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<table summary="title" width="100%" cellspacing="10" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top"><td width="50%"><h1>Pope's <br>
<br>
<br>
<i>The Rape of the Lock</i></h1>
<br>

<br>
<h2>and other poems</h2>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>
<br>


<b>edited with introduction and notes by<br>
<br>

Thomas Marc Parrott<br>
<br><br>

</b><br>

<br>

<br>
<i>this edition 1906</i>
<br>

</td>
<td width="50%"><br>
<img src="images/PI1.gif" width="413" height="630" align="right" border="2" alt="Portrait of Pope">
</td>
</tr>
</table>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>



<p><b><a name="toc">Table of Contents</a></b></p>
<ul>
<li><a href="#preface">Preface</a></li>
<li><a href="#introduction">Introduction</a></li>
<li style="list-style: none">
<ul>
<li><a href="#dates">Chief Dates in Pope's Life</a></li>
</ul>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><a href="#section1">The Rape of the Lock </a></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><a href="#section2">An Essay on Criticism </a></li>
<li style="list-style: none">
<ul>
<li><a href="#eoccontents">Contents (tabulated)</a></li>
<li><a href="#eocitself">An Essay on Criticism</a></li>
</ul>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><a href="#section3">An Essay on Man, Epistle I</a></li>
<li style="list-style: none">
<ul>
<li><a href="#eomdesign">The Design</a></li>
<li><a href="#eomargepist1">Argument of Epistle I (tabulated)</a></li>
<li><a href="#epist1self">Epistle I</a></li>
</ul>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><a href="#section4">An Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot</a></li>
<li style="list-style: none">
<ul>
<li><a href="#advertepist">Advertisement to the First Publication</a></li>
<li><a href="#epiarbself">Epistle to Dr Arbuthnot</a></li>
</ul>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><a href="#section5">Ode on Solitude</a></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><a href="#section6">The Descent of Dullness</a> (from <i>The Dunciad</i>, Book IV)</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><a href="#section7">Epitaph on Gay</a></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>Notes on:</li>
<li style="list-style: none">
<ul>
<li><a href="#section8">The Rape of the Lock</a></li>
<li><a href="#section9">An Essay on Criticism</a></li>
<li><a href="#section10">An Essay on Man, Epistle I</a></li>
<li><a href="#section11">An Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot</a></li>
<li><a href="#section11a">An Ode on Solitude</a></li>
<li><a name="cp2"></a><a href="#section11b">The Descent of Dullness</a></li>
<li><a href="#section11c">The Epitaph on Gay</a></li>
</ul>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><a href="#section13">Appendix: First Edition of the <i>Rape of the Lock</i></a></li>
</ul>
<br>
<br>
<hr>
<br>
<br>
<h2><a name="preface">Preface</a></h2>
<br>
It has been the aim of the editor in preparing this little book to get
together sufficient material to afford a student in one of our high
schools or colleges adequate and typical specimens of the vigorous and
versatile genius of Alexander Pope. With this purpose he has included in
addition to <i>The Rape of the Lock</i>, the <i>Essay on Criticism</i>
as furnishing the standard by which Pope himself expected his work to be
judged, the <i>First Epistle</i> of the <i>Essay on Man</i> as a
characteristic example of his didactic poetry, and the <i>Epistle to
Arbuthnot</i>, both for its exhibition of Pope's genius as a satirist
and for the picture it gives of the poet himself. To these are added the
famous close of the <i>Dunciad</i>, the <i>Ode to Solitude</i>, a
specimen of Pope's infrequent lyric note, and the <i>Epitaph on Gay</i>.<br>
<br>
The first edition of <i>The Rape of the Lock</i> has been given as an
appendix in order that the student may have the opportunity of comparing
the two forms of this poem, and of realizing the admirable art with
which Pope blended old and new in the version that is now the only one
known to the average reader. The text throughout is that of the Globe
Edition prepared by Professor A. W. Ward.<br>
<br>
The editor can lay no claim to originality in the notes with which he
has attempted to explain and illustrate these poems. He is indebted at
every step to the labors of earlier editors, particularly to Elwin,
Courthope, Pattison, and Hales. If he has added anything of his own, it
has been in the way of defining certain words whose meaning or
connotation has changed since the time of Pope, and in paraphrasing
certain passages to bring out a meaning which has been partially
obscured by the poet's effort after brevity and concision.<br>
<br>
In the general introduction the editor has aimed not so much to recite
the facts of Pope's life as to draw the portrait of a man whom he
believes to have been too often misunderstood and misrepresented. The
special introductions to the various poems are intended to acquaint the
student with the circumstances under which they were composed, to trace
their literary genesis and relationships, and, whenever necessary, to
give an outline of the train of thought which they embody.

In conclusion the editor would express the hope that his labors in the
preparation of this book may help, if only in some slight degree, to
stimulate the study of the work of a poet who, with all his limitations,
remains one of the abiding glories of English literature, and may
contribute not less to a proper appreciation of a man who with all his
faults was, on the evidence of those who knew him best, not only a great
poet, but a very human and lovable personality.<br>
<br>
T. M. P.

<i>Princeton University</i>, <i>June</i> 4, 1906.
<br>
<br>
<p><a href="#toc">Contents</a></p>
<hr><br><br>


<h2><a name="introduction">Introduction</a></h2>
<br>
Perhaps no other great poet in English Literature has been so
differently judged at different times as Alexander Pope. Accepted almost
on his first appearance as one of the leading poets of the day, he
rapidly became recognized as the foremost man of letters of his age. He
held this position throughout his life, and for over half a century
after his death his works were considered not only as masterpieces, but
as the finest models of poetry. With the change of poetic temper that
occurred at the beginning of the nineteenth century Pope's fame was
overshadowed. The romantic poets and critics even raised the question
whether Pope was a poet at all. And as his poetical fame diminished, the
harsh judgments of his personal character increased. It is almost
incredible with what exulting bitterness critics and editors of Pope
have tracked out and exposed his petty intrigues, exaggerated his
delinquencies, misrepresented his actions, attempted in short to blast
his character as a man.<br>
<br>
Both as a man and as a poet Pope is sadly in need of a defender to-day.
And a defense is by no means impossible. The depreciation of Pope's
poetry springs, in the main, from an attempt to measure it by other
standards than those which he and his age recognized. The attacks upon
his character are due, in large measure, to a misunderstanding of the
spirit of the times in which he lived and to a forgetfulness of the
special circumstances of his own life. Tried in a fair court by
impartial judges Pope as a poet would be awarded a place, if not among
the noblest singers, at least high among poets of the second order. And
the flaws of character which even his warmest apologist must admit would
on the one hand be explained, if not excused, by circumstances, and on
the other more than counterbalanced by the existence of noble qualities
to which his assailants seem to have been quite blind.<br>
<br>
Alexander Pope was born in London on May 21, 1688. His father was a
Roman Catholic linen draper, who had married a second time. Pope was the
only child of this marriage, and seems to have been a delicate,
sweet-tempered, precocious, and, perhaps, a rather spoiled child.<br>
<br>
Pope's religion and his chronic ill-health are two facts of the highest
importance to be taken into consideration in any study of his life or
judgment of his character. The high hopes of the Catholics for a
restoration of their religion had been totally destroyed by the
Revolution of 1688. During all Pope's lifetime they were a sect at once
feared, hated, and oppressed by the severest laws. They were excluded
from the schools and universities, they were burdened with double taxes,
and forbidden to acquire real estate. All public careers were closed to
them, and their property and even their persons were in times of
excitement at the mercy of informers. In the last year of Pope's life a
proclamation was issued forbidding Catholics to come within ten miles of
London, and Pope himself, in spite of his influential friends, thought
it wise to comply with this edict. A fierce outburst of persecution
often evokes in the persecuted some of the noblest qualities of human
nature; but a long-continued and crushing tyranny that extends to all
the details of daily life is only too likely to have the most
unfortunate results on those who are subjected to it. And as a matter of
fact we find that the well-to-do Catholics of Pope's day lived in an
atmosphere of disaffection, political intrigue, and evasion of the law,
most unfavorable for the development of that frank, courageous, and
patriotic spirit for the lack of which Pope himself has so often been
made the object of reproach.<br>
<br>
In a well-known passage of the <i>Epistle to Arbuthnot</i>, Pope has
spoken of his life as one long disease. He was in fact a humpbacked
dwarf, not over four feet six inches in height, with long, spider-like
legs and arms. He was subject to violent headaches, and his face was
lined and contracted with the marks of suffering. In youth he so
completely ruined his health by perpetual studies that his life was
despaired of, and only the most careful treatment saved him from an
early death. Toward the close of his life he became so weak that he
could neither dress nor undress without assistance. He had to be laced
up in stiff stays in order to sit erect, and wore a fur doublet and
three pairs of stockings to protect himself against the cold. With these
physical defects he had the extreme sensitiveness of mind that usually
accompanies chronic ill health, and this sensitiveness was outraged
incessantly by the brutal customs of the age. Pope's enemies made as
free with his person as with his poetry, and there is little doubt that
he felt the former attacks the more bitterly of the two. Dennis, his
first critic, called him "a short squab gentleman, the very bow of the
God of love; his outward form is downright monkey." A rival poet whom he
had offended hung up a rod in a coffee house where men of letters
resorted, and threatened to whip Pope like a naughty child if he showed
his face there. It is said, though perhaps not on the best authority,
that when Pope once forgot himself so far as to make love to Lady Mary
Wortley Montague, the lady's answer was "a fit of immoderate laughter."
In an appendix to the <i>Dunciad</i> Pope collected some of the epithets
with which his enemies had pelted him, "an ape," "an ass," "a frog," "a
coward," "a fool," "a little abject thing." He affected, indeed, to
despise his assailants, but there is only too good evidence that their
poisoned arrows rankled in his heart. Richardson, the painter, found him
one day reading the latest abusive pamphlet. "These things are my
diversion," said the poet, striving to put the best face on it; but as
he read, his friends saw his features "writhen with anguish," and prayed
to be delivered from all such "diversions" as these. Pope's enemies and
their savage abuse are mostly forgotten to-day. Pope's furious retorts
have been secured to immortality by his genius. It would have been
nobler, no doubt, to have answered by silence only; but before one
condemns Pope it is only fair to realize the causes of his bitterness.<br>
<br>
Pope's education was short and irregular. He was taught the rudiments of
Latin and Greek by his family priest, attended for a brief period a
school in the country and another in London, and at the early age of
twelve left school altogether, and settling down at his father's house
in the country began to read to his heart's delight. He roamed through
the classic poets, translating passages that pleased him, went up for a
time to London to get lessons in French and Italian, and above all read
with eagerness and attention the works of older English poets, &mdash; Spenser,
Waller, and Dryden. He had already, it would seem, determined to become
a poet, and his father, delighted with the clever boy's talent, used to
set him topics, force him to correct his verses over and over, and
finally, when satisfied, dismiss him with the praise, "These are good
rhymes." He wrote a comedy, a tragedy, an epic poem, all of which he
afterward destroyed and, as he laughingly confessed in later years, he
thought himself "the greatest genius that ever was."<br>
<br>
Pope was not alone, however, in holding a high opinion of his talents.
While still a boy in his teens he was taken up and patronized by a
number of gentlemen, Trumbull, Walsh, and Cromwell, all dabblers in
poetry and criticism. He was introduced to the dramatist Wycherly,
nearly fifty years his senior, and helped to polish some of the old
man's verses. His own works were passed about in manuscript from hand to
hand till one of them came to the eyes of Dryden's old publisher,
Tonson. Tonson wrote Pope a respectful letter asking for the honor of
being allowed to publish them. One may fancy the delight with which the
sixteen-year-old boy received this offer. It is a proof of Pope's
patience as well as his precocity that he delayed three years before
accepting it. It was not till 1709 that his first published verses, the
<i>Pastorals</i>, a fragment translated from Homer, and a modernized
version of one of the <i>Canterbury Tales</i>, appeared in Tonson's
<i>Miscellany</i>.<br>
<br>
With the publication of the <i>Pastorals</i>, Pope embarked upon his
life as a man of letters. They seem to have brought him a certain
recognition, but hardly fame. That he obtained by his next poem, the
<i>Essay on Criticism</i>, which appeared in 1711. It was applauded in
the <i>Spectator</i>, and Pope seems about this time to have made the
acquaintance of Addison and the little senate which met in Button's
coffee house. His poem the <i>Messiah</i> appeared in the
<i>Spectator</i> in May 1712; the first draft of <i>The Rape of the
Lock</i> in a poetical miscellany in the same year, and Addison's
request, in 1713, that he compose a prologue for the tragedy of
<i>Cato</i> set the final stamp upon his rank as a poet.<br>
<br>
Pope's friendly relations with Addison and his circle were not, however,
long continued. In the year 1713 he gradually drew away from them and
came under the influence of Swift, then at the height of his power in
political and social life. Swift introduced him to the brilliant Tories,
politicians and lovers of letters, Harley, Bolingbroke, and Atterbury,
who were then at the head of affairs. Pope's new friends seem to have
treated him with a deference which he had never experienced before, and
which bound him to them in unbroken affection. Harley used to regret
that Pope's religion rendered him legally incapable of holding a
sinecure office in the government, such as was frequently bestowed in
those days upon men of letters, and Swift jestingly offered the young
poet twenty guineas to become a Protestant. But now, as later, Pope was
firmly resolved not to abandon the faith of his parents for the sake of
worldly advantage. And in order to secure the independence he valued so
highly he resolved to embark upon the great work of his life, the
translation of Homer.

<blockquote>"What led me into that," he told a friend long after, "was purely the
want of money. I had then none; not even to buy books." </blockquote>

It seems that
about this time, 1713, Pope's father had experienced some heavy
financial losses, and the poet, whose receipts in money had so far been
by no means in proportion to the reputation his works had brought him,
now resolved to use that reputation as a means of securing from the
public a sum which would at least keep him for life from poverty or the
necessity of begging for patronage. It is worth noting that Pope was the
first Englishman of letters who threw himself thus boldly upon the
public and earned his living by his pen.<br>
<br>
The arrangements for the publication and sale of Pope's translation of
Homer were made with care and pushed on with enthusiasm. He issued in
1713 his proposals for an edition to be published by subscription, and
his friends at once became enthusiastic canvassers. We have a
characteristic picture of Swift at this time, bustling about a crowded
ante-chamber, and informing the company that the best poet in England
was Mr. Pope (a Papist) who had begun a translation of Homer for which
they must all subscribe, "for," says he, "the author shall not begin to
print till I have a thousand guineas for him." The work was to be in six
volumes, each costing a guinea. Pope obtained 575 subscribers, many of
whom took more than one set. Lintot, the publisher, gave Pope £1200 for
the work and agreed to supply the subscription copies free of charge. As
a result Pope made something between £5000 and £6000, a sum absolutely
unprecedented in the history of English literature, and amply sufficient
to make him independent for life.<br>
<br>
But the sum was honestly earned by hard and wearisome work. Pope was no
Greek scholar; it is said, indeed, that he was just able to make out the
sense of the original with a translation. And in addition to the fifteen
thousand lines of the <i>Iliad</i>, he had engaged to furnish an
introduction and notes. At first the magnitude of the undertaking
frightened him.

<blockquote>"What terrible moments," he said to Spence, "does one
feel after one has engaged for a large work. In the beginning of my
translating the <i>Iliad</i>, I wished anybody would hang me a hundred
times. It sat so heavily on my mind at first that I often used to dream
of it and do sometimes still."</blockquote>

In spite of his discouragement, however,
and of the ill health which so constantly beset him, Pope fell gallantly
upon his task, and as time went on came almost to enjoy it. He used to
translate thirty or forty verses in the morning before rising and, in
his own characteristic phrase, "piddled over them for the rest of the
day." He used every assistance possible, drew freely upon the
scholarship of friends, corrected and recorrected with a view to
obtaining clearness and point, and finally succeeded in producing a
version which not only satisfied his own critical judgment, but was at
once accepted by the English-speaking world as the standard translation
of Homer.<br>
<br>
The first volume came out in June, 1715, and to Pope's dismay and wrath
a rival translation appeared almost simultaneously. Tickell, one of
Addison's "little senate," had also begun a translation of the
<i>Iliad</i>, and although he announced in the preface that he intended
to withdraw in favor of Pope and take up a translation of the
<i>Odyssey</i>, the poet's suspicions were at once aroused. And they
were quickly fanned into a flame by the gossip of the town which
reported that Addison, the recognized authority in literary criticism,
pronounced Tickell's version "the best that ever was in any language."
Rumor went so far, in fact, as to hint pretty broadly that Addison
himself was the author, in part, at least, of Tickell's book; and Pope,
who had been encouraged by Addison to begin his long task, felt at once
that he had been betrayed. His resentment was all the more bitter since
he fancied that Addison, now at the height of his power and prosperity
in the world of letters and of politics, had attempted to ruin an
enterprise on which the younger man had set all his hopes of success and
independence, for no better reason than literary jealousy and political
estrangement. We know now that Pope was mistaken, but there was beyond
question some reason at the time for his thinking as he did, and it is
to the bitterness which this incident caused in his mind that we owe the
famous satiric portrait of Addison as Atticus.<br>
<br>
The last volume of the <i>Iliad</i> appeared in the spring of 1720, and
in it Pope gave a renewed proof of his independence by dedicating the
whole work, not to some lord who would have rewarded him with a handsome
present, but to his old acquaintance, Congreve, the last survivor of the
brilliant comic dramatists of Dryden's day. And now resting for a time
from his long labors, Pope turned to the adornment and cultivation of
the little house and garden that he had leased at Twickenham.<br>
<br>
Pope's father had died in 1717, and the poet, rejecting politely but
firmly the suggestion of his friend, Atterbury, that he might now turn
Protestant, devoted himself with double tenderness to the care of his
aged and infirm mother. He brought her with him to Twickenham, where she
lived till 1733, dying in that year at the great age of ninety-one. It
may have been partly on her account that Pope pitched upon Twickenham as
his abiding place. Beautifully situated on the banks of the Thames, it
was at once a quiet country place and yet of easy access to London, to
Hampton Court, or to Kew. The five acres of land that lay about the
house furnished Pope with inexhaustible entertainment for the rest of
his life. He "twisted and twirled and harmonized" his bit of ground
"till it appeared two or three sweet little lawns opening and opening
beyond one another, the whole surrounded by impenetrable woods."
Following the taste of his times in landscape gardening, he adorned his
lawns with artificial mounds, a shell temple, an obelisk, and a
colonnade. But the crowning glory was the grotto, a tunnel decorated
fantastically with shells and bits of looking-glass, which Pope dug
under a road that ran through his grounds. Here Pope received in state,
and his house and garden was for years the center of the most brilliant
society in England. Here Swift came on his rare visits from Ireland, and
Bolingbroke on his return from exile. Arbuthnot, Pope's beloved
physician, was a frequent visitor, and Peterborough, one of the most
distinguished of English soldiers, condescended to help lay out the
garden. Congreve came too, at times, and Gay, the laziest and most
good-natured of poets. Nor was the society of women lacking at these
gatherings. Lady Mary Wortley Montague, the wittiest woman in England,
was often there, until her bitter quarrel with the poet; the grim old
Duchess of Marlborough appeared once or twice in Pope's last years; and
the Princess of Wales came with her husband to inspire the leaders of
the opposition to the hated Walpole and the miserly king. And from first
to last, the good angel of the place was the blue-eyed, sweet-tempered
Patty Blount, Pope's best and dearest friend.

