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 75
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, 80
Critiqued your wine, and analyzed your meat,
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, 85
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; 95
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, 105
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 appears
Of Mirth and Opium, Ratifie and Tears; 110
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? 115
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, 125
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. 130
Her ev’ry turn with violence pursued,
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! 135
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. 140
Last night her lord was all that ‘s good and great;
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, 145
Sick of herself thro’ very selfishness!
Atossa, curs’d with ev’ry granted prayer,
Childless with all her children, wants an heir:
To heir unknown descends th’ unguarded store,
Or wanders, Heav’n-directed, to the poor. 150
Pictures like these, dear Madam! to design,
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? 155
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, 165
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, 175
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, 185
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: 190
Th’ exactest traits of body or of mind,
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 195
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, 205
That ea
ch 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. 210
That Nature gives; and where the lesson taught
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; 215
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, 225
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, 235
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, 245
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, 255
And unobserv’d the glaring orb declines.
O! blest with temper, whose unclouded ray
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; 260
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, 265
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, 275
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:
Shakes all together, and produces — You. 280
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, 285
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.
Epistle III. Of the Use of Riches
To Allen, Lord Bathurst
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, 5
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, 15
We find our tenets just the same at last:
Both fairly owning riches, in effect,
No grace of Heav’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) 25
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, 35
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 pa
per-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 45
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, 55
‘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,
Nor could Profusion squander all in kind. 60
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, 65
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, 75
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? 85
To Chartres, vigour? Japhet, nose and ears?
Can they in gems bid pallid Hippia glow?
In Fulvia’s buckle ease the throbs below?
Alexander Pope - Delphi Poets Series Page 36