debate,
    • When all their Lordships had sat late).
    • Behold the place where if a poet
    • Shined in description he might show it;
    • Tell how the moonbeam trembling falls,
    • And tips with silver all the walls;190
    • Palladian walls, Venetian doors,
    • Grotesco roofs, and stucco floors:
    • But let it (in a word) be said, }
    • The moon was up, and men a-bed, }
    • The napkins white, the carpet red: }
    • The guests withdrawn had left the treat,
    • And down the Mice sat tête-à-tête.
    • Our Courtier walks from dish to dish,
    • Tastes for his friend of fowl and fish;
    • Tells all their names, lays down the law,200
    • ‘Que ça est bon! Ah, goutez ça!
    • That Jelly’s rich, this Malmsey healing,
    • Pray, dip your whiskers and your tail in.’
    • Was ever such a happy swain!
    • He stuffs and swills, and stuffs again.
    • ‘I’m quite ashamed—’t is mighty rude
    • To eat so much—but all’s so good—
    • I have a thousand thanks to give—
    • My Lord alone knows how to live.’
    • No sooner said, but from the hall210
    • Rush chaplain, butler, dogs, and all:
    • ‘A rat, a rat! clap to the door’—
    • The cat comes bouncing on the floor.
    • O for the art of Homer’s mice,
    • Or gods to save them in a trice!
    • (It was by Providence, they think,
    • For your damn’d stucco has no chink!)
    • ‘An’t please Your Honour,’ quoth the peasant,
    • ‘This same dessert is not so pleasant:
    • Give me again my hollow tree,220
    • A crust of bread and Liberty!’
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THE SEVENTH EPISTLE OF THE FIRST BOOK OF HORACE[ ]

IN THE MANNER OF DR. SWIFT

    • ’T is true, my Lord, I gave my word
    • I would be with you June the third;
    • Changed it to August, and (in short)
    • Have kept it—as you do at Court.
    • You humour me when I am sick,
    • Why not when I am splenetic?
    • In Town what objects could I meet?
    • The shops shut up in every street,
    • And funerals black’ning all the doors,
    • And yet more melancholy whores:10
    • And what a dust in every place!
    • And a thin Court that wants your face,
    • And fevers raging up and down,
    • And W[ard] and H[enley] both in town!
    • ‘The dogdays are no more the case.’
    • ’T is true, but winter comes apace:
    • Then southward let your bard retire,
    • Hold out some months ’twixt sun and fire,
    • And you shall see the first warm weather
    • Me and the butterflies together.20
    • My Lord, your favours well I know;
    • ’T is with distinction you bestow,
    • And not to every one that comes,
    • Just as a Scotchman does his plums.
    • ‘Pray take them, Sir—enough’s a feast:
    • Eat some, and pocket up the rest:’
    • What, rob your boys? those pretty rogues!
    • ‘No, Sir, you’ll leave them to the hogs.’
    • Thus fools with compliments besiege ye,
    • Contriving never to oblige ye.30
    • Scatter your favours on a Fop,
    • Ingratitude’s the certain crop;
    • And ’t is but just, I’ll tell ye wherefore,
    • You give the things you never care for.
    • A wise man always is, or should,
    • Be mighty ready to be good,
    • But makes a diff’rence in his thought
    • Betwixt a guinea and a groat.
    • Now this I’ll say, you’ll find in me
    • A safe companion, and a free;40
    • But if you’d have me always near,
    • A word, pray, in Your Honour’s ear:
    • I hope it is your resolution
    • To give me back my constitution,
    • The sprightly wit, the lively eye,
    • Th’ engaging smile, the gayety
    • That laugh’d down many a summer sun,
    • And kept you up so oft till one;
    • And all that voluntary vein,
    • As when Belinda rais’d my strain.50
    • A Weasel once made shift to slink
    • In at a corn-loft thro’ a chink,
    • But having amply stuff’d his skin,
    • Could not get out as he got in;
    • Which one belonging to the house
    • (’T was not a man, it was a mouse)
    • Observing, cried, ‘You ’scape not so;
    • Lean as you came, Sir, you must go.’
    • Sir, you may spare your application;
    • I’m no such beast, nor his relation,60
    • Nor one that Temperance advance,
    • Cramm’d to the throat with ortolans;
    • Extremely ready to resign
    • All that may make me none of mine.
    • South-Sea subscriptions take who please,
    • Leave me but liberty and ease:
    • ’T was what I said to Craggs and Child ,
    • Who praised my modesty, and smil’d.
    • ‘Give me,’ I cried (enough for me)
    • ‘My bread and independency!’70
    • So bought an annual rent or two,
    • And lived—just as you see I do;
    • Near fifty, and without a wife,
    • I trust that sinking fund, my life.
    • Can I retrench? Yes, mighty well,
    • Shrink back to my paternal cell,
    • A little house, with trees a row,
    • And, like its master, very low;
    • There died my father, no man’s debtor,
    • And there I’ll die, nor worse nor better.80
    • To set this matter full before ye,
    • Our old friend Swift will tell his story.
    • ‘Harley, the nation’s great support’—
    • But you may read it, I stop short.
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THE FIRST ODE OF THE FOURTH BOOK OF HORACE[ ]

