"Would you be blest, despise low joys, low gains,Disdain whatever Cornbury disdains;Be virtuous, and be happy for your pains."
Pope's language seems as if it were laboriously formed by himself for his peculiar shape of mind, habits of thought, and style of poetry. Compared to all English before him, Pope's English is a new although a lesser language. He has so cut down, shorn, and trimmed the broad old oak of Shakspeare's speech, that it seems another tree altogether. Everything is so terse, so clear, so pointed, so elaborately easy, so monotonously brilliant, that you must pause to remember. "These are the very copulatives, diphthongs, and adjectives of Hooker, Milton, and Jeremy Taylor." The change at first is pleasant, and has been generally popular; but those who know and love our early authors, soon miss their deep organ-tones, their gnarled strength, their intricate but intense sweetness, their varied and voluminous music, their linkedchainsof lightning, and feel the difference between the fabricator of clever lines and sparkling sentences, and the former of great passages and works. In keeping with his style is his versification, the incessant tinkling of a sheep-bell—sweet, small, monotonous—producing perfectly-melodious single lines, but no grand interwoven swells and well-proportioned masses of harmony. "Pope," says Hazlitt, "has turned Pegasus into a rocking-horse." The noble gallop of Dryden's verse is exchanged for a quick trot. And there is not even a point of comparison between his sweet sing-song, and the wavy, snow-like, spirit-like motion of Milton's loftier passages; or the gliding, pausing, fitful, river-like progress of Shakspeare's verse; or the fretted fury, and "torrent-rapture" of brave old Chapman in his translation of Homer; or the rich, long-drawn-out, slow-swimming, now soft-languishing, and now full-gushing melody of Spenser's "Faery Queen."—Yet, within his own sphere, Pope was, as Scott calls him, a "Deacon of his craft;" he aimed at, and secured, correctness and elegance; his part is not the highest, but in it he approaches absolute perfection; and with all his monotony of manner and versification, he is one of the most interesting of writers, and many find a greater luxury in reading his pages than those of any other poet. He is thefacile princepsof those poetical writers who have written for, and are so singularly appreciated by, the fastidious—that class who are more staggered by faults than delighted with beauties.
Our glance at his individual works must be brief and cursory. His "Ode to Solitude" is the most simple and natural thing he ever wrote, and in it he seems to say to nature, "Vale, longum vale." His "Pastorals" have an unnatural and luscious sweetness. He has sugared his milk; it is not, as it ought to be, warm from the cow, and fresh as the clover. How different his "Rural Life" from the rude, rough pictures of Theocritus, and the delightfully true and genial pages of the "Gentle Shepherd!" His "Windsor Forest" is an elegant accumulation of sweet sonnets and pleasant images, but the freshness of the dew is not resting on every bud and blade. No shadowy forms are seen retiring amidst the glades of the forest; no Uriels seem descending on the sudden slips of afternoon sunshine which pierce athwart the green or brown masses of foliage; and you cannot say of his descriptions that
"Visions, as poetic eyes avow,Hang on each leaf and cling to every bough."
Shelley studied the scenery of his fine poem, "Alastor," in the same shades with Pope; but he had, like Jonathan of old, touched his lips with a rod dipped in poetic honey, and his "eyes were enlightened" to see sights of beauty and mystery which to the other are denied. Keats could have comprised all the poetry of "Windsor Forest" into one sonnet or line; indeed, has he not done so, where, describing his soul following the note of the nightingale into the far depths of the woods, where she is pouring out her heart in song, he says—
"And with thee fade away into the forest dim?"