Not long after the completion of the <i>Iliad</i>, Pope undertook to
edit Shakespeare, and completed the work in 1724. The edition is, of
course, quite superseded now, but it has its place in the history of
Shakespearean studies as the first that made an effort, though irregular
and incomplete, to restore the true text by collation and conjecture. It
has its place, too, in the story of Pope's life, since the bitter
criticism which it received, all the more unpleasant to the poet since
it was in the main true, was one of the principal causes of his writing
the <i>Dunciad</i>. Between the publication of his edition of
Shakespeare, however, and the appearance of the <i>Dunciad</i>, Pope
resolved to complete his translation of Homer, and with the assistance
of a pair of friends, got out a version of the Odyssey in 1725. Like the
<i>Iliad</i>, this was published by subscription, and as in the former
case the greatest men in England were eager to show their appreciation
of the poet by filling up his lists. Sir Robert Walpole, the great Whig
statesman, took ten copies, and Harley, the fallen Tory leader, put
himself, his wife, and his daughter down for sixteen. Pope made, it is
said, about £3700 by this work.<br>
<br>
In 1726, Swift visited Pope and encouraged him to complete a satire
which he seems already to have begun on the dull critics and hack
writers of the day. For one cause or another its publication was
deferred until 1728, when it appeared under the title of the
<i>Dunciad</i>. Here Pope declared open war upon his enemies. All those
who had attacked his works, abused his character, or scoffed at his
personal deformities, were caricatured as ridiculous and sometimes
disgusting figures in a mock epic poem celebrating the accession of a
new monarch to the throne of Dullness. The <i>Dunciad</i> is little read
to-day except by professed students of English letters, but it made,
naturally enough, a great stir at the time and vastly provoked the wrath
of all the dunces whose names it dragged to light. Pope has often been
blamed for stooping to such ignoble combat, and in particular for the
coarseness of his abuse, and for his bitter jests upon the poverty of
his opponents. But it must be remembered that no living writer had been
so scandalously abused as Pope, and no writer that ever lived was by
nature so quick to feel and to resent insult. The undoubted coarseness
of the work is in part due to the gross license of the times in speech
and writing, and more particularly to the influence of Swift, at this
time predominant over Pope. And in regard to Pope's trick of taunting
his enemies with poverty, it must frankly be confessed that he seized
upon this charge as a ready and telling weapon. Pope was at heart one of
the most charitable of men. In the days of his prosperity he is said to
have given away one eighth of his income. And he was always quick to
succor merit in distress; he pensioned the poet Savage and he tried to
secure patronage for Johnson. But for the wretched hack writers of the
common press who had barked against him he had no mercy, and he struck
them with the first rod that lay ready to his hands.<br>
<br>
During his work on the <i>Dunciad</i>, Pope came into intimate relations
with Bolingbroke, who in 1725 had returned from his long exile in France
and had settled at Dawley within easy reach of Pope's villa at
Twickenham. Bolingbroke was beyond doubt one of the most brilliant and
stimulating minds of his age. Without depth of intellect or solidity of
character, he was at once a philosopher, a statesman, a scholar, and a
fascinating talker. Pope, who had already made his acquaintance, was
delighted to renew and improve their intimacy, and soon came wholly
under the influence of his splendid friend. It is hardly too much to say
that all the rest of Pope's work is directly traceable to Bolingbroke.
The <i>Essay on Man</i> was built up on the precepts of Bolingbroke's
philosophy; the <i>Imitations of Horace</i> were undertaken at
Bolingbroke's suggestion; and the whole tone of Pope's political and
social satire during the years from 1731 to 1738 reflects the spirit of
that opposition to the administration of Walpole and to the growing
influence of the commercial class, which was at once inspired and
directed by Bolingbroke. And yet it is exactly in the work of this
period that we find the best and with perhaps one exception, the
<i>Essay on Man</i>, the most original, work of Pope. He has obtained an
absolute command over his instrument of expression. In his hands the
heroic couplet sings, and laughs, and chats, and thunders. He has turned
from the ignoble warfare with the dunces to satirize courtly frivolity
and wickedness in high places. And most important of all to the student
of Pope, it is in these last works that his personality is most clearly
revealed. It has been well said that the best introduction to the study
of Pope, the man, is to get the <i>Epistle to Arbuthnot</i> by heart.<br>
<br>
Pope gradually persuaded himself that all the works of these years, the
<i>Essay on Man</i>, the <i>Satires, Epistles</i>, and <i>Moral
Essays</i>, were but parts of one stupendous whole. He told Spence in the
last years of his life:

<blockquote>"I had once thought of completing my ethic work
in four books. &mdash; The first, you know, is on the Nature of Man [the
<i>Essay on Man</i>]; the second would have been on knowledge and its
limits &mdash; here would have come in an Essay on Education, part of which I
have inserted in the <i>Dunciad</i> [<i>i.e.</i> in the Fourth Book,
published in 1742]. The third was to have treated of Government, both
ecclesiastical and civil &mdash; and this was what chiefly stopped my going on.
I could not have said what <i>I would</i> have said without provoking
every church on the face of the earth; and I did not care for living
always in boiling water. &mdash; This part would have come into my
<i>Brutus</i> [an epic poem which Pope never completed], which is
planned already. The fourth would have been on Morality; in eight or
nine of the most concerning branches of it."</blockquote>

It is difficult, if not impossible, to believe that Pope with his
irregular methods of work and illogical habit of thought had planned so
vast and elaborate a system before he began its execution. It is far
more likely that he followed his old method of composing on the
inspiration of the moment, and produced the works in question with
little thought of their relation or interdependence. But in the last
years of his life, when he had made the acquaintance of Warburton, and
was engaged in reviewing and perfecting the works of this period, he
noticed their general similarity in form and spirit, and, possibly under
Warburton's influence, conceived the notion of combining and
supplementing them to form that "Greater Essay on Man" of which he spoke
to Spence, and of which Warburton himself has given us a detailed
account.<br>
<br>
Warburton, a wide-read, pompous, and polemical clergyman, had introduced
himself to the notice of Pope by a defense of the philosophical and
religious principles of the <i>Essay on Man</i>. In spite of the
influence of the free-thinking Bolingbroke, Pope still remained a member
of the Catholic church and sincerely believed himself to be an orthodox,
though liberal, Christian, and he had, in consequence, been greatly
disconcerted by a criticism of his poem published in Switzerland and
lately translated into English. Its author, Pierre de Crousaz,
maintained, and with a considerable degree of truth, that the principles
of Pope's poem if pushed to their logical conclusion were destructive to
religion and would rank their author rather among atheists than
defenders of the faith. The very word "atheist" was at that day
sufficient to put the man to whom it was applied beyond the pale of
polite society, and Pope, who quite lacked the ability to refute in
logical argument the attack of de Crousaz, was proportionately delighted
when Warburton came forward in his defense, and in a series of letters
asserted that Pope's whole intention was to vindicate the ways of God to
man, and that de Crousaz had mistaken his purpose and misunderstood his
language. Pope's gratitude to his defender knew no bounds; he declared
that Warburton understood the <i>Essay</i> better than he did himself;
he pronounced him the greatest critic he ever knew, secured an
introduction to him, introduced him to his own rich and influential
friends, in short made the man's fortune for him outright. When the
University of Oxford hesitated to give Warburton, who had never attended
a university, the degree of D.D., Pope declined to accept the degree of
D.C.L. which had been offered him at the same time, and wrote the Fourth
Book of the <i>Dunciad</i> to satirize the stupidity of the university
authorities. In conjunction with Warburton he proceeded further to
revise the whole poem, for which his new friend wrote notes and a
ponderous introduction, and made the capital mistake of substituting the
frivolous, but clever, Colley Gibber, with whom he had recently become
embroiled, for his old enemy, Theobald, as the hero. And the last year
of his life was spent in getting out new editions of his poems
accompanied by elaborate commentaries from the pen of Warburton.<br>
<br>
In the spring of 1744, it was evident that Pope was failing fast. In
addition to his other ailments he was now attacked by an asthmatical
dropsy, which no efforts of his physicians could remove. Yet he
continued to work almost to the last, and distributed copies of his
<i>Ethic Epistles</i> to his friends about three weeks before his death,
with the smiling remark that like the dying Socrates he was dispensing
his morality among his friends. His mind began to wander; he complained
that he saw all things as through a curtain, and told Spence once "with
a smile of great pleasure and with the greatest softness" that he had
seen a vision. His friends were devoted in their attendance. Bolingbroke
sat weeping by his chair, and on Spence's remarking how Pope with every
rally was always saying something kindly of his friends, replied:

<blockquote>"I
never in my life knew a man that had so tender a heart for his
particular friends, or a more general friendship for mankind. I have
known him these thirty years; and value myself more for that man's love
than"</blockquote>

 &mdash; here his head dropped and his voice broke in tears. It was
noticed that whenever Patty Blount came into the room, the dying flame
of life flashed up in a momentary glow. At the very end a friend
reminded Pope that as a professed Catholic he ought to send for a
priest. The dying man replied that he did not believe it essential, but
thanked him for the suggestion. When the priest appeared, Pope attempted
to rise from his bed that he might receive the sacrament kneeling, and
the priest came out from the sick room "penetrated to the last degree
with the state of mind in which he found his penitent, resigned and
wrapt up in the love of God and man." The hope that sustained Pope to
the end was that of immortality.

<blockquote>"I am so certain of the soul's being
immortal," he whispered, almost with his last breath, "that I seem to
feel it within me, as it were by intuition."</blockquote>

He died on the evening of
May 30, so quietly that his friends hardly knew that the end had come.
He was buried in Twickenham Church, near the monument he had erected to
his parents, and his coffin was carried to the grave by six of the
poorest men of the parish.<br>
<br>
It is plain even from so slight a sketch as this that the common
conception of Pope as "the wicked wasp of Twickenham," a bitter,
jealous, and malignant spirit, is utterly out of accord with the facts
of his life. Pope's faults of character lie on the surface, and the most
perceptible is that which has done him most harm in the eyes of
English-speaking men. He was by nature, perhaps by training also,
untruthful. If he seldom stooped to an outright lie, he never hesitated
to equivocate; and students of his life have found that it is seldom
possible to take his word on any point where his own works or interests
were concerned. I have already attempted to point out the
probable cause of this defect; and it is, moreover, worth while to
remark that Pope's manifold intrigues and evasions were mainly of the
defensive order. He plotted and quibbled not so much to injure others as
to protect himself. To charge Pope with treachery to his friends, as has
sometimes been done, is wholly to misunderstand his character.<br>
<br>
Another flaw, one can hardly call it a vice, in Pope's character was his
constant practice of considering everything that came in his way as
copy. It was this which led him to reclaim his early letters from his
friends, to alter, rewrite, and redate them, utterly unconscious of the
trouble which he was preparing for his future biographers. The letters,
he thought, were good reading but not so good as he could make them, and
he set to work to improve them with all an artist's zeal, and without a
trace of a historian's care for facts. It was this which led him to
embody in his description of a rich fool's splendid house and park
certain unmistakable traces of a living nobleman's estate and to start
in genuine amazement and regret when the world insisted on identifying
the nobleman and the fool. And when Pope had once done a good piece of
work, he had all an artist's reluctance to destroy it. He kept bits of
verse by him for years and inserted them into appropriate places in his
poems. This habit it was that brought about perhaps the gravest charge
that has ever been made against Pope, that of accepting £1000 to
suppress a satiric portrait of the old Duchess of Marlborough, and yet
of publishing it in a revision of a poem that he was engaged on just
before his death. The truth seems to be that Pope had drawn this
portrait in days when he was at bitter enmity with the Duchess, and
after the reconcilement that took place, unwilling to suppress it
entirely, had worked it over, and added passages out of keeping with the
first design, but pointing to another lady with whom he was now at odds.
Pope's behavior, we must admit, was not altogether creditable, but it
was that of an artist reluctant to throw away good work, not that of a
ruffian who stabs a woman he has taken money to spare.<br>
<br>
Finally Pope was throughout his life, and notably in his later years,
the victim of an irritable temper and a quick, abusive tongue. His
irritability sprang in part, we may believe, from his physical
sufferings, even more, however, from the exquisitely sensitive heart
which made him feel a coarse insult as others would a blow. And of the
coarseness of the insults that were heaped upon Pope no one except the
careful student of his life can have any conception. His genius, his
morals, his person, his parents, and his religion were overwhelmed in
one indiscriminate flood of abuse. Too high spirited to submit tamely to
these attacks, too irritable to laugh at them, he struck back, and his
weapon was personal satire which cut like a whip and left a brand like a
hot iron. And if at times, as in the case of Addison, Pope was mistaken
in his object and assaulted one who was in no sense his enemy, the fault
lies not so much in his alleged malice as in the unhappy state of
warfare in which he lived.<br>
<br>
Over against the faults of Pope we may set more than one noble
characteristic. The sensitive heart and impulsive temper that led him so
often into bitter warfare, made him also most susceptible to kindness
and quick to pity suffering. He was essentially of a tender and loving
nature, a devoted son, and a loyal friend, unwearied in acts of kindness
and generosity. His ruling passion, to use his own phrase, was a
devotion to letters, and he determined as early and worked as diligently
to make himself a poet as ever Milton did. His wretched body was
dominated by a high and eager mind, and he combined in an unparalleled
degree the fiery energy of the born poet with the tireless patience of
the trained artist.<br>
<br>
But perhaps the most remarkable characteristic of Pope is his manly
independence. In an age when almost without exception his fellow-writers
stooped to accept a great man's patronage or sold their talents into the
slavery of politics, Pope stood aloof from patron and from party. He
repeatedly declined offers of money that were made him, even when no
condition was attached. He refused to change his religion, though he was
far from being a devout Catholic, in order to secure a comfortable
place. He relied upon his genius alone for his support, and his genius
gave him all that he asked, a modest competency. His relations with his
rich and powerful friends were marked by the same independent spirit. He
never cringed or flattered, but met them on even terms, and raised
himself by merit alone from his position as the unknown son of an humble
shopkeeper to be the friend and associate of the greatest fortunes and
most powerful minds in England. It is not too much to say that the
career of a man of letters as we know it to-day, a career at once
honorable and independent, takes its rise from the life and work of
Alexander Pope.<br>
<br>
The long controversies that have raged about Pope's rank as a poet seem
at last to be drawing to a close; and it has become possible to strike a
balance between the exaggerated praise of his contemporaries and the
reckless depreciation of romantic critics. That he is not a poet of the
first order is plain, if for no other reason than that he never produced
a work in any of the greatest forms of poetry. The drama, the epic, the
lyric, were all outside his range. On the other hand, unless a
definition of poetry be framed &mdash; and Dr. Johnson has well remarked that
"to circumscribe poetry by a definition will only show the narrowness of
the definer" &mdash; which shall exclude all gnomic and satiric verse, and so
debar the claims of Hesiod, Juvenal, and Boileau, it is impossible to
deny that Pope is a true poet. Certain qualities of the highest poet
Pope no doubt lacked, lofty imagination, intense passion, wide human
sympathy. But within the narrow field which he marked out for his own he
approaches perfection as nearly as any English poet, and Pope's merit
consists not merely in the smoothness of his verse or the polish of
separate epigrams, as is so often stated, but quite as much in the vigor
of his conceptions and the unity and careful proportion of each poem as
a whole. It is not too much to say that <i>The Rape of the Lock</i> is
one of the best-planned poems in any language. It is as symmetrical and
exquisitely finished as a Grecian temple.<br>
<br>
Historically Pope represents the fullest embodiment of that spirit which
began to appear in English literature about the middle of the
seventeenth century, and which we are accustomed to call the "classical"
spirit. In essence this movement was a protest against the irregularity
and individual license of earlier poets. Instead of far-fetched wit and
fanciful diction, the classical school erected the standards of common
sense in conception and directness in expression. And in so doing they
restored poetry which had become the diversion of the few to the
possession of the many. Pope, for example, is preeminently the poet of
his time. He dealt with topics that were of general interest to the
society in which he lived; he pictured life as he saw it about him. And
this accounts for his prompt and general acceptance by the world of his
day.<br>
<br>
For the student of English literature Pope's work has a threefold value.
It represents the highest achievement of one of the great movements in
the developments of English verse. It reflects with unerring accuracy
the life and thought of his time &mdash; not merely the outward life of beau
and belle in the days of Queen Anne, but the ideals of the age in art,
philosophy, and politics. And finally it teaches as hardly any other
body of English verse can be said to do, the perennial value of
conscious and controlling art. Pope's work lives and will live while
English poetry is read, not because of its inspiration, imagination, or
depth of thought, but by its unity of design, vigor of expression, and
perfection of finish &mdash; by those qualities, in short, which show the poet
as an artist in verse. <br>
<br>
<p><a href="#toc">Contents</a></p>
<hr><br><br>
<br>

<a name="dates"></a><h4>Chief Dates In Pope's Life</h4><br>
<table summary="dates in Pope's life" cellspacing="20" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td>1688</td>
	<td>Born, May 21</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td>1700</td>
	<td>Moves to Binfield</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td>1709</td>
	<td><i>Pastorals</i></td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td>1711</td>
	<td><i>Essay on Criticism</i></td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td>1711-12</td>
	<td>Contributes to <i>Spectator</i></td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td>1712</td>
	<td><i>Rape of the Lock</i>, first form</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td>1713</td>
	<td><i>Windsor Forest</i></td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td>1713</td>
	<td>Issues proposals for translation of Homer</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td>1714</td>
	<td><i>Rape of the Lock</i>, second form</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td>1715</td>
	<td>First volume of the <i>Iliad</i></td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td>1715</td>
	<td><i>Temple of Fame</i></td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td>1717</td>
	<td>Pope's father dies</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td>1717</td>
	<td><i>Works</i>, including some new poems</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td>1719</td>
	<td>Settles at Twickenham</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td>1720</td>
	<td>Sixth and last volume of the <i>Iliad</i></td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td>1722</td>
	<td>Begins translation of <i>Odyssey</i></td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td>1725</td>
	<td>Edits Shakespeare</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td>1726</td>
	<td>Finishes translation of <i>Odyssey</i></td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td>1727-8</td>
	<td><i>Miscellanies</i> by Pope and Swift</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td>1728-9</td>
	<td><i>Dunciad</i></td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td>1731-2</td>
	<td><i>Moral Essays</i>: <i>Of Taste</i>, <i>Of the Use of Riches</i></td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td>1733-4 </td>
	<td><i>Essay on Man</i></td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td>1733-8 </td>
	<td><i>Satires and Epistles</i></td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td>1735</td>
	<td><i>Works</i></td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td>1735</td>
	<td><i>Letters</i> published by Curll</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td>1741</td>
	<td><i>Works in Prose</i>; vol. II. includes the correspondence with Swift</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td>1742</td>
	<td>Fourth book of <i>Dunciad</i></td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td>1742</td>
	<td>Revised <i>Dunciad</i></td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td>1744</td>
	<td>Died, May 30</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td>1751</td>
	<td>First collected edition, published by Warburton, 9 vols.</td>
</tr>
</table>
<br>
<br>
<p><a href="#toc">Contents</a></p>
<hr><br><br>