TO VENUS

  • Again? new tumults in my breast?
  • Ah, spare me, Venus! let me, let me rest!
  • I am not now, alas! the man
  • As in the gentle reign of my Queen Anne.
  • Ah! sound no more thy soft alarms,
  • Nor circle sober fifty with thy charms.
  • Mother too fierce of dear desires!
  • Turn, turn to willing hearts your wanton fires:
  • To number five direct your doves,
  • There spread round Murray all your blooming Loves;10
  • Noble and young, who strikes the heart
  • With ev’ry sprightly, ev’ry decent part;
  • Equal the injured to defend,
  • To charm the Mistress, or to fix the Friend.
  • He, with a hundred arts refin’d,
  • Shall stretch thy conquests over half the kind:
  • To him each rival shall submit,
  • Make but his Riches equal to his Wit.
  • Then shall thy form the marble grace,
  • (Thy Grecian form) and Chloe lend the face:20
  • His house, embosom’d in the grove,
  • Sacred to social life and social love,
  • Shall glitter o’er the pendant green,
  • Where Thames reflects the visionary scene:
  • Thither, the silver-sounding lyres
  • Shall call the smiling Loves, and young Desires;
  • There, ev’ry Grace and Muse shall throng,
  • Exalt the dance, or animate the song;
  • There Youths and Nymphs, in concert gay,
  • Shall hail the rising, close the parting day.
  • With me, alas! those joys are o’er;31
  • For me, the vernal garlands bloom no more.
  • Adieu, fond hope of mutual fire,
  • The still-believing, still-renew’d desire;
  • Adieu, the heart-expanding bowl,
  • And all the kind deceivers of the soul!
  • But why? ah tell me, ah too dear!
  • Steals down my cheek th’ involuntary Tear?
  • Why words so flowing, thoughts so free,
  • Stop, or turn nonsense, at one glance of thee?40
  • Thee, drest in Fancy’s airy beam,
  • Absent I follow thro’ th’ extended Dream;
  • Now, now I seize, I clasp thy charms,
  • And now you burst (ah cruel!) from my arms;
  • And swiftly shoot along the Mall,
  • Or softly glide by the Canal,
  • Now, shown by Cynthia’s silver ray,
  • And now, on rolling waters snatch’d away.
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THE NINTH ODE OF THE FOURTH BOOK OF HORACE

A FRAGMENT

    • Lest you should think that verse shall die
    • Which sounds the silver Thames along,
    • Taught on the wings of truth to fly
    • Above the reach of vulgar song;
    • Tho’ daring Milton sits sublime,
    • In Spenser native muses play;
    • Nor yet shall Waller yield to time,
    • Nor pensive Cowley’s moral lay—
    • Sages and Chiefs long since had birth
    • Ere Cæsar was or Newton named;
    • These rais’d new empires o’er the earth,
    • And those new heav’ns and systems framed.
    • Vain was the Chief’s, the Sage’s Pride!
    • They had no Poet, and they died.
    • In vain they schemed, in vain they bled!
    • They had no Poet, and are dead.
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THE DUNCIAD

IN FOUR BOOKS

The first edition of The Dunciad was published in the spring of 1728, and included the first three books. In 1729 an edition with notes and other illustrative matter appeared, the original frontispiece of the owl being superseded by a vignette of a donkey bearing a pile of books upon which an owl perched. In this edition appeared the Dedication to Swift and the Letter to the Publisher. William Cleland, whose name is signed to this letter, was a real person and an acquaintance of Pope’s, but it is generally conceded that the letter is directly or indirectly the work of Pope himself. The fourth book, then called The New Dunciad, was published separately in 1742. In the complete edition of 1743, Cibber takes the place of Theobald as hero of the poem. During these fifteen years, public interest in the satire, which was undoubtedly great, was artificially stimulated by Pope. So subtle were his mystifications that the confusion into which he threw his commentators has only recently been set straight.