The "Essay on Criticism" is rather a wonderful, intellectual, and artistic feat, than a true poem. It is astonishing as the work of a boy of nineteen, and contains a unique collection of clever and sparkling sentences, displaying the highest powers of acuteness and assimilation, if not much profound and original insight or genius. This poem suggests the wish that more of our critics would write in verse. The music might lessen the malice, and set off the commonplace to advantage, so that if there were no "reason," there might be at least "rhyme." His "Lines to the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady" are too elaborate and artificial for the theme. It is a tale of intrigue, murder, and suicide, set to a musical snuff-box! His "Rape of the Lock" we have already characterised. It is an "Iliad in a nutshell," an Epic of Lilliput, where all the proportions are accurately observed, and where the finishing is so exact and admirable, that you fancy the author to have had microscopic eyes. It contains certainly the most elegant and brilliant badinage, the most graceful raillery, the most finished nonsense, and one of the most exquisitely-managed machineries in the language. His "Eloisa and Abelard," a poem beautiful and almost unequalled in execution, is ill chosen in subject. He compels you indeed to weep, but you blame and trample on your tears after they are shed. Pope in this poem, as Shelley in the "Cenci," has tried to extract beauty from moral deformity, and to glorify putrefaction. But who can long love to gaze at worms, however well painted, or will be disposed to pardon the monstrous choice of a dead or demon bride for the splendour of her wedding-garment? The passion of the Eloisa and that of the Cenci were both indeed facts; but many facts should be veiled statues in the Temple of Truth. To do, however, both Pope and Shelley justice, they touch their painful and shocking themes with extreme delicacy. "Dryden," well remarks Campbell, "would have given but a coarse draught of Eloisa's passion." Pope's Epistles, Satires, Imitations, &c., contain much of the most spirited sense and elegant sarcasm in literature. The portraits of "Villars" and "Atticus" will occur to every reader as masterpieces in power, although we deem the latter grossly unjust to a good and great man. His Homer is rather an adaptation than a translation—far less a "transfusion" of the Grecian bard. Pope does not, indeed, clothe the old blind rhapsodist with a bag-wig and sword; but he does all short of this to make him a fine modern gentleman. Scott, we think, could have best rendered Homer in his ballad-rhyme. Chapman is Chapman, but he is not Homer. Pope is Pope, and Hobbes is Hobbes, and Sotheby is Sotheby, and Cowper is Cowper, each doing his best to render Homer, but none of them is the grand old Greek, whose lines are all simple and plain as brands, but like brands pointed on their edges with fire.
The "Essay on Man" ought to have been called an "Epigram on Man," or, better still, should have been propounded as a riddle, to which the word "Man" was to supply the solution. But an antithesis, epigram, or riddle on man of 1300 lines, is rather long. It seems so especially as there is no real or new light cast in it on man's nature or destiny. (We refer our readers to the notes of Dr Croly's edition for a running commentary of confutation to the "Essay on Man" distinguished by solid and unanswerable acuteness of argument.) But such an eloquent and ingenious puzzle as it is! It might have issued from the work-basket of Titania herself. It is another evidence of Pope's greatness in trifles. How he would have shone in fabricating the staves of the ark, or the fringes of the tabernacle!
The "Dunciad" is in many respects the ablest, the most elaborate, and the most characteristic of Pope's poems. In embalming insignificance and impaling folly he seems to have found, at last, his most congenial work. With what apparently sovereign contempt, masterly ease, artistic calm, and judicial gravity, does he set about it! And once his museum of dunces is completed, with what dignity—the little tyrant that he was!—does he march through it, and with what complacency does he point to his slain and dried Dunces, and say, "Behold the work of my hands!" It never seems to have occurred to him that his poem was destined to be an everlasting memorial, not only of his enemies, but of the annoyance he had met from them—at once of his strength in crushing, and his weakness in feeling, their attacks, and in showing their mummies for money.
That Pope deserves, on the whole, the name of "poet," we are willing, as aforesaid, to concede. But he was the most artificial of true poets. He had in him a real though limited vein, but did not trust sufficiently to it, and at once weakened and strengthened it by his peculiar kind of cultivation. He weakened it as a faculty, but strengthened it as an art; he lessened its inward force, but increased the elegance and facility of its outward expression. What he might have attained, had he left his study and trim gardens, and visited the Alps, Snowdon, or the Grampians—had he studied Boileau less, and Dante, Milton, or the Bible more—we cannot tell; but he certainly, in this case, would have left works greater, if not more graceful, behind him; and if he had pleased his own taste and that of his age less, he might have more effectually touched the chord of the heart of all future time by his poetry. As it is, his works resemble rather the London Colosseum than Westminster Abbey. They are exquisite imitations of nature; but we never can apply to them the words of the poet—
"O'er England's abbeys bends the sky,As on its friends, with kindred eye;For Nature gladly gave them place,Adopted them into her race,And granted them an equal dateWith Andes and with Ararat."