<a name="section1"></a><h2>The Rape of the Lock</h2>
<br>
<h3>An heroi-comical poem</h3><br>

<blockquote><i>Nolueram, Belinda, tuos violare capillos; <br>
Sed juvat, hoc precibus me tribuisse tuis.</i><br>
<br>
Mart, [<i>Epigr</i>, XII. 84.] </blockquote><br>
<br>
To Mrs. Arabella Fermor <br>
<br>
Madam,<br>
<br>
It will be in vain to deny that I have some regard for this piece, since
I dedicate it to You. Yet you may bear me witness, it was intended only
to divert a few young Ladies, who have good sense and good humour enough
to laugh not only at their sex's little unguarded follies, but at their
own. But as it was communicated with the air of a Secret, it soon found
its way into the world. An imperfect copy having been offer'd to a
Bookseller, you had the good-nature for my sake to consent to the
publication of one more correct: This I was forc'd to, before I had
executed half my design, for the Machinery was entirely wanting to
compleat it.<br>
<br>
The Machinery, Madam, is a term invented by the Critics, to signify that
part which the Deities, Angels, or Dæmons are made to act in a Poem:
For the ancient Poets are in one respect like many modern Ladies: let an
action be never so trivial in itself, they always make it appear of the
utmost importance. These Machines I determined to raise on a very new
and odd foundation, the Rosicrucian doctrine of Spirits.<br>
<br>
I know how disagreeable it is to make use of hard words before a Lady;
but't is so much the concern of a Poet to have his works understood, and
particularly by your Sex, that you must give me leave to explain two or
three difficult terms.<br>
<br>
The Rosicrucians are a people I must bring you acquainted with. The best
account I know of them is in a French book call'd <i>Le Comte de
Gabalis</i>, which both in its title and size is so like a Novel, that
many of the Fair Sex have read it for one by mistake. According to these
Gentlemen, the four Elements are inhabited by Spirits, which they call
Sylphs, Gnomes, Nymphs, and Salamanders. The Gnomes or Dæmons of Earth
delight in mischief; but the Sylphs whose habitation is in the Air, are
the best-condition'd creatures imaginable. For they say, any mortals may
enjoy the most intimate familiarities with these gentle Spirits, upon a
condition very easy to all true Adepts, an inviolate preservation of
Chastity.<br>
<br>
As to the following Canto's, all the passages of them are as fabulous,
as the Vision at the beginning, or the Transformation at the end;
(except the loss of your Hair, which I always mention with reverence).
The Human persons are as fictitious as the airy ones; and the character
of Belinda, as it is now manag'd, resembles you in nothing but in
Beauty.<br>
<br>
If this Poem had as many Graces as there are in your Person, or in your
Mind, yet I could never hope it should pass thro' the world half so
Uncensur'd as You have done. But let its fortune be what it will, mine
is happy enough, to have given me this occasion of assuring you that I
am, with the truest esteem, Madam,<br>
<br>
Your most obedient, Humble Servant,<br>
<br>
A. Pope<br>
<br>
<hr width="25%" align="left"><br>
<br>
<h3>Canto I</h3><br>

<table summary="Canto I" cellspacing="50" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td width="90%">What dire offence from am'rous causes springs, <br>
What mighty contests rise from trivial things, <br>
I sing &mdash; This verse to <b>Caryl</b>, Muse! is due: <br>
This, ev'n Belinda may vouchsafe to view: <br>
Slight is the subject, but not so the praise,<br>
If She inspire, and He approve my lays. <br><br>

Say what strange motive, Goddess! could compel<br>
A well-bred Lord t' assault a gentle Belle?<br>
O say what stranger cause, yet unexplor'd,<br>
Could make a gentle Belle reject a Lord?<br>
In tasks so bold, can little men engage,<br>
And in soft bosoms dwells such mighty Rage? <br><br>

Sol thro' white curtains shot a tim'rous ray,<br>
And oped those eyes that must eclipse the day:<br>
Now lap-dogs give themselves the rousing shake,<br>
And sleepless lovers, just at twelve, awake:<br>
Thrice rung the bell, the slipper knock'd the ground,<br>
And the press'd watch return'd a silver sound.<br>
Belinda still her downy pillow prest, <br>
Her guardian <b>Sylph</b> prolong'd the balmy rest:<br>
'Twas He had summon'd to her silent bed<br>
The morning-dream that hover'd o'er her head;<br>
A Youth more glitt'ring than a Birth-night Beau,<br>
(That ev'n in slumber caus'd her cheek to glow)<br>
Seem'd to her ear his winning lips to lay,<br>
And thus in whispers said, or seem'd to say. <br>
Fairest of mortals, thou distinguish'd care<br>
Of thousand bright Inhabitants of Air! <br>
If e'er one vision touch.'d thy infant thought, <br>
Of all the Nurse and all the Priest have taught;<br>
Of airy Elves by moonlight shadows seen, <br>
The silver token, and the circled green, <br>
Or virgins visited by Angel-pow'rs, <br>
With golden crowns and wreaths of heav'nly flow'rs; <br>
Hear and believe! thy own importance know,<br>
Nor bound thy narrow views to things below. <br>
Some secret truths, from learned pride conceal'd,<br>
To Maids alone and Children are reveal'd:<br>
What tho' no credit doubting Wits may give? <br>
The Fair and Innocent shall still believe.<br>
Know, then, unnumber'd Spirits round thee fly, <br>
The light Militia of the lower sky: <br>
These, tho' unseen, are ever on the wing, <br>
Hang o'er the Box, and hover round the Ring. <br>
Think what an equipage thou hast in Air,<br>
And view with scorn two Pages and a Chair. <br>
As now your own, our beings were of old, <br>
And once inclos'd in Woman's beauteous mould; <br>
Thence, by a soft transition, we repair <br>
From earthly Vehicles to these of air.<br>
Think not, when Woman's transient breath is fled <br>
That all her vanities at once are dead; <br>
Succeeding vanities she still regards, <br>
And tho' she plays no more, o'erlooks the cards. <br>
Her joy in gilded Chariots, when alive,<br>
And love of Ombre, after death survive. <br>
For when the Fair in all their pride expire, <br>
To their first Elements their Souls retire: <br>
The Sprites of fiery Termagants in Flame <br>
Mount up, and take a Salamander's name.<br>
Soft yielding minds to Water glide away, <br>
And sip, with Nymphs, their elemental Tea. <br>
The graver Prude sinks downward to a Gnome, <br>
In search of mischief still on Earth to roam. <br>
The light Coquettes in Sylphs aloft repair,<br>
And sport and flutter in the fields of Air. <br><br>

"Know further yet; whoever fair and chaste<br>
Rejects mankind, is by some Sylph embrac'd:<br>
For Spirits, freed from mortal laws, with ease<br>
Assume what sexes and what shapes they please.<br>
What guards the purity of melting Maids,<br>
In courtly balls, and midnight masquerades,<br>
Safe from the treach'rous friend, the daring spark,<br>
The glance by day, the whisper in the dark,<br>
When kind occasion prompts their warm desires,<br>
When music softens, and when dancing fires?<br>
'Tis but their Sylph, the wise Celestials know,<br>
Tho' Honour is the word with Men below. <br><br>

Some nymphs there are, too conscious of their face,<br>
For life predestin'd to the Gnomes' embrace.<br>
These swell their prospects and exalt their pride,<br>
When offers are disdain'd, and love deny'd:<br>
Then gay Ideas crowd the vacant brain,<br>
While Peers, and Dukes, and all their sweeping train,<br>
And Garters, Stars, and Coronets appear,<br>
And in soft sounds, Your Grace salutes their ear.<br>
'T is these that early taint the female soul,<br>
Instruct the eyes of young Coquettes to roll,<br>
Teach Infant-cheeks a bidden blush to know,<br>
And little hearts to flutter at a Beau.<br><br>

Oft, when the world imagine women stray,<br>
The Sylphs thro' mystic mazes guide their way,<br>
Thro' all the giddy circle they pursue,<br>
And old impertinence expel by new. <br>
What tender maid but must a victim fall<br>
To one man's treat, but for another's ball? <br>
When Florio speaks what virgin could withstand, <br>
If gentle Damon did not squeeze her hand? <br>
With varying vanities, from ev'ry part, <br>
They shift the moving Toyshop of their heart;<br>
Where wigs with wigs, with sword-knots sword-knots strive, <br>
Beaux banish beaux, and coaches coaches drive. <br>
This erring mortals Levity may call; <br>
Oh blind to truth! the Sylphs contrive it all. <br><br>

Of these am I, who thy protection claim,<br>
A watchful sprite, and Ariel is my name.<br>
Late, as I rang'd the crystal wilds of air,<br>
In the clear Mirror of thy ruling Star<br>
I saw, alas! some dread event impend, <br>
Ere to the main this morning sun descend,<br>
But heav'n reveals not what, or how, or where:<br>
Warn'd by the Sylph, oh pious maid, beware!<br>
This to disclose is all thy guardian can:<br>
Beware of all, but most beware of Man!"<br><br>

He said; when Shock, who thought she slept too long,<br>
Leap'd up, and wak'd his mistress with his tongue.<br>
'T was then, Belinda, if report say true,<br>
Thy eyes first open'd on a Billet-doux;<br>
Wounds, Charms, and Ardors were no sooner read,<br>
But all the Vision vanish'd from thy head.<br><br>

And now, unveil'd, the Toilet stands display'd,<br>
Each silver Vase in mystic order laid.<br>
First, rob'd in white, the Nymph intent adores,<br>
With head uncover'd, the Cosmetic pow'rs.<br>
A heav'nly image in the glass appears,<br>
To that she bends, to that her eyes she rears;<br>
Th' inferior Priestess, at her altar's side, <br>
Trembling begins the sacred rites of Pride. <br>
Unnumber'd treasures ope at once, and here <br>
The various off'rings of the world appear;<br>
From each she nicely culls with curious toil, <br>
And decks the Goddess with the glitt'ring spoil. <br>
This casket India's glowing gems unlocks, <br>
And all Arabia breathes from yonder box. <br>
The Tortoise here and Elephant unite,<br>
Transformed to combs, the speckled, and the white. <br>
Here files of pins extend their shining rows, <br>
Puffs, Powders, Patches, Bibles, Billet-doux. <br>
Now awful Beauty puts on all its arms; <br>
The fair each moment rises in her charms,<br>
Repairs her smiles, awakens ev'ry grace, <br>
And calls forth all the wonders of her face; <br>
Sees by degrees a purer blush arise, <br>
And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes. <br>
The busy Sylphs surround their darling care,<br>
These set the head, and those divide the hair, <br>
Some fold the sleeve, whilst others plait the gown: <br>
And Betty's prais'd for labours not her own. </td>
	<td><br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
5<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
<br>
10<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
15<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
20<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
25<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
30<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
35<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
40<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
45<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
50<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
55<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
60<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
65<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
70<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
75<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

80<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
85<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
90<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
95<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
100<br><br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
105<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
110<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
115<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
120<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
<br>
125<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
130<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
135<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
140<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
145<br>
<br>
<br>
<br></td>
</tr>
</table><br>
<hr width="25%" align="left"><br>

<h3>Canto II</h3><br>

<table summary="Canto II" width="75%" cellspacing="50" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td width="90%">Not with more glories, in th' etherial plain, <br>
The Sun first rises o'er the purpled main, <br>
Than, issuing forth, the rival of his beams <br>
Launch'd on the bosom of the silver Thames. <br>
Fair Nymphs, and well-drest Youths around her shone.<br>
But ev'ry eye was fix'd on her alone. <br>
On her white breast a sparkling Cross she wore, <br>
Which Jews might kiss, and Infidels adore. <br>
Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose, <br>
Quick as her eyes, and as unfix'd as those:<br>
Favours to none, to all she smiles extends; <br>
Oft she rejects, but never once offends. <br>
Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike, <br>
And, like the sun, they shine on all alike. <br>
Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride,<br>
Might hide her faults, if Belles had faults to hide: <br>
If to her share some female errors fall, <br>
Look on her face, and you'll forget 'em all. <br><br>

This Nymph, to the destruction of mankind,<br>
Nourish'd two Locks, which graceful hung behind<br>
In equal curls, and well conspir'd to deck<br>
With shining ringlets the smooth iv'ry neck.<br>
Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains,<br>
And mighty hearts are held in slender chains.<br>
With hairy springes we the birds betray,<br>
Slight lines of hair surprise the finny prey,<br>
Fair tresses man's imperial race ensnare,<br>
And beauty draws us with a single hair. <br><br>

Th' advent'rous Baron the bright locks admir'd;<br>
He saw, he wish'd, and to the prize aspir'd.<br>
Resolv'd to win, he meditates the way,<br>
By force to ravish, or by fraud betray;<br>
For when success a Lover's toil attends,<br>
Few ask, if fraud or force attain'd his ends. <br><br>

For this, ere Ph&oelig;bus rose, he had implor'd<br>
Propitious heav'n, and ev'ry pow'r ador'd,<br>
But chiefly Love &mdash; to Love an Altar built,<br>
Of twelve vast French Romances, neatly gilt.<br>
There lay three garters, half a pair of gloves;<br>
And all the trophies of his former loves;<br>
With tender Billet-doux he lights the pyre,<br>
And breathes three am'rous sighs to raise the fire. <br>
Then prostrate falls, and begs with ardent eyes <br>
Soon to obtain, and long possess the prize: <br>
The pow'rs gave ear, and granted half his pray'r,<br>
The rest, the winds dispers'd in empty air. <br><br>

But now secure the painted vessel glides,<br>
The sun-beams trembling on the floating tides:<br>
While melting music steals upon the sky, <br>
And soften'd sounds along the waters die;<br>
Smooth flow the waves, the Zephyrs gently play,<br>
Belinda smil'd, and all the world was gay.<br>
All but the Sylph &mdash; with careful thoughts opprest,<br>
Th' impending woe sat heavy on his breast.<br>
He summons strait his Denizens of air;<br>
The lucid squadrons round the sails repair:<br>
Soft o'er the shrouds aërial whispers breathe,<br>
That seem'd but Zephyrs to the train beneath.<br>
Some to the sun their insect-wings unfold,<br>
Waft on the breeze, or sink in clouds of gold;<br>
Transparent forms, too fine for mortal sight,<br>
Their fluid bodies half dissolv'd in light,<br>
Loose to the wind their airy garments flew,<br>
Thin glitt'ring textures of the filmy dew,<br>
Dipt in the richest tincture of the skies,<br>
Where light disports in ever-mingling dyes,<br>
While ev'ry beam new transient colours flings,<br>
Colours that change whene'er they wave their wings.<br>
Amid the circle, on the gilded mast, <br>
Superior by the head, was Ariel plac'd;<br>
His purple pinions op'ning to the sun,<br>
He rais'd his azure wand, and thus begun. <br><br>

Ye Sylphs and Sylphids, to your chief give ear!<br>
Fays, Fairies, Genii, Elves, and Dæmons, hear!<br>
Ye know the spheres and various tasks assign'd<br>
By laws eternal to th' aërial kind. <br>
Some in the fields of purest Æther play, <br>
And bask and whiten in the blaze of day. <br>
Some guide the course of wand'ring orbs on high, <br>
Or roll the planets thro' the boundless sky.<br>
Some less refin'd, beneath the moon's pale light <br>
Pursue the stars that shoot athwart the night, <br>
Or suck the mists in grosser air below, <br>
Or dip their pinions in the painted bow, <br>
Or brew fierce tempests on the wintry main,<br>
Or o'er the glebe distil the kindly rain. <br>
Others on earth o'er human race preside, <br>
Watch all their ways, and all their actions guide: <br>
Of these the chief the care of Nations own, <br>
And guard with Arms divine the British Throne.     <br>
<br>
Our humbler province is to tend the Fair,<br>
Not a less pleasing, tho' less glorious care;<br>
To save the powder from too rude a gale,<br>
Nor let th' imprison'd-essences exhale; <br>
To draw fresh colours from the vernal flow'rs;<br>
To steal from rainbows e'er they drop in show'rs<br>
A brighter wash; to curl their waving hairs,<br>
Assist their blushes, and inspire their airs;<br>
Nay oft, in dreams, invention we bestow,<br>
To change a Flounce, or add a Furbelow.<br><br>

This day, black Omens threat the brightest Fair,<br>
That e'er deserv'd a watchful spirit's care;<br>
Some dire disaster, or by force, or slight;<br>
But what, or where, the fates have wrapt in night.<br>
Whether the nymph shall break Diana's law,<br>
Or some frail China jar receive a flaw;<br>
Or stain her honour or her new brocade;<br>
Forget her pray'rs, or miss a masquerade;<br>
Or lose her heart, or necklace, at a ball; <br>
Or whether Heav'n has doom'd that Shock must fall.<br>
Haste, then, ye spirits! to your charge repair: <br>
The flutt'ring fan be Zephyretta's care; <br>
The drops to thee, Brillante, we consign; <br>
And, Momentilla, let the watch be thine; <br>
Do thou, Crispissa, tend her fav'rite Lock;<br>
Ariel himself shall be the guard of Shock. <br><br>

To fifty chosen Sylphs, of special note,<br>
We trust th' important charge, the Petticoat:<br>
Oft have we known that seven-fold fence to fail,<br>
Tho' stiff with hoops, and arm'd with ribs of whale;<br>
Form a strong line about the silver bound,<br>
And guard the wide circumference around. <br><br>

Whatever spirit, careless of his charge,<br>
His post neglects, or leaves the fair at large,<br>
Shall feel sharp vengeance soon o'ertake his sins,<br>
Be stopp'd in vials, or transfix'd with pins;<br>
Or plung'd in lakes of bitter washes lie,<br>
Or wedg'd whole ages in a bodkin's eye:<br>
Gums and Pomatums shall his flight restrain,<br>
While clogg'd he beats his silken wings in vain;<br>
Or Alum styptics with contracting pow'r<br>
Shrink his thin essence like a rivel'd flow'r:<br>
Or, as Ixion fix'd, the wretch shall feel<br>
The giddy motion of the whirling Mill, <br>
In fumes of burning Chocolate shall glow,<br>
And tremble at the sea that froths below! <br><br>

He spoke; the spirits from the sails descend;<br>
Some, orb in orb, around the nymph extend;<br>
Some thrid the mazy ringlets of her hair;<br>
Some hang upon the pendants of her ear:<br>
With beating hearts the dire event they wait,<br>
Anxious, and trembling for the birth of Fate.</td>
	<td><br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
5<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
10<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
15<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
20<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
25<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
30<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
35<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
40<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
45<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
50<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
55<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
60<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
65<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
70<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
75<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
80<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
85<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
90<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
95<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
100<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
105<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
110<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
115<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
120<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
125<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
130<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
135<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
140<br>
<br>
<br></td>
</tr>
</table><br>
<hr width="25%" align="left"><br>

