Essay on Man

ADVERTISEMENT.

The oc­ca­sion of pub­lish­ing these Im­ita­tions was the clam­our raised on some of my Epis­tles. An an­swer from Ho­race was both more full, and of more dig­ni­ty, than any I could have made in my own per­son; and the ex­am­ple of much greater free­dom in so em­inent a di­vine as Dr. Donne, seemed a proof with what in­dig­na­tion and con­tempt a Chris­tian may treat vice or fol­ly, in ev­er so low, or ev­er so high a sta­tion. Both these au­thors were ac­cept­able to the princes and min­is­ters un­der whom they lived. The Satires of Dr. Donne I ver­si­fied, at the de­sire of the Earl of Ox­ford while he was Lord Trea­sur­er, and of the Duke of Shrews­bury who had been Sec­re­tary of State, nei­ther of whom looked up­on a satire on vi­cious courts as any re­flec­tion on those they served in. And in­deed there is not in the world a greater er­ror, than that which fools are so apt to fall in­to, and knaves with good rea­son to en­cour­age, the mis­tak­ing a satirist for a li­beller; where­as to a true satirist noth­ing is so odi­ous as a li­beller, for the same rea­son as to a man tru­ly vir­tu­ous noth­ing is so hate­ful as a hyp­ocrite.

UNI AE­QU­US VIR­TU­TI ATQUE EJUS AM­ICIS. P.

THE FIRST SATIRE OF THE SEC­OND BOOK OF HO­RACE.

SATIRE I.

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 pleased to say, Lord Fan­ny spins a thou­sand such a day. Tim­orous 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. 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. Why, if the nights 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. Or, if you needs must write, write Cae­sar’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, With gun, drum, trum­pet, blun­der­buss, and thun­der? Or nobly wild, with Budgel’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, Lull with Amelia’s liq­uid name the nine, And sweet­ly flow through all the roy­al line. P. Alas! few vers­es touch their nicer ear; They scarce can bear their lau­re­ate twice a year; And just­ly Cae­sar scorns the po­et’s lays: 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. Even 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 Scars­dale his bot­tle, Dar­ty his ham-​pie; Ri­dot­ta sips and dances, till she see The dou­bling lus­tres dance as fast as she; F—- loves the sen­ate, Hock­ley-​hole his broth­er, Like in all else, as one egg to an­oth­er. I love to pour out all my­self, as plain As down­right Ship­pen, or as old Mon­taigne: In them, as cer­tain to be loved as seen, The soul stood forth, nor kept a thought with­in; In me what spots (for spots I have) ap­pear, 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: My foes shall wish my life a longer date, And ev­ery friend the less lament my fate. My head and heart thus flow­ing through my quill, Verse-​man or prose-​man, term me which you will, Pa­pist or Protes­tant, or both be­tween, 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 a muck, and tilt at all I meet; I on­ly wear it in a land of Hec­tors, Thieves, su­per­car­goes, sharpers, and di­rec­tors. Save but our army! and let Jove en­crust Swords, pikes, and guns, with ev­er­last­ing rust! Peace is my dear de­light–not Fleury’s more: 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 bur­then of some mer­ry song. Slan­der or poi­son dread from Delia’s rage Hard words or hang­ing, if your judge be Page. From fu­ri­ous Sap­pho scarce a milder fate, Plagued by her love, or li­belled by her hate. Its prop­er pow­er to hurt, each crea­ture feels; Bulls aim their horns, and ass­es lift their heels; ‘Tis 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. 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 evening of my day, Or death’s black wing al­ready be dis­played, To wrap me in the uni­ver­sal shade; Whether the dark­ened room to muse in­vite, Or whitened wall pro­voke the skew­er to write: In du­rance, ex­ile, Bed­lam or the Mint– Like Lee or Budgel, I will rhyme and print. 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? armed for virtue when I point the pen, 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? Could pen­sioned Boileau lash in hon­est strain Flat­ter­ers and big­ots even in Louis’ reign? 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, Un­placed, un­pen­sioned, no man’s heir, or slave? I will, or per­ish in the gen­er­ous 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. 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, 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 the Iberi­an lines, Now forms my quin­cunx, and now ranks my vines Or tames the ge­nius of the stub­born plain, Al­most as quick­ly as he con­quered 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, 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. 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 ex­plained by men–so have a care. It stands on record, that in Richard’s times A man was hanged 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! 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 al­tered–you may then pro­ceed; In such a cause the plain­tiff would be hissed; My lords the judges laugh, and you’re dis­missed.