Read, and admired, Pope must always be—if not for his poetry and passion, yet for his elegance, wit, satiric force, fidelity as a painter of artificial life, and the clear, pellucid English. But his deficiency in the creative faculty (a deficiency very marked in two of his most lauded poems we have not specified, his "Messiah" and "Temple of Fame," both eloquent imitations), his lack of profound thought, the general poverty of his natural pictures (there are some fine ones in "Eloisa and Abelard"), the coarse and bitter element often intermingled with his satire, the monotonous glitter of his verse, and the want of profound purpose in his writings, combine to class him below the first file of poets. And vain are all attempts, such as those of Byron and Lord Carlisle, to alter the general verdict. It is very difficult, after a time, either to raise or depress an acknowledged classic; and Pope must come, if he has not come already, to a peculiarly defined and strictly apportioned place on the shelf. He was unquestionably the poet of his age. But his age was far from being one of a lofty order: it was a low, languid, artificial, and lazily sceptical age. It loved to be tickled; and Pope tickled it with the finger of a master. It liked to be lulled, at other times, into half-slumber; and the soft and even monotonies of Pope's pastorals and "Windsor Forest" effected this end. It loved to be suspended in a state of semi-doubt, swung to and fro in agreeable equipoise; and the "Essay on Man" was precisely such a swing. It was fond of a mixture of strong English sense with French graces and charms of manner; and Pope supplied it. It was fond of keen, yet artfully managed satire; and Pope furnished it in abundance. It loved nothing that threatened greatly to disturb its equanimity or over-much to excite or arouse it; and there was little of this in Pope. Had he been a really great poet of the old Homer or Dante breed, he would have outshot his age, till he "dwindled in the distance;" but in lieu of immediate fame, and of elaborate lectures in the next century, to bolster it unduly up, all generations would have "risen and called him blessed."
We had intended some remarks on Pope as a prose-writer, and as a correspondent; but want of space has compelled us to confine ourselves to his poetry.
DETAILED CONTENTSMORAL ESSAYS—Epistle I.—Of the Knowledge and Characters of MenEpistle II.—Of the Characters of WomenEpistle III.—Of the Use of RichesEpistle IV.—Of the Use of RichesEpistle V.—Occasioned by his Dialogues on MedalsTRANSLATIONS AND IMITATIONS—Sappho to PhaonThe Fable of DryopeVertumnus and PomonaThe First Book of Statius's ThebaisJanuary and MayThe Wife of BathPROLOGUES AND EPILOGUES—A Prologue to a Play for Mr Dennis's BenefitPrologue to Mr Addison's 'Cato'Prologue to Mr Thomson's 'Sophonisba'Prologue, designed for Mr D'Urfey's Last PlayPrologue to 'The Three Hours after Marriage'Epilogue to Mr Rowe's 'Jane Shore'MISCELLANIES—The Basset-TableLines on receiving from the Right Hon. the Lady Frances Shirley aStandish and Two PensVerbatim from BoileauAnswer to the following Question of Mrs HoweOccasioned by some Verses of His Grace the Duke of BuckinghamMacer: a CharacterSong, by a Person of QualityOn a Certain Lady at CourtOn his Grotto at TwickenhamRoxana, or the Drawing-RoomTo Lady Mary Wortley MontagueExtemporaneous Lines on a Portrait of Lady Mary Wortley MontagueLines sung by Durastanti when she took leave of the English StageUpon the Duke of Marlborough's House at WoodstockVerses left by Mr Pope, on his lying in the same bed which Wilmot sleptin at AdderburyThe ChallengeThe Three Gentle ShepherdsEpigram, engraved on the Collar of a DogThe TranslatorThe Looking-GlassA Farewell to LondonSandys' GhostUmbraSylvia, a FragmentImpromptu to Lady WinchelseaEpigramEpigram on the Feuds about Handel and BononciniOn Mrs Tofts, a celebrated Opera SingerThe Balance of EuropeEpitaph on Lord ConingsbyEpigramEpigram from the FrenchEpitaph on GayEpigram on the Toasts of the Kit-Kat ClubTo a Lady, with 'The Temple of Fame'On the Countess of Burlington cutting PaperOn Drawings of the Statues of Apollo, Venus, and HerculesOn Bentley's 'Milton'Lines written in Windsor ForestTo ErinnaA DialogueOde to Quinbus FlestrinThe Lamentation of Glumdalclitch for the Loss of GrildrigTo Mr Lemuel GulliverMary Gulliver to Captain Lemuel Gulliver1740, a Fragment of a PoemThe Fourth Epistle of the First Book of HoraceEpigram on one who made long EpitaphsOn an Old GateA FragmentTo Mr GayArgusPrayer of BrutusLines on a Grotto, at Cruxeaston, HantsTHE UNIVERSAL PRAYERTHE DUNCIAD—A Letter to the PublisherMartinus Scriblerus, his ProlegomenaTestimonies of AuthorsMartinus Scriblerus of the PoemRecardus Aristarchus of the Hero of the PoemBook the FirstBook the SecondBook the ThirdBook the FourthDeclaration by the AuthorAPPENDIX—I. Preface prefixed to the Five First imperfect EditionsII. A List of Books, Papers, and VersesIII. Advertisement to the First EditionIV. Advertisement to the First Edition of the Fourth BookV. Advertisement to the Complete Edition of 1743VI. Advertisement printed in the Journals, 1730VII. A Parallel of the Characters of Mr Dryden and Mr PopeIndex of Persons celebrated in this Poem
The 'Essay on Man' was intended to have been comprised in four books:—
The first of which, the author has given us under that title, in four epistles.
