Neglected die, and tell it on his tomb:
Of all thy blameless life the sole return
My Verse, and Queensb’ry weeping o’er thy urn! 260
Oh let me live my own, and die so too
(To live and die is all I have to do)!
Maintain a poet’s dignity and ease,
And see what friends, and read what books I please;
Above a Patron, tho’ I condescend 265
Sometimes to call a minister my Friend.
I was not born for courts or great affairs;
I pay my debts, believe, and say my prayers;
Can sleep without a poem in my head,
Nor know if Dennis be alive or dead. 270
Why am I ask’d what next shall see the light?
Heav’ns! was I born for nothing but to write?
Has life no joys for me? or (to be grave)
Have I no friend to serve, no soul to save?
‘I found him close with Swift’—’Indeed? no doubt 275
(Cries prating Balbus) something will come out.’
‘T is all in vain, deny it as I will;
‘No, such a genius never can lie still:’
And then for mine obligingly mistakes
The first lampoon Sir Will or Bubo makes. 280
Poor guiltless I! and can I choose but smile,
When ev’ry coxcomb knows me by my style?
Curst be the verse, how well soe’er it flow,
That tends to make one worthy man my foe,
Give Virtue scandal, Innocence a fear, 285
Or from the soft-eyed virgin steal a tear!
But he who hurts a harmless neighbour’s peace,
Insults fall’n Worth, or Beauty in distress,
Who loves a lie, lame Slander helps about,
Who writes a libel, or who copies out; 290
That fop whose pride affects a patron’s name,
Yet absent, wounds an author’s honest fame;
Who can your merit selfishly approve,
And show the sense of it without the love;
Who has the vanity to call you friend, 295
Yet wants the honour, injured, to defend;
Who tells whate’er you think, whate’er you say,
And, if he lie not, must at least betray;
Who to the Dean and Silver Bell can swear,
And sees at Canons what was never there; 300
Who reads but with a lust to misapply,
Make satire a lampoon, and fiction lie:
A lash like mine no honest man shall dread,
But all such babbling blockheads in his stead.
Let Sporus tremble — A. What? that thing of silk, 305
Sporus, that mere white curd of Ass’s milk?
Satire or sense, alas! can Sporus feel?
Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?
P. Yet let me flap this bug with gilded wings,
This painted child of dirt, that stinks and stings; 310
Whose buzz the witty and the fair annoys,
Yet Wit ne’er tastes, and Beauty ne’er enjoys;
So well-bred spaniels civilly delight
In mumbling of the game they dare not bite.
Eternal smiles his emptiness betray, 315
As shallow streams run dimpling all the way,
Whether in florid impotence he speaks,
And, as the prompter breathes, the puppet squeaks,
Or at the ear of Eve, familiar toad,
Half froth, half venom, spits himself abroad, 320
In puns, or politics, or tales, or lies,
Or spite, or smut, or rhymes, or blasphemies;
His wit all see-saw between that and this,
Now high, now low, now master up, now miss,
And he himself one vile Antithesis. 325
Amphibious thing! that acting either part,
The trifling head, or the corrupted heart;
Fop at the toilet, flatt’rer at the board,
Now trips a lady, and now struts a lord.
Eve’s tempter thus the Rabbins have exprest, 330
A cherub’s face, a reptile all the rest;
Beauty that shocks you, Parts that none will trust,
Wit that can creep, and Pride that licks the dust.
Not Fortune’s worshipper, nor Fashion’s fool,
Not Lucre’s madman, nor Ambition’s tool, 335
Not proud nor servile; — be one poet’s praise,
That if he pleas’d, he pleas’d by manly ways:
That flatt’ry ev’n to Kings, he held a shame,
And thought a lie in verse or prose the same;
That not in fancy’s maze he wander’d long, 340
But stoop’d to truth, and moralized his song;
That not for Fame, but Virtue’s better end,
He stood the furious foe, the timid friend,
The damning critic, half approving wit,
The coxcomb hit, or fearing to be hit; 345
Laugh’d at the loss of friends he never had,
The dull, the proud, the wicked, and the mad;
The distant threats of vengeance on his head,
The blow unfelt, the tear he never shed;
The tale revived, the lie so oft o’erthrown, 350
Th’ imputed trash and dulness not his own;
The morals blacken’d when the writings ‘scape,
The libell’d person, and the pictured shape;
Abuse on all he lov’d, or lov’d him, spread,
A friend in exile, or a father dead; 355
The whisper, that, to greatness still too near,
Perhaps yet vibrates on his SOV’REIGN’S ear —
Welcome for thee, fair Virtue! all the past:
For thee, fair Virtue! welcome ev’n the last!
A. But why insult the poor? affront the great? 360
P. A knave ‘s a knave to me in ev’ry state;
Alike my scorn, if he succeed or fail,
Sporus at court, or Japhet in a jail;
A hireling scribbler, or a hireling peer,
Knight of the post corrupt, or of the shire; 365
If on a Pillory, or near a Throne,
He gain his prince’s ear, or lose his own.
