Essay on Man

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 (re­cur­ring to what is laid down in the first book, Ep. ii., and in the Epis­tle pre­ced­ing this, v.159, etc.). What are the prop­er ob­jects of Mag­nif­icence, and a 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, And books for Mead, and but­ter­flies for Sloane. Think we all these are for him­self? no more Than his fine wife, alas! or fin­er w***e. 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.” Heav­en vis­its with a taste the wealthy fool, And needs no rod but Rip­ley with a rule. See! sportive Fate, to pun­ish awk­ward pride, 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, 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 Shall 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 A cer­tain truth, which many buy too dear: Some­thing there is more need­ful than ex­pense, And some­thing pre­vi­ous even to taste–’tis sense. Good sense, which on­ly is the gift of Heav­en, And though no sci­ence, fair­ly worth the sev­en: A light, which in your­self you must per­ceive: Jones and Le Notre 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; 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 ev­ery­where 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 the am­bi­tious hill the heav­ens to scale, Or scoops in cir­cling the­atres the vale; Calls in the coun­try, catch­es open­ing glades, Joins will­ing woods, and varies shades from shades; Now breaks, or now di­rects, the in­tend­ing lines; Paints as you plant, and, as you work, de­signs. Still fol­low sense, of ev­ery art the soul, Parts an­swer­ing parts shall slide in­to a whole, Spon­ta­neous beau­ties all around ad­vance, Start even from dif­fi­cul­ty, strike from chance; Na­ture shall join you; Time shall make it grow 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. Even in an or­na­ment its place re­mark, Nor in a her­mitage set Dr. Clarke. Be­hold Vil­lario’s ten years’ toil com­plete: His quin­cunx dark­ens, 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-​quiv­er­ing rills me­an­dered 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, Or sat de­light­ed in the thick­en­ing shade, With an­nu­al joy the red­den­ing shoots to greet, Or see the stretch­ing branch­es long to meet! His son’s fine taste an open­er 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, 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, shiv­er­ing at a breeze! Lo, what huge heaps of lit­tle­ness around! 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 ev­ery 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 suf­fer­ing eye in­vert­ed Na­ture sees, Trees cut to stat­ues, stat­ues thick as trees With here a foun­tain, nev­er to be played; And there a sum­mer-​house, that knows no shade; Here Am­phitrite sails through myr­tle bow­ers; There glad­ia­tors fight or die in flow­ers; Un­wa­tered see the droop­ing sea-​horse mourn, And swal­lows roost in Nilus’ dusty urn. My lord ad­vances with ma­jes­tic mien, Smit with the mighty plea­sure to be seen: But soft–by reg­ular ap­proach–not yet– First through the length of yon hot ter­race sweat; And when up ten steep slopes you’ve dragged your thighs, Just at his study door he’ll bless your eyes. His