The Rape of the Lock and Other Major Writings

by Alexander Pope

So spirits ending their terrestrial race

  Ascend, and recognize their native place.

  This the Great Mother dearer held than all

  270 The clubs of quidnuncs, or her own Guildhall:

  Here stood her opium, here she nursed her Owls,

  And here she planned th’ imperial seat of Fools.

  Here to her chosen all her works she shows:

  Prose swelled to verse, verse loit’ring into prose;

  How random thoughts now meaning chance to find,

  Now leave all memory of sense behind;

  How Prologues into Prefaces decay,

  And these to Notes are frittered quite away;

  How Index-learning turns no student pale,

  280 Yet holds the eel of science by the tail;

  How, with less reading than makes felons scape,

  Less human genius than God gives an ape,

  Small thanks to France, and none to Rome or Greece,

  A past, vamped, future, old, revived, new piece,

  ’Twixt Plautus, Fletcher, Shakespeare, and Corneille,

  Can make a Cibber, Tibbald, or Ozell.

  The Goddess then, o’er his anointed head,

  With mystic words, the sacred opium shed.

  And lo! her bird (a monster of a fowl,

  290 Something betwixt a Heideggre and owl)

  Perched on his crown, ‘All hail! and hail again,

  My son! the promised land expects thy reign.

  Know, Eusden thirsts no more for sack or praise;

  He sleeps among the dull of ancient days;

  Safe, where no critics damn, no duns molest,

  Where wretched Withers, Ward, and Gildon rest,

  And high-born Howard, more majestic sire,

  With Fool of Quality compleats the choir.

  Thou Cibber! thou, his laurel shalt support,

  300 Folly, my son, has still a friend at court.

  Lift up your gates, ye princes, see him come!

  Sound, sound ye viols, be the cat-call dumb!

  Bring, bring the madding bay, the drunken vine;

  The creeping, dirty, courtly ivy join.

  And thou! his aide de camp,lead on my sons,

  Light-armed with points, antitheses, and puns.

  Let bawdry, billingsgate, my daughters dear,

  Support his front, and oaths bring up the rear;

  And under his, and under Archer’s wing,

  310 Gaming and Grub Street skulk behind the King.

  ‘O! when shall rise a monarch all our own,

  And I, a nursing-mother, rock the throne,

  ’Twixt Prince and people close the curtain draw,

  Shade him from light, and cover him from law;

  Fatten the courtier, starve the learnèd band,

  And suckle armies, and dry-nurse the land:

  ’Till senates nod to lullabies divine,

  And all be sleep, as at an Ode of thine.’

  She ceased. Then swells the Chapel Royal throat:

  320 ‘God save King Cibber!’ mounts in ev’ry note.

  Familiar White’s, ‘God save King Colley!’ cries;

  ‘God save King Colley!’ Drury Lane replies;

  To Needham’s quick the voice triumphal rode,

  But pious Needham dropped the name of God;

  Back to the Devil the last echoes roll,

  And ‘Coll!’ each butcher roars at Hockley Hole.

  So when Jove’s block descended from on high

  (As sings thy great forefather Ogilby),

  Loud thunder to its bottom shook the bog,

  330 And the hoarse nation croaked, ‘God save King Log!’

  Book the Second

  ARGUMENT

  The King being proclaimed, the solemnity is graced with public games and sports of various kinds; not instituted by the Hero, as by Aeneas in Virgil, but for greater honour by the Goddess in person (in like manner as the games Pythia, Isthmia, etc. were anciently said to be ordained by the Gods, and as Thetis herself appearing, according to Homer, Odyss. 24. proposed the prizes in honour of her son Achilles). Hither flock the poets and critics, attended, as is but just, with their patrons and booksellers. The Goddess is first pleased, for her disport, to propose games to the Booksellers, and setteth up the Phantom of a poet, which they contend to overtake. The Races described, with their divers accidents. Next, the game for a Poetess. Then follow the Exercises for the Poets, of tickling, vociferating, diving: the first holds forth the arts and practices of Dedicators, the second of Disputants and fustian Poets, the third of profound, dark, and dirty Party-writers. Lastly, for the Critics, the Goddess proposes (with great propriety) an exercise, not of their parts, but their patience, in hearing the works of two voluminous authors, one in verse, and the other in prose, deliberately read, without sleeping: the various effects of which, with the several degrees and manners of their operation, are here set forth; till the whole number, not of Critics only, but of spectators, actors, and all present, fall fast asleep; which naturally and necessarily ends the games.

