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

by Alexander Pope

  To worth or want well-weighed, be bounty giv’n,

  230 And ease, or emulate, the care of Heav’n

  (Whose measure full o’erflows on human race),

  Mend Fortune’s fault, and justify her grace.

  Wealth in the gross is death, but life diffused;

  As poison heals, in just proportion used,

  In heaps, like ambergris, a stink it lies,

  But well-dispersed, is incense to the skies.

  Who starves by nobles, or with nobles eats?

  The wretch that trusts them, and the rogue that cheats.

  Is there a Lord, who knows a cheerful noon

  240 Without a fiddler, flatt’rer, or buffoon?

  Whose table, wit, or modest merit share,

  Un-elbowed by a gamester, pimp, or play’r?

  Who copies yours, or OXFORD’S better part,

  To ease th’oppressed, and raise the sinking heart?

  Wheree’er he shines, oh Fortune, gild the scene,

  And angels guard him in the golden Mean!

  There, English Bounty yet awhile may stand,

  And Honour linger e’er it leaves the land.

  But all our praises why should Lords engross?

  250 Rise, honest Muse! and sing the MAN of ROSS:

  Pleased Vaga echoes through her winding bounds,

  And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds.

  Who hung with woods yon mountain’s sultry brow?

  From the dry rock who bade the waters flow?

  Not to the skies in useless columns tossed,

  Or in proud falls magnificently lost,

  But clear and artless, pouring through the plain

  Health to the sick, and solace to the swain.

  Whose causeway parts the vale with shady rows?

  260 Whose seats the weary traveller repose?

  Who taught that heav’n-directed spire to rise?

  ‘The MAN of ROSS,’ each lisping babe replies.

  Behold the marketplace with poor o’erspread!

  The MAN of ROSS divides the weekly bread:

  He feeds yon alms-house, neat, but void of state,

  Where Age and Want sit smiling at the gate;

  Him portioned maids, apprenticed orphans blest,

  The young who labour, and the old who rest.

  Is any sick? the MAN of ROSS relieves,

  270 Prescribes, attends, the med’cine makes, and gives.

  Is there a variance? enter but his door,

  Balked are the courts, and contest is no more.

  Despairing quacks with curses fled the place,

  And vile attorneys, now an useless race.

  ‘Thrice happy man! enabled to pursue

  What all so wish, but want the pow’r to do!

  Oh say, what sums that gen’rous hand supply?

  What mines, to swell that boundless charity?’

  Of debts, and taxes, wife and children clear,

  280 This man possessed – five hundred pounds a year.

  Blush, Grandeur, blush! proud courts, withdraw your blaze!

  Ye little stars! hide your diminished rays.

  ‘And what? no monument, inscription, stone?

  His race, his form, his name almost unknown?’

  Who builds a church to God, and not to fame,

  Will never mark the marble with his name:

  Go search it there, where to be born and die,

  Of rich and poor makes all the history;

  Enough, that Virtue filled the space between;

  290 Proved, by the ends of being, to have been.

  When Hopkins dies, a thousand lights attend

  The wretch, who living saved a candle’s end.

  Should’ring God’s altar a vile image stands,

  Belies his features, nay extends his hands;

  That live-long wig which Gorgon’s self might own

  Eternal buckle takes in Parian stone.

  Behold what blessings wealth to life can lend!

  And see, what comfort it affords our end.

  In the worst inn’s worst room, with mat half-hung,

  300 The floors of plaster, and the walls of dung,

  On once a flock-bed, but repaired with straw,

  With tape-tied curtains, never meant to draw,

  The George and Garter dangling from that bed

  Where tawdry yellow strove with dirty red,

  Great Villers lies – alas! how changed from him,

  That life of pleasure, and that soul of whim!

  Gallant and gay, in Cliveden’s proud alcove,

  The bow’r of wanton Shrewsbury and love;

  Or just as gay, at Council, in a ring

  310 Of mimicked statesmen, and their merry king.

  No wit to flatter, left of all his store!

  No fool to laugh at, which he valued more.

  There, victor of his health, of fortune, friends,

  And fame, this lord of useless thousands ends.

  His Grace’s fate sage Cutler could foresee,

  And well (he thought) advised him, ‘Live like me.’

  As well his Grace replied, ‘Like you, Sir John?

  That I can do, when all I have is gone.’

  Resolve me, Reason, which of these is worse,

  320 Want with a full, or with an empty purse?

  Thy life more wretched, Cutler, was confessed,

  Arise, and tell me, was thy death more blest?

  Cutler saw tenants break, and houses fall,

  For very want; he could not build a wall.

  His only daughter in a stranger’s pow’r,

  For very want; he could not pay a dow’r.

  A few grey hairs his rev’rend temples crowned,

  ’Twas very want that sold them for two pound.

  What ev’n denied a cordial at his end,

  330 Banished the doctor, and expelled the friend?

  What but a want, which you perhaps think mad,

  Yet numbers feel the want of what he had!

  Cutler and Brutus, dying both exclaim,

  ‘Virtue! and Wealth! what are ye but a name!’