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MARTINUS SCRIBLERUS OF THE POEM

This poem, as it celebrateth the most grave and ancient of things, Chaos, Night, and Dulness, so is it of the most grave and ancient kind. Homer (saith Aristotle) was the first who gave the form, and (saith Horace) who adapted the measure, to heroic poesy. But even before this may be rationally presumed, from what the ancients have left written, was a piece by Homer, composed of like nature and matter with this of our poet; for of epic sort it appeareth to have been, yet of matter surely not unpleasant; witness what is reported of it by the learned Archbishop Eustathius, in Odyssey X. And accordingly Aristotle, in his Poetic, chap. iv., doth further set forth, that as the Iliad and Odyssey gave an example to Tragedy, so did this poem to Comedy its first idea.

From these authors also it should seem that the hero, or chief personage of it, was no less obscure, and his understanding and sentiments no less quaint and strange (if indeed not more so) than any of the actors of our poem. Margites was the name of this personage, whom antiquity recordeth to have been Dunce the First; and surely, from what we hear of him, not unworthy to be the root of so spreading a tree, and so numerous a posterity. The poem, therefore, celebrating him, was properly and absolutely a Dunciad; which though now unhappily lost, yet is its nature sufficiently known by the infallible tokens aforesaid. And thus it doth appear that the first Dunciad was the first epic poem, written by Homer himself, and anterior even to the Iliad or Odyssey.

Now, forasmuch as our poet hath translated those two famous works of Homer which are yet left, he did conceive it in some sort his duty to imitate that also which was lost; and was therefore induced to bestow on it the same form which Homer’s is reported to have had, namely, that of epic poem; with a title also framed after the ancient Greek manner, to wit, that of Dunciad.

Wonderful it is that so few of the moderns have been stimulated to attempt some Dunciad; since, in the opinion of the multitude, it might cost less pain and toil than an imitation of the greater epic. But possible it is also that, on due reflection, the maker might find it easier to paint a Charlemagne, a Brute, or a Godfrey, with just pomp and dignity heroic, than a Margites, a Codrus, or a Fleckno.

We shall next declare the occasion and the cause which moved our poet to this particular work. He lived in those days when (after Providence had permitted the invention of printing as a scourge for the sins of the learned) paper also became so cheap, and printers so numerous, that a deluge of authors covered the land: whereby not only the peace of the honest unwriting subject was daily molested, but unmerciful demands were made of his applause, yea, of his money, by such as would neither earn the one nor deserve the other. At the same time the license of the press was such, that it grew dangerous to refuse them either; for they would forthwith publish slanders unpunished, the authors being anonymous, and skulking under the wings of publishers, a set of men who never scrupled to vend either calumny or blasphemy, as long as the town would call for it.

1 Now our author, living in those times, did conceive it an endeavour well worthy an honest satirist, to dissuade the dull, and punish the wicked, the only way that was left. In that public-spirited view he laid the Plan of this poem, as the greatest service he was capable (without much hurt, or being slain) to render his dear country. First, taking things from their original, he considereth the causes creative of such authors, namely, dulness and poverty; the one born with them, the other contracted by neglect of their proper talents, through self-conceit of greater abilities. This truth he wrappeth in an allegory1 (as the construction of epic poesy requireth), and feigns that one of these goddesses had taken up her abode with the other, and that they jointly inspired all such writers and such works.2 He proceedeth to show the qualities they bestow on these authors, and the effects they produce;3 then the materials, or stock, with which they furnish them;4 and (above all) that self-opinion5 which causeth it to seem to themselves vastly greater than it is, and is the prime motive of their setting up in this sad and sorry merchandise. The great power of these goddesses acting in alliance (whereof as the one is the mother of industry, so is the other of plodding) was to be exemplified in some one great and remarkable action;6 and none could be more so than that which our poet hath chosen, viz. the restoration of the reign of Chaos and Night, by the ministry of Dulness their daughter, in the removal of her imperial seat from the city to the polite world; as the action of the Æneid is the restoration of the empire of Troy, by the removal of the race from thence to Latium. But as Homer, singing only the wrath of Achilles, yet includes in his poem the whole history of the Trojan war; in like manner, our author has drawn into this single action the whole history of Dulness and her children.