study! with what au­thors is it stored? In books, not au­thors, cu­ri­ous is my lord; To all their dat­ed backs he turns you round: These Al­dus print­ed, those Du Sueil has bound, Lo, some are vel­lum, and the rest as good For all his lord­ship knows, but they are wood. For Locke or Mil­ton ’tis in vain to look; These shelves ad­mit not any mod­ern book. And now the chapel’s sil­ver bell you hear, That sum­mons you to all the pride of prayer; Light quirks of mu­sic, bro­ken and un­even, Make the soul dance up­on a jig to heav­en. On paint­ed ceil­ings you de­vout­ly stare, Where sprawl the saints of Ver­rio or La­guerre, On gild­ed clouds in fair ex­pan­sion lie, And bring all Par­adise be­fore your eye. To rest, the cush­ion and soft Dean in­vite, Who nev­er men­tions hell to ears po­lite. But hark! the chim­ing clocks to din­ner call; A hun­dred foot­steps scrape the mar­ble hall: The rich buf­fet well-​coloured ser­pents grace, And gap­ing Tri­tons spew to wash your face. Is this a din­ner? this a ge­nial room? No, ’tis a tem­ple, and a hecatomb. A solemn sac­ri­fice, per­formed in state, You drink by mea­sure, and to min­utes eat. So quick re­tires each fly­ing course, you’d swear San­cho’s dread doc­tor and his wand were there. Be­tween each act the trem­bling salvers ring, From soup to sweet-​wine, and God bless the King. In plen­ty starv­ing, tan­ta­lised in state, And com­plaisant­ly helped to all I hate, Treat­ed, ca­ressed, and tired, I take my leave, Sick of his civ­il pride from morn to eve; I curse such lav­ish cost and lit­tle skill, And swear no day was ev­er past so ill. Yet hence the poor are clothed, the hun­gry fed; Health to him­self, and to his in­fants bread The labour­er bears; what his hard heart de­nies His char­ita­ble van­ity sup­plies. An­oth­er age shall see the gold­en ear Em­brown the slope, and nod on the parterre, Deep har­vests bury all his pride has planned, And laugh­ing Ceres re-​as­sume the land. Who then shall grace, or who im­prove the soil? Who plants like Bathurst, or who builds like Boyle. ‘Tis use alone that sanc­ti­fies ex­pense, And splen­dour bor­rows all her rays from sense. His fa­ther’s acres who en­joys in peace, Or makes his neigh­bours glad, if he in­crease: Whose cheer­ful ten­ants bless their year­ly toil, Yet to their lord owe more than to the soil; Whose am­ple lawns are not ashamed to feed The milky heifer and de­serv­ing steed; Whose ris­ing forests, not for pride or show, But fu­ture build­ings, fu­ture navies, grow: Let his plan­ta­tions stretch from down to down, First shade a coun­try, and then raise a town. You too pro­ceed! make falling arts your care, Erect new won­ders, and the old re­pair; Jones and Pal­la­dio to them­selves re­store, And be whate’er Vit­ru­vius was be­fore: ‘Till kings call forth the ideas of your mind (Proud to ac­com­plish what such hands de­nied) Bid har­bours open, pub­lic ways ex­tend, Bid tem­ples, wor­thi­er of the god, as­cend; Bid the broad arch the dan­ger­ous flood con­tain, The mole pro­ject­ed break the roar­ing main; Back to his bounds their sub­ject sea com­mand, And roll obe­di­ent rivers through the land: These hon­ours peace to hap­py Britain brings, These are im­pe­ri­al works, and wor­thy kings.