THE SEC­OND SATIRE OF THE SEC­OND BOOK OF HO­RACE.

SATIRE II.

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. Not when a gilt buf­fet’s re­flect­ed pride Turns you from sound phi­los­ophy aside; Not when from plate to plate your eye­balls roll, And the brain dances to the mantling bowl. Hear Bethel’s ser­mon, one not versed in schools, But strong in sense, and wise with­out the rules. Go work, hunt, ex­er­cise! (he thus be­gan) Then scorn a home­ly din­ner, if you can. Your wine locked up, your but­ler strolled abroad, Or fish de­nied (the riv­er yet un­thawed), If then plain bread and milk will do the feat, The plea­sure lies in you, and not the meat. Preach as I please, I doubt our cu­ri­ous men Will choose a pheas­ant still be­fore a hen; Yet hens of Guinea full as good I hold, Ex­cept you eat the feath­ers green and gold. Of carps and mul­lets why pre­fer the great (Though cut in pieces ere my lord can eat), Yet for small tur­bots such es­teem pro­fess? Be­cause God made these large, the oth­er less. Old­field with more than harpy throat en­dued, Cries “Send me, gods! a whole hog bar­be­cued! Oh, b—- it, south-​winds! till a stench ex­hale Rank as the ripeness of a rab­bit’s tail. By what cri­te­ri­on do ye eat, d’ye think, If this is prized for sweet­ness, that for stink?” When the tired glut­ton labours through a treat, He finds no rel­ish in the sweet­est meat, He calls for some­thing bit­ter, some­thing sour, And the rich feast con­cludes ex­treme­ly poor: Cheap eggs, and herbs, and olives still we see; Thus much is left of old sim­plic­ity! The robin-​red­breast till of late had rest, And chil­dren sa­cred held a mar­tin’s nest, Till bec­ca-​fi­cos sold so dev­il­ish dear To one that was, or would have been a peer. Let me ex­tol a cat, on oys­ters fed, I’ll have a par­ty at the Bed­ford-​head; Or even to crack live craw­fish rec­om­mend; I’d nev­er doubt at Court to make a friend. ‘Tis yet in vain, I own, to keep a pother About one vice, and fall in­to the oth­er: Be­tween ex­cess and famine lies a mean; Plain, but not sor­did; though not splen­did, clean. Avi­di­en, or his wife (no mat­ter which, For him you’ll call a dog, and her a bitch) Sell their pre­sent­ed par­tridges, and fruits, And humbly live on rab­bits and on roots: One half-​pint bot­tle serves them both to dine, And is at once their vine­gar and wine. But on some lucky day (as when they found A lost bank-​bill, or heard their son was drowned) At such a feast, old vine­gar to spare, Is what two souls so gen­er­ous can­not bear: Oil, though it stink, they drop by drop im­part, But souse the cab­bage with a boun­teous heart. He knows to live, who keeps the mid­dle state, And nei­ther leans on this side, nor on that; Nor stops, for one bad cork, his but­ler’s pay, Swears, like Al­bu­tius, a good cook away; Nor lets, like Nae­vius, ev­ery er­ror pass, The musty wine, foul cloth, or greasy glass. Now hear what bless­ings tem­per­ance can bring: (Thus said our friend, and what he said I sing,) First health: The stom­ach (crammed from ev­ery dish, A tomb of boiled and roast, and flesh and fish, Where bile, and wind, and phlegm, and acid jar, And all the man is one in­tes­tine war) Re­mem­bers oft the school­boy’s sim­ple fare, The tem­per­ate sleeps, and spir­its light as air. How pale, each wor­ship­ful and rev­erend guest Rise from a cler­gy, or a city feast! What life in all that am­ple body, say? What heav­en­ly par­ti­cle in­spires the clay? The soul sub­sides, and wicked­ly in­clines To seem but mor­tal, even in sound di­vines. On morn­ing wings how ac­tive springs the mind That leaves the load of yes­ter­day be­hind! How easy ev­ery labour it pur­sues! How com­ing to the po­et ev­ery muse! Not but we may ex­ceed, some holy time, Or tired in search of truth, or search of rhyme; Ill health some just in­dul­gence may en­gage, And more the sick­ness of long life, old age; For faint­ing age what cor­dial drop re­mains, If our in­tem­per­ate youth the ves­sel drains? Our fa­thers praised rank veni­son. You