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; 35
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, 45
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
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.
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, 5
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; 10
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 15
That ‘t is a house, but not a dwelling.
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 — 5
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. 10
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, 15
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.’ 20
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, 5
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; 10
Like stunted hide-bound trees, that just have got
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, 15
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, 25
To bawd for others, and go shares with punk.
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, 5
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, 15
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; 20
Up to her godly garret after sev’n,
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, 25
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 si
ghts 35
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, 45
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
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; 5
Time, health, and fortune, are not lost in vain.
Sheffield approves, consenting Phœbus bends,
And I and malice from this hour are friends.
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! 5
Earl Warwick, make your moan;
The lively H[inchenbroo]k and you
May knock up whores alone.
To drink and droll be Rowe allow’d
Till the third watchman’s toll; 10
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, 15
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. 20
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 25
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: 30
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? — 35
I need but once a week.
Still idle, with a busy air,
Deep whimseys to contrive;
The gayest valetudinarie,
Most thinking rake alive. 40
Solicitous for others’ ends,
Tho’ fond of dear repose;
Careless or drowsy with my friends,
And frolic with my foes.
Luxurious lobster-nights, farewell, 45
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, 50
Loves all mankind but flatters none,
And so may starve with me.
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, 5
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 10
The present well, and ev’n the past enjoy.
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.
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. 5
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: 10
As you by love, so I by Fortune crost;
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, 15
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 guess
This fatal stroke, this unforeseen distress? 20
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, 25
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: 35
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;
Then first his passion was in public shown: 40
Hazardia blush’d, and turn’d her head a
side,
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 45
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, 55
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, 65
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, 75
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, 85
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!
Alexander Pope - Delphi Poets Series Page 20