The second was to have consisted of the same number:—1. Of the extent and limits of human reason. 2. Of those arts and sciences, and of the parts of them, which are useful, and therefore attainable, together with those which are unuseful, and therefore unattainable. 3. Of the nature, ends, use, and application of the different capacities of men. 4. Of the use of learning, of the science of the world, and of wit; concluding with a satire against the misapplication of them, illustrated by pictures, characters, and examples.
The third book regarded civil regimen, or the science of politics, in which the several forms of a republic were to have been examined and explained; together with the several modes of religious worship, as far forth as they affect society; between which the author always supposed there was the most interesting relation and closest connexion; so that this part would have treated of civil and religious society in their full extent.
The fourth and last book concerned private ethics or practical morality, considered in all the circumstances, orders, professions, and stations of human life.
The scheme of all this had been maturely digested, and communicated to the Lord Bolingbroke, Dr Swift, and one or two more, and was intended for the only work of his riper years; but was, partly through ill health, partly through discouragements from the depravity of the times, and partly on prudential and other considerations, interrupted, postponed, and, lastly, in a manner laid aside.
But as this was the author's favourite work, which more exactly reflected the image of his strong capacious mind, and as we can have but a very imperfect idea of it from thedisjecta membra poetaethat now remain, it may not be amiss to be a little more particular concerning each of these projected books. The first, as it treats of man in the abstract, and considers him in general under every one of his relations, becomes the foundation, and furnishes out the subjects, of the three following; so that—
The second book takes up again the first and second epistles of the first book, and treats of man in his intellectual capacity at large, as has been explained above. Of this, only a small part of the conclusion (which, as we said, was to have contained a satire against the misapplication of wit and learning) may be found in the fourth book of 'The Dunciad,' and up and down, occasionally, in the other three.
The third book, in like manner, reassumes the subject of the third epistle of the first, which treats of man in his social, political, and religious capacity. But this part the poet afterwards conceived might be best executed in an epic poem; as the action would make it more animated, and the fable less invidious; in which all the great principles of true and false governments and religions should be chiefly delivered in feigned examples.
The fourth and last book pursues the subject of the fourth epistle of the first, and treats of ethics, or practical morality; and would have consisted of many members; of which the four following epistles were detached portions: the two first, on the characters of men and women, being the introductory part of this concluding book.—Warburton.
That it is not sufficient for this knowledge to consider man in the abstract: books will not serve the purpose, nor yet our own experience singly, ver. 1. General maxims, unless they be formed upon both, will be but notional, ver. 10. Some peculiarity in every man, characteristic to himself, yet varying from himself, ver. 15. Difficulties arising from our own passions, fancies, faculties, &c., ver. 31. The shortness of life, to observe in, and the uncertainty of the principles of action in men, to observe by, ver. 37, &c. Our own principle of action often hid from ourselves, ver. 41. Some few characters plain, but in general confounded, dissembled, or inconsistent, ver. 51. The same man utterly different in different places and seasons, ver. 71. Unimaginable weaknesses in the greatest, ver. 70, &c. Nothing constant and certain but God and nature, ver. 95. No judging of the motives from the actions; the same actions proceeding from contrary motives, and the same motives influencing contrary actions, ver. 100. II. Yet to form characters, we can only take the strongest actions of a man's life, and try to make them agree: the utter uncertainty of this, from nature itself, and from policy, ver. 120. Characters given according to the rank of men of the world, ver. 135. And some reason for it, ver. 140. Education alters the nature, or at least character of many, ver. 149. Actions, passions, opinions, manners, humours, or principles, all subject to change. No judging by nature, from ver. 158 to 174. III. It only remains to find (if we can) his ruling passion: that will certainly influence all the rest, and can reconcile the seeming or real inconsistency of all his actions, ver. 175. Instanced in the extraordinary character of Clodio, ver. 179. A caution against mistaking second qualities for first, which will destroy all possibility of the knowledge of mankind, ver. 210. Examples of the strength of the ruling passion, and its continuation to the last breath, ver. 222, &c.