EPIS­TLE V.

TO MR. AD­DI­SON.

OC­CA­SIONED BY HIS DI­ALOGUES ON MEDALS.

See the wild waste of all-​de­vour­ing years! How Rome her own sad sepul­chre ap­pears, With nod­ding arch­es, bro­ken tem­ples spread! The very tombs now van­ished like their dead! Im­pe­ri­al won­ders raised on na­tions spoiled, Where mixed with slaves the groan­ing mar­tyr toiled: Huge the­atres, that now un­peo­pled woods, Now drained a dis­tant coun­try of her floods: Fanes, which ad­mir­ing gods with pride sur­vey, Stat­ues of men, scarce less alive than they! Some felt the silent stroke of moul­der­ing age, Some hos­tile fury, some re­li­gious rage. Bar­bar­ian blind­ness, Chris­tian zeal con­spire, And Pa­pal piety, and Goth­ic fire. Per­haps, by its own ru­ins saved from flame, Some buried mar­ble half pre­serves a name; That name the learned with fierce dis­putes pur­sue, And give to Ti­tus old Ves­pasian’s due. Am­bi­tion sighed: she found it vain to trust The faith­less col­umn and the crum­bling bust: Huge moles, whose shad­ow stretched from shore to shore, Their ru­ins per­ished, and their place no more; Con­vinced, she now con­tracts her vast de­sign, And all her tri­umphs shrink in­to a coin. A nar­row orb each crowd­ed con­quest keeps; Be­neath her palm here sad Judea weeps; Now scant­ier lim­its the proud arch con­fine, And scarce are seen the pros­trate Nile or Rhine; A small Eu­phrates through the piece is rolled, And lit­tle ea­gles wave their wings in gold. The medal, faith­ful to its charge of fame, Through climes and ages bears each form and name: In one short view sub­ject­ed to our eye Gods, em­per­ors, heroes, sages, beau­ties, lie. With sharp­ened sight pale an­ti­quar­ies pore, The in­scrip­tion val­ue, but the rust adore. This the blue var­nish, that the green en­dears, The sa­cred rust of twice ten hun­dred years! To gain Pescen­nius one em­ploys his schemes, One grasps a Ce­crops in ec­stat­ic dreams. Poor Va­dius, long with learn-​ed spleen de­voured, Can taste no plea­sure since his shield was scoured; And Cu­rio, rest­less by the fair one’s side, Sighs for an Otho, and ne­glects his bride. Theirs is the van­ity, the learn­ing thine: Touched by thy hand, again Rome’s glo­ries shine; Her gods and god-​like heroes rise to view, And all her fad­ed gar­lands bloom anew. Nor blush, these stud­ies thy re­gard en­gage; These pleased the fa­thers of po­et­ic rage; The verse and sculp­ture bore an equal part, And art re­flect­ed im­ages to art. Oh, when shall Britain, con­scious of her claim, Stand emu­lous of Greek and Ro­man fame? In liv­ing medals see her wars en­rolled, And van­quished realms sup­ply record­ing gold? Here, ris­ing bold, the pa­tri­ot’s hon­est face; There war­riors frown­ing in his­toric brass? Then fu­ture ages with de­light shall see How Pla­to’s, Ba­con’s, New­ton’s looks agree; Or in fair se­ries lau­relled bards be shown, A Vir­gil there, and here an Ad­di­son. Then shall thy Crag­gs (and let me call him mine) On the cast ore, an­oth­er Pol­lio shine; With as­pect open, shall erect his head, And round the orb in last­ing notes be read, “States­men, yet friend to truth! of soul sin­cere, In ac­tion faith­ful, and in hon­our clear; Who broke no promise, served no pri­vate end, Who gained no ti­tle and who lost no friend; En­no­bled by him­self, by all ap­proved, And praised, un­en­vied, by the muse he loved.”

SATIRES.

EPIS­TLE TO DR. AR­BUTH­NOT.

AD­VER­TISE­MENT

TO THE FIRST PUB­LI­CA­TION OF THIS EPIS­TLE.

This Pa­per is a sort of bill of com­plaint, be­gun many years since, and drawn up by snatch­es, as the sev­er­al oc­ca­sions of­fered. I had no thoughts of pub­lish­ing it, till it pleased some per­sons of rank and for­tune (the au­thors of “Vers­es to the Im­ita­tor of Ho­race,” and of an “Epis­tle to a Doc­tor of Di­vin­ity from a No­ble­man at Hamp­ton Court”) to at­tack, in a very ex­traor­di­nary man­ner, not on­ly my writ­ings (of which, be­ing pub­lic, the pub­lic is judge), but my per­son, morals, and fam­ily, where­of, to those who know me not, a truer in­for­ma­tion may be req­ui­site. Be­ing di­vid­ed be­tween the ne­ces­si­ty to say some­thing of my­self, and my own lazi­ness to un­der­take so awk­ward a task, I thought it the short­est way to put the last hand to this Epis­tle. If it have any­thing pleas­ing, it will be that by which I am most de­sirous to please, the truth and the sen­ti­ment; and if any­thing of­fen­sive, it will be on­ly to those I am least sor­ry to of­fend, the vi­cious or the un­gen­er­ous.

Many will know their own pic­tures in it, there be­ing not a cir­cum­stance but what is true; but I have, for the most part, spared their names, and they may es­cape be­ing laughed at if they please.

I would have some of them know, it was ow­ing to the re­quest of the learned and can­did friend to whom it is in­scribed, that I make not as free use of theirs as they have done of mine. How­ev­er, I shall have this ad­van­tage and hon­our on my side, that where­as, by their pro­ceed­ing, any abuse may be di­rect­ed at any man, no in­jury can pos­si­bly be done by mine, since a name­less char­ac­ter can nev­er be found out but by its truth and like­ness.– P.