  High on a gorgeous seat, that far outshone

  Henley’s gilt tub, or Fleckno’s Irish throne,

  Or that where on her curls the public pours,

  All-bounteous, fragrant grains and golden show’rs,

  Great Cibber sate. The proud Parnassian sneer,

  The conscious simper, and the jealous leer,

  Mix on his look; all eyes direct their rays

  On him, and crowds turn coxcombs as they gaze.

  His peers shine round him with reflected grace,

  10 New-edge their dullness, and new-bronze their face.

  So from the sun’s broad beam, in shallow urns

  Heav’n’s twinkling sparks draw light, and point their horns.

  Not with more glee, by hands pontific crowned,

  With scarlet hats wide-waving circled round,

  Rome in her Capitol saw Querno sit,

  Throned on sev’n hills, the Antichrist of wit.

  And now the Queen, to glad her sons, proclaims

  By herald hawkers, high heroic games.

  They summon all her race: an endless band

  20 Pours forth, and leaves unpeopled half the land.

  A motley mixture! in long wigs, in bags,

  In silks, in crapes, in garters, and in rags,

  From drawing rooms, from colleges, from garrets,

  On horse, on foot, in hacks, and gilded chariots:

  All who true Dunces in her cause appeared,

  And all who knew those Dunces to reward.

  Amid that area wide they took their stand,

  Where the tall maypole once o’er-looked the Strand;

  But now (so ANNE and piety ordain)

  30 A church collects the saints of Drury Lane.

  With Authors, Stationers obeyed the call

  (The field of glory is a field for all);

  Glory, and gain, th’industrious tribe provoke,

  And gentle Dullness ever loves a joke.

  A Poet’s form she placed before their eyes,

  And bade the nimblest racer seize the prize;

  No meagre, muse-rid mope, adust and thin,

  In a dun nightgown of his own loose skin,

  But such a bulk as no twelve bards could raise,

  40 Twelve starveling bards of these degen’rate days.

  All as a partridge plump, full-fed, and fair,

  She formed this image of well-bodied air;

  With pert flat eyes she windowed well its head,

  A brain of feathers, and a heart of lead;

  And empty words she gave, and sounding strain,

  But senseless, lifeless! idol void and vain!

  Never was dashed out, at one lucky hit,

  A fool, so just a copy of a wit;

  So like, that critics said, and courtiers swore,

  50 A wit it was, and called the phantom More.

  All gaze with ardour: some a poet’s name,

 
; Others a sword-knot and laced suit inflame.

  But lofty Lintot in the circle rose:

  ‘This prize is mine; who tempt it are my foes;

  With me began this genius, and shall end.’

  He spoke: and who with Lintot shall contend?

  Fear held them mute. Alone, untaught to fear,

  Stood dauntless Curll; ‘Behold that rival here!

  The race by vigour, not by vaunts is won;

  60 So take the hindmost, Hell.’ – He said, and run.

  Swift as a bard the bailiff leaves behind,

  He left huge Lintot, and outstripped the wind.

  As when a dabchick waddles through the copse

  On feet and wings, and flies, and wades, and hops;

  So lab’ring on, with shoulders, hands, and head,

  Wide as a windmill all his figure spread,

  With arms expanded Bernard rows his state,

  And left-legg’d Jacob seems to emulate.