Yes, you despise the man to books confined,Who from his study rails at human kind;Though what he learns he speaks, and may advanceSome general maxims, or be right by chance.The coxcomb bird, so talkative and grave,That from his cage cries 'Cuckold,' 'Whore,' and 'Knave,'Though many a passenger he rightly call,You hold him no philosopher at all.And yet the fate of all extremes is such,Men may be read, as well as books, too much. 10To observations which ourselves we make,We grow more partial for the observer's sake;To written wisdom, as another's, less:Maxims are drawn from notions, those from guess.There's some peculiar in each leaf and grain,Some unmark'd fibre, or some varying vein:Shall only man be taken in the gross?Grant but as many sorts of mind as moss.That each from other differs, first confess;Next that he varies from himself no less: 20Add nature's, custom's, reason's, passion's strife,And all opinion's colours cast on life.Our depths who fathoms, or our shallows finds,Quick whirls, and shifting eddies, of our minds?On human actions reason though you can,It may be reason, but it is not man:His principle of action once explore,That instant 'tis his principle no more.Like following life through creatures you dissect,You lose it in the moment you detect. 30Yet more; the difference is as great betweenThe optics seeing, as the objects seen.All manners take a tincture from our own;Or come discolour'd, through our passions shown;Or fancy's beam enlarges, multiplies,Contracts, inverts, and gives ten thousand dyes.Nor will life's stream for observation stay,It hurries all too fast to mark their way:In vain sedate reflections we would make,When half our knowledge we must snatch, not take. 40Oft, in the passions' wild rotation toss'd,Our spring of action to ourselves is lost:Tired, not determined, to the last we yield,And what comes then is master of the field.As the last image of that troubled heap,When sense subsides, and fancy sports in sleep,(Though past the recollection of the thought),Becomes the stuff of which our dream is wrought:Something as dim to our internal view,Is thus, perhaps, the cause of most we do. 50True, some are open, and to all men known;Others so very close, they're hid from none;(So darkness strikes the sense no less than light)Thus gracious Chandos is beloved at sight;And every child hates Shylock, though his soulStill sits at squat, and peeps not from its hole.At half mankind when generous Manly raves,All know 'tis virtue, for he thinks them knaves:When universal homage Umbra pays,All see 'tis vice, and itch of vulgar praise. 60When flattery glares, all hate it in a queen,While one there is who charms us with his spleen.But these plain characters we rarely find;Though strong the bent, yet quick the turns of mind:Or puzzling contraries confound the whole;Or affectations quite reverse the soul.The dull, flat falsehood serves for policy;And, in the cunning, truth itself's a lie:Unthought-of frailties cheat us in the wise;The fool lies hid in inconsistencies. 70See the same man, in vigour, in the gout;Alone, in company; in place, or out;Early at business, and at hazard late;Mad at a fox-chase, wise at a debate;Drunk at a borough, civil at a ball;Friendly at Hackney, faithless at Whitehall.Catius is ever moral, ever grave,Thinks who endures a knave, is next a knave,Save just at dinner—then prefers, no doubt,A rogue with venison to a saint without. 80Who would not praise Patricio's1high desert,His hand unstain'd, his uncorrupted heart,His comprehensive head, all interests weigh'd,All Europe saved, yet Britain not betray'd?He thanks you not, his pride is in picquet,Newmarket fame, and judgment at a bet.What made (says Montaigne, or more sage Charron2)Otho a warrior, Cromwell a buffoon?A perjured prince3a leaden saint revere,A godless regent4tremble at a star? 90The throne a bigot keep, a genius quit,Faithless through piety, and duped through wit?Europe a woman, child, or dotard rule,And just her wisest monarch made a fool?Know, God and Nature only are the same:In man, the judgment shoots at flying game;A bird of passage! gone as soon as found,Now in the moon perhaps, now under ground.II. In vain the sage, with retrospective eye,Would from the apparentwhatconclude thewhy, 100Infer the motive from the deed, and showThat what we chanced was what we meant to do.Behold! if fortune or a mistress frowns,Some plunge in business, others shave their crowns:To ease the soul of one oppressive weight,This quits an empire, that embroils a state:The same adust complexion has impell'dCharles5to the convent, Philip6to the field.Not always actions show the man: we findWho does a kindness, is not therefore kind; 110Perhaps prosperity becalm'd his breast,Perhaps the wind just shifted from the east:Not therefore humble he who seeks retreat,Pride guides his steps, and bids him shun the great:Who combats bravely is not therefore brave,He dreads a death-bed like the meanest slave:Who reasons wisely is not therefore wise,His pride in reasoning, not in acting, lies.But grant that actions best discover man;Take the most strong, and sort them as you can: 120The few that glare, each character must mark,You balance not the many in the dark.What will you do with such as disagree?Suppress them, or miscall them policy?Must then at once (the character to save)The plain rough hero turn a crafty knave?Alas! in truth the man but changed his mind,Perhaps was sick, in love, or had not dined.Ask why from Britain Cæsar would retreat?Cæsar himself might whisper he was beat. 130Why risk the world's great empire for a punk?7Cæsar perhaps might answer he was drunk.But, sage historians! 