sup­pose, Per­haps, young men! our fa­thers had no nose. Not so: a buck was then a week’s repast, And ’twas their point, I ween, to make it last; More pleased to keep it till their friends could come, Than eat the sweet­est by them­selves at home. Why had not I in those good times my birth, Ere cox­comb pies or cox­combs were on earth? Un­wor­thy he, the voice of fame to hear, That sweet­est mu­sic to an hon­est ear; (For ‘faith, Lord Fan­ny! you are in the wrong The world’s good word is bet­ter than a song) Who has not learned fresh stur­geon and ham-​pie Are no re­wards for want, and in­famy? When lux­ury has licked up all thy pelf, Cursed by thy neigh­bours, thy trustees, thy­self, To friends, to for­tune, to mankind a shame, Think how pos­ter­ity will treat thy name; And buy a rope, that fu­ture times may tell, Thou hast at least be­stowed one pen­ny well. “Right,” cries his lord­ship, “for a rogue in need To have a taste is in­so­lence in­deed: In me ’tis no­ble, suits my birth and state, My wealth un­wieldy, and my heap too great.” Then, like the sun, let boun­ty spread her ray, And shine that su­per­fluity away. Oh, im­pu­dence of wealth! with all thy store, How dar’st thou let one wor­thy man be poor? Shall half the new-​built church­es round thee fall? Make quays, build bridges, or re­pair White­hall: Or to thy coun­try let that heap be lent, As M**o’s was, but not at five per cent. Who thinks that For­tune can­not change her mind, Pre­pares a dread­ful jest for all mankind. And who stands safest? tell me, is it he That spreads and swells in puffed pos­ter­ity, Or blest with lit­tle, whose pre­vent­ing care In peace pro­vides fit arms against a war? Thus Bethel spoke, who al­ways speaks his thought, And al­ways thinks the very thing he ought: His equal mind I copy what I can, And, as I love, would im­itate the man. In South-​Sea days not hap­pi­er, when sur­mised The lord of thou­sands, than if now ex­cised; In for­est plant­ed by a fa­ther’s hand, Than in five acres now of rent­ed land. Con­tent with lit­tle, I can p—-e here On broc­coli and mut­ton, round the year; But an­cient friends (though poor, or out of play) That touch my bell, I can­not turn away. ‘Tis true, no tur­bots dig­ni­fy my boards, But gud­geons, floun­ders, what my Thames af­fords: To Houn­slow Heath I point and Banstead Down, Thence comes your mut­ton, and these chicks my own: From yon old wal­nut-​tree a show­er shall fall; And grapes, long lin­ger­ing on my on­ly wall, And figs from stan­dard and es­palier join; The dev­il is in you if you can­not dine: Then cheer­ful healths (your mis­tress shall have place), And, what’s more rare, a po­et shall say grace. For­tune not much of hum­bling me can boast; Though dou­ble taxed, how lit­tle have I lost? My life’s amuse­ments have been just the same, Be­fore, and af­ter, stand­ing armies came. My lands are sold, my fa­ther’s house is gone; I’ll hire an­oth­er’s; is not that my own, And yours, my friends? through whose free-​open­ing gate None comes too ear­ly, none de­parts too late; (For I, who hold sage Homer’s rule the best, Wel­come the com­ing, speed the go­ing guest). “Pray Heav­en it last!” (cries Swift!) “as you go on; I wish to God this house had been your own: Pity! to build with­out a son or wife: Why, you’ll en­joy it on­ly all your life.” Well, if the use be mine, can it con­cern one, Whether the name be­long to Pope or Ver­non? What’s prop­er­ty? dear Swift! you see it al­ter From you to me, from me to Pe­ter Wal­ter; Or, in a mort­gage, prove a lawyer’s share; Or, in a join­ture, van­ish from the heir; Or in pure eq­ui­ty (the case not clear) The Chancery takes your rents for twen­ty year: At best, it falls to some un­gra­cious son, Who cries, “My fa­ther’s damned, and all’s my own.” Shades, that to Ba­con could re­treat af­ford, Be­come the por­tion of a boo­by lord; And Hem­sley, once proud Buck­ing­ham’s de­light, Slides to a scriven­er or a city knight. Let lands and hous­es have what lords they will, Let us be fixed, and our own mas­ters still.

