Alexander Pope - Delphi Poets Series

by Alexander Pope

  They change their weekly barber, weekly news, 155

  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, 165

  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, 175

  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, 185

  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.

  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, 5

  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 shores, 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? 15

  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; 25

  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; 35

  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, conspired 40

  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. 45

  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 nigh 50

  (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? 55

  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, 65

  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) 75

  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; 85

  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, 95

  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; 100

  Tell at your Levee, as the crowds approach,

  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; 105
/>
  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; 115

  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?

  Go dine with Chartres, in each vice outdo 120

  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? 125

  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.

  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 prætores, 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 5

  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, 15

  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 25

  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; 35

  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 fight 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, 45

  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; 55

  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, 65

  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 play-house bill

  Style the divine! the matchless! what you will) 70

  Fo
r 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, 75

  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? 80

  In all debates where Critics bear a part,

  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; 85

  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 95

  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 105

  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, 115

  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