'tis your task to proveOne action, conduct; one, heroic love.'Tis from high life high characters are drawn;A saint in crape is twice a saint in lawn;A judge is just, a chancellor juster still;A gownman, learn'd; a bishop, what you will;Wise, if a minister; but, if a king,More wise, more learn'd, more just, more everything, 140Court-virtues bear, like gems, the highest rate,Born where Heaven's influence scarce can penetrate:In life's low vale, the soil the virtues like,They please as beauties, here as wonders strike.Though the same sun with all-diffusive raysBlush in the rose, and in the diamond blaze,We prize the stronger effort of his power,And justly set the gem above the flower.'Tis education forms the common mind,Just as the twig is bent, the tree's inclined. 150Boastful and rough, your first son is a squire;The next a tradesman, meek, and much a liar;Tom struts a soldier, open, bold, and brave;Will sneaks a scrivener, an exceeding knave:Is he a Churchman? then he's fond of power:A Quaker? sly: A Presbyterian? sour:A smart free-thinker? all things in an hour.Ask men's opinions: Scoto now shall tellHow trade increases, and the world goes well;Strike off his pension, by the setting sun, 160And Britain, if not Europe, is undone.That gay free-thinker, a fine talker once,What turns him now a stupid silent dunce?Some god, or spirit he has lately found;Or chanced to meet a minister that frown'd.Judge we by nature? Habit can efface,Interest o'ercome, or policy take place:By actions? those uncertainty divides:By passions? these dissimulation hides:Opinions? they still take a wider range: 170Find, if you can, in what you cannot change.Manners with fortunes, humours turn with climes,Tenets with books, and principles with times.III. 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 confess'd.Wharton, the scorn and wonder of our days, 180Whose 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 wondering 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 Wilmot8too.Then turns repentant, and his God adoresWith the same spirit that he drinks and whores;Enough if all around him but admire, 190And 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 general 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;A fool, with more of wit than half mankind, 200Too 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 every rule'Twas all for fear the knaves should call him fool.Nature well known, no prodigies remain,Comets are regular, and Wharton plain.Yet, in this search, the wisest may mistake, 210If second qualities for first they take.When Catiline by rapine swell'd his store;When Cæsar made a noble dame a whore;9In this the lust, in that the avariceWere means, not ends; ambition was the vice.That very Cæsar, born in Scipio's days,Had aim'd, like him, by chastity at praise.Lucullus, when frugality could charm,Had roasted turnips in the Sabine farm.In vain the observer eyes the builder's toil, 220But 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 business to the last;As weak, as earnest, and as gravely out, 230As sober Lanesborough10dancing in the gout.Behold a reverend sire, whom want of graceHas made the father of a nameless race,Shoved from the wall perhaps, or rudely press'dBy his own son, that passes by unbless'd:Still to his wench he crawls on knocking knees,And envies every sparrow that he sees.A salmon's belly, Helluo, was thy fate;The doctor call'd, declares all help too late:'Mercy!' cries Helluo, 'mercy on my soul! 240Is there no hope? Alas! then bring the jowl.'The frugal crone, whom praying priests attend,Still tries to save the hallow'd 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 Narcissa11spoke),'No, let a charming chintz and Brussels laceWrap my cold limbs, and shade my lifeless face:One would not, sure, be frightful when one's dead— 250And, Betty, give this cheek a little red.'The courtier smooth, who forty years had shinedAn 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 sigh'd) 'my lands and tenements to Ned.''Your money, sir?' 'My money, sir, what! all?Why—if I must'—(then wept)—'I give it Paul.''The manor, sir?'—'The manor! hold,' (he cried), 260'Not that—I cannot part with that'—and died.And you, brave Cobham! to the latest breathShall feel your ruling passion strong in death:Such in those moments as in all the past,'Oh, save my country, Heaven!' shall be your last.