THE FIRST EPIS­TLE OF THE FIRST BOOK OF HO­RACE.

EPIS­TLE I.

TO LORD BOL­ING­BROKE.

St. John, whose love in­dulged my labours past, Ma­tures my present, and shall bound my last! Why will you break the Sab­bath of my days? Now sick alike of en­vy and of praise. Pub­lic too long, ah let me hide my age! See, mod­est Cib­ber now has left the stage: Our gen­er­als now, re­tired to their es­tates, Hang their old tro­phies o’er the gar­den gates, In life’s cool evening sa­ti­ate of ap­plause, Nor fond of bleed­ing, even in Brunswick’s cause. A voice there is, that whis­pers in my ear, (’Tis Rea­son’s voice, which some­times one can hear) “Friend Pope, be pru­dent, let your muse take breath, And nev­er gal­lop Pe­ga­sus to death; Lest stiff and state­ly, void of fire or force, You limp, like Black­more, on a lord may­or’s horse.” Farewell then verse, and love, and ev­ery toy, The rhymes and rat­tles of the man or boy; What right, what true, what fit we just­ly call, Let this be all my care–for this is all. To lay this har­vest up, and hoard with haste What ev­ery day will want, and most, the last. But ask not, to what doc­tors I ap­ply? Sworn to no mas­ter, of no sect am I: As drives the storm, at any door I knock: And house with Mon­taigne now, or now with Locke. Some­times a pa­tri­ot, ac­tive in de­bate, Mix with the world, and bat­tle for the State, Free as young Lyt­tel­ton, her cause pur­sue, Still true to virtue, and as warm as true: Some­times with Aris­tip­pus, or St. Paul, In­dulge my can­dour, and grow all to all; Back to my na­tive mod­er­ation slide, And win my way by yield­ing to the tide. Long, as to him who works for debt, the day, Long as the night to her whose love’s away, Long as the year’s dull cir­cle seems to run, When the brisk mi­nor pants for twen­ty-​one: So slow th’ un­prof­itable mo­ments roll, That lock up all the func­tions of my soul; That keep me from my­self; and still de­lay Life’s in­stant busi­ness to a fu­ture day: That task, which as we fol­low, or de­spise, The el­dest is a fool, the youngest wise; Which done, the poor­est can no wants en­dure; And which not done, the rich­est must be poor. Late as it is, I put my­self to school, And feel some com­fort, not to be a fool. Weak though I am of limb, and short of sight, Far from a lynx, and not a gi­ant quite; I’ll do what Mead and Cheselden ad­vise, To keep these limbs, and to pre­serve these eyes. Not to go back, is some­what to ad­vance, And men must walk at least be­fore they dance. Say, does thy blood rebel, thy bo­som move With wretched avarice, or as wretched love? Know, there are words and spells, which can con­trol Be­tween the fits this fever of the soul: Know, there are rhymes, which fresh and fresh ap­plied Will cure the ar­rant’st pup­py of his pride. Be fu­ri­ous, en­vi­ous, sloth­ful, mad, or drunk, Slave to a wife, or vas­sal to a punk, A Switz, a High Dutch, or a Low Dutch bear; All that we ask is but a pa­tient ear. ‘Tis the first virtue, vices to ab­hor; And the first wis­dom, to be fool no more. But to the world no bug­bear is so great, As want of fig­ure, and a small es­tate. To ei­ther In­dia see the mer­chant fly, Scared at the spec­tre of pale pover­ty! See him, with pains of body, pangs of soul, Burn through the Trop­ic, freeze be­neath the pole! Wilt thou do noth­ing for a no­bler end, Noth­ing, to make phi­los­ophy thy friend? To stop thy fool­ish views, thy long de­sires, And ease thy heart of all that it ad­mires? Here, wis­dom calls: “Seek virtue first, be bold! As gold to sil­ver, virtue is to gold.” There, Lon­don’s voice: “Get mon­ey, mon­ey still! And then let virtue fol­low, if she will.” This, this the sav­ing doc­trine, preached to all, From low St. James’s up to high St. Paul; From him whose quills stand quiv­ered at his ear, To him who notch­es sticks at West­min­ster. Barnard in spir­it, sense, and truth abounds; “Pray then, what wants he?” fourscore thou­sand pounds; A pen­sion, or such har­ness for a slave As Bug now has, and Do­ri­mant would have. Barnard, thou art a Cit, with all thy worth; But Bug and D * l, their hon­ours, and so forth. Yet ev­ery child an­oth­er song will sing: “Virtue, brave boys! ’tis virtue makes a king.” True, con­scious hon­our is to feel no sin, He’s armed with­out that’s in­no­cent with­in; Be this thy screen, and this thy