A Person must next be fixed upon to support this action. This phantom, in the poet’s mind, must have a name.7 He finds it to be—; and he becomes of course the hero of the poem.

The Fable being thus, according to the best example, one and entire, as contained in the proposition; the machinery is a continued chain of allegories, setting forth the whole power, ministry, and empire of Dulness, extended through her subordinate instruments, in all her various operations.

This is branched into Episodes, each of which hath its moral apart, though all conducive to the main end. The crowd assembled in the second Book demonstrates the design to be more extensive than to bad poets only, and that we may expect other episodes of the patrons, encouragers, or paymasters of such authors, as occasion shall bring them forth. And the third Book, if well considered, seemeth to embrace the whole world. Each of the games relateth to some or other vile class of writers. The first concerneth the plagiary, to whom he giveth the name of Moore; the second the libellous novelist, whom he styleth Eliza; the third, the flattering dedicator; the fourth, the bawling critic, or noisy poet; the fifth the dark and dirty party-writer; and so of the rest; assigning to each some proper name or other, such as he could find.

As for the Characters, the public hath already acknowledged how justly they are drawn. The manners are so depicted, and the sentiments so peculiar to those to whom applied, that surely to transfer them to any other or wiser personages would be exceeding difficult; and certain it is that every person concerned, being consulted apart, hath readily owned the resemblance of every portrait, his own excepted. So Mr. Cibber calls them ‘a parcel of poor wretches, so many silly flies;’ but adds, ‘our author’s wit is remarkably more bare and barren whenever it would fall foul on Cibber than upon any other person whatever.’

The Descriptions are singular, the comparisons very quaint, the narrations various, yet of one colour, the purity and chastity of diction is so preserved, that in the places most suspicious, not the words, but only the images, have been censured; and yet are those images no other than have been sanctified by ancient and classical authority (though, as was the manner of those good times, not so curiously wrapped up), yea, and commented upon by the most grave doctors and approved critics.

As it beareth the name of Epic, it is thereby subjected to such severe indispensable rules as are laid on all neoterics, a strict imitation of the ancients; insomuch that any deviation, accompanied with whatever poetic beauties, hath always been censured by the sound critic. How exact that imitation hath been in this piece, appeareth not only by its general structure, but by particular allusions infinite, many whereof have escaped both the commentator and poet himself; yea divers, by his exceeding diligence, are so altered and interwoven with the rest, that several have already been, and more will be, by the ignorant abused, as altogether and originally his own.

In a word, the whole Poem proveth itself to be the work of our author, when his faculties were in full vigour and perfection; at that exact time when years have ripened the judgment without diminishing the imagination; which, by good critics, is held to be punctually at forty: for at that season it was that Virgil finished his Georgics; and Sir Richard Blackmore, at the like age composing his Arthurs, declared the same to be the very acme and pitch of life for epic poesy; though, since, he hath altered it to sixty, the year in which he published his Alfred. True it is that the talents for criticism, namely, smartness, quick censure, vivacity of remark, certainty of asservation, indeed all but acerbity, seem rather the gifts of youth than of riper age: but it is far otherwise in poetry; witness the works of Mr. Rymer and Mr. Dennis, who, beginning with criticism, became afterwards such poets as no age hath paralleled. With good reason, therefore, did our author choose to write his Essay on that subject at twenty, and reserve for his maturer years this great and wonderful work of The Dunclad.

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PREFACE

PREFIXED TO THE FIVE FIRST IMPERFECT EDITIONS OF THE DUNCIAD, IN THREE BOOKS, PRINTED AT DUBLIN AND LONDON, IN OCTAVO AND DUODECIMO, 1727.

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THE PUBLISHER TO THE READER

It will be found a true observation, though somewhat surprising, that when any scandal is vented against a man of the highest distinction and character, either in the state or literature, the public in general afford it a most quiet reception, and the larger part accept it as favourably as if it were some kindness done to themselves: whereas, if a known scoundrel or blockhead but chance to be touched upon, a whole legion is up in arms, and it becomes the common cause of all scribblers, booksellers, and printers whatsoever.