VARIATIONS.After VER. 86, in the former editions—Triumphant leaders, at an army's head,Hemm'd round with glories, pilfer cloth or bread:As meanly plunder as they bravely fought,Now save a people, and now save a groat.VER. 129, in the former editions—Ask why from Britain Cæsar made retreat?Cæsar himself would tell you he was beat.The mighty Czar what moved to wed a punk?The mighty Czar would tell you he was drunk.In the former editions, VER. 208—Nature well known, nomiraclesremain.
EPISTLE II.—TO A LADY.OF THE CHARACTERS OF WOMEN.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 distinguish'd 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,And there, a naked Leda with a swan. 10Let then the fair one beautifully cry,In Magdalen's loose hair and lifted eye,Or dress'd in smiles of sweet Cecilia shine,With simpering 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;Choose a firm cloud, before it fall, and in itCatch, ere she change, the Cynthia of this minute. 20Rufa, 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's12diamonds with her dirty smock;Or Sappho at her toilet's greasy task,With Sappho fragrant at an evening mask:So morning insects that in muck begun,Shine, buzz, and fly-blow in the setting sun.How soft is Silia! fearful to offend;The frail one's advocate, the weak one's friend: 30To 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 amorous spark,Sighs for the shades—'How charming is a park!'A park is purchased, but the fair he seesAll bathed in tears—'Oh odious, odious trees!' 40Ladies, like variegated tulips, show,'Tis to their changes half their charms we owe;Fine by defect, and delicately weak,Their happy spots the nice admirer take.'Twas thus Calypso once each heart alarm'd,Awed without virtue, without beauty charm'd;Her tongue bewitch'd as oddly as her eyes,Less wit than mimic, more a wit than wise;Strange graces still, and stranger flights she had,Was just not ugly, and was just not mad; 50Yet ne'er so sure our passion to create,As when she touch'd the brink of all we hate.Narcissa's13nature, tolerably mild,To make a wash, would hardly stew a child;Has even been proved to grant a lover's prayer,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,When 'tis by that alone she can be borne 60Why 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;Proud as a peeress, prouder as a punk; 70Chaste 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 untouch'd, that noble seat of thought:Such this day's doctrine—in another fitShe sins with poets through pure love of wit.What has not fired her bosom or her brain—Cæsar and Tall-boy, Charles and Charlemagne?As Helluo, late dictator of the feast,The nose ofhaut goût, and the tip of taste, 80Critiqued your wine, and analysed your meat,Yet on plain pudding deign'd at home to eat;So Philomedé,14lecturing all mankindOn the soft passion and the taste refined,The 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 giveThe mighty blessing, 'While we live, to live.' 90Then 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,And die of nothing, but a rage to live. 100Turn 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 prayer.Or her, who laughs at hell, but (like her Grace15)Cries, 'Ah! how charming, if there's no such place!'Or who in sweet vicissitude appearsOf mirth and opium, ratafia and tears, 110The 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's16mind?Scarce once herself, by turns all womankind!Who, with herself, or others, from her birthFinds all her life one warfare upon earth:Shines, in exposing knaves, and painting fools,Yet is whate'er she hates and ridicules. 120No thought advances, but her eddy brainWhisks 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 uninspected age,No passion gratified, except her rage.So much the fury still outran the wit,The pleasure miss'd her, and the scandal hit.Who breaks with her, provokes revenge from hell,But he's a bolder man who dares be well. 130Her every 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 bustAnd temple rise—then fall again to dust. 140Last 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 robb'd of power, by warmth of friends,By wealth of followers! without one distress,Sick of herself through very selfishness!Atossa, cursed with every granted prayer,Childless with all her children, wants an heir.To heirs unknown descends the unguarded store,Or wanders, Heaven-directed, to the poor. 150Pictures like these, dear Madam, to design,Asks no firm hand, and no unerring line;Some wandering 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 Chloe, sure, was form'd without a spot'—Nature in her then err'd not, but forgot.'With every pleasing, every prudent part,Say, what can Chloe17want?'—She wants a heart. 