EPIS­TLE TO DR. AR­BUTH­NOT,

BE­ING THE

PRO­LOGUE TO THE SATIRES.

P. Shut, shut the door, good John! fa­tigued, I said, Tie up the knock­er, say I’m sick, I’m dead. The dog-​star rages! nay ’tis past a doubt, All Bed­lam, or Par­nas­sus, is let out: Fire in each eye, and pa­pers in each hand, They rave, re­cite, and mad­den round the land. What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide? They pierce my thick­ets, through my grot they glide; By land, by wa­ter, they re­new the charge; They stop the char­iot, and they board the barge. No place is sa­cred, not the Church is free; Even Sun­day shines no Sab­bath Day to me; Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme, Hap­py to catch me just at din­ner-​time. Is there a par­son, much be­mused in beer, A maudlin po­et­ess, a rhyming peer, A clerk, fore­doomed his fa­ther’s soul to cross, Who pens a stan­za when he should en­gross? Is there, who, locked from ink and pa­per, scrawls With des­per­ate char­coal round his dark­ened walls? All fly to Twiten­ham, and in hum­ble strain Ap­ply to me, to keep them mad or vain. Arthur, whose gid­dy son ne­glects the laws, Im­putes to me and my damned works the cause: Poor Cor­nus sees his fran­tic wife elope, And curs­es wit, and po­et­ry, and Pope. Friend to my life! (which did not you pro­long, The world had want­ed many an idle song) What drop or nos­trum can this plague re­move? Or which must end me, a fool’s wrath or love? A dire dilem­ma! ei­ther way I’m sped, If foes, they write, if friends, they read me dead. Seized and tied down to judge, how wretched I! Who can’t be silent, and who will not lie. To laugh, were want of good­ness and of grace, And to be grave, ex­ceeds all pow­er of face. I sit with sad ci­vil­ity, I read With hon­est an­guish, and an aching head; And drop at last, but in un­will­ing ears, This sav­ing coun­sel, “Keep your piece nine years.” “Nine years!” cries he, who high in Drury Lane, Lulled by soft zephyrs through the bro­ken pane, Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints be­fore term ends, Obliged by hunger, and re­quest of friends: “The piece, you think, is in­cor­rect? why, take it, I’m all sub­mis­sion, what you’d have it, make it.” Three things an­oth­er’s mod­est wish­es bound, My friend­ship, and a pro­logue, and ten pound. Pit­holeon sends to me: “You know his Grace, I want a pa­tron; ask him for a place.” ‘Pit­holeon li­belled me’–“but here’s a let­ter In­forms you, sir, ’twas when he knew no bet­ter. Dare you refuse him? Curll in­vites to dine, He’ll write a jour­nal, or he’ll turn di­vine.” Bless me! a pack­et.–“‘Tis a stranger sues, A vir­gin tragedy, an or­phan muse.” If I dis­like it, “Fu­ries, death and rage!” If I ap­prove, “Com­mend it to the stage.” There (thank my stars) my whole com­mis­sion ends, The play­ers and I are, luck­ily, no friends, Fired that the house re­ject him, “`Sdeath I’ll print it, And shame the fools–Your in­ter­est, sir, with Lin­tot!” ‘Lin­tot, dull rogue! will think your price too much:’ “Not, sir, if you re­vise it, and re­touch.” All my de­murs but dou­ble his at­tacks; At last he whis­pers, “Do; and we go snacks.” Glad of a quar­rel, straight I clap the door, Sir, let me see your works and you no more. ‘Tis sung, when Mi­das’ ears be­gan to spring (Mi­das, a sa­cred per­son and a king), His very min­is­ter who spied them first (Some say his queen) was forced to speak, or burst. And is not mine, my friend, a sor­er case, When ev­ery cox­comb perks them in my face? A. Good friend, for­bear! you deal in dan­ger­ous things. I’d nev­er name queens, min­is­ters, or kings; Keep close to ears, and those let ass­es prick; ‘Tis noth­ing– P. Noth­ing? if they bite and kick? Out with it, Dun­ci­ad! let the se­cret pass, That se­cret to each fool, that he’s an ass: The truth once told (and where­fore should we lie?) The Queen of Mi­das slept, and so may I. You think this cru­el? take it for a rule, No crea­ture smarts so lit­tle as a fool. Let peals of laugh­ter, Co­drus! round