Not to search too deeply into the reason hereof, I will only observe as a fact, that every week, for these two months past, the town has been persecuted with pamphlets, advertisements, letters, and weekly essays, not only against the wit and writings, but against the character and person of Mr. Pope; and that of all those men who have received pleasure from his works (which by modest computation may be about a hundred thousand in these kingdoms of England and Ireland, not to mention Jersey, Guernsey, the Orcades, those in the New World, and foreigners who have translated him into their languages), of all this number not a man hath stood up to say one word in his defence.

The only exception is the author of the following poem, who doubtless had either a better insight into the grounds of this clamour, or a better opinion of Mr. Pope’s integrity, joined with a greater personal love for him than any other of his numerous friends and admirers.

Farther, that he was in his peculiar intimacy, appears from the knowledge he manifests of the most private authors of all the anonymous pieces against him, and from his having in this poem attacked no man living who had not before printed or published some scandal against this gentleman.

How I came possessed of it, is no concern to the reader; but it would have been a wrong to him had I detained the publication; since those names which are its chief ornaments die off daily so fast, as must render it too soon unintelligible. If it provoke the author to give us a more perfect edition, I have my end.

Who he is I cannot say, and (which is a great pity) there is certainly nothing in his style and manner of writing which can distinguish or discover him; for if it bears any resemblance to that of Mr. Pope, it is not improbable but it might be done on purpose, with a view to have it pass for his. But by the frequency of his allusions to Virgil, and a laboured (not to say affected) shortness in imitation of him, I should think him more an admirer of the Roman poet than of the Grecian, and in that not of the same taste with his friend.

I have been well informed that this work was the labour of full six years of his life, and that he wholly retired himself from all the avocations and pleasures of the world to attend diligently to its correction and perfection; and six years more he intended to bestow upon it, as it should seem by this verse of Statius, which was cited at the head of his manuscript:—

  • ‘Oh mihi bissenos multum vigilata per annos,
  • Duncia!’

Hence also we learn the true title of the poem; which, with the same certainty as we call that of Homer the Iliad, of Virgil the Æneid, of Camöens the Lusiad, we may pronounce could have been, and can be, no other than

THE DUNCIAD

It is styled heroic, as being doubly so; not only with respect to its nature, which, according to the best rules of the ancients, and strictest ideas of the moderns, is critically such; but also with regard to the heroical disposition and high courage of the writer, who dared to stir up such a formidable, irritable, and implacable race of mortals.

There may arise some obscurity in chronology from the names in the poem, by the inevitable removal of some authors, and insertion of others in their niches: for, whoever will consider the unity of the whole design, will be sensible that the poem was not made for these authors, but these authors for the poem. I should judge that they were clapped in as they rose, fresh and fresh, and changed from day to day; in like manner as when the old boughs wither we thrust new ones into a chimney.

I would not have the reader too much troubled or anxious, if he cannot decipher them; since, when he shall have found them out, he will probably know no more of the persons than before.

Yet we judged it better to preserve them as they are, than to change them for fictitious names; by which the satire would only be multiplied, and applied to many instead of one. Had the hero, for instance, been called Codrus, how many would have affirmed him to have been Mr. T., Mr. E., Sir R. B.? &c., but now all that unjust scandal is saved, by calling him by a name which, by good luck, happens to be that of a real person.

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A LETTER TO THE PUBLISHER

OCCASIONED BY THE FIRST CORRECT EDITION OF THE DUNCIAD

It is with pleasure I hear that you have procured a correct copy of the Dunciad, which the many surreptitious ones have rendered so necessary; and it is yet with more, that I am informed it will be attended with a Commentary; a work so requisite, that I cannot think the author himself would have omitted it, had he approved of the first appearance of this poem.

Such Notes as have occurred to me I herewith send you: you will oblige me by inserting them amongst those which are, or will be, transmitted to you by others; since not only the author’s friends, but even strangers, appear engaged by humanity, to take some care of an orphan of so much genius and spirit, which its parent seems to have abandoned from the very beginning, and suffered to step into the world naked, unguarded, and unattended.

It was upon reading some of the abusive papers lately published, that my great regard to a person whose friendship I esteem as one of the chief honours of my life, and a much greater respect to truth than to him or any man living, engaged me in inquiries of which the enclosed Notes are the fruit.