<h3>Canto III</h3><br>

<table summary="Canto II" width="75%" cellspacing="50" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td width="90%">Close by those meads, for ever crown'd with flow'rs, <br>
Where Thames with pride surveys his rising tow'rs, <br>
There stands a structure of majestic frame, <br>
Which from the neighb'ring Hampton takes its name. <br>
Here Britain's statesmen oft the fall foredoom<br>
Of foreign Tyrants and of Nymphs at home; <br>
Here thou, great <b>Anna</b>! whom three realms obey. <br>
Dost sometimes counsel take &mdash; and sometimes Tea.<br>
 <br>
Hither the heroes and the nymphs resort,<br>
To taste awhile the pleasures of a Court;<br>
In various talk th' instructive hours they past,<br>
Who gave the ball, or paid the visit last;<br>
One speaks the glory of the British Queen,<br>
And one describes a charming Indian screen;<br>
A third interprets motions, looks, and eyes;<br>
At ev'ry word a reputation dies.<br>
Snuff, or the fan, supply each pause of chat,<br>
With singing, laughing, ogling, and <i>all that</i>. <br><br>

Mean while, declining from the noon of day,<br>
The sun obliquely shoots his burning ray;              <br>
The hungry Judges soon the sentence sign,<br>
And wretches hang that jury-men may dine;<br>
The merchant from th' Exchange returns in peace,<br>
And the long labours of the Toilet cease. <br>
Belinda now, whom thirst of fame invites,<br>
Burns to encounter two advent'rous Knights,<br>
At Ombre singly to decide their doom;<br>
And swells her breast with conquests yet to come.<br>
Straight the three bands prepare in arms to join,<br>
Each band the number of the sacred nine.<br><br>

Soon as she spreads her hand, th' aërial guard <br>
Descend, and sit on each important card: <br>
First Ariel perch'd upon a Matadore, <br>
Then each, according to the rank they bore; <br>
For Sylphs, yet mindful of their ancient race,<br>
Are, as when women, wondrous fond of place. <br>
Behold, four Kings in majesty rever'd,<br>
With hoary whiskers and a forky beard;<br>
And four fair Queens whose hands sustain a flow'r,<br>
Th' expressive emblem of their softer pow'r;<br>
Four Knaves in garbs succinct, a trusty band,<br>
Caps on their heads, and halberts in their hand;<br>
And particolour'd troops, a shining train,<br>
Draw forth to combat on the velvet plain. <br><br>

The skilful Nymph reviews her force with care:<br>
Let Spades be trumps! she said, and trumps they were. <br><br>

Now move to war her sable Matadores,<br>
In show like leaders of the swarthy Moors.<br>
Spadillio first, unconquerable Lord! <br>
Led off two captive trumps, and swept the board.<br>
As many more Manillio forc'd to yield,<br>
And march'd a victor from the verdant field.<br>
Him Basto follow'd, but his fate more hard<br>
Gain'd but one trump and one Plebeian card.<br>
With his broad sabre next, a chief in years,<br>
The hoary Majesty of Spades appears,<br>
Puts forth one manly leg, to sight reveal'd,<br>
The rest, his many-colour'd robe conceal'd.<br>
The rebel Knave, who dares his prince engage,<br>
Proves the just victim of his royal rage.<br>
Ev'n mighty Pam, that Kings and Queens o'erthrew<br>
And mow'd down armies in the fights of Lu,<br>
Sad chance of war! now destitute of aid, <br>
Falls undistinguish'd by the victor spade! <br>
  <br>
Thus far both armies to Belinda yield;<br>
Now to the Baron fate inclines the field.<br>
His warlike Amazon her host invades,<br>
Th' imperial consort of the crown of Spades.<br>
The Club's black Tyrant first her victim dy'd,<br>
Spite of his haughty mien, and barb'rous pride:<br>
What boots the regal circle on his head,<br>
His giant limbs, in state unwieldy spread;<br>
That long behind he trails his pompous robe,<br>
And, of all monarchs, only grasps the globe? <br>
  <br>
The Baron now his Diamonds pours apace;<br>
Th' embroider'd King who shows but half his face,<br>
And his refulgent Queen, with pow'rs combin'd<br>
Of broken troops an easy conquest find.<br>
Clubs, Diamonds, Hearts, in wild disorder seen,<br>
With throngs promiscuous strow the level green.<br>
Thus when dispers'd a routed army runs,<br>
Of Asia's troops, and Afric's sable sons,<br>
With like confusion different nations fly,<br>
Of various habit, and of various dye, <br>
The pierc'd battalions dis-united fall,<br>
In heaps on heaps; one fate o'erwhelms them all. <br>
  <br>
The Knave of Diamonds tries his wily arts,<br>
And wins (oh shameful chance!) the Queen of Hearts.<br>
At this, the blood the virgin's cheek forsook,<br>
A livid paleness spreads o'er all her look;<br>
She sees, and trembles at th' approaching ill,<br>
Just in the jaws of ruin, and Codille.<br>
And now (as oft in some distemper'd State)<br>
On one nice Trick depends the gen'ral fate.<br>
An Ace of Hearts steps forth: The King unseen<br>
Lurk'd in her hand, and mourn'd his captive Queen: <br>
He springs to Vengeance with an eager pace, <br>
And falls like thunder on the prostrate Ace. <br>
The nymph exulting fills with shouts the sky; <br>
The walls, the woods, and long canals reply.<br>
  <br>
Oh thoughtless mortals! ever blind to fate,<br>
Too soon dejected, and too soon elate.<br>
Sudden, these honours shall be snatch'd away,<br>
And curs'd for ever this victorious day. <br>
  <br>
For lo! the board with cups and spoons is crown'd,<br>
The berries crackle, and the mill turns round;<br>
On shining Altars of Japan they raise<br>
The silver lamp; the fiery spirits blaze:<br>
From silver spouts the grateful liquors glide,<br>
While China's earth receives the smoking tide:<br>
At once they gratify their scent and taste,<br>
And frequent cups prolong the rich repast.<br>
Straight hover round the Fair her airy band;<br>
Some, as she sipp'd, the fuming liquor fann'd,<br>
Some o'er her lap their careful plumes display'd,<br>
Trembling, and conscious of the rich brocade.<br>
Coffee, (which makes the politician wise,<br>
And see thro' all things with his half-shut eyes)<br>
Sent up in vapours to the Baron's brain <br>
New Stratagems, the radiant Lock to gain.<br>
Ah cease, rash youth! desist ere't is too late,<br>
Fear the just Gods, and think of Scylla's Fate!<br>
Chang'd to a bird, and sent to flit in air,<br>
She dearly pays for Nisus' injur'd hair! <br>
  <br>
But when to mischief mortals bend their will,<br>
How soon they find fit instruments of ill!<br>
Just then, Clarissa drew with tempting grace<br>
A two-edg'd weapon from her shining case:<br>
So Ladies in Romance assist their Knight,<br>
Present the spear, and arm him for the fight.<br>
He takes the gift with rev'rence, and extends <br>
The little engine on his fingers' ends; <br>
This just behind Belinda's neck he spread, <br>
As o'er the fragrant steams she bends her head. <br>
Swift to the Lock a thousand Sprites repair,<br>
A thousand wings, by turns, blow back the hair; <br>
And thrice they twitch'd the diamond in her ear; <br>
Thrice she look'd back, and thrice the foe drew near. <br>
Just in that instant, anxious Ariel sought <br>
The close recesses of the Virgin's thought;<br>
As on the nosegay in her breast reclin'd, <br>
He watch'd th' Ideas rising in her mind, <br>
Sudden he view'd, in spite of all her art, <br>
An earthly Lover lurking at her heart. <br>
Amaz'd, confus'd, he found his pow'r expir'd,<br>
Resign'd to fate, and with a sigh retir'd. <br><br>

The Peer now spreads the glitt'ring Forfex wide,<br>
T' inclose the Lock; now joins it, to divide.<br>
Ev'n then, before the fatal engine clos'd, <br>
A wretched Sylph too fondly interpos'd;<br>
Fate urg'd the shears, and cut the Sylph in twain,<br>
(But airy substance soon unites again)<br>
The meeting points the sacred hair dissever<br>
From the fair head, for ever, and for ever! <br><br>

Then flash'd the living lightning from her eyes,<br>
And screams of horror rend th' affrighted skies.<br>
Not louder shrieks to pitying heav'n are cast,<br>
When husbands, or when lapdogs breathe their last;<br>
Or when rich China vessels fall'n from high,<br>
In glitt'ring dust and painted fragments lie!<br><br>

Let wreaths of triumph now my temples twine<br>
(The victor cry'd) the glorious Prize is mine! <br>
While fish in streams, or birds delight in air, <br>
Or in a coach and six the British Fair, <br>
As long as Atalantis shall be read,<br>
Or the small pillow grace a Lady's bed, <br>
While visits shall be paid on solemn days, <br>
When num'rous wax-lights in bright order blaze, <br>
While nymphs take treats, or assignations give, <br>
So long my honour, name, and praise shall live!<br>
What Time would spare, from Steel receives its date, <br>
And monuments, like men, submit to fate! <br>
Steel could the labour of the Gods destroy, <br>
And strike to dust th' imperial tow'rs of Troy; <br>
Steel could the works of mortal pride confound,<br>
And hew triumphal arches to the ground. <br>
What wonder then, fair nymph! thy hairs should feel, <br>
The conqu'ring force of unresisted steel? </td>
	<td><br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
5<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
10<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
15<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
<br>
20<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
25<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
30<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

35<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
40<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
45<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
50<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
55<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
60<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
65<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
70<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
75<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
80<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
85<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
90<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
95<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
100<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
105<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
110<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
115<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
120<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
125<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
130<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
135<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
140<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
145<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
150<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
155<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
160<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
165<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
170<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
175<br>
<br>
<br>
<br></td>
</tr>
</table><br>
<hr width="25%" align="left"><br>

<h3>Canto IV</h3><br>

<table summary="Canto IV" width="75%" cellspacing="50" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td width="90%">But anxious cares the pensive nymph oppress'd, <br>
And secret passions labour'd in her breast. <br>
Not youthful kings in battle seiz'd alive, <br>
Not scornful virgins who their charms survive, <br>
Not ardent lovers robb'd of all their bliss, <br>
Not ancient ladies when refus'd a kiss, <br>
Not tyrants fierce that unrepenting die, <br>
Not Cynthia when her manteau's pinn'd awry,<br>
E'er felt such rage, resentment, and despair, <br>
As thou, sad Virgin! for thy ravish'd Hair.<br>
 <br>
For, that sad moment, when the Sylphs withdrew<br>
And Ariel weeping from Belinda flew,<br>
Umbriel, a dusky, melancholy sprite,<br>
As ever sully'd the fair face of light, <br>
Down to the central earth, his proper scene,<br>
Repair'd to search the gloomy Cave of Spleen. <br><br>

Swift on his sooty pinions flits the Gnome,<br>
And in a vapour reach'd the dismal dome.<br>
No cheerful breeze this sullen region knows,<br>
The dreaded East is all the wind that blows.<br>
Here in a grotto, shelter'd close from air,<br>
And screen'd in shades from day's detested glare,<br>
She sighs for ever on her pensive bed,<br>
Pain at her side, and Megrim at her head. <br><br>

Two handmaids wait the throne: alike in place,<br>
But diff'ring far in figure and in face.<br>
Here stood Ill-nature like an ancient maid,<br>
Her wrinkled form in black and white array'd;<br>
With store of pray'rs, for mornings, nights, and noons,<br>
Her hand is fill'd; her bosom with lampoons.<br>
There Affectation, with a sickly mien,<br>
Shows in her cheek the roses of eighteen,<br>
Practis'd to lisp, and hang the head aside.<br>
Faints into airs, and languishes with pride,<br>
On the rich quilt sinks with becoming woe,<br>
Wrapt in a gown, for sickness, and for show.<br>
The fair ones feel such maladies as these,<br>
When each new night-dress gives a new disease. <br><br>

A constant Vapour o'er the palace flies; <br>
Strange phantoms rising as the mists arise;<br>
Dreadful, as hermit's dreams in haunted shades,<br>
Or bright, as visions of expiring maids.<br>
Now glaring fiends, and snakes on rolling spires,<br>
Pale spectres, gaping tombs, and purple fires:<br>
Now lakes of liquid gold, Elysian scenes,<br>
And crystal domes, and angels in machines. <br><br>

Unnumber'd throngs on every side are seen, <br>
Of bodies chang'd to various forms by Spleen. <br>
Here living Tea-pots stand, one arm held out, <br>
One bent; the handle this, and that the spout:<br>
A Pipkin there, like Homer's Tripod walks; <br>
Here sighs a Jar, and there a Goose-pie talks; <br>
Men prove with child, as pow'rful fancy works, <br>
And maids turn'd bottles, call aloud for corks. <br><br>

Safe past the Gnome thro' this fantastic band,<br>
A branch of healing Spleenwort in his hand.<br>
Then thus address'd the pow'r: "Hail, wayward Queen!<br>
Who rule the sex to fifty from fifteen:<br>
Parent of vapours and of female wit, <br>
Who give th' hysteric, or poetic fit,<br>
On various tempers act by various ways,<br>
Make some take physic, others scribble plays;<br>
Who cause the proud their visits to delay,<br>
And send the godly in a pet to pray. <br>
A nymph there is, that all thy pow'r disdains,<br>
And thousands more in equal mirth maintains.<br>
But oh! if e'er thy Gnome could spoil a grace,<br>
Or raise a pimple on a beauteous face,<br>
Like Citron-waters matrons cheeks inflame,<br>
Or change complexions at a losing game;<br>
If e'er with airy horns I planted heads,<br>
Or rumpled petticoats, or tumbled beds,<br>
Or caus'd suspicion when no soul was rude,<br>
Or discompos'd the head-dress of a Prude,<br>
Or e'er to costive lap-dog gave disease,<br>
Which not the tears of brightest eyes could ease:<br>
Hear me, and touch Belinda with chagrin,<br>
That single act gives half the world the spleen."<br><br>

The Goddess with a discontented air<br>
Seems to reject him, tho' she grants his pray'r.<br>
A wond'rous Bag with both her hands she binds, <br>
Like that where once Ulysses held the winds; <br>
There she collects the force of female lungs, <br>
Sighs, sobs, and passions, and the war of tongues. <br>
A Vial next she fills with fainting fears,<br>
Soft sorrows, melting griefs, and flowing tears. <br>
The Gnome rejoicing bears her gifts away, <br>
Spreads his black wings, and slowly mounts to day.<br><br>

Sunk in Thalestris' arms the nymph he found,<br>
Her eyes dejected and her hair unbound.<br>
Full o'er their heads the swelling bag he rent,<br>
And all the Furies issu'd at the vent.<br>
Belinda burns with more than mortal ire,<br>
And fierce Thalestris fans the rising fire. <br>
"O wretched maid!" she spread her hands, and cry'd,<br>
(While Hampton's echoes, "Wretched maid!" reply'd)<br>
"Was it for this you took such constant care<br>
The bodkin, comb, and essence to prepare?<br>
For this your locks in paper durance bound,<br>
For this with tort'ring irons wreath'd around?<br>
For this with fillets strain'd your tender head,<br>
And bravely bore the double loads of lead?<br>
Gods! shall the ravisher display your hair,<br>
While the Fops envy, and the Ladies stare!<br>
Honour forbid! at whose unrivall'd shrine <br>
Ease, pleasure, virtue, all our sex resign.<br>
Methinks already I your tears survey,<br>
Already hear the horrid things they say,<br>
Already see you a degraded toast, <br>
And all your honour in a whisper lost!<br>
How shall I, then, your helpless fame defend?<br>
'T will then be infamy to seem your friend!<br>
And shall this prize, th' inestimable prize, <br>
Expos'd thro' crystal to the gazing eyes, <br>
And heighten'd by the diamond's circling rays,<br>
On that rapacious hand for ever blaze? <br>
Sooner shall grass in Hyde-park Circus grow, <br>
And wits take lodgings in the sound of Bow; <br>
Sooner let earth, air, sea, to Chaos fall, <br>
Men, monkeys, lap-dogs, parrots, perish all!"<br><br>

She said; then raging to Sir Plume repairs,<br>
And bids her Beau demand the precious hairs;<br>
(Sir Plume of amber snuff-box justly vain,<br>
And the nice conduct of a clouded cane) <br>
With earnest eyes, and round unthinking face,<br>
He first the snuff-box open'd, then the case,<br>
And thus broke out &mdash; "My Lord, why, what the devil?<br>
"Z &mdash; ds! damn the lock! 'fore Gad, you must be civil!<br>
Plague on't!'t is past a jest &mdash; nay prithee, pox!<br>
Give her the hair" &mdash; he spoke, and rapp'd his box.<br><br>

"It grieves me much" (reply'd the Peer again)<br>
"Who speaks so well should ever speak in vain.<br>
But by this Lock, this sacred Lock I swear,<br>
(Which never more shall join its parted hair;<br>
Which never more its honours shall renew,<br>
Clipp'd from the lovely head where late it grew)<br>
That while my nostrils draw the vital air,<br>
This hand, which won it, shall for ever wear."<br>
He spoke, and speaking, in proud triumph spread<br>
The long-contended honours of her head. <br><br>

But Umbriel, hateful Gnome! forbears not so;<br>
He breaks the Vial whence the sorrows flow.<br>
Then see! the nymph in beauteous grief appears,<br>
Her eyes half-languishing, half-drown'd in tears;<br>
On her heav'd bosom hung her drooping head,<br>
Which, with a sigh, she rais'd; and thus she said. <br>
"For ever curs'd be this detested day,<br>
Which snatch'd my best, my fav'rite curl away!<br>
Happy! ah ten times happy had I been, <br>
If Hampton-Court these eyes had never seen!<br>
Yet am not I the first mistaken maid,<br>
By love of Courts to num'rous ills betray'd.<br>
Oh had I rather un-admir'd remain'd<br>
In some lone isle, or distant Northern land;<br>
Where the gilt Chariot never marks the way,<br>
Where none learn Ombre, none e'er taste Bohea!<br>
There kept my charms conceal'd from mortal eye,<br>
Like roses, that in deserts bloom and die.<br>
What mov'd my mind with youthful Lords to roam?<br>
Oh had I stay'd, and said my pray'rs at home!<br>
'T was this, the morning omens seem'd to tell,<br>
Thrice from my trembling hand the patch-box fell;<br>
The tott'ring China shook without a wind.<br>
Nay, Poll sat mute, and Shock was most unkind!<br>
A Sylph too warn'd me of the threats of fate,<br>
In mystic visions, now believ'd too late!<br>
See the poor remnants of these slighted hairs!<br>
My hands shall rend what ev'n thy rapine spares:<br>
These in two sable ringlets taught to break,<br>
Once gave new beauties to the snowy neck;<br>
The sister-lock now sits uncouth, alone,<br>
And in its fellow's fate foresees its own;<br>
Uncurl'd it hangs, the fatal shears demands,<br>
And tempts once more thy sacrilegious hands.<br>
Oh hadst thou, cruel! been content to seize<br>
Hairs less in sight, or any hairs but these!"</td>
	<td><br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
5<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
10<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>

<br>
15<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
20<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>