thee break, Thou un­con­cerned canst hear the mighty crack: Pit, box, and gallery in con­vul­sions hurled, Thou stand’st un­shook amidst a burst­ing world. Who shames a scrib­bler? break one cob­web through, He spins the slight, self-​pleas­ing thread anew: De­stroy his fib or sophistry, in vain, The crea­ture’s at his dirty work again, Throned in the cen­tre of his thin de­signs, Proud of a vast ex­tent of flim­sy lines! Whom have I hurt? has po­et yet, or peer, Lost the arched eye­brow, or Par­nas­sian sneer? And has not Col­ley still his lord, and w***e? His butch­ers Hen­ley, his free-​ma­sons Moore? Does not one ta­ble Bav­ius still ad­mit? Still to one bish­op Philips seem a wit? Still Sap­pho– A. Hold! for God’s sake–you’ll of­fend, No names!–be calm!–learn pru­dence of a friend! I too could write, and I am twice as tall; But foes like these– P. One flat­ter­er’s worse than all. Of all mad crea­tures, if the learned are right, It is the slaver kills, and not the bite. A fool quite an­gry is quite in­no­cent: Alas! ’tis ten times worse when they re­pent. One ded­icates in high hero­ic prose, And ridicules be­yond a hun­dred foes: One from all Grub­street will my fame de­fend, And more abu­sive, calls him­self my friend. This prints my let­ters, that ex­pects a bribe, And oth­ers roar aloud, “Sub­scribe, sub­scribe.” There are, who to my per­son pay their court: I cough like Ho­race, and, though lean, am short, Am­mon’s great son one shoul­der had too high, Such Ovid’s nose, and “Sir! you have an eye”– Go on, oblig­ing crea­tures, make me see All that dis­graced my bet­ters, met in me. Say for my com­fort, lan­guish­ing in bed, “Just so im­mor­tal Maro held his head:” And when I die, be sure you let me know Great Homer died three thou­sand years ago. Why did I write? what sin to me un­known Dipped me in ink, my par­ents’, or my own? As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, I lisped in num­bers, for the num­bers came. I left no call­ing for this idle trade, No du­ty broke, no fa­ther dis­obeyed. The Muse but served to ease some friend, not wife, To help me through this long dis­ease, my life, To sec­ond, Ar­buth­not! thy art and care, And teach the be­ing you pre­served, to bear. But why then pub­lish? Granville the po­lite, And know­ing Walsh, would tell me I could write; Well-​na­tured Garth, in­flamed with ear­ly praise; And Con­greve loved, and Swift en­dured my lays; The court­ly Tal­bot, Somers, Sheffield, read; Even mitred Rochester would nod the head, And St. John’s self (great Dry­den’s friends be­fore) With open arms re­ceived one po­et more. Hap­py my stud­ies, when by these ap­proved! Hap­pi­er their au­thor, when by these beloved! From these the world will judge of men and books, Not from the Bur­nets, Old­mixons, and Cookes. Soft were my num­bers; who could take of­fence, While pure de­scrip­tion held the place of sense? Like gen­tle Fan­ny’s was my flow­ery theme, A paint­ed mis­tress, or a purl­ing stream. Yet then did Gildon draw his ve­nal quill;– I wished the man a din­ner, and sat still. Yet then did Den­nis rave in fu­ri­ous fret; I nev­er an­swered–I was not in debt. If want pro­voked, or mad­ness made them print, I waged no war with Bed­lam or the Mint. Did some more sober crit­ic come abroad; If wrong, I smiled; if right, I kissed the rod. Pains, read­ing, study, are their just pre­tence, And all they want is spir­it, taste, and sense. Com­mas and points they set ex­act­ly right, And ’twere a sin to rob them of their mite. Yet ne’er one sprig of lau­rel graced these rib­alds, From slash­ing Bent­ley down to p—g Tibalds: Each wight, who reads not, and but scans and spells, Each word-​catch­er, that lives on syl­la­bles, Even such small crit­ics some re­gard may claim, Pre­served in Mil­ton’s or in Shake­speare’s name. Pret­ty! in am­ber to ob­serve the forms Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms! The things, we know, are nei­ther rich nor rare, But won­der how the dev­il they got there. Were oth­ers