I perceived that most of these authors had been (doubtless very wisely) the first aggressors. They had tried, till they were weary, what was to be got by railing at each other: nobody was either concerned or surprised if this or that scribbler was proved a dunce, but every one was curious to read what could be said to prove Mr. Pope one, and was ready to pay something for such a discovery; a stratagem which, would they fairly own it, might not only reconcile them to me, but screen them from the resentment of their lawful superiors, whom they daily abuse, only (as I charitably hope) to get that by them, which they cannot get from them.

I found this was not all: ill success in that had transported them to personal abuse, either of himself, or (what I think he could less forgive) of his friends. They had called men of virtue and honour bad men, long before he had either leisure or inclination to call them bad writers; and some of them had been such old offenders, that he had quite forgotten their persons, as well as their slanders, till they were pleased to revive them.

Now what had Mr. Pope done before to incense them? He had published those works which are in the hands of every body, in which not the least mention is made of any of them. And what has he done since? He has laughed, and written the Dunciad. What has that said of them? A very serious truth, which the public had said before, that they were dull; and what it had no sooner said, but they themselves were at great pains to procure, or even purchase, room in the prints to testify under their hands to the truth of it.

I should still have been silent, if either I had seen any inclination in my friend to be serious with such accusers, or if they had only meddled with his writings; since whoever publishes, puts himself on his trial by his country: but when his moral character was attacked, and in a manner from which neither truth nor virtue can secure the most innocent; in a manner which, though it annihilates the credit of the accusation with the just and impartial, yet aggravates very much the guilt of the accusers—I mean by authors without names—then I thought, since the danger was common to all, the concern ought to be so; and that it was an act of justice to detect the authors, not only on this account, but as many of them are the same who, for several years past, have made free with the greatest names in church and state, exposed to the world the private misfortunes of families, abused all, even to women; and whose prostituted papers (for one or other party in the unhappy divisions of their country) have insulted the fallen, the friendless, the exiled, and the dead.

Besides this, which I take to be public concern, I have already confessed I had a private one. I am one of that number who have long loved and esteemed Mr. Pope; and had often declared it was not his capacity or writings (which we ever thought the least valuable part of his character), but the honest, open, and beneficent man, that we most esteemed and loved in him. Now, if what these people say were believed, I must appear to all my friends either a fool or a knave; either imposed on myself, or imposing on them; so that I am as much interested in the confutation of these calumnies as he is himself.

I am no author, and consequently not to be suspected either of jealousy or resentment against any of the men, of whom scarce one is known to me by sight; and as for their writings, I have sought them (on this one occasion) in vain, in the closets and libraries of all my acquaintance. I had still been in the dark, if a gentleman had not procured me (I suppose from some of themselves, for they are generally much more dangerous friends than enemies) the passages I send you. I solemnly protest I have added nothing to the malice or absurdity of them; which it behoves me to declare, since the vouchers themselves will be so soon and so irrecoverably lost. You may, in some measure, prevent it, by preserving at least their titles, and discovering (as far as you can depend on the truth of your information) the names of the concealed authors.

The first objection I have heard made to the poem is, that the persons are too obscure for satire. The persons themselves, rather than allow the objection, would forgive the satire; and if one could be tempted to afford it a serious answer, were not all assassinates, popular insurrections, the insolence of the rabble without doors, and of domestics within, most wrongfully chastised, if the meanness of offenders indemnified them from punishment? On the contrary, obscurity renders them more dangerous, as less thought of: law can pronounce judgment only on open facts; morality alone can pass censure on intentions of mischief; so that for secret calumny, or the arrow flying in the dark, there is no public punishment left but what a good writer inflicts.

The next objection is, that these sort of authors are poor. That might be pleaded as an excuse at the Old Bailey for lesser crimes than defamation (for it is the case of almost all who are tried there), but sure it can be none here: for who will pretend that the robbing another of his reputation supplies the want of it in himself? I question not but such authors are poor, and heartily wish the objection were removed by any honest livelihood; but poverty is here the accident, not the subject. He who describes malice and villany to be pale and meagre, expresses not the least anger against paleness or leanness, but against malice and villany. The apothecary in Romeo and Juliet is poor; but is he therefore justified in vending poison? Not but poverty itself becomes a just subject of satire, when it is the consequence of vice, prodigality, or neglect of one’s lawful calling; for then it increases the public burden, fills the streets and highways with robbers, and the garrets with clippers, coiners, and weekly journalists.

But admitting that two or three of these offend less in their morals than in their writings; must poverty make nonsense sacred? If so, the fame of bad authors would be much better consulted than that of all the good ones in the world; and not one of a hundred h