<br>
25<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
30<br>
<br>
<br>

<br>
<br>
35<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>

<br>
40<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
45<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>

<br>
50<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>

<br>
55<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
60<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
65<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
70<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
75<br>
<br>
<br>

<br>
<br>
80<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
85<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>

<br>
90<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
95<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
100<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
105<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
110<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
115<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
120<br>
<br>
<br>

<br>
<br>
125<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
130<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>

<br>
135<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
140<br>
<br>
<br>

<br>
<br>
145<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
150<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
155<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
160<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
165<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
170<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
175<br>
<br></td>
</tr>
</table><br>
<hr width="25%" align="left"><br>

<h3>Canto V</h3><br>

<table summary="Canto V" width="75%" cellspacing="50" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td width="90%">She said: the pitying audience melt in tears. <br>
But Fate and Jove had stopp'd the Baron's ears. <br>
In vain Thalestris with reproach assails, <br>
For who can move when fair Belinda fails? <br>
Not half so fix'd the Trojan could remain,<br>
While Anna begg'd and Dido rag'd in vain. <br>
Then grave Clarissa graceful wav'd her fan; <br>
Silence ensu'd, and thus the nymph began. <br><br>

"Say why are Beauties prais'd and honour'd most, <br>
The wise man's passion, and the vain man's toast?<br>
Why deck'd with all that land and sea afford, <br>
Why Angels call'd, and Angel-like ador'd? <br>
Why round our coaches crowd the white-glov'd Beaux, <br>
Why bows the side-box from its inmost rows; <br>
How vain are all these glories, all our pains,<br>
Unless good sense preserve what beauty gains: <br>
That men may say, when we the front-box grace: <br>
'Behold the first in virtue as in face!' <br>
Oh! if to dance all night, and dress all day, <br>
Charm'd the small-pox, or chas'd old-age away;<br>
Who would not scorn what housewife's cares produce, <br>
Or who would learn one earthly thing of use? <br>
To patch, nay ogle, might become a Saint, <br>
Nor could it sure be such a sin to paint. <br>
But since, alas! frail beauty must decay,<br>
Curl'd or uncurl'd, since Locks will turn to grey; <br>
Since painted, or not painted, all shall fade, <br>
And she who scorns a man, must die a maid; <br>
What then remains but well our pow'r to use, <br>
And keep good-humour still whate'er we lose?<br>
And trust me, dear! good-humour can prevail,<br>
When airs, and flights, and screams, and scolding fail.<br>
Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll;<br>
Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul."<br><br>

So spoke the Dame, but no applause ensu'd;<br>
Belinda frown'd, Thalestris call'd her Prude.<br>
"To arms, to arms!" the fierce Virago cries,<br>
And swift as lightning to the combat flies.<br>
All side in parties, and begin th' attack; <br>
Fans clap, silks rustle, and tough whalebones crack;<br>
Heroes' and Heroines' shouts confus'dly rise,<br>
And bass, and treble voices strike the skies.<br>
No common weapons in their hands are found,<br>
Like Gods they fight, nor dread a mortal wound. <br><br>

So when bold Homer makes the Gods engage, <br>
And heav'nly breasts with human passions rage;<br>
'Gainst Pallas, Mars; Latona, Hermes arms;<br>
And all Olympus rings with loud alarms:<br>
Jove's thunder roars, heav'n trembles all around,<br>
Blue Neptune storms, the bellowing deeps resound: <br>
Earth shakes her nodding tow'rs, the ground gives way.<br>
And the pale ghosts start at the flash of day! <br><br>

Triumphant Umbriel on a sconce's height<br>
Clapp'd his glad wings, and sate to view the fight:<br>
Propp'd on the bodkin spears, the Sprites survey<br>
The growing combat, or assist the fray. <br><br>

While thro' the press enrag'd Thalestris flies,<br>
And scatters death around from both her eyes,<br>
A Beau and Witling perish'd in the throng,<br>
One died in metaphor, and one in song.<br>
"O cruel nymph! a living death I bear,"<br>
Cry'd Dapperwit, and sunk beside his chair.<br>
A mournful glance Sir Fopling upwards cast, <br>
"Those eyes are made so killing" &mdash; was his last. <br>
Thus on Mæander's flow'ry margin lies <br>
Th' expiring Swan, and as he sings he dies. <br><br>

When bold Sir Plume had drawn Clarissa down,<br>
Chloe stepp'd in, and kill'd him with a frown;<br>
She smil'd to see the doughty hero slain,<br>
But, at her smile, the Beau reviv'd again.<br><br>

Now Jove suspends his golden scales in air,<br>
Weighs the Men's wits against the Lady's hair;<br>
The doubtful beam long nods from side to side;<br>
At length the wits mount up, the hairs subside. <br><br>

See, fierce Belinda on the Baron flies,<br>
With more than usual lightning in her eyes:<br>
Nor fear'd the Chief th' unequal fight to try,<br>
Who sought no more than on his foe to die.<br>
But this bold Lord with manly strength endu'd,<br>
She with one finger and a thumb subdu'd:<br>
Just where the breath of life his nostrils drew,<br>
A charge of Snuff the wily virgin threw;<br>
The Gnomes direct, to ev'ry atom just,<br>
The pungent grains of titillating dust. <br>
Sudden, with starting tears each eye o'erflows,<br>
And the high dome re-echoes to his nose. <br><br>

Now meet thy fate, incens'd Belinda cry'd,<br>
And drew a deadly bodkin from her side.<br>
(The same, his ancient personage to deck,<br>
Her great great grandsire wore about his neck,<br>
In three seal-rings; which after, melted down,<br>
Form'd a vast buckle for his widow's gown:<br>
Her infant grandame's whistle next it grew,<br>
The bells she jingled, and the whistle blew;<br>
Then in a bodkin grac'd her mother's hairs,<br>
Which long she wore, and now Belinda wears.) <br><br>

"Boast not my fall" (he cry'd) "insulting foe!<br>
Thou by some other shalt be laid as low,<br>
Nor think, to die dejects my lofty mind: <br>
All that I dread is leaving you behind!<br>
Rather than so, ah let me still survive,<br>
And burn in Cupid's flames &mdash; but burn alive."<br>
  <br>
"Restore the Lock!" she cries; and all around<br>
"Restore the Lock!" the vaulted roofs rebound.<br>
Not fierce Othello in so loud a strain<br>
Roar'd for the handkerchief that caus'd his pain.<br>
But see how oft ambitious aims are cross'd,<br>
And chiefs contend 'till all the prize is lost!<br>
The Lock, obtain'd with guilt, and kept with pain,<br>
In ev'ry place is sought, but sought in vain:<br>
With such a prize no mortal must be blest,<br>
So heav'n decrees! with heav'n who can contest? <br>
  <br>
Some thought it mounted to the Lunar sphere,<br>
Since all things lost on earth are treasur'd there.<br>
There Hero's wits are kept in pond'rous vases,<br>
And beau's in snuff-boxes and tweezer-cases.<br>
There broken vows and death-bed alms are found,<br>
And lovers' hearts with ends of riband bound,<br>
The courtier's promises, and sick man's pray'rs,<br>
The smiles of harlots, and the tears of heirs,<br>
Cages for gnats, and chains to yoke a flea,<br>
Dry'd butterflies, and tomes of casuistry. <br>
  <br>
But trust the Muse &mdash; she saw it upward rise,<br>
Tho' mark'd by none but quick, poetic eyes:<br>
(So Rome's great founder to the heav'ns withdrew,<br>
To Proculus alone confess'd in view)<br>
A sudden Star, it shot thro' liquid air,<br>
And drew behind a radiant trail of hair.<br>
Not Berenice's Locks first rose so bright,<br>
The heav'ns bespangling with dishevell'd light.<br>
The Sylphs behold it kindling as it flies, <br>
And pleas'd pursue its progress thro' the skies. <br><br>

This the Beau monde shall from the Mall survey,<br>
And hail with music its propitious ray. <br>
This the blest Lover shall for Venus take,<br>
And send up vows from Rosamonda's lake.<br>
This Partridge soon shall view in cloudless skies,<br>
When next he looks thro' Galileo's eyes;<br>
And hence th' egregious wizard shall foredoom<br>
The fate of Louis, and the fall of Rome.<br>
Then cease, bright Nymph! to mourn thy ravish'd hair,<br>
Which adds new glory to the shining sphere!<br>
Not all the tresses that fair head can boast,<br>
Shall draw such envy as the Lock you lost.<br>
For, after all the murders of your eye,<br>
When, after millions slain, yourself shall die:<br>
When those fair suns shall set, as set they must,<br>
And all those tresses shall be laid in dust,<br>
This Lock, the Muse shall consecrate to fame,<br>
And 'midst the stars inscribe Belinda's name.</td>
	<td><br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
5<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
10<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
15<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
20<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
25<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
30<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
35<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
40<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
45<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
50<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
55<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
60<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
65<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
70<br>
<br>
<br><br>
<br>

<br>
<br>
75<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
80<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
85<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
<br>
90<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
95<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
100<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
105<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
110<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
115<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
120<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
<br>
125<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
130<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
135<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
140<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
<br>
145<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
150</td>
</tr>
</table><br>
<br>
<p><a href="#toc">Contents</a></p><hr><br><br>

<a name="section2"></a><h2>An Essay on Criticism</h2>
<br>
<a name="eoccontents"></a><h3>Contents</h3>
<br>
<table summary="contents title eoc" width="100%" border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="10">
<tr align="left" valign="middle">
	<td width="15%"><b>Part</b></td>
	<td width="15%">Line</td>
	<td width="70%"><i>Topic</i></td>
	</tr>
</table>


<table summary="contents eoc" width="100%" border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="10">
<tr align="left" valign="middle">
	<td width="15%"><b>I<br>
	Introduction<br></b></td>
	<td width="15%">1</td>
	<td width="70%">That 'tis as great a fault to judge ill, as to write ill, and
a more dangerous one to the public.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle">
	<td></td>
	<td>9-18</td>
	<td>That a true Taste is as rare to be found, as a true Genius. </td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle">
	<td></td>
	<td>19-25</td>
	<td>That most men are born with some Taste, but spoiled by
false Education.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle">
	<td></td>
	<td>26-45</td>
	<td>The multitude of Critics, and causes of them.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle">
	<td></td>
	<td>46-67</td>
	<td>That we are to study our own Taste, and know the Limits of it.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle">
	<td></td>
	<td>68-87</td>
	<td>Nature the best guide of Judgment.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle">
	<td></td>
	<td>88</td>
	<td>Improv'd by Art and Rules, &mdash; which are but methodis'd Nature.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle">
	<td></td>
	<td>id-110</td>
	<td>Rules derived from the Practice of the Ancient Poets.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle">
	<td></td>
	<td>120-138</td>
	<td>That therefore the Ancients are necessary to be studyd, by a Critic, particularly Homer and Virgil.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle">
	<td></td>
	<td>140-180</td>
	<td>Of Licenses, and the use of them by the Ancients.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle">
	<td></td>
	<td>181 etc.</td>
	<td>Reverence due to the Ancients, and praise of them.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle">
	<td><b>II<br>
	201&rarr;</b></td>
	<td></td>
	<td>Causes hindering a true Judgment</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle">
	<td></td>
	<td>208</td>
	<td>1. Pride</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle">
	<td></td>
	<td>215</td>
	<td>2. Imperfect Learning</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle">
	<td></td>
	<td>233-288</td>
	<td>3. Judging by parts, and not by the whole. </td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle">
	<td></td>
	<td>288, 305, 399 etc.</td>
	<td>Critics in Wit, Language, Versification, only. </td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle">
	<td></td>
	<td>384</td>
	<td>4. Being too hard to please, or too apt to admire.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle">
	<td></td>
	<td>394</td>
	<td>5. Partiality &mdash; too  much Love to a Sect, &mdash; to the Ancients or Moderns. </td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle">
	<td></td>
	<td>408</td>
	<td>6. Prejudice or Prevention.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle">
	<td></td>
	<td>424</td>
	<td>7. Singularity.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle">
	<td></td>
	<td>430</td>
	<td>8. Inconstancy.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle">
	<td></td>
	<td>452 etc.</td>
	<td>9. Party Spirit. </td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle">
	<td></td>
	<td>466</td>
	<td>10. Envy.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle">
	<td></td>
	<td>508 etc.</td>
	<td>Against Envy, and in praise of Good-nature. </td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle">
	<td></td>
	<td>526 etc.</td>
	<td>When Severity is chiefly to be used by Critics.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle">
	<td><b>III<br>
	v. 560&rarr;</b></td>
	<td></td>
	<td></td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle">
	<td></td>
	<td>563</td>
	<td>Rules for the Conduct of Manners in a Critic.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle">
	<td></td>
	<td>566</td>
	<td>1. Candour, Modesty.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle">
	<td></td>
	<td>572</td>
	<td>Good-breeding. </td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle">
	<td></td>
	<td>578</td>
	<td>Sincerity, and Freedom of advice. </td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle">
	<td></td>
	<td>584</td>
	<td>2. When one's Counsel is to be restrained.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle">
	<td></td>
	<td>600</td>
	<td>Character of an incorrigible Poet.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle">
	<td></td>
	<td>610</td>
	<td>And of an impertinent Critic, etc.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle">
	<td></td>
	<td>629</td>
	<td>Character of a good Critic.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle">
	<td></td>
	<td>645</td>
	<td>The History of Criticism, and Characters of the best Critics, Aristotle,</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle">
	<td></td>
	<td>653</td>
	<td>Horace,</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle">
	<td></td>
	<td>665</td>
	<td>Dionysius,</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle">
	<td></td>
	<td>667</td>
	<td>Petronius,</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle">
	<td></td>
	<td>670</td>
	<td>Quintilian,</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle">
	<td></td>
	<td>675</td>
	<td>Longinus.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle">
	<td></td>
	<td>693</td>
	<td>Of the Decay of Criticism, and its Revival. Erasmus,</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle">
	<td></td>
	<td>705</td>
	<td>Vida,</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle">
	<td></td>
	<td>714</td>
	<td>Boileau,</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle">
	<td></td>
	<td>725</td>
	<td>Lord Roscommon, etc.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle">
	<td><b>Conclusion</b></td>
	<td></td>
	<td></td>
</tr>
</table><br>
<br>
<p><a href="#toc">Contents</a></p>
<hr><br><br>
<br>
<a name="eocitself"></a><h3>An Essay on Criticism</h3>
<br>

<table summary="eoc main" cellspacing="20" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td>'Tis hard to say, if greater want of skill <br>
Appear in writing or in judging ill; <br>
But, of the two, less dang'rous is th' offence <br>
To tire our patience, than mislead our sense. <br>
Some few in that, but numbers err in this,<br>
Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss; <br>
A fool might once himself alone expose, <br>
Now one in verse makes many more in prose. <br><br>

'Tis with our judgments as our watches, none<br>
Go just alike, yet each believes his own.<br>
In Poets as true genius is but rare,<br>
True Taste as seldom is the Critic's share;<br>
Both must alike from Heav'n derive their light,<br>
These born to judge, as well as those to write.<br>
Let such teach others who themselves excel,<br>
And censure freely who have written well.<br>
Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true,<br>
But are not Critics to their judgment too? <br><br>

Yet if we look more closely, we shall find<br>
Most have the seeds of judgment in their mind:<br>
Nature affords at least a glimm'ring light;<br>
The lines, tho' touch'd but faintly, are drawn right.<br>
(But as the slightest sketch, if justly trac'd,<br>
(Is by ill-colouring but the more disgrac'd,<br>
(So by false learning is good sense defac'd:<br>
Some are bewilder'd in the maze of schools,<br>
And some made coxcombs Nature meant but fools. <br><br>

In search of wit these lose their common sense, <br>
And then turn Critics in their own defence: <br>
Each burns alike, who can, or cannot write,<br>
Or with a Rival's, or an Eunuch's spite. <br>
All fools have still an itching to deride, <br>
And fain would be upon the laughing side. <br>
If Mævius scribble in Apollo's spite, <br>
There are who judge still worse than he can write.<br><br>

Some have at first for Wits, then Poets past,<br>
Turn'd Critics next, and prov'd plain fools at last.<br>
Some neither can for Wits nor Critics pass,<br>
As heavy mules are neither horse nor ass.<br>
Those half-learn'd witlings, num'rous in our isle,<br>
As half-form'd insects on the banks of Nile;<br>
Unfinish'd things, one knows not what to call,<br>
Their generation's so equivocal:<br>
To tell 'em, would a hundred tongues require,<br>
Or one vain wit's, that might a hundred tire.<br><br>

But you who seek to give and merit fame,<br>
And justly bear a Critic's noble name,<br>
Be sure yourself and your own reach to know,<br>
How far your genius, taste, and learning go;<br>
Launch not beyond your depth, but be discreet,<br>
And mark that point where sense and dulness meet. <br><br>

Nature to all things fix'd the limits fit,<br>
And wisely curb'd proud man's pretending wit.<br>
As on the land while here the ocean gains,<br>
In other parts it leaves wide sandy plains;<br>
Thus in the soul while memory prevails,<br>
The solid pow'r of understanding fails;<br>
Where beams of warm imagination play,<br>
The memory's soft figures melt away.<br>
One science only will one genius fit;<br>
So vast is art, so narrow human wit: <br>
Not only bounded to peculiar arts, <br>
But oft in those confin'd to single parts. <br>
Like kings we lose the conquests gain'd before, <br>
By vain ambition still to make them more;<br>
Each might his sev'ral province well command, <br>
Would all but stoop to what they understand. <br><br>

First follow Nature, and your judgment frame<br>
By her just standard, which is still the same:<br>
Unerring <b>Nature</b>, still divinely bright,<br>
One clear, unchang'd, and universal light,<br>
Life, force, and beauty, must to all impart,<br>
At once the source, and end, and test of Art.<br>
Art from that fund each just supply provides,<br>
Works without show, and without pomp presides:<br>
In some fair body thus th' informing soul<br>
With spirits feeds, with vigour fills the whole,<br>
Each motion guides, and ev'ry nerve sustains;<br>
Itself unseen, but in th' effects, remains.<br>
Some, to whom Heav'n in wit has been profuse,<br>
Want as much more, to turn it to its use;<br>
For wit and judgment often are at strife,<br>
Tho' meant each other's aid, like man and wife.<br>
'T is more to guide, than spur the Muse's steed;<br>
Restrain his fury, than provoke his speed;<br>
The winged courser, like a gen'rous horse,<br>
Shows most true mettle when you check his course. <br><br>