an­gry: I ex­cused them too; Well might they rage, I gave them but their due. A man’s true mer­it ’tis not hard to find; But each man’s se­cret stan­dard in his mind, That cast­ing-​weight pride adds to empti­ness, This, who can grat­ify? for who can guess? The bard whom pil­fered pas­torals renown, Who turns a Per­sian tale for half a crown, Just writes to make his bar­ren­ness ap­pear, And strains, from hard-​bound brains, eight lines a year; He, who still want­ing, though he lives on theft, Steals much, spends lit­tle, yet has noth­ing left: And he, who now to sense, now non­sense lean­ing, Means not, but blun­ders round about a mean­ing: And he, whose fus­tian’s so sub­lime­ly bad, It is not po­et­ry, but prose run mad: All these, my mod­est satire bade trans­late, And owned that nine such po­ets made a Tate. How did they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe And swear not Ad­di­son him­self was safe. Peace to all such! but were there one whose fires True ge­nius kin­dles, and fair fame in­spires; Blessed with each tal­ent and each art to please, And born to write, con­verse, and live with ease: Should such a man, too fond to rule alone, Bear, like the Turk, no broth­er near the throne. View him with scorn­ful, yet with jeal­ous eyes, And hate for arts that caused him­self to rise; Damn with faint praise, as­sent with civ­il leer, And with­out sneer­ing, teach the rest to sneer; Will­ing to wound, and yet afraid to strike, Just hint a fault, and hes­itate dis­like; Alike re­served to blame, or to com­mend, A tim­orous foe, and a sus­pi­cious friend; Dread­ing even fools, by flat­ter­ers be­sieged, And so oblig­ing, that he ne’er obliged; Like Cato, give his lit­tle sen­ate laws, And sit at­ten­tive to his own ap­plause; While wits and tem­plars ev­ery sen­tence raise, And won­der with a fool­ish face of praise:– Who but must laugh, if such a man there be? Who would not weep, if At­ti­cus were he? What though my name stood rubric on the walls, Or plais­tered posts, with claps, in cap­itals? Or smok­ing forth, a hun­dred hawk­ers’ load, On wings of winds came fly­ing all abroad? I sought no homage from the race that write; I kept, like Asian monar­chs, from their sight: Po­ems I heed­ed (now be-​rhymed so long) No more than thou, great George! a birth­day song. I ne’er with wits or witlings passed my days, To spread about the itch of verse and praise; Nor like a pup­py, dag­gled through the town, To fetch and car­ry sing-​song up and down; Nor at re­hearsals sweat, and mouthed, and cried, With hand­ker­chief and or­ange at my side; But sick of fops, and po­et­ry, and prate, To Bu­fo left the whole Castal­ian state. Proud as Apol­lo on his fork-​ed hill, Sat full-​blown Bu­fo puffed by ev­ery quill; Fed with soft ded­ica­tion all day long, Ho­race and he went hand in hand in song. His li­brary (where busts of po­ets dead And a true Pin­dar stood with­out a head) Re­ceived of wits an undis­tin­guished race, Who first his judg­ment asked, and then a place: Much they ex­tolled his pic­tures, much his seat, And flat­tered ev­ery day, and some days eat: Till grown more fru­gal in his riper days, He paid some bards with port, and some with praise; To some a dry re­hearsal was as­signed, And oth­ers (hard­er still) he paid in kind. Dry­den alone (what won­der?) came not nigh, Dry­den alone es­caped this judg­ing eye: But still the great have kind­ness in re­serve, He helped to bury whom he helped to starve. May some choice pa­tron bless each grey goose quill! May ev­ery Bav­ius have his Bu­fo still! So, when a states­man wants a day’s de­fence, Or en­vy holds a whole week’s war with sense, Or sim­ple pride for flat­tery makes de­mands, May dunce by dunce be whis­tled off my hands! Blessed be the great! for those they take away, And those they left me; for they left me gay; Left me to see ne­glect­ed ge­nius bloom, Ne­glect­ed die, and tell it on his tomb: Of all thy blame­less life the soul re­turn My verse, and Queens­bury weep­ing o’er thy urn! 