Not when a gilt buffet’s reflected pride 5
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, 15
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, 25
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; 35
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 45
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,
For him you ‘ll call a dog, and her a bitch) 50
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 55
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, 65
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 75
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. 80
On morning wings how active springs the mind
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, 85
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? 90
Our fathers prais’d rank venison. You suppose,
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, 95
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 ear 100
(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, 105
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. 110
‘Right,’ cries his lordship, ‘for a rogue in need
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, 115
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 percent.
‘Who thinks that Fortune cannot change her mind,
Prepares a dreadful jest for all mankind.
And who stands safest? tell me, is it he 125
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: 130
His equal mind I copy what I can,
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, 135
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 w
alnut tree a shower shall fall, 145
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; 155
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 165
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, 175
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,
Let us be fix’d, and our own masters still. 180
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: 5
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, 15
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, 25
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, 35
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; 45
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 55
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,
Will cure the arrant’st puppy of his pride. 60
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, 65
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, 75
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; 85
‘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 — l their 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; 95
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 gr
ace;
If not, by any means get Wealth and Place:’
(For what? to have a Box where eunuchs sing, 105
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; 115
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 least 120
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: 125
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 percent.,
In dirt and darkness, hundreds stink content.
Of all these ways, if each pursues his own,
Satire, be kind, and let the wretch alone; 135
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!’
Up starts a palace: lo, th’ obedient base 140
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; 145
‘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;
Alexander Pope - Delphi Poets Series Page 41