160She speaks, behaves, and acts just as she ought;But never, never reach'd one generous 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,Observes how much a chintz exceeds mohair. 170Forbid it, Heaven! a favour or a debtShe e'er should cancel—but she may forget.Safe is your secret still in Chloe's ear;But none of Chloe's shall you ever hear.Of all her dears she never slander'd one,But cares not if a thousand are undone.Would Chloe know if you're alive or dead?She bids her footman put it in her head.Chloe is prudent—would you, too, be wise?Then never break your heart when Chloe dies. 180One certain portrait may (I grant) be seen,Which Heaven has varnish'd out, and made a queen:The same for ever! and described by allWith 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,None see what parts of nature it conceals: 190The 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 an HelenFrom peer or bishop 'tis no easy thingTo draw the man who loves his God, or king:Alas! I copy (or my draught would fail)From honest Mahomet18, or plain Parson Hale.19But grant, in public men sometimes are shown,A woman's seen in private life alone: 200Our bolder talents in full light display'd;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 fix'd, they first or last obey,The love of pleasure, and the love of sway. 210That, Nature gives; and where the lesson taughtIs but to please, can pleasure seem a fault?Experience, this; by man's oppression curst,They seek the second not to lose the first.Men, some to business, some to pleasure take;But every woman is at heart a rake:Men, some to quiet, some to public strife;But every lady would be queen for life.Yet mark the fate of a whole sex of queens!Power all their end, but beauty all the means: 220In youth they conquer, with so wild a rage,As leaves them scarce a subject in their age:For foreign glory, foreign joy, they roam;No thought of peace or happiness at home.But wisdom's triumph is well-timed retreat,As hard a science to the fair as great!Beauties, like tyrants, old and friendless grown,Yet hate repose, and dread to be alone,Worn out in public, weary every eye,Nor leave one sigh behind them when they die. 230Pleasure the sex, as children birds, pursue,Still out of reach, yet never out of view;Sure, if they catch, to spoil the toy at most,To covet flying, and regret when lost:At last, to follies youth could scarce defend,It grows their age's prudence to pretend;Ashamed to own they gave delight before,Reduced to feign it, when they give no more:As hags hold Sabbaths, less for joy than spite,So these their merry, miserable night; 240Still round and round the ghosts of beauty glide,And haunt the places where their honour died.See how the world its veterans rewards!A youth of frolics, an old age of cards;Fair to no purpose, artful to no end,Young without lovers, old without a friend;A fop their passion, but their prize a sot,Alive, ridiculous; and dead, forgot!Ah, friend! to dazzle let the vain design;To raise the thought, and touch the heart, be thine! 250That charm shall grow, while what fatigues the ring,Flaunts and goes down, an unregarded thing:So when the sun's broad beam has tired the sight,All mild ascends the moon's more sober light,Serene in virgin modesty she shines,And unobserved the glaring orb declines.Oh! bless'd with temper, whose unclouded rayCan make to-morrow cheerful as to-day;She, who can love a sister's charms, or hearSighs for a daughter with unwounded ear; 260She, who ne'er answers till a husband cools,Or, if she rales him, never shows she rules;Charms by accepting, by submitting sways,Yet has her humour most when she obeys;Let fops or fortune fly which way they will;Disdains all loss of tickets, or codille;Spleen, vapours, or small-pox, above them all,And mistress of herself though China fall.And yet, believe me, good as well as ill,Woman's at best a contradiction still. 270Heaven, when it strives to polish all it canIts last, best work, but forms a softer man;Picks from each sex, to make the favourite blest,Your love of pleasure or desire of rest:Blends, in exception to all general rules,Your taste of follies, with our scorn of fools:Reserve with frankness, art with truth allied,Courage with softness, modesty with pride;Fix'd principles, with fancy ever new;Shakes all together, and produces—you. 280Be this a woman's fame: with this unbless'd,Toasts live a scorn, and queens may die a jest.This Phoebus promised (I forget the year)When those blue eyes first open'd on the sphere;Ascendant Phoebus watch'd that hour with care,Averted half your parents' simple prayer;And gave you beauty, but denied the pelfThat buys your sex a tyrant o'er itself.The generous god, who wit and gold refines,And ripens spirits as he ripens mines, 290Kept dross for duchesses, the world shall know it,To you gave sense, good-humour, and a poet.