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, though I con­de­scend 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. Why am I asked what next shall see the light? Heav­ens! 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,’ (Cries prat­ing Bal­bus) ’some­thing will come out.’ ‘Tis 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. Poor guilt­less I! and can I choose but smile When ev­ery cox­comb knows me by my style? Cursed be the verse, how well soe’er it flow That tends to make one wor­thy man my foe, Give virtue scan­dal, in­no­cence a fear, Or from the soft-​eyed vir­gin steal a tear! But he who hurts a harm­less neigh­bour’s peace, In­sults fall­en worth, or beau­ty in dis­tress, Who loves a lie, lame slan­der helps about, Who writes a li­bel, or who copies out: 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, 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; 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, 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; 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, 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, 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. ) Am­phibi­ous thing! that act­ing ei­ther part, The tri­fling head or the cor­rupt­ed heart, Fop at the toi­let, flat­ter­er at the board, Now trips a la­dy, and now struts a lord. Eve’s tempter thus the rab­bins have ex­pressed, 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 for­tunes wor­ship­per, nor fash­ion’s fool, Not lu­cre’s mad­man, nor am­bi­tion’s tool, Not proud, nor servile;–be one po­et’s praise, That, if he pleased, he pleased by man­ly ways: That flat­tery, even to kings, he held a shame, And thought a lie in verse or prose the same. That not in fan­cy’s maze he wan­dered long: But stooped to truth, and moralised 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; Laughed 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, The im­put­ed trash, and dul­ness not his own; The morals black­ened when the writ­ings scape, The li­belled per­son, and the pic­tured shape; Abuse, on all he loved, or loved him, spread, A friend in ex­ile, or a fa­ther, dead; The whis­per, that to great­ness still too near, Per­haps, yet vi­brates, on his sovereign’s ear:– Wel­come for thee, fair virtue! all the past; For thee, fair virtue! wel­come even the last! A. But why in­sult the poor, af­front the great? P. A knave’s a knave, to me in ev­ery 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; 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 Foe to his pride, but friend to his dis­tress: So hum­ble, he has knocked at Tib­bald’s door, Has drunk with Cib­ber, nay has rhymed for Moore. Full ten years slan­dered, did he once re­ply? Three thou­sand sons went down on Wel­st­ed’s lie. To please a mis­tress one as­persed his life; He lashed him not, but let her be his wife. Let Budgel charge low Grub­street on his quill, And write whate’er he pleased, ex­cept his will; Let the two Curlls of town and court abuse 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 w***e: Hear this, and spare his fam­ily, James Moore! 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, 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 walked in­nox­ious through his age. Nor courts he saw, no suits would ev­er try, Nor dared an oath, nor haz­ard­ed a lie. Un­learned he knew no school­man’s sub­tle art, No lan­guage, but the lan­guage of the heart. By na­ture hon­est, by ex­pe­ri­ence wise, Healthy by tem­per­ance, and by ex­er­cise; His life, though long, to sick­ness past 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. 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, 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 Heav­en, to bless those days, pre­serve my friend, Pre­serve him so­cial, cheer­ful, and serene, And just as rich as when he served a queen. A. Whether that bless­ing be de­nied or giv­en, Thus far was right, the rest be­longs to Heav­en.

SATIRES AND EPIS­TLES OF HO­RACE IM­ITAT­ED.