The Rape of the Lock and Other Major Writings: Poems and Other Writings (Penguin Classics)

by Alexander Pope

  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 confessed.

  180 Wharton, the scorn and wonder of our days,

  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;

  Though 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;

  190 Enough if all around him but admire,

  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;

  200 A fool, with more of wit than half mankind,

  Too rash for thought, for action too refined;

  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 through ev’ry rule?

  ’Twas all for fear the knaves should call him fool.

  Nature well known, no prodigies remain,

  Comets are regular and Wharton plain.

  210 Yet, in this search, the wisest may mistake,

  If second qualities for first they take.

  When Catiline by rapine swelled his store;

  When Caesar made a noble dame a whore;

  In this the lust, in that the avarice

  Were means, not ends; ambition was the vice.

  That very Caesar, born in Scipio’s days,

  Had aimed, like him, by chastity at praise.

  Lucullus, when frugality could charm,

  Had roasted turnips in the Sabine farm.

  220 In vain th’ observer eyes the builder’s toil,

  But quite mistakes the scaffold for the pile.

  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;

  230 As weak, as earnest; and as gravely out,

  As sober Lanesb’rough dancing in the gout.

  Behold a rev’rend sire, whom want of grace

  Has made the father of a nameless race,

  Shoved from the wall perhaps, or rudely pressed

  By his own son, that passes by unblessed:

  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 called, declares all help too late:

  240 ‘Mercy!’ cries Helluo, ‘mercy on my soul!

  Is there no hope? – Alas! – then bring the jowl.’

  The frugal crone, whom praying priests attend,

  Still tries to save the hallowed taper’s end,

  Collects her breath, as ebbing life retires,

  For one puff more, and in that puff expires.

  ‘Odious! in woollen! ’twould 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:

  250 One would not, sure, be frightful when one’s dead –

  And – Betty – give this cheek a little red.’

  The courtier smooth, who forty years had shined

  An humble servant to all human kind,

  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 sighed) my lands and tenements to Ned.’

  Your money, sir; ‘My money, sir, what, all?

  Why – if I must – (then wept) I give it Paul.’

  260 The manor, sir? – ‘The manor! hold, he cried;

  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,

  ‘Oh, save my Country, Heav’n!’ shall be your last.

  Epistle II

  To A Lady

  ARGUMENT

  Of the Characters of WOMEN

  Of the characters of women (considered only as contradistinguished from the other sex). That these are yet more inconsistent and incomprehensible than those of men, of which instances are given even from such characters as are plainest and most strongly marked; as the Affected, v. 7, etc., the Soft-natured, v. 29; the Cunning, v. 45; the Whimsical, v. 53; the Wits and Refiners, v. 87, the Stupid and Silly, v. 101. How contrarieties run through them all.

  But though the particular characters of this sex are more various than those of men, the general characteristic, as to the ruling passion, is more uniform and confined. In what that lies, and whence it proceeds, etc. Men are best known in public life, women in private, v. 199. What are the aims and the fate of the sex, both as to Power and Pleasure? v. 219, 231, etc. Advice for their true interest, v. 249. The picture of an estimable woman, made up of the best kind of contrarieties, v. 269, etc.

  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 distinguished by black, brown, or fair.

  How many pictures of one nymph we view,

  All 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,

  10 And there, a naked Leda with a swan.

  Let then the fair one beautifully cry,

  In Magdalen’s loose hair and lifted eye,

  Or dressed 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;

  Chuse a firm cloud before it fall, and in it

  20 Catch, e’er she change, the Cynthia of this minute.

  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 mask:

  So morning insects that in muck begun,

  Shine, buzz, and fly-blow in the setting sun.

  How soft is Silia! fearful to offend,

  30 The frail one’s advocate, the weak one’s
friend:

  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

  40 All bathed in tears – ‘Oh odious, odious trees!’

  Ladies like variegated tulips show:

  ’Tis to their changes half their charms we owe;

  Their happy spots the nice admirer take,

  Fine by defect, and delicately weak.