  Full in the middle way there stood a lake,

  70 Which Curll’s Corinna chanced that morn to make

  (Such was her wont, at early dawn to drop

  Her evening cates before his neighbour’s shop);

  Here fortuned Curll to slide; loud shout the band,

  And ‘Bernard! Bernard!’ rings through all the Strand.

  Obscene with filth the miscreant lies bewrayed,

  Fall’n in the plash his wickedness had laid:

  Then first (if poets aught of truth declare)

  The caitiff vaticide conceived a pray’r.

  ‘Hear Jove! whose name my bards and I adore

  80 As much at least as any god’s, or more;

  And him and his, if more devotion warms,

  Down with the Bible, up with the Pope’s Arms.’

  A place there is, betwixt earth, air, and seas,

  Where, from ambrosia, Jove retires for ease.

  There in his seat two spacious vents appear,

  On this he sits, to that he leans his ear,

  And hears the various vows of fond mankind;

  Some beg an eastern, some a western wind:

  All vain petitions, mounting to the sky,

  90 With reams abundant this abode supply;

  Amused he reads, and then returns the bills

  Signed with that ichor which from gods distils.

  In office here fair Cloacina stands,

  And ministers to Jove with purest hands.

  Forth from the heap she picked her vot’ry’s pray’r,

  And placed it next him, a distinction rare!

  Oft had the Goddess heard her servant’s call

  From her black grottos near the Temple-wall,

  List’ning delighted to the jest unclean

  100 Of link-boys vile, and watermen obscene;

  Where as he fished her nether realms for wit,

  She oft had favoured him, and favours yet.

  Renewed by ordure’s sympathetic force,

  As oiled with magic juices for the course,

  Vig’rous he rises; from th’ effluvia strong

  Imbibes new life, and scours and stinks along;

  Repasses Lintot, vindicates the race,

  Nor heeds the brown dishonours of his face.

  And now the victor stretched his eager hand

  110 Where the tall Nothing stood, or seemed to stand;

  A shapeless shade, it melted from his sight

  Like forms in clouds, or visions of the night.

  To seize his papers, Curll, was next thy care;

  His papers light, fly diverse, tossed in air;

  Songs, sonnets, epigrams the winds uplift,

  And whisk ’em back to Evans, Young, and Swift.

  Th’embroidered suit at least he deemed his prey;

  That suit an unpaid tailor snatched away.

  No rag, no scrap, of all the beau, or wit,

  120 That once so fluttered, and that once so writ.

  Heav’n rings with laughter; of the laughter vain,

  Dullness, good Queen, repeats the jest again.

  Three wicked imps, of her own Grub Street choir,

  She decked like Congreve, Addison, and Prior;

  Mears, Warner, Wilkins run: delusive thought!

  Breval, Bond, Besaleel, the varlets caught.

  Curll stretches after Gay, but Gay is gone,

  He grasps an empty Joseph for a John:

  So Proteus, hunted in a nobler shape,

  130 Became, when seized, a puppy, or an ape.

  To him the Goddess: ‘Son! thy grief lay down,

  And turn this whole illusion on the town.

  As the sage dame, experienced in her trade,

  By names of toasts retails each battered jade

  (Whence hapless Monsieur much complains at Paris

  Of wrongs from Duchesses and Lady Mary’s);

  Be thine, my stationer! this magic gift;

  Cook shall be Prior, and Concanen, Swift:

  So shall each hostile name become our own,

  140 And we too boast our Garth and Addison.’

  With that she gave him (piteous of his case,

  Yet smiling at his rueful length of face)

  A shaggy tap’stry, worthy to be spread

  On Codrus’ old, or Dunton’s modern bed;

  Instructive work! whose wry-mouthed portraiture

  Displayed the fates her confessors endure.

  Earless on high stood unabashed De Foe,

  And Tutchin flagrant from the scourge below.

  There Ridpath, Roper, cudgelled might ye view,

  150 The very worsted still looked black and blue.

  Himself among the storied chiefs he spies

  As from the blanket high in air he flies,

  And ‘Oh! (he cried) what street, what lane but knows

  Our purgings, pumpings, blankettings, and blows?