Those <b>Rules</b> of old discovered, not devis'd,<br>
Are Nature still, but Nature methodiz'd;<br>
Nature, like liberty, is but restrain'd<br>
By the same laws which first herself ordain'd. <br>
Hear how learn'd Greece her useful rules indites,<br>
When to repress, and when indulge our flights: <br>
High on Parnassus' top her sons she show'd, <br>
And pointed out those arduous paths they trod;<br>
Held from afar, aloft, th' immortal prize, <br>
And urg'd the rest by equal steps to rise. <br>
Just precepts thus from great examples giv'n, <br>
She drew from them what they deriv'd from Heav'n. <br>
The gen'rous Critic fann'd the Poet's fire,<br>
And taught the world with reason to admire. <br>
Then Criticism the Muse's handmaid prov'd, <br>
To dress her charms, and make her more belov'd: <br>
But following wits from that intention stray'd, <br>
Who could not win the mistress, woo'd the maid;<br>
Against the Poets their own arms they turn'd, <br>
Sure to hate most the men from whom they learn'd. <br>
So modern 'Pothecaries, taught the art <br>
By Doctor's bills to play the Doctor's part, <br>
Bold in the practice of mistaken rules,<br>
Prescribe, apply, and call their masters fools. <br>
Some on the leaves of ancient authors prey, <br>
Nor time nor moths e'er spoil'd so much as they. <br>
Some drily plain, without invention's aid, <br>
Write dull receipts how poems may be made.<br>
These leave the sense, their learning to display, <br>
And those explain the meaning quite away. <br><br>

You then whose judgment the right course would steer,<br>
Know well each <b>Ancient's</b> proper character;<br>
His fable, subject, scope in ev'ry page;<br>
Religion, Country, genius of his Age:<br>
Without all these at once before your eyes,<br>
Cavil you may, but never criticize.<br>
Be Homer's works your study and delight,<br>
Read them by day, and meditate by night;<br>
Thence form your judgment, thence your maxims bring,<br>
And trace the Muses upward to their spring.<br>
Still with itself compar'd, his text peruse;<br>
And let your comment be the Mantuan Muse. <br><br>

When first young Maro in his boundless mind<br>
A work t' outlast immortal Rome design'd,<br>
Perhaps he seem'd above the critic's law,<br>
And but from Nature's fountains scorn'd to draw:<br>
But when t' examine ev'ry part he came, <br>
Nature and Homer were, he found, the same.<br>
Convinc'd, amaz'd, he checks the bold design; <br>
And rules as strict his labour'd work confine,<br>
As if the Stagirite o'erlook'd each line.<br>
Learn hence for ancient rules a just esteem;<br>
To copy nature is to copy them. <br><br>

Some beauties yet no Precepts can declare,<br>
For there's a happiness as well as care.<br>
Music resembles Poetry, in each<br>
Are nameless graces which no methods teach,<br>
And which a master-hand alone can reach.<br>
If, where the rules not far enough extend,<br>
(Since rules were made but to promote their end)<br>
Some lucky Licence answer to the full<br>
Th' intent propos'd, that Licence is a rule.<br>
Thus Pegasus, a nearer way to take,<br>
May boldly deviate from the common track;<br>
From vulgar bounds with brave disorder part,<br>
And snatch a grace beyond the reach of art,<br>
Which without passing thro' the judgment, gains<br>
The heart, and all its end at once attains.<br>
In prospects thus, some objects please our eyes, <br>
Which out of nature's common order rise,<br>
The shapeless rock, or hanging precipice.<br>
Great wits sometimes may gloriously offend, <br>
And rise to faults true Critics dare not mend.<br>
But tho' the Ancients thus their rules invade, <br>
(As Kings dispense with laws themselves have made) <br>
Moderns, beware! or if you must offend <br>
Against the precept, ne'er transgress its End; <br>
Let it be seldom, and compell'd by need;<br>
And have, at least, their precedent to plead. <br>
The Critic else proceeds without remorse, <br>
Seizes your fame, and puts his laws in force. <br>
I know there are, to whose presumptuous thoughts<br>
Those freer beauties, ev'n in them, seem faults.<br>
Some figures monstrous and mis-shap'd appear,<br>
Consider'd singly, or beheld too near,<br>
Which, but proportion'd to their light, or place,<br>
Due distance reconciles to form and grace.<br>
A prudent chief not always must display<br>
His pow'rs in equal ranks, and fair array.<br>
But with th' occasion and the place comply,<br>
Conceal his force, nay seem sometimes to fly.<br>
Those oft are stratagems which error seem,<br>
Nor is it Homer nods, but we that dream.<br><br>

Still green with bays each ancient Altar stands,<br>
Above the reach of sacrilegious hands;<br>
Secure from Flames, from Envy's fiercer rage,<br>
Destructive War, and all-involving Age. <br>
See, from each clime the learn'd their incense bring!<br>
Hear, in all tongues consenting Pæans ring!<br>
In praise so just let ev'ry voice be join'd,<br>
And fill the gen'ral chorus of mankind.<br>
Hail, Bards triumphant! born in happier days;<br>
Immortal heirs of universal praise!<br>
Whose honours with increase of ages grow,<br>
As streams roll down, enlarging as they flow;<br>
Nations unborn your mighty names shall sound, <br>
And worlds applaud that must not yet be found! <br>
Oh may some spark of your celestial fire,<br>
The last, the meanest of your sons inspire, <br>
(That on weak wings, from far, pursues your flights; <br>
Glows while he reads, but trembles as he writes) <br>
To teach vain Wits a science little known, <br>
T' admire superior sense, and doubt their own!<br><br>

Of all the Causes which conspire to blind<br>
Man's erring judgment, and misguide the mind,<br>
What the weak head with strongest bias rules,<br>
Is <i>Pride</i>, the never-failing voice of fools. <br>
Whatever nature has in worth denied,<br>
She gives in large recruits of needful pride;<br>
For as in bodies, thus in souls, we find<br>
What wants in blood and spirits, swell'd with wind:<br>
Pride, where wit fails, steps in to our defence,<br>
And fills up all the mighty Void of sense.<br>
If once right reason drives that cloud away,<br>
Truth breaks upon us with resistless day.<br>
Trust not yourself; but your defects to know,<br>
Make use of ev'ry friend &mdash; and ev'ry foe. <br><br>

A <i>little learning</i> is a dang'rous thing;<br>
Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring.<br>
There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain,<br>
And drinking largely sobers us again.<br>
Fir'd at first sight with what the Muse imparts,<br>
In fearless youth we tempt the heights of Arts,<br>
While from the bounded level of our mind<br>
Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind;<br>
But more advanc'd, behold with strange surprise<br>
New distant scenes of endless science rise! <br>
So pleas'd at first the tow'ring Alps we try,<br>
Mount o'er the vales, and seem to tread the sky, <br>
Th' eternal snows appear already past, <br>
And the first clouds and mountains seem the last; <br>
But, those attain'd, we tremble to survey <br>
The growing labours of the lengthen'd way,<br>
Th' increasing prospect tires our wand'ring eyes,<br>
Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise! <br><br>

A perfect Judge will read each work of Wit<br>
With the same spirit that its author writ:<br>
Survey the <b>Whole</b>, nor seek slight faults to find<br>
Where nature moves, and rapture warms the mind;<br>
Nor lose, for that malignant dull delight,<br>
The gen'rous pleasure to be charm'd with Wit.<br>
But in such lays as neither ebb, nor flow,<br>
Correctly cold, and regularly low,<br>
That shunning faults, one quiet tenour keep,<br>
We cannot blame indeed &mdash; but we may sleep.<br>
In wit, as nature, what affects our hearts<br>
Is not th' exactness of peculiar parts; <br>
'Tis not a lip, or eye, we beauty call,<br>
But the joint force and full result of all.<br>
Thus when we view some well-proportion'd dome,<br>
(The world's just wonder, and ev'n thine, O Rome!)<br>
No single parts unequally surprize, <br>
All comes united to th' admiring eyes;<br>
No monstrous height, or breadth, or length appear;<br>
The Whole at once is bold, and regular. <br><br>

Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see,<br>
Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be.<br>
In every work regard the writer's End,<br>
Since none can compass more than they intend;<br>
And if the means be just, the conduct true, <br>
Applause, in spight of trivial faults, is due; <br>
As men of breeding, sometimes men of wit, <br>
T' avoid great errors, must the less commit:<br>
Neglect the rules each verbal Critic lays, <br>
For not to know some trifles, is a praise. <br>
Most Critics, fond of some subservient art, <br>
Still make the Whole depend upon a Part: <br>
They talk of principles, but notions prize,<br>
And all to one lov'd Folly sacrifice. <br><br>

Once on a time, La Mancha's Knight, they say,<br>
A certain bard encount'ring on the way,<br>
Discours'd in terms as just, with looks as sage,<br>
As e'er could Dennis of the Grecian stage;<br>
Concluding all were desp'rate sots and fools,<br>
Who durst depart from Aristotle's rules.<br>
Our Author, happy in a judge so nice,<br>
Produc'd his Play, and begg'd the Knight's advice;<br>
Made him observe the subject, and the plot,<br>
The manners, passions, unities; what not?<br>
All which, exact to rule, were brought about,<br>
Were but a Combat in the lists left out.<br>
"What! leave the Combat out?" exclaims the Knight;<br>
Yes, or we must renounce the Stagirite.<br>
"Not so, by Heav'n" (he answers in a rage),<br>
"Knights, squires, and steeds, must enter on the stage."<br>
So vast a throng the stage can ne'er contain.<br>
"Then build a new, or act it in a plain." <br><br>

Thus Critics, of less judgment than caprice,<br>
Curious not knowing, not exact but nice,<br>
Form short Ideas; and offend in arts<br>
(As most in manners) by a love to parts. <br><br>

Some to <i>Conceit</i> alone their taste confine,<br>
And glitt'ring thoughts struck out at ev'ry line;<br>
Pleas'd with a work where nothing's just or fit; <br>
One glaring Chaos and wild heap of wit. <br>
Poets like painters, thus, unskill'd to trace <br>
The naked nature and the living grace, <br>
With gold and jewels cover ev'ry part, <br>
And hide with ornaments their want of art. <br>
True Wit is Nature to advantage dress'd, <br>
What oft was thought, but ne'er so well express'd; <br>
Something, whose truth convinc'd at sight we find, <br>
That gives us back the image of our mind.<br>
As shades more sweetly recommend the light, <br>
So modest plainness sets off sprightly wit. <br>
For works may have more wit than does 'em good, <br>
As bodies perish thro' excess of blood. <br><br>

Others for Language all their care express,<br>
And value books, as women men, for Dress:<br>
Their praise is still &mdash; the Style is excellent:<br>
The Sense, they humbly take upon content.<br>
Words are like leaves; and where they most abound,<br>
Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found,<br>
False Eloquence, like the prismatic glass,<br>
Its gaudy colours spreads on ev'ry place;<br>
The face of Nature we no more survey,<br>
All glares alike, without distinction gay:<br>
But true expression, like th' unchanging Sun,<br>
Clears and improves whate'er it shines upon,<br>
It gilds all objects, but it alters none.<br>
Expression is the dress of thought, and still<br>
Appears more decent, as more suitable;<br>
A vile conceit in pompous words express'd,<br>
Is like a clown in regal purple dress'd:<br>
For diff'rent styles with diff'rent subjects sort,<br>
As several garbs with country, town, and court. <br><br>

Some by old words to fame have made pretence, <br>
Ancients in phrase, mere moderns in their sense;<br>
Such labour'd nothings, in so strange a style, <br>
Amaze th' unlearn'd, and make the learned smile. <br>
(Unlucky, as Fungoso in the play,<br>
(These sparks with awkward vanity display<br>
(What the fine gentleman wore yesterday;<br>
And but so mimic ancient wits at best, <br>
As apes our grandsires, in their doublets drest. <br>
In words, as fashions, the same rule will hold; <br>
Alike fantastic, if too new, or old: <br>
Be not the first by whom the new are try'd,<br>
Nor yet the last to lay the old aside. <br><br>

But most by Numbers judge a Poet's song;<br>
And smooth or rough, with them is right or wrong:<br>
In the bright Muse though thousand charms conspire,<br>
Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire;<br>
(Who haunt Parnassus but to please their ear,<br>
(Not mend their minds; as some to Church repair,<br>
(Not for the doctrine, but the music there.<br>
These equal syllables alone require, <br>
Tho' oft the ear the open vowe's tire;<br>
While expletives their feeble aid do join;<br>
And ten low words oft creep in one dull line:<br>
While they ring round the same unvary'd chimes,<br>
With sure returns of still expected rhymes;<br>
Where-e'er you find "the cooling western breeze,"<br>
In the next line, it "whispers through the trees:"<br>
If crystal streams "with pleasing murmurs creep,"<br>
The reader's threaten'd (not in vain) with "sleep:"<br>
Then, at the last and only couplet fraught<br>
With some unmeaning thing they call a thought,<br>
A needless Alexandrine ends the song <br>
That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along. <br>
Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes, and know <br>
What's roundly smooth or languishingly slow; <br>
And praise the easy vigour of a line,<br>
Where Denham's strength, and Waller's sweetness join. <br>
True ease in writing comes from art, not chance, <br>
As those move easiest who have learn'd to dance. <br>
'Tis not enough no harshness gives offence, <br>
The sound must seem an Echo to the sense:<br>
Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows, <br>
And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows; <br>
But when loud surges lash the sounding shore, <br>
The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar: <br>
When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw,<br>
The line too labours, and the words move slow; <br>
Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain, <br>
Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the main. <br>
Hear how Timotheus' varied lays surprize, <br>
And bid alternate passions fall and rise!<br>
While, at each change, the son of Libyan Jove <br>
Now burns with glory, and then melts with love, <br>
Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury glow, <br>
Now sighs steal out, and tears begin to flow: <br>
Persians and Greeks like turns of nature found,<br>
And the world's victor stood subdu'd by Sound! <br>
The pow'r of Music all our hearts allow, <br>
And what Timotheus was, is <b>Dryden</b> now. <br><br>

Avoid Extremes; and shun the fault of such,<br>
Who still are pleas'd too little or too much.<br>
At ev'ry trifle scorn to take offence,<br>
That always shows great pride, or little sense;<br>
Those heads, as stomachs, are not sure the best,<br>
Which nauseate all, and nothing can digest. <br>
Yet let not each gay Turn thy rapture move;<br>
For fools admire, but men of sense approve:<br>
As things seem large which we thro' mists descry,<br>
Dulness is ever apt to magnify. <br><br>

Some foreign writers, some our own despise;<br>
The Ancients only, or the Moderns prize.<br>
Thus Wit, like Faith, by each man is apply'd<br>
To one small sect, and all are damn'd beside.<br>
Meanly they seek the blessing to confine,<br>
And force that sun but on a part to shine,<br>
Which not alone the southern wit sublimes,<br>
But ripens spirits in cold northern climes;<br>
Which from the first has shone on ages past,<br>
Enlights the present, and shall warm the last;<br>
Tho' each may feel increases and decays,<br>
And see now clearer and now darker days.<br>
Regard not then if Wit be old or new,<br>
But blame the false, and value still the true. <br><br>

Some ne'er advance a Judgment of their own,<br>
But catch the spreading notion of the Town;<br>
They reason and conclude by precedent,<br>
And own stale nonsense which they ne'er invent.<br>
Some judge of author's names, not works, and then<br>
Nor praise nor blame the writings, but the men.<br>
Of all this servile herd the worst is he <br>
That in proud dulness joins with Quality,<br>
A constant Critic at the great man's board,<br>
To fetch and carry nonsense for my Lord.<br>
What woful stuff this madrigal would be,<br>
In some starv'd hackney sonneteer, or me?<br>
But let a Lord once own the happy lines,<br>
How the wit brightens! how the style refines!<br>
Before his sacred name flies ev'ry fault, <br>
And each exalted stanza teems with thought! <br>
  <br>
The Vulgar thus through Imitation err; <br>
As oft the Learn'd by being singular;<br>
So much they scorn the crowd, that if the throng<br>
By chance go right, they purposely go wrong;<br>
So Schismatics the plain believers quit,<br>
And are but damn'd for having too much wit.<br>
Some praise at morning what they blame at night;<br>
But always think the last opinion right.<br>
A Muse by these is like a mistress us'd,<br>
This hour she's idoliz'd, the next abus'd;<br>
While their weak heads like towns unfortify'd,<br>
'Twixt sense and nonsense daily change their side. <br>
Ask them the cause; they're wiser still, they say;<br>
And still to-morrow's wiser than to-day.<br>
We think our fathers fools, so wise we grow,<br>
Our wiser sons, no doubt, will think us so.<br>
Once School-divines this zealous isle o'er-spread;<br>
Who knew most Sentences, was deepest read;<br>
Faith, Gospel, all, seem'd made to be disputed,<br>
And none had sense enough to be confuted:<br>
Scotists and Thomists, now, in peace remain,<br>
Amidst their kindred cobwebs in Duck-lane.<br>
If Faith itself has diff'rent dresses worn,<br>
What wonder modes in Wit should take their turn?<br>
Oft', leaving what is natural and fit,<br>
The current folly proves the ready wit; <br>
And authors think their reputation safe,<br>
Which lives as long as fools are pleas'd to laugh. <br>
Some valuing those of their own side or mind,<br>
Still make themselves the measure of mankind:<br>
Fondly we think we honour merit then,<br>
When we but praise ourselves in other men.<br><br>

Parties in Wit attend on those of State,<br>
And public faction doubles private hate.<br>
Pride, Malice, Folly, against Dryden rose,<br>
In various shapes of Parsons, Critics, Beaus;<br>
But sense surviv'd, when merry jests were past;<br>
For rising merit will buoy up at last.<br>
Might he return, and bless once more our eyes,<br>
New Blackmores and new Milbourns must arise:<br>
Nay should great Homer lift his awful head,<br>
Zoilus again would start up from the dead.<br>
Envy will merit, as its shade, pursue;<br>
But like a shadow, proves the substance true;<br>
For envy'd Wit, like Sol eclips'd, makes known<br>
Th' opposing body's grossness, not its own,<br>
When first that sun too pow'rful beams displays,<br>
It draws up vapours which obscure its rays;<br>
But ev'n those clouds at last adorn its way,<br>
Reflect new glories, and augment the day.<br>
  <br>
Be thou the first true merit to befriend;<br>
His praise is lost, who stays, till all commend.<br>
Short is the date, alas, of modern rhymes,<br>
And 'tis but just to let them live betimes.<br>
No longer now that golden age appears,<br>
When Patriarch-wits surviv'd a thousand years:<br>
Now length of Fame (our second life) is lost,<br>
And bare threescore is all ev'n that can boast;<br>
Our sons their fathers' failing language see,<br>
And such as Chaucer is, shall Dryden be.<br>
So when the faithful pencil has design'd <br>
Some bright Idea of the master's mind,<br>
Where a new world leaps out at his command,<br>
And ready Nature waits upon his hand;<br>
When the ripe colours soften and unite, <br>
And sweetly melt into just shade and light; <br>
When mellowing years their full perfection give,<br>
And each bold figure just begins to live, <br>
The treach'rous colours the fair art betray, <br>
And all the bright creation fades away! <br><br>

Unhappy Wit, like most mistaken things,<br>
Atones not for that envy which it brings.<br>
In youth alone its empty praise we boast,<br>
But soon the short-liv'd vanity is lost:<br>
Like some fair flow'r the early spring supplies.<br>
That gaily blooms, but ev'n in blooming dies.<br>
What is this Wit, which must our cares employ?<br>
The owner's wife, that other men enjoy;<br>
Then most our trouble still when most admir'd,<br>
And still the more we give, the more requir'd;<br>
Whose fame with pains we guard, but lose with ease,<br>
Sure some to vex, but never all to please;<br>
'Tis what the vicious fear, the virtuous shun,<br>
By fools't is hated, and by knaves undone! <br><br>