Yet soft by nature, more a dupe than wit,
Sappho can tell you how this man was bit:
This dreaded Satirist Dennis will confess 370
Foe to his pride, but friend to his distress:
So humble, he has knock’d at Tibbald’s door,
Has drunk with Cibber, nay, has rhymed for Moore.
Full ten years slander’d, did he once reply?
Three thousand suns went down on Welsted’s lie. 375
To please a mistress one aspers’d his life;
He lash’d him not, but let her be his wife:
Let Budgell charge low Grub-street on his quill,
And write whate’er he pleased, except his will;
Let the two Curlls of town and court abuse 380
His father, mother, body, soul, and muse:
Yet why? that father held it for a rule,
It was a sin to call our neighbour fool;
That harmless mother thought no wife a whore:
Hear this, and spare his family, James Moore! 385
Unspotted names, and memorable long,
If there be force in Virtue, or in Song.
Of gentle blood (part shed in honour’s cause,
While yet in Britain honour had applause)
Each parent sprung — A. What fortune, pray? —
P. Their own; 390
And better got than Bestia’s from the throne.
Born to no pride, inheriting no strife,
Nor marrying discord in a noble wife,
Stranger to civil and religious rage,
The good man walk’d innoxious thro’ his age. 395
No courts he saw, no suits would ever try,
Nor dared an oath, nor hazarded a lie.
>
Unlearn’d, he knew no schoolman’s subtle art,
No language but the language of the heart.
By Nature honest, by Experience wise, 400
Healthy by Temp’rance and by Exercise;
His life, tho’ long, to sickness pass’d unknown,
His death was instant and without a groan.
O grant me thus to live, and thus to die!
Who sprung from kings shall know less joy than I. 405
O friend! may each domestic bliss be thine!
Be no unpleasing melancholy mine:
Me, let the tender office long engage
To rock the cradle of reposing Age,
With lenient arts extend a Mother’s breath, 410
Make Languor smile, and smooth the bed of Death;
Explore the thought, explain the asking eye,
And keep a while one parent from the sky!
On cares like these if length of days attend,
May Heav’n, to bless those days, preserve my friend! 415
Preserve him social, cheerful, and serene,
And just as rich as when he serv’d a Queen.
A. Whether that blessing be denied or giv’n,
Thus far was right; — the rest belongs to Heav’n.
The First Satire of the Second Book of Horace
Ludentis speciem dabit, et torquebitur. — HOR.
ADVERTISEMENT
This satire was first published in 1733, under the title A Dialogue between Alexander Pope of Twickenham, on the one part, and the Learned Counsel on the other.
To Mr. Fortescue
P. THERE are (I scarce can think it, but am told),
There are to whom my satire seems too bold;
Scarce to wise Peter complaisant enough,
And something said of Chartres much too rough.
The lines are weak, another’s pleas’d to say; 5
Lord Fanny spins a thousand such a day.
Tim’rous by nature, of the rich in awe,
I come to counsel learned in the law:
You ‘ll give me, like a friend both sage and free,
Advice; and (as you use) without a fee. 10
F. I ‘d write no more.
P. Not write? but then I think,
And for my soul I cannot sleep a wink.
I nod in company, I wake at night;
Fools rush into my head, and so I write.
F. You could not do a worse thing for your life. 15
Why, if the night seem tedious — take a wife:
Or rather, truly, if your point be rest,
Lettuce and cowslip wine: probatum est.
But talk with Celsus, Celsus will advise
Hartshorn, or something that shall close your eyes. 20
Or if you needs must write, write Cæsar’s praise;
You ‘ll gain at least a Knighthood or the Bays.
P. What? like Sir Richard, rumbling, rough, and fierce,
With Arms, and GEORGE, and Brunswick, crowd the verse;
Rend with tremendous sound your ears asunder, 25
With gun, drum, trumpet, blunderbuss, and thunder?
Or nobly wild, with Budgell’s fire and force,
Paint angels trembling round his falling horse?
F. Then all your Muse’s softer art display,
Let Carolina smooth the tuneful lay; 30
Lull with Amelia’s liquid name the Nine,
And sweetly flow thro’ all the royal line.
P. Alas! few verses touch their nicer ear;
They scarce can bear their Laureate twice a year;
And justly Cæsar scorns the poet’s lays; 35
It is to history he trusts for praise.
F. Better be Cibber, I ‘ll maintain it still,
Than ridicule all Taste, blaspheme Quadrille,
Abuse the city’s best good men in metre,
And laugh at peers that put their trust in Peter. 40
Ev’n those you touch not, hate you.
P. What should ail ‘em?
F. A hundred smart in Timon and in Balaam.
The fewer still you name, you wound the more;
Bond is but one, but Harpax is a score.
P. Each mortal has his pleasure: none deny 45
Scarsdale his bottle, Darty his ham-pie:
Ridotta sips and dances till she see
The doubling lustres dance as fast as she:
F[ox] loves the Senate, Hockley-hole his brother,
Like in all else, as one egg to another. 50
I love to pour out all myself as plain
As downright Shippen, or as old Montaigne:
In them, as certain to be lov’d as seen,
The soul stood forth, nor kept a thought within;
In me what spots (for spots I have) appear, 55
Will prove at least the medium must be clear.