  Say, for such worth are other worlds prepared?

  Or are they both, in this, their own reward?

  A knotty point! to which we now proceed.

  But you are tired – I’ll tell a tale—‘Agreed.’

  Where London’s column, pointing at the skies,

  340 Like a tall bully, lifts the head, and lies;

  There dwelt a Citizen of sober fame,

  A plain good man, and Balaam was his name,

  Religious, punctual, frugal, and so forth;

  His word would pass for more than he was worth.

  One solid dish his week-day meal affords,

  An added pudding solemnized the Lord’s:

  Constant at church, and Change; his gains were sure,

  His givings rare, save farthings to the poor.

  The Dev’l was piqued such saintship to behold,

  350 And longed to tempt him like good Job of old,

  But Satan now is wiser than of yore,

  And tempts by making rich, not making poor.

  Roused by the Prince of Air, the whirlwinds sweep

  The surge, and plunge his father in the deep;

  Then full against his Cornish lands they roar,

  And two rich shipwrecks bless the lucky shore.

  Sir Balaam now, he lives like other folks,

  He takes his chirping pint, and cracks his jokes;

  ‘Live like yourself,’ was soon my Lady’s word;

  360 And lo! two puddings smoked upon the board.

  Asleep and naked as an Indian lay,

  An honest factor stole a gem away:

  He pledged it to the knight; the knight had wit,

  So kept the diamond, and the rogue was bit.

  Some scruple rose, but thus he eased his thought,

  ‘I’ll now give sixpence where I gave a groat;

  Where on
ce I went to church, I’ll now go twice –

  And am so clear too of all other vice.’

  The Tempter saw his time; the work he plied;

  370 Stocks and subscriptions pour on ev’ry side,

  Till all the Demon makes his full descent

  In one abundant show’r of cent per cent,

  Sinks deep within him, and possesses whole,

  Then dubs Director, and secures his soul.

  Behold Sir Balaam, now a man of spirit,

  Ascribes his gettings to his parts and merit;

  What late he called a blessing, now was wit,

  And God’s good Providence, a lucky hit.

  Things change their titles, as our manners turn:

  380 His compting-house employed the Sunday-morn;

  Seldom at church (’twas such a busy life)

  But duly sent his family and wife.

  There (so the Dev’l ordained) one Christmastide

  My good old Lady catched a cold, and died.

  A nymph of quality admires our knight;

  He marries, bows at Court, and grows polite:

  Leaves the dull cits, and joins (to please the fair)

  The well-bred cuckolds in St James’s air:

  First, for his son a gay commission buys,

  390 Who drinks, whores, fights, and in a duel dies;

  His daughter flaunts a viscount’s tawdry wife;

  She bears a coronet and pox for life.

  In Britain’s senate he a seat obtains,

  And one more pensioner St Stephen gains.

  My Lady falls to play; so bad her chance,

  He must repair it; takes a bribe from France;

  The House impeach him; Coningsby harangues;

  The Court forsake him, and Sir Balaam hangs.

  Wife, son, and daughter, Satan! are thy own,

  400 His wealth, yet dearer, forfeit to the Crown:

  The Devil and the King divide the prize,

  And sad Sir Balaam curses God and dies.

  Epistle IV

  TO Richard Boyle, Earl of Burlington

  ARGUMENT

  Of the Use of RICHES

  The vanity of Expense in people of wealth and quality. The abuse of the word Taste, v. 13. That the first principle and foundation, in this as in everything else, is Good Sense, v. 40. The chief proof of it is to follow Nature, even in works of mere luxury and elegance. Instanced in Architecture and Gardening, where all must be adapted to the genius and use of the place, and the beauties not forced into it, but resulting from it, v. 50. How men are disappointed in their most expensive undertakings, for want of this true foundation, without which nothing can please long, if at all; and the best examples and rules will but be perverted into something burdensome or ridiculous, v. 65, etc. to 92. A description of the false taste of Magnificence; the first grand error of which is to imagine that Greatness consists in the size and dimension, instead of the Proportion and Harmony of the whole, v. 97, and the second, either in joining together parts incoherent, or too minutely resembling, or in the repetition of the same too frequently, v. 105, etc. A word or two of false Taste in Books, in Music, in Painting, even in Preaching and Prayer, and lastly in Entertainments, v. 133, etc. Yet PROVIDENCE is justified in giving wealth to be squandered in this manner, since it is dispersed to the poor and laborious part of mankind, v. 169. What are the proper objects of Magnificence, and proper field for the expense of great men, v. 177, etc. and finally, the great and public works which become a Prince, v. 191, to the end.

  ’Tis strange, the miser should his cares employ

  To gain those riches he can ne’er enjoy.

  Is it less strange, the prodigal should waste

  His wealth, to purchase what he ne’er can taste?

  Not for himself he sees, or hears, or eats;

  Artists must choose his pictures, music, meats:

  He buys for Topham drawings and designs,

  For Pembroke statues, dirty gods, and coins;

  Rare monkish manuscripts for Hearne alone,

  10 And books for Mead, and butterflies for Sloane.

  Think we all these are for himself? no more

  Than his fine wife, alas! or finer whore.