If Wit so much from Ign'rance undergo,<br>
Ah let not Learning too commence its foe!<br>
Of old, those met rewards who could excel,<br>
And such were prais'd who but endeavour'd well:<br>
Tho' triumphs were to gen'rals only due,<br>
Crowns were reserv'd to grace the soldiers too,<br>
Now, they who reach Parnassus' lofty crown,<br>
Employ their pains to spurn some others down;<br>
And while self-love each jealous writer rules,<br>
Contending wits become the sport of fools:<br>
But still the worst with most regret commend,<br>
For each ill Author is as bad a Friend. <br>
To what base ends, and by what abject ways,<br>
Are mortals urg'd thro' sacred lust of praise!<br>
Ah ne'er so dire a thirst of glory boast, <br>
Nor in the Critic let the Man be lost. <br>
Good-nature and good-sense must ever join; <br>
To err is human, to forgive, divine.<br><br>

But if in noble minds some dregs remain<br>
Not yet purg'd off, of spleen and sour disdain;<br>
Discharge that rage on more provoking crimes,<br>
Nor fear a dearth in these flagitious times.<br>
No pardon vile Obscenity should find,<br>
Tho' wit and art conspire to move your mind;<br>
But Dulness with Obscenity must prove<br>
As shameful sure as Impotence in love.<br>
In the fat age of pleasure wealth and ease<br>
Sprung the rank weed, and thriv'd with large increase:<br>
When love was all an easy Monarch's care;<br>
Seldom at council, never in a war:<br>
Jilts rul'd the state, and statesmen farces writ;<br>
Nay wits had pensions, and young Lords had wit:<br>
The Fair sate panting at a Courtier's play,<br>
And not a Mask went unimprov'd away:<br>
The modest fan was lifted up no more,<br>
And Virgins smil'd at what they blush'd before.<br>
The following licence of a Foreign reign<br>
Did all the dregs of bold Socinus drain;<br>
Then unbelieving priests reform'd the nation,<br>
And taught more pleasant methods of salvation;<br>
Where Heav'n's free subjects might their rights dispute,<br>
Lest God himself should seem too absolute:<br>
Pulpits their sacred satire learn'd to spare,<br>
And Vice admir'd to find a flatt'rer there!<br>
Encourag'd thus, Wit's Titans brav'd the skies,<br>
And the press groan'd with licens'd blasphemies.<br>
These monsters, Critics! with your darts engage, <br>
Here point your thunder, and exhaust your rage!<br>
Yet shun their fault, who, scandalously nice,<br>
Will needs mistake an author into vice;<br>
All seems infected that th' infected spy,<br>
As all looks yellow to the jaundic'd eye. <br><br>

Learn then what <b>Morals</b> Critics ought to show,<br>
For't is but half a Judge's task, to know.<br>
'Tis not enough, taste, judgment, learning, join;<br>
In all you speak, let truth and candour shine:<br>
That not alone what to your sense is due<br>
All may allow; but seek your friendship too.<br><br>

Be silent always when you doubt your sense;<br>
And speak, tho' sure, with seeming diffidence:<br>
Some positive, persisting fops we know,<br>
Who, if once wrong, will needs be always so;<br>
But you, with pleasure own your errors past,<br>
And make each day a Critic on the last. <br><br>

'T is not enough, your counsel still be true;<br>
Blunt truths more mischief than nice falsehoods do;<br>
Men must be taught as if you taught them not,<br>
And things unknown propos'd as things forgot.<br>
Without Good Breeding, truth is disapprov'd;<br>
That only makes superior sense belov'd. <br><br>

Be niggards of advice on no pretence;<br>
For the worst avarice is that of sense. <br>
With mean complacence ne'er betray your trust,<br>
Nor be so civil as to prove unjust.<br>
Fear not the anger of the wise to raise;<br>
Those best can bear reproof, who merit praise. <br><br>

'T were well might critics still this freedom take,<br>
But Appius reddens at each word you speak,<br>
And stares, tremendous, with a threat'ning eye, <br>
Like some fierce Tyrant in old tapestry.<br>
Fear most to tax an Honourable fool,<br>
Whose right it is, uncensur'd, to be dull;<br>
Such, without wit, are Poets when they please,<br>
As without learning they can take Degrees.<br>
Leave dang'rous truths to unsuccessful Satires,<br>
And flattery to fulsome Dedicators,<br>
Whom, when they praise, the world believes no more,<br>
Than when they promise to give scribbling o'er.<br>
'T is best sometimes your censure to restrain,<br>
And charitably let the dull be vain:<br>
Your silence there is better than your spite,<br>
For who can rail so long as they can write?<br>
Still humming on, their drowsy course they keep,<br>
And lash'd so long, like tops, are lash'd asleep.<br>
False steps but help them to renew the race,<br>
As, after stumbling, Jades will mend their pace.<br>
What crowds of these, impenitently bold,<br>
In sounds and jingling syllables grown old,<br>
Still run on Poets, in a raging vein,<br>
Ev'n to the dregs and squeezings of the brain,<br>
Strain out the last dull droppings of their sense,<br>
And rhyme with all the rage of Impotence. <br><br>

Such shameless Bards we have; and yet't is true,<br>
There are as mad abandon'd Critics too.<br>
The bookful blockhead, ignorantly read,<br>
With loads of learned lumber in his head,<br>
With his own tongue still edifies his ears,<br>
And always list'ning to himself appears.<br>
All books he reads, and all he reads assails.<br>
From Dryden's Fables down to Durfey's Tales.<br>
With him, most authors steal their works, or buy;<br>
Garth did not write his own Dispensary. <br><br>

Name a new Play, and he's the Poet's friend,<br>
Nay show'd his faults &mdash; but when would Poets mend? <br>
No place so sacred from such fops is barr'd, <br>
Nor is Paul's church more safe than Paul's churchyard: <br>
Nay, fly to Altars; there they'll talk you dead: <br>
For Fools rush in where Angels fear to tread.<br>
(Distrustful sense with modest caution speaks, <br>
(It still looks home, and short excursions makes;<br>
(But rattling nonsense in full volleys breaks,<br>
And never shock'd, and never turn'd aside, <br>
Bursts out, resistless, with a thund'ring tide.<br><br>

But where's the man, who counsel can bestow,<br>
Still pleas'd to teach, and yet not proud to know?<br>
Unbiass'd, or by favour, or by spite;<br>
Not dully prepossess'd, nor blindly right;<br>
Tho' learn'd, well-bred; and tho' well-bred, sincere, <br>
Modestly bold, and humanly severe:<br>
Who to a friend his faults can freely show,<br>
And gladly praise the merit of a foe?<br>
Blest with a taste exact, yet unconfin'd; <br>
A knowledge both of books and human kind:<br>
Gen'rous converse; a soul exempt from pride;<br>
And love to praise, with reason on his side? <br><br>

Such once were Critics; such the happy few,<br>
Athens and Rome in better ages knew. <br>
The mighty Stagirite first left the shore,<br>
Spread all his sails, and durst the deeps explore:<br>
He steer'd securely, and discover'd far,<br>
Led by the light of the Mæonian Star.<br>
Poets, a race long unconfin'd, and free, <br>
Still fond and proud of savage liberty,<br>
Receiv'd his laws; and stood convinc'd 't was fit,<br>
Who conquer'd Nature, should preside o'er Wit. <br><br>

Horace still charms with graceful negligence,<br>
And without method talks us into sense,<br>
Will, like a friend, familiarly convey<br>
The truest notions in the easiest way.<br>
He, who supreme in judgment, as in wit,<br>
Might boldly censure, as he boldly writ,<br>
Yet judg'd with coolness, tho' he sung with fire;<br>
His Precepts teach but what his works inspire.<br>
Our Critics take a contrary extreme,<br>
They judge with fury, but they write with fle'me:<br>
Nor suffers Horace more in wrong Translations<br>
By Wits, than Critics in as wrong Quotations. <br><br>

  See Dionysius Homer's thoughts refine,<br>
And call new beauties forth from ev'ry line! <br>
  Fancy and art in gay Petronius please,<br>
The scholar's learning, with the courtier's ease. <br>
  <br>
In grave Quintilian's copious work, we find<br>
The justest rules, and clearest method join'd:<br>
Thus useful arms in magazines we place,<br>
All rang'd in order, and dispos'd with grace,<br>
But less to please the eye, than arm the hand,<br>
Still fit for use, and ready at command. <br>
  <br>
Thee, bold Longinus! all the Nine inspire,<br>
And bless their Critic with a Poet's fire.<br>
An ardent Judge, who zealous in his trust,<br>
With warmth gives sentence, yet is always just;<br>
Whose own example strengthens all his laws;<br>
And is himself that great Sublime he draws. <br>
  <br>
Thus long succeeding Critics justly reign'd,<br>
Licence repress'd, and useful laws ordain'd.<br>
Learning and Rome alike in empire grew;<br>
And Arts still follow'd where her Eagles flew;<br>
From the same foes, at last, both felt their doom,<br>
And the same age saw Learning fall, and Rome. <br>
With Tyranny, then Superstition join'd, <br>
As that the body, this enslav'd the mind; <br>
Much was believ'd, but little understood, <br>
And to be dull was constru'd to be good;<br>
A second deluge Learning thus o'er-run, <br>
And the Monks finish'd what the Goths begun. <br>
  <br>
At length Erasmus, that great injur'd name,<br>
(The glory of the Priesthood, and the shame!)<br>
Stemm'd the wild torrent of a barb'rous age,<br>
And drove those holy Vandals off the stage. <br>
  <br>
But see! each Muse, in <b>Leo's</b> golden days,<br>
Starts from her trance, and trims her wither'd bays,<br>
Rome's ancient Genius, o'er its ruins spread,<br>
Shakes off the dust, and rears his rev'rend head.<br>
Then Sculpture and her sister-arts revive;<br>
Stones leap'd to form, and rocks began to live;<br>
With sweeter notes each rising Temple rung;<br>
A Raphael painted, and a Vida sung. <br>
Immortal Vida: on whose honour'd brow<br>
The Poet's bays and Critic's ivy grow:<br>
Cremona now shal ever boast thy name,<br>
As next in place to Mantua, next in fame! <br>
  <br>
But soon by impious arms from Latium chas'd,<br>
Their ancient bounds the banish'd Muses pass'd;<br>
Thence Arts o'er all the northern world advance,<br>
But Critic-learning flourish'd most in France:<br>
The rules a nation, born to serve, obeys;<br>
And Boileau still in right of Horace sways.<br>
But we, brave Britons, foreign laws despis'd,<br>
And kept unconquer'd, and unciviliz'd;<br>
Fierce for the liberties of wit, and bold, <br>
We still defy'd the Romans, as of old. <br>
Yet some there were, among the sounder few <br>
Of those who less presum'd, and better knew,<br>
Who durst assert the juster ancient cause, <br>
And here restor'd Wit's fundamental laws. <br>
Such was the Muse, whose rules and practice tell, <br>
"Nature's chief Master-piece is writing well." <br><br>

Such was Roscommon, not more learn'd than good,<br>
With manners gen'rous as his noble blood; <br>
To him the wit of Greece and Rome was known, <br>
And ev'ry author's merit, but his own. <br>
Such late was Walsh &mdash; the Muse's judge and friend, <br>
Who justly knew to blame or to commend;<br>
To failings mild, but zealous for desert; <br>
The clearest head, and the sincerest heart. <br>
This humble praise, lamented shade! receive, <br>
This praise at least a grateful Muse may give: <br>
The Muse, whose early voice you taught to sing,<br>
Prescrib'd her heights, and prun'd her tender wing, <br>
(Her guide now lost) no more attempts to rise, <br>
But in low numbers short excursions tries: <br>
Content, if hence th' unlearn'd their wants may view, <br>
The learn'd reflect on what before they knew:<br>
Careless of censure, nor too fond of fame; <br>
Still pleas'd to praise, yet not afraid to blame, <br>
Averse alike to flatter, or offend; <br>
Not free from faults, nor yet too vain to mend. </td>
	<td><br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
5<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
10<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
15<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
20<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
25<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
30<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
35<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

40<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
45<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
50<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
55<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
60<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
65<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
70<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
75<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
80<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
85<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
90<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
<br>
95<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
100<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
105<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
110<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
115<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
120<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
125<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
130<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
135<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
140<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
145<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
150<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
155<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
160<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
165<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
170<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
175<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
180<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
185<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
190<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
195<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
200<br><br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
205<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
210<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
215<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
220<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
225<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
230<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
235<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
240<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
245<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
250<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
255<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
260<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
265<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
270<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
275<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
280<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
285<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
290<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
295<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
300<br><br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
305<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
310<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
315<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
320<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
325<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
330<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
335<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
340<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
345<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
350<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
355<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
360<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
365<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
370<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
375<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
380<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
385<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
390<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
395<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
400<br><br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
405<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
410<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
415<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
420<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
425<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
430<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
435<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
440<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
445<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
450<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
455<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
460<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
465<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
470<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
475<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
480<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
485<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
490<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
495<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
500<br><br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
505<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
<br>
510<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
515<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
520<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
525<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
530<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
535<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
540<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
545<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
550<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
555<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

560<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
565<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
570<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
575<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
580<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
585<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
590<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
595<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
600<br><br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
605<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
610<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
615<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
620<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
625<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
630<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
635<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
640<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
645<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
650<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
655<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
660<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
665<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
670<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
675<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
680<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
685<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
690<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
695<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
700<br><br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
705<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
710<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
715<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
720<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
725<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
730<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
735<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
740<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br></td>
</tr>
</table>
<p><a href="#toc">Contents</a></p><hr><br><br>


<h2><a name="section3">An Essay on Man, Epistle I</a></h2>
<br>

<i>To H. St. John Lord Bolingbroke</i><br>
<br>

<a name="eomdesign"></a><h3>The Design</h3><br>

Having proposed to write some pieces on Human Life and Manners, such as
(to use my Lord Bacon's expression) <i>come home to Men's Business and
Bosoms</i>, I thought it more satisfactory to begin with considering
<i>Man</i> in the abstract, his <i>Nature</i> and his <i>State</i>;
since, to prove any moral duty, to enforce any moral precept, or to
examine the perfection or imperfection of any creature whatsoever, it is
necessary first to know what <i>condition</i> and <i>relation</i> it is
placed in, and what is the proper end and purpose of its <i>being</i>.<br>
<br>
The science of Human Nature is, like all other sciences, reduced to a
<i>few clear points</i>: There are not <i>many certain truths</i> in
this world. It is therefore in the Anatomy of the mind as in that of the
Body; more good will accrue to mankind by attending to the large, open,
and perceptible parts, than by studying too much such finer nerves and
vessels, the conformations and uses of which will for ever escape our
observation. The <i>disputes</i> are all upon these last, and, I will
venture to say, they have less sharpened the <i>wits</i> than the
<i>hearts</i> of men against each other, and have diminished the
practice, more than advanced the theory of Morality. If I could flatter
myself that this Essay has any merit, it is in steering betwixt the
extremes of doctrines seemingly opposite, in passing over terms utterly
unintelligible, and in forming a <i>temperate</i> yet not
<i>inconsistent</i>, and a <i>short</i> yet not <i>imperfect</i> system
of Ethics.<br>
<br>
This I might have done in prose, but I chose verse, and even rhyme, for
two reasons. The one will appear obvious; that principles, maxims, or
precepts so written, both strike the reader more strongly at first, and
are more easily retained by him afterwards: The other may seem odd, but
is true, I found I could express them more <i>shortly</i> this way than
in prose itself; and nothing is more certain, than that much of the
<i>force</i> as well as <i>grace</i> of arguments or instructions,
depends on their <i>conciseness</i>. I was unable to treat this part of
my subject more in <i>detail</i>, without becoming dry and tedious; or
more <i>poetically</i>, without sacrificing perspicuity to ornament,
without wandring from the precision, or breaking the chain of reasoning:
If any man can unite all these without diminution of any of them, I
freely confess he will compass a thing above my capacity.<br>
<br>
What is now published, is only to be considered as a <i>general Map</i>
of <b>Man</b>, marking out no more than the <i>greater parts</i>, their
<i>extent</i>, their <i>limits</i>, and their <i>connection</i>, and
leaving the particular to be more fully delineated in the charts which
are to follow. Consequently, these Epistles in their progress (if I have
health and leisure to make any progress) will be less dry, and more
susceptible of poetical ornament. I am here only opening the
<i>fountains</i>, and clearing the passage. To deduce the <i>rivers</i>,
to follow them in their course, and to observe their effects, may be a
task more agreeable. <br>
<br>
P. <br>
<br>
<p><a href="#toc">Contents</a></p>
<hr><br><br>
<a name="eomargepist1"></a><h3>Argument of Epistle I</h3><br>

Of the Nature and State of Man, with respect to the <b>Universe</b>.<br>
<br>
<i>Of</i> Man <i>in the abstract</i>. <br><br>
<br>

<br>
<table summary="eomepist1arg" border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="20">
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><th><b>section</b></th><th>lines</th><th><i>topic</i></th>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>I</b></td><td>17 &amp;c.</td><td><i>That we can judge only with regard to our</i>
own system, <i>being ignorant of the</i> relations <i>of systems and things</i>.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>II</b></td><td>35 &amp;c.</td><td><i>That Man is not to be deemed</i> imperfect, <i>but a Being suited to his</i> place
<i>and</i> rank <i>in the creation, agreeable to the</i> general Order <i>of things, and conformable
to</i> Ends <i>and</i> Relations <i>to him unknown</i>.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>III</b></td><td>77 &amp;c.</td><td><i>That it
is partly upon his</i> ignorance <i>of</i> future <i>events, and partly upon the</i> hope <i>of a</i>
future <i>state, that all his happiness in the present depends</i>.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>IV</b></td><td>109 &amp;c.</td><td><i>The</i> pride <i>of aiming at more knowledge, and pretending to more Perfections,
the cause of Man's error and misery. The</i> impiety <i>of putting himself in
the place of</i> God, <i>and judging of the fitness or unfitness, perfection or imperfection,
justice or injustice of his dispensations</i>.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>V</b></td><td>131 &amp;c.</td><td><i>The</i>
absurdity <i>of conceiting himself the </i>final cause <i>of the creation, or expecting
that perfection in the</i> moral <i>world, which is not in the</i> natural.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>VI</b></td><td>173 &amp;c.</td><td><i>The</i> unreasonableness <i>of his complaints against</i> Providence, <i>while on
the one hand he demands the Perfections of the Angels, and on the
other the bodily qualifications of the Brutes; though, to possess any of the</i>
sensitive faculties <i>in a higher degree, would render him miserable</i>.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>VII</b></td><td>207</td><td><i>That throughout the whole visible world, an universal</i> order <i>and</i> gradation
<i>in the sensual and mental faculties is observed, which causes a</i> subordination
<i>of creature to creature, and of all creatures to Man. The gradations
of</i> sense, instinct, thought, reflection, reason; <i>that Reason alone countervails
fill the other faculties</i>.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>VIII</b></td><td>233</td><td><i>How much further this</i> order <i>and</i> subordination <i>of living creatures may extend, above and below us; were any part
of which broken, not that part only, but the whole connected</i> creation <i>must be
destroyed</i>.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>IX</b></td><td>250</td><td><i>The</i> extravagance, madness, <i>and</i> pride <i>of such a
desire</i>.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>X</b></td><td>281&rarr;end</td><td><i>The consequence of all, the</i> absolute submission <i>due to
Providence, both as to our</i> present <i>and</i> future state.</td>
</tr>
</table><br>
<br>
<p><a href="#toc">Contents</a></p>
<hr><br><br>
<a name="epist1self"></a><h3>Epistle I</h3><br>