  ’Twas thus Calypso once each heart alarmed,

  Awed without virtue, without beauty charmed;

  Her tongue bewitched as odly as her eyes,

  Less wit than mimic, more a wit than wise;

  Strange graces still, and stranger flights she had,

  50 Was just not ugly, and was just not mad;

  Yet ne’er so sure our passion to create

  As when she touched the brink of all we hate.

  Narcissa’s nature, tolerably mild,

  To make a wash, would hardly stew a child;

  Has ev’n been proved to grant a lover’s pray’r,

  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,

  60 When ’tis 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;

  70 Proud as a peeress, prouder as a punk;

  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 untouched, that noble seat of thought:

  Such this day’s doctrine – in another fit

  She sins with poets through pure love of wit.

  What has not fired her bosom or her brain?

  Caesar and Tall-boy, Charles and Charlemagne.

  As Helluo, late dictator of the feast,

  80 The nose of hautgout, and the tip of taste,

  Critiqued your wine, and analysed your meat,

  Yet on plain pudding deigned at home to eat;

  So Philomedé, lect’ring all mankind

  On the soft passion, and the taste refined,

  Th’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

  90 The mighty blessing, ‘while we live, to live’.

  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 refined 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,

  100 And die of nothing but a rage to live.

  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 pray’r;

  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

  110 Of mirth and opium, ratafie 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,

  120 Yet is, whate’er she hates and ridicules.

  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 missed her, and the scandal hit.

  Who breaks with her, provokes revenge from Hell,

  130 But he’s a bolder man who dares be well.

  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!

  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

  140 And temple rise – then fall again to dust.

  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 robbed of pow’r, by warmth of friends,

  By wealth of follow’rs! without one distress

  Sick of herself through very selfishness!

  Atossa, cursed with ev’ry granted pray’r,

  Childless with all her children, wants an heir.

  To heirs unknown descends th’unguarded store

  150 Or wanders, Heav’n-directed, to the poor.

  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?

  Chameleons who can paint in white and black?

  ‘Yet Cloe sure was formed without a spot’ –

  Nature in her then erred not, but forgot.

  ‘With ev’ry pleasing, ev’ry prudent part,

  160 Say, what can Cloe want?’ – she wants a heart.

  She speaks, behaves, and acts just as she ought,

  But never, never, reached one gen’rous thought.

  Virtue she finds too painful an endeavour,

  Content to dwell in decencies for ever.

  So very reasonable, so unmoved,

  As never yet to love, or to be loved.

  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,

  170 Observes how much a chintz exceeds mohair.

  Forbid it Heav’n, a favour or a debt

  She e’er s
hould cancel – but she may forget.

  Safe is your secret still in Cloe’s ear;

  But none of Cloe’s shall you ever hear.

  Of all her dears she never slandered one,

  But cares not if a thousand are undone.

  Would Cloe know if you’re alive or dead?

  She bids her footman put it in her head.

  Cloe is prudent – would you too be wise?

  180 Then never break your heart when Cloe dies.

  One certain portrait may (I grant) be seen,

  Which Heav’n has varnished 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;

  ’Tis well—but, artists! who can paint or write,

  To draw the naked is your true delight.

  That robe of quality so struts and swells,

  190 None see what parts or nature it conceals:

  Th’exactest traits of body or of mind,

  We owe to models of an humble kind.

  If Queensberry to strip there’s no compelling,

  ’Tis from a handmaid we must take a Helen.

  From peer or bishop ’tis 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,

  200 A woman’s seen in private life alone:

  Our bolder talents in full light displayed;

  Your virtues open fairest in the shade.

  Bred to disguise, in public ’tis 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 fixed, they first or last obey,

  210 The love of pleasure, and the love of sway.

  That, Nature gives; and where the lesson taught

  Is but to please, can pleasure seem a fault?

  Experience, this; by man’s oppression cursed,

  They seek the second not to lose the first.

  Men, some to bus’ness, some to pleasure take;