wall of brass; Com­pared to this, a min­is­ter’s an ass. And say, to which shall our ap­plause be­long, This new Court jar­gon, or the good old song? The mod­ern lan­guage of cor­rupt­ed peers, Or what was spoke at Cressy and Poitiers? Who coun­sels best? who whis­pers, “Be but great, With praise or in­famy leave that to fate; Get place and wealth, if pos­si­ble, with grace; If not, by any means get wealth and place–” For what? to have a box where eu­nuchs sing, And fore­most in the cir­cle eye a king. Or he, who bids thee face with steady view ) Proud for­tune, and look shal­low great­ness through: ) And, while he bids thee, sets th’ ex­am­ple too? ) If such a doc­trine, in St. James’s air, Should chance to make the well-​dressed rab­ble stare; If hon­est S * z take scan­dal at a spark, That less ad­mires the palace than the park: Faith I shall give the an­swer Rey­nard gave: “I can­not like, dread sir, your roy­al cave: Be­cause I see, by all the tracks about, Full many a beast goes in, but none come out.” Adieu to virtue, if you’re once a slave: Send her to Court, you send her to her grave. Well, if a king’s a li­on, at the least, The peo­ple are a many-​head­ed beast: Can they di­rect what mea­sures to pur­sue, Who know them­selves so lit­tle what to do? Alike in noth­ing but one lust of gold, Just half the land would buy, and half be sold: Their coun­try’s wealth our might­ier mis­ers drain, Or cross, to plun­der provinces, the main; The rest, some farm the poor-​box, some the pews; Some keep as­sem­blies, and would keep the stews; Some with fat bucks on child­less dotards fawn; Some win rich wid­ows by their chine and brawn; While with the silent growth of ten per cent. In dirt and dark­ness, hun­dreds stink con­tent. Of all these ways, if each pur­sues his own, Satire be kind, and let the wretch alone: But show me one who has it in his pow­er To act con­sis­tent with him­self an hour. Sir Job sailed forth, the evening bright and still, “No place on earth,” he cried, “like Green­wich Hill!” Up starts a palace; lo, th’ obe­di­ent base ) Slopes at its foot, the woods its sides em­brace, ) The sil­ver Thames re­flects its mar­ble face. ) Now let some whim­sy, or that dev­il with­in ) Which guides all those who know not what they mean, ) But give the knight (or give his la­dy) spleen; ) “Away, away! take all your scaf­folds down, For snug’s the word: my dear! we’ll live in town.” At amorous Flavio is the stock­ing thrown? That very night he longs to lie alone. The fool, whose wife elopes some thrice a quar­ter, For mat­ri­mo­ni­al so­lace dies a mar­tyr. Did ev­er Pro­teus, Mer­lin, any witch, ) Trans­form them­selves so strange­ly as the rich? ) Well, but the poor–the poor have the same itch; ) They change their week­ly bar­ber, week­ly news, Pre­fer a new japan­ner to their shoes, Dis­charge their gar­rets, move their beds, and run (They know not whith­er) in a chaise and one; They hire their sculler, and when once aboard, Grow sick, and damn the cli­mate–like a lord. You laugh, half beau, half sloven if I stand, My wig all pow­der, and all snuff my band; You laugh, if coat and breech­es strange­ly vary, White gloves, and linen wor­thy La­dy Mary! But when no prelate’s lawn with hair-​shirt lined, Is half so in­co­her­ent as my mind, When (each opin­ion with the next at strife, One ebb and flow of fol­lies all my life) I plant, root up; I build, and then con­found; Turn round to square, and square again to round; You nev­er change one mus­cle of your face, You think this mad­ness but a com­mon case, Nor once to Chancery, nor to Hale ap­ply; Yet hang your lip, to see a seam awry! Care­less how ill I with my­self agree, Kind to my dress, my fig­ure, not to me. Is this my guide, philoso­pher, and Friend? This, he who loves me, and who ought to mend? Who ought to make me (what he can, or none), That man di­vine whom wis­dom calls her own; Great with­out ti­tle, with­out for­tune blessed; Rich even when plun­dered, hon­oured while op­pressed; Loved with­out youth, and fol­lowed with­out pow­er; At home, though ex­iled; free, though in the Tow­er; In short, that rea­son­ing, high, im­mor­tal thing, Just less than Jove, and much above a king, Nay, half in heav­en–ex­cept (what’s mighty odd) A fit of vapours clouds this de­mi-​god.

THE SIXTH EPIS­TLE OF THE FIRST BOOK OF HO­RACE.