In this impartial glass my Muse intends
Fair to expose myself, my foes, my friends;
Publish the present age; but where my text
Is vice too high, reserve it for the next; 60
My foes shall wish my life a longer date,
And ev’ry friend the less lament my fate.
My head and heart thus flowing thro’ my quill,
Verse-man or prose-man, term me which you will,
Papist or Protestant, or both between, 65
Like good Erasmus, in an honest mean,
In moderation placing all my glory,
While Tories call me Whig, and Whigs a Tory.
Satire ‘s my weapon, but I ‘m too discreet
To run amuck, and tilt at all I meet; 70
I only wear it in a land of Hectors,
Thieves, supercargoes, sharpers, and directors.
Save but our Army! and let Jove incrust
Swords, pikes, and guns, with everlasting rust!
Peace is my dear delight — not Fleury’s more: 75
But touch me, and no minister so sore.
Whoe’er offends, at some unlucky time
Slides into verse, and hitches in a rhyme,
Sacred to ridicule his whole life long,
And the sad burden of some merry song. 80
Slander or poison dread from Delia’s rage;
Hard words or hanging, if your judge be Page;
From furious Sappho scarce a milder fate,
Pox’d by her love, or libell’d by her hate.
Its proper power to hurt each creature feels; 85
Bulls aim their horns, and asses lift their heels;
‘T is a bear’s talent not to kick, but hug;
And no man wonders he ‘s not stung by Pug.
So drink with Walters, or with Chartres eat,
They ‘ll never poison you, they ‘ll only cheat. 90
Then, learned Sir! (to cut the matter short)
Whate’er my fate, — or well or ill at court,
Whether old age, with faint but cheerful ray,
Attends to gild the ev’ning of my day,
Or death’s black wing already be display’d, 95
To wrap me in the universal shade;
Whether the darken’d room to muse invite,
Or whiten’d wall provoke the skewer to write;
In durance, exile, Bedlam, or the Mint, —
Like Lee or Budgell I will rhyme and print. 100
F. Alas, young man, your days can ne’er be long:
In flower of age you perish for a song!
Plums and directors, Shylock and his wife,
Will club their testers now to take your life.
P. What? arm’d for Virtue when I point the pen, 105
Brand the bold front of shameless guilty men,
Dash the proud Gamester in his gilded car,
Bare the mean heart that lurks beneath a Star;
Can there be wanting, to defend her cause,
Lights of the Church, or guardians of the Laws? 110
Could pension’d Boileau lash in honest strain
Could Laureate Dryden pimp and friar engage,
Yet neither Charles nor James be in a rage?
And I not strip the gilding off a knave, 115
Unplaced, unpension’d, no man’s heir or slave?
I will, or perish in the gen’rous cause;
Hear this, and tremble! you who ‘scape the laws.
Yes, while I live, no rich or noble knave
Shall walk the world in credit to his grave: 120
To VIRTUE only and her Friends a friend,
The world beside may murmur or commend.
Know, all the distant din that world can keep,
Rolls o’er my grotto and but soothes my sleep.
There my retreat the best companions grace, 125
Chiefs out of war, and statesmen out of place:
There St. John mingles with my friendly bowl
The feast of reason and the flow of soul:
And he, whose lightning pierced th’ Iberian lines,
Now forms my quincunx, and now ranks my vines; 130
Or tames the genius of the stubborn plain,
Almost as quickly as he conquer’d Spain.
Envy must own I live among the great,
No pimp of Pleasure, and no spy of State,
With eyes that pry not, tongue that ne’er repeats, 135
Fond to spread friendships, but to cover heats;
To help who want, to forward who excel;
This all who know me, know; who love me, tell;
And who unknown defame me, let them be
Scribblers or peers, alike are Mob to me. 140
This is my plea, on this I rest my cause —
What saith my counsel, learned in the laws?
F. Your plea is good; but still I say, beware!
Laws are explain’d by men — so have a care.
It stands on record, that in Richard’s times 145
A man was hang’d for very honest rhymes.
Consult the statute; quart. I think it is,
Edwardi sext. or prim. et quint. Eliz.
See Libels, Satires — here you have it — read.
P. Libels and Satires! lawless things indeed! 150
But grave epistles, bringing Vice to light,
Such as a King might read, a Bishop write,
Such as Sir Robert would approve — F. Indeed!
The case is alter’d — you may then proceed:
In such a cause the Plaintiff will be hiss’d, 155
My Lords the Judges laugh, and you ‘re dismiss’d.
The Second Satire of the Second Book of Horace
To Mr. Bethel
WHAT, and how great, the Virtue and the Art
To live on little with a cheerful heart!
(A doctrine sage, but truly none of mine)
Let’s talk, my friends, but talk before we dine;
Alexander Pope - Delphi Poets Series Page 40