  For what has Virro painted, built, and planted?

  Only to show, how many tastes he wanted.

  What brought Sir Visto’s ill got wealth to waste?

  Some demon whispered, ‘Visto! have a taste.’

  Heav’n visits with a taste the wealthy fool,

  And needs no rod but Ripley with a rule.

  See! sportive fate, to punish awkward pride

  20 Bids Bubo build, and sends him such a guide:

  A standing sermon, at each year’s expense,

  That never coxcomb reached magnificence!

  You show us Rome was glorious, not profuse,

  And pompous buildings once were things of use.

  Yet shall (my Lord) your just, your noble rules

  Fill half the land with imitating fools,

  Who random drawings from your sheets shall take,

  And of one beauty many blunders make;

  Load some vain church with old theatric state,

  30 Turn arcs of triumph to a garden gate;

  Reverse your ornaments, and hang them all

  On some patched dog-hole eked with ends of wall;

  Then clap four slices of pilaster on’t,

  That laced with bits of rustic, makes a front;

  Or call the winds through long arcades to roar,

  Proud to catch cold at a Venetian door:

  Conscious they act a true Palladian part,

  And if they starve, they starve by rules of art.

  Oft have you hinted to your brother Peer

  40 A certain truth, which many buy too dear:

  Something there is, more needful than expense,

  And something previous ev’n to taste – ’tis sense:

  Good sense, which only is the gift of Heav’n,

  And though no science, fairly worth the sev’n:

  A light, which in yourself you must perceive;

  Jones and Le Nôtre have it not to give.

  To build, to plant, whatever you intend,

  To rear the column, or the arch to bend,

  To swell the terrace, or to sink the grot,

  50 In all, let Nature never be forgot;

  But treat the goddess like a modest fair,

  Nor over-dress, nor leave her wholly bare;

  Let not each beauty ev’rywhere be spied,

  Where half the skill is decently to hide.

  He gains all points who pleasingly confounds,

  Surprises, varies, and conceals the bounds.

  Consult the genius of the place in all,

  That tells the waters or to rise, or fall,

  Or helps th’ambitious hill the heav’ns to scale,

  60 Or scoops in circling theatres the vale;

  Calls in the country, catches op’ning glades,

  Joins willing woods, and varies shades from shades;

  Now breaks, or now directs, th’ intending lines,

  Paints as you plant, and as you work, designs.

  Still follow sense, of ev’ry art the soul;

  Parts answ’ring parts shall slide into a whole,

  Spontaneous beauties all around advance,

  Start ev’n from difficulty, strike from chance.

  Nature shall join you; time shall make it grow

  70 A work to wonder at – perhaps a STOWE.

  Without it, proud Versailles! thy glory falls,

  And Nero’s terraces desert their walls.

  The vast parterres a thousand hands shall make,

  Lo! COBHAM comes, and floats them with a lake;

  Or cut wide views through mountains to the plain,

  You’ll wish your hill or sheltered seat again.

  Ev’n in an ornament its place remark,

  Nor in an hermitage set Dr Clarke.

  Behol
d Villario’s ten-years’ toil complete;

  80 His arbours darken, his espaliers meet;

  The wood supports the plain, the parts unite,

  And strength of shade contends with strength of light;

  A waving glow the bloomy beds display,

  Blushing in bright diversities of day,

  With silver-quiv’ring rills meander’d o’er –

  Enjoy them, you! Villario can no more.

  Tired of the scene parterres and fountains yield,

  He finds at last he better likes a field.

  Through his young woods how pleased Sabinus strayed,

  90 Or sat delighted in the thick’ning shade,

  With annual joy the red’ning shoots to greet,

  Or see the stretching branches long to meet.

  His son’s fine taste an op’ner vista loves,

  Foe to the dryads of his father’s groves;

  One boundless green, or flourished carpet views,

  With all the mournful family of yews;

  The thriving plants ignoble broomsticks made,

  Now sweep those alleys they were born to shade.

  At Timon’s villa let us pass a day,

  100 Where all cry out, ‘What sums are thrown away!’

  So proud, so grand, of that stupendous air,

  Soft and agreeable come never there.

  Greatness, with Timon, dwells in such a draught

  As brings all Brobdingnag before your thought.

  To compass this, his building is a town,

  His pond an ocean, his parterre a down:

  Who but must laugh, the master when he sees?

  A puny insect, shiv’ring at a breeze.

  Lo! what huge heaps of littleness around!

  110 The whole, a laboured quarry above ground.

  Two cupids squirt before; a lake behind

  Improves the keenness of the northern wind.

  His gardens next your admiration call,

  On ev’ry side you look, behold the wall!

  No pleasing intricacies intervene,

  No artful wildness to perplex the scene;

  Grove nods at grove, each alley has a brother,

  And half the platform just reflects the other.

  The suff’ring eye inverted Nature sees,

  120 Trees cut to statues, statues thick as trees,

  With here a fountain, never to be played,