  In ev’ry loom our labours shall be seen,

  And the fresh vomit run for ever green!’

  See in the circle next, Eliza placed,

  Two babes of love close clinging to her waist;

  Fair as before her works she stands confessed,

  160 In flow’rs and pearls by bounteous Kirkall dressed.

  The Goddess then: ‘Who best can send on high

  The salient spout, far-streaming to the sky;

  His be yon Juno of majestic size,

  With cow-like udders, and with ox-like eyes.

  This china jordan let the chief o’ercome

  Replenish, not ingloriously, at home.’

  Osborne and Curll accept the glorious strife

  (Though this his son dissuades, and that his wife).

  One on his manly confidence relies,

  170 One on his vigour and superior size.

  First Osborne leaned against his lettered post;

  It rose, and laboured to a curve at most.

  So Jove’s bright bow displays its wat’ry round

  (Sure sign, that no spectator shall be drowned).

  A second effort brought but new disgrace,

  The wild meander washed the Artist’s face:

  Thus the small jet, which hasty hands unlock,

  Spurts in the gard’ner’s eyes who turns the cock.

  Not so from shameless Curll; impetuous spread

  180 The stream, and smoking flourished o’er his head.

  So (famed like thee for turbulence and horns)

  Eridanus his humble fountain scorns;

  Through half the heav’ns he pours the’exalted urn;

  His rapid waters in their passage burn.

  Swift as it mounts, all follow with their eyes:

  Still happy Impudence obtains the prize.

  Thou triumph’st, victor of the high-wrought day,

  And the pleased dame, soft-smiling, lead’st away.

  Osborne, through perfect modesty o’ercome,

  190 Crowned with the jordan, walks contented home.

  But now for Authors nobler
palms remain;

  Room for my Lord! three jockeys in his train;

  Six huntsmen with a shout precede his chair;

  He grins, and looks broad nonsense with a stare.

  His Honour’s meaning Dullness thus expressed:

  ‘He wins this patron, who can tickle best.’

  He chinks his purse, and takes his seat of state:

  With ready quills the Dedicators wait;

  Now at his head the dextrous task commence,

  200 And, instant, Fancy feels th’ imputed sense;

  Now gentle touches wanton o’er his face,

  He struts Adonis, and affects grimace:

  Rolli the feather to his ear conveys,

  Then his nice taste directs our Operas:

  Bentley his mouth with classic flatt’ry opes,

  And the puffed orator bursts out in tropes.

  But Welsted most the poet’s healing balm

  Strives to extract from his soft, giving palm;

  Unlucky Welsted! thy unfeeling master,

  210 The more thou ticklest, gripes his fist the faster.

  While thus each hand promotes the pleasing pain,

  And quick sensations skip from vein to vein;

  A youth unknown to Phoebus, in despair,

  Puts his last refuge all in Heav’n and pray’r.

  What force have pious vows! The Queen of Love

  His sister sends, her vot’ress, from above.

  As taught by Venus, Paris learnt the art

  To touch Achilles’ only tender part;

  Secure, through her, the noble prize to carry,

  220 He marches off, his Grace’s Secretary.

  ‘Now turn to diff’rent sports (the Goddess cries)

  And learn, my sons, the wond’rous pow’r of Noise.

  To move, to raise, to ravish ev’ry heart,

  With Shakespeare’s nature, or with Jonson’s art,

  Let others aim: ’tis yours to shake the soul

  With thunder rumbling from the mustard bowl,

  With horns and trumpets now to madness swell,

  Now sink in sorrows with a tolling bell;

  Such happy arts attention can command

  230 When fancy flags, and sense is at a stand.

  Improve we these. Three cat-calls be the bribe

  Of him, whose chatt’ring shames the monkey tribe,

  And his this drum, whose hoarse heroic bass

  Drowns the loud clarion of the braying Ass.’