<table summary="Epistle1selfI" width="70%" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="20">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td width="15%"></td>
	<td width="80%">Awake, my <b>St. John</b>! leave all meaner things<br>
To low ambition, and the pride of Kings.<br>
Let us (since Life can little more supply<br>
Than just to look about us and to die) <br>
Expatiate free o'er all this scene of Man;<br>
A mighty maze! but not without a plan;<br>
A Wild, where weeds and flow'rs promiscuous shoot;<br>
Or Garden, tempting with forbidden fruit.<br>
Together let us beat this ample field, <br>
Try what the open, what the covert yield;<br>
The latent tracts, the giddy heights, explore<br>
Of all who blindly creep, or sightless soar;<br>
Eye Nature's walks, shoot Folly as it flies,<br>
And catch the Manners living as they rise;<br>
Laugh where we must, be candid where we can;<br>
But vindicate the ways of God to Man.</td>
	<td width="5%"><br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
5<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
10<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
15<br>
<br></td>
</tr>
</table>

<table summary="Epistle1selfI" width="70%" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="20">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td width="15%"><span style="font-size: 150%;">I</span></td>
	<td width="80%">Say first, of God above, or Man below,<br>
What can we reason, but from what we know?<br>
Of Man, what see we but his station here,<br>
From which to reason, or to which refer?<br>
Thro' worlds unnumber'd tho' the God be known,<br>
'Tis ours to trace him only in our own.<br>
He, who thro' vast immensity can pierce,<br>
See worlds on worlds compose one universe,<br>
Observe how system into system runs,<br>
What other planets circle other suns, <br>
What vary'd Being peoples ev'ry star, <br>
May tell why Heav'n has made us as we are. <br>
But of this frame the bearings, and the ties, <br>
The strong connexions, nice dependencies,<br>
Gradations just, has thy pervading soul <br>
Look'd thro'? or can a part contain the whole? <br><br>

Is the great chain, that draws all to agree,<br>
And drawn supports, upheld by God, or thee?
</td>
	<td width="5%"><br>
<br>
<br>
20<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
25<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
30<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br></td>
</tr>
</table>

<table summary="Epistle1self2" width="70%" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="20">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td width="15%"><span style="font-size: 150%;">II</span></td>
	<td width="80%">Presumptuous Man! the reason wouldst thou find,<br>
Why form'd so weak, so little, and so blind?<br>
First, if thou canst, the harder reason guess,<br>
Why form'd no weaker, blinder, and no less?<br>
Ask of thy mother earth, why oaks are made<br>
Taller or stronger than the weeds they shade?<br>
Or ask of yonder argent fields above,<br>
Why <b>Jove's</b> satellites are less than <b>Jove</b>? <br><br>

Of Systems possible, if 'tis confest<br>
That Wisdom infinite must form the best,<br>
Where all must full or not coherent be,<br>
And all that rises, rise in due degree;<br>
Then, in the scale of reas'ning life, 'tis plain,<br>
There must be, somewhere, such a rank as Man:<br>
And all the question (wrangle e'er so long)<br>
Is only this, if God has plac'd him wrong?<br><br>

Respecting Man, whatever wrong we call,<br>
May, must be right, as relative to all.<br>
In human works, tho' labour'd on with pain,<br>
A thousand movements scarce one purpose gain;<br>
In God's, one single can its end produce;<br>
Yet serves to second too some other use.<br>
So Man, who here seems principal alone,<br>
Perhaps acts second to some sphere unknown, <br>
Touches some wheel, or verges to some goal; <br>
'Tis but a part we see, and not a whole.<br><br>

When the proud steed shall know why Man restrains<br>
His fiery course, or drives him o'er the plains:<br>
When the dull Ox, why now he breaks the clod,<br>
Is now a victim, and now Ægypt's God:<br>
Then shall Man's pride and dulness comprehend <br>
His actions', passions', being's, use and end;<br>
Why doing, suff'ring, check'd, impell'd; and why<br>
This hour a slave, the next a deity. <br><br>

Then say not Man's imperfect, Heav'n in fault;<br>
Say rather, Man's as perfect as he ought:<br>
His knowledge measur'd to his state and place;<br>
His time a moment, and a point his space.<br>
If to be perfect in a certain sphere,<br>
What matter, soon or late, or here or there?<br>
The blest to day is as completely so,,<br>
As who began a thousand years ago. </td>
	<td width="5%">35<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
40<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
45<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
50<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
55<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
60<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
65<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
70<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
75<br>
<br></td>
</tr>
</table>

<table summary="Epistle1self3" width="70%" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="20">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td width="15%"><span style="font-size: 150%;">III</span></td>
	<td width="80%">Heav'n from all creatures hides the book of Fate,<br>
All but the page prescrib'd, their present state:<br>
From brutes what men, from men what spirits know:<br>
Or who could suffer Being here below?<br>
The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day,<br>
Had he thy Reason, would he skip and play?<br>
Pleas'd to the last, he crops the flow'ry food,<br>
And licks the hand just rais'd to shed his blood.<br>
Oh blindness to the future! kindly giv'n,<br>
That each may fill the circle mark'd by Heav'n:<br>
Who sees with equal eye, as God of all,<br>
A hero perish, or a sparrow fall,<br>
Atoms or systems into ruin hurl'd,<br>
And now a bubble burst, and now a world.<br><br>

Hope humbly then: with trembling pinions soar; <br>
Wait the great teacher Death; and God adore. <br>
What future bliss, he gives not thee to know, <br>
But gives that Hope to be thy blessing now. <br>
Hope springs eternal in the human breast:<br>
Man never Is, but always To be blest: <br>
The soul, uneasy and confin'd from home, <br>
Rests and expatiates in a life to come. <br><br>

Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutor'd mind<br>
Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind:<br>
His soul, proud Science never taught to stray<br>
Far as the solar walk, or milky way;<br>
Yet simple Nature to his hope has giv'n,<br>
Behind the cloud-topt hill, an humbler heav'n;<br>
Some safer world in depth of woods embrac'd,<br>
Some happier island in the watry waste,<br>
Where slaves once more their native land behold,<br>
No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold.<br>
To Be, contents his natural desire, <br>
He asks no Angel's wing, no Seraph's fire;<br>
But thinks, admitted to that equal sky,<br>
His faithful dog shall bear him company. </td>
	<td width="5%"><br>
<br>
<br>
80<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
85<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
90<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
95<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
100<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
105<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
110<br>
<br>
<br></td>
</tr>
</table>


<table summary="Epistle1self4" width="70%" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="20">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td width="15%"><span style="font-size: 150%;">IV</span></td>
	<td width="80%">Go, wiser thou! and, in thy scale of sense,<br>
Weight thy Opinion against Providence; <br>
Call imperfection what thou fancy'st such,<br>
Say, here he gives too little, there too much:<br>
Destroy all Creatures for thy sport or gust,<br>
Yet cry, If Man's unhappy, God's unjust;<br>
If Man alone engross not Heav'n's high care,<br>
Alone made perfect here, immortal there:<br>
Snatch from his hand the balance and the rod,<br>
Re-judge his justice, be the God of God.<br>
In Pride, in reas'ning Pride, our error lies;<br>
All quit their sphere, and rush into the skies. <br><br>

Pride still is aiming at the blest abodes,<br>
Men would be Angels, Angels would be Gods. <br>
Aspiring to be Gods, if Angels fell, <br>
Aspiring to be Angels, Men rebel: <br>
And who but wishes to invert the laws <br>
Of <b>Order</b>, sins against th' Eternal Cause.</td>
	<td width="5%"><br>
<br>
115<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
120<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
125<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
130</td>
</tr>
</table>

<table summary="Epistle1self5" width="70%" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="20">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td width="15%"><span style="font-size: 150%;">V</span></td>
	<td width="80%">Ask for what end the heav'nly bodies shine,<br>
Earth for whose use? Pride answers, "'Tis for mine:<br>
For me kind Nature wakes her genial Pow'r,<br>
Suckles each herb, and spreads out ev'ry flow'r;<br>
Annual for me, the grape, the rose renew<br>
The juice nectareous, and the balmy dew;<br>
For me, the mine a thousand treasures brings;<br>
For me, health gushes from a thousand springs;<br>
Seas roll to waft me, suns to light me rise;<br>
My foot-stool earth, my canopy the skies."<br><br>

But errs not Nature from his gracious end,<br>
From burning suns when livid deaths descend,<br>
When earthquakes swallow, or when tempests sweep<br>
Towns to one grave, whole nations to the deep?<br>
"No, ('tis reply'd) the first Almighty Cause<br>
Acts not by partial, but by gen'ral laws;<br>
Th' exceptions few; some change since all began:<br>
And what created perfect?" &mdash; Why then Man?<br>
If the great end be human Happiness, <br>
Then Nature deviates; and can Man do less?<br>
As much that end a constant course requires<br>
Of show'rs and sun-shine, as of Man's desires;<br>
As much eternal springs and cloudless skies,<br>
As Men for ever temp'rate, calm, and wise.<br>
If plagues or earthquakes break not Heav'n's design,<br>
Why then a Borgia, or a Catiline?<br>
Who knows but he, whose hand the lightning forms, <br>
Who heaves old Ocean, and who wings the storms; <br>
Pours fierce Ambition in a Caesar's mind, <br>
Or turns young Ammon loose to scourge mankind?<br>
From pride, from pride, our very reas'ning springs; <br>
Account for moral, as for nat'ral things: <br>
Why charge we Heav'n in those, in these acquit? <br>
In both, to reason right is to submit. <br><br>

Better for Us, perhaps, it might appear,<br>
Were there all harmony, all virtue here;<br>
That never air or ocean felt the wind;<br>
That never passion discompos'd the mind.<br>
But <b>All</b> subsists by elemental strife; <br>
And Passions are the elements of Life.<br>
The gen'ral <b>Order</b>, since the whole began,<br>
Is kept in Nature, and is kept in Man. </td>
	<td width="5%"><br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
135<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
140<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
145<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
150<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
155<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
160<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
165<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
170<br>
<br>
<br></td>
</tr>
</table>

<table summary="Epistle1self6" width="70%" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="20">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td width="15%"><span style="font-size: 150%;">VI</span></td>
	<td width="80%">What would this Man? Now upward will he soar,<br>
And little less than Angel, would be more;<br>
Now looking downwards, just as griev'd appears<br>
To want the strength of bulls, the fur of bears.<br>
Made for his use all creatures if he call,<br>
Say what their use, had he the pow'rs of all?<br>
Nature to these, without profusion, kind,<br>
The proper organs, proper pow'rs assign'd;<br>
Each seeming want compensated of course,<br>
Here with degrees of swiftness, there of force;<br>
All in exact proportion to the state;<br>
Nothing to add, and nothing to abate. <br>
Each beast, each insect, happy in its own:<br>
Is Heav'n unkind to Man, and Man alone?<br>
Shall he alone, whom rational we call,<br>
Be pleas'd with nothing, if not bless'd with all? <br><br>

The bliss of Man (could Pride that blessing find)<br>
Is not to act or think beyond mankind;<br>
No pow'rs of body or of soul to share, <br>
But what his nature and his state can bear. <br>
Why has not Man a microscopic eye? <br>
For this plain reason, Man is not a Fly. <br>
Say what the use, were finer optics giv'n,<br>
T' inspect a mite, not comprehend the heav'n? <br>
Or touch, if tremblingly alive all o'er, <br>
To smart and agonize at every pore? <br>
Or quick effluvia darting thro' the brain, <br>
Die of a rose in aromatic pain?<br>
If Nature thunder'd in his op'ning ears, <br>
And stunn'd him with the music of the spheres, <br>
How would he wish that Heav'n had left him still <br>
The whisp'ring Zephyr, and the purling rill? <br>
Who finds not Providence all good and wise,<br>
Alike in what it gives, and what denies? </td>
	<td width="5%"><br>
<br>
175<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
180<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
185<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
190<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
195<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
200<br><br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
205<br>
<br></td>
</tr>
</table>

<table summary="Epistle1self7" width="70%" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="20">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td width="15%"><span style="font-size: 150%;">VII</span></td>
	<td width="80%">Far as Creation's ample range extends,<br>
The scale of sensual, mental pow'rs ascends:<br>
Mark how it mounts, to Man's imperial race,<br>
From the green myriads in the peopled grass:<br>
What modes of sight betwixt each wide extreme,<br>
The mole's dim curtain, and the lynx's beam:<br>
Of smell, the headlong lioness between,<br>
And hound sagacious on the tainted green:<br>
Of hearing, from the life that fills the Flood,<br>
To that which warbles thro' the vernal wood:<br>
The spider's touch, how exquisitely fine!<br>
Feels at each thread, and lives along the line:<br>
In the nice bee, what sense so subtly true<br>
From pois'nous herbs extracts the healing dew?<br>
How Instinct varies in the grov'lling swine,<br>
Compar'd, half-reas'ning elephant, with thine!<br>
'Twixt that, and Reason, what a nice barrier, <br>
For ever sep'rate, yet for ever near! <br>
Remembrance and Reflection how ally'd;<br>
What thin partitions Sense from Thought divide: <br>
And Middle natures, how they long to join, <br>
Yet never pass th' insuperable line! <br>
Without this just gradation, could they be <br>
Subjected, these to those, or all to thee?<br>
The pow'rs of all subdu'd by thee alone, <br>
Is not thy Reason all these pow'rs in one? </td>
	<td width="5%"><br>
<br>
<br>
210<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
215<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
220<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
225<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
230<br>
<br>
<br></td>
</tr>
</table>

<table summary="Epistle1self8" width="70%" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="20">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td width="15%"><span style="font-size: 150%;">VIII</span></td>
	<td width="80%">See, thro' this air, this ocean, and this earth,<br>
All matter quick, and bursting into birth.<br>
Above, how high, progressive life may go!<br>
Around, how wide! how deep extend below!<br>
Vast chain of Being! which from God began,<br>
Natures ethereal, human, angel, man,<br>
Beast, bird, fish, insect, what no eye can see,<br>
No glass can reach; from Infinite to thee,<br>
From thee to Nothing. &mdash; On superior pow'rs<br>
Were we to press, inferior might on ours:<br>
Or in the full creation leave a void,<br>
Where, one step broken, the great scale's destroy'd:<br>
From Nature's chain whatever link you strike,<br>
Tenth or ten thousandth, breaks the chain alike. <br>
  <br>
And, if each system in gradation roll<br>
Alike essential to th' amazing Whole,<br>
The least confusion but in one, not all <br>
That system only, but the Whole must fall.<br>
Let Earth unbalanc'd from her orbit fly,<br>
Planets and Suns run lawless thro' the sky;<br>
Let ruling Angels from their spheres be hurl'd,<br>
Being on Being wreck'd, and world on world;<br>
Heav'n's whole foundations to their centre nod,<br>
And Nature tremble to the throne of God. <br>
All this dread <b>Order</b> break &mdash; for whom? for thee?<br>
Vile worm! &mdash; Oh Madness! Pride! Impiety! </td>
	<td width="5%"><br>
<br>
235<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
240<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
245<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
250<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
255<br>
<br>
<br>
<br></td>
</tr>
</table>

<table summary="Epistle1self9" width="70%" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="20">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td width="15%"><span style="font-size: 150%;">IX</span></td>
	<td width="80%">What if the foot, ordain'd the dust to tread,<br>
Or hand, to toil, aspir'd to be the head?<br>
What if the head, the eye, or ear repin'd<br>
To serve mere engines to the ruling Mind?<br>
Just as absurd for any part to claim<br>
To be another, in this gen'ral frame: <br>
Just as absurd, to mourn the tasks or pains,<br>
The great directing <b>Mind</b> of <b>All</b> ordains. <br><br>

All are but parts of one stupendous whole,<br>
Whose body Nature is, and God the soul;<br>
That, chang'd thro' all, and yet in all the same;<br>
Great in the earth, as in th' ethereal frame;<br>
Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze,<br>
Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees,<br>
Lives thro' all life, extends thro' all extent,<br>
Spreads undivided, operates unspent; <br>
Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part,<br>
As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart:<br>
As full, as perfect, in vile Man that mourns,<br>
As the rapt Seraph that adores and burns:<br>
To him no high, no low, no great, no small;<br>
He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all.</td>
	<td width="5%"><br>
260<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
265<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
270<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
275<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
280</td>
</tr>
</table>

<table summary="Epistle1self10" width="70%" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="20">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td width="15%"><span style="font-size: 150%;">X</span></td>
	<td width="80%">Cease then, nor <b>Order</b> Imperfection name:<br>
Our proper bliss depends on what we blame.<br>
Know thy own point: This kind, this due degree<br>
Of blindness, weakness, Heav'n bestows on thee.<br>
Submit. &mdash; In this, or any other sphere,<br>
Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear:<br>
Safe in the hand of one disposing Pow'r,<br>
Or in the natal, or the mortal hour.<br>
All Nature is but Art, unknown to thee; <br>
All Chance, Direction, which thou canst not see;<br>
All Discord, Harmony not understood; <br>
All partial Evil, universal Good: <br>
And, spite of Pride, in erring Reason's spite, <br>
One truth is clear, <b>Whatever Is, Is Right</b>. </td>
	<td width="5%"><br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
285<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
290<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br></td>
</tr>
</table><br>
<br>
<p><a href="#toc">Contents</a></p>
<hr><br><br>

<h2><a name="section4">Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot</a></h2>
<br>
<a name="advertepist"></a><h3>Advertisement to the first publication of this <i>Epistle</i></h3><br>

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 <i>Verses to the Imitator of Horace</i>, and of
an <i>Epistle to a Doctor of Divinity from a Nobleman at Hampton
Court</i>) to attack, in a very extraordinary manner, not only my
Writings (of which, being public, the Public is judge), but my
P<i>erson, Morals</i>, and <i>Family</i>, whereof, to those who know me
not, a truer information may be requisite. Being divided between the
necessity to say something of <i>myself</i>, 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 any thing pleasing, it will be
that by which I am most desirous to please, the <i>Truth</i> and the
<i>Sentiment</i>; and if any thing offensive, it will be only to those I
am least sorry to offend, <i>the vicious</i> or <i>the ungenerous</i>.<br>
<br>
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
<i>Names</i>, and they may escape being laughed at, if they please.<br>
<br>
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
<i>truth</i> and <i>likeness</i>. <br>
<br>
P. <br>
<br>
<p><a href="#toc">Contents</a></p>
<hr><br><br>
<a name="epiarbself"></a><h3>Epistle to Dr Arnuthnot</h3>
<br>
<table summary="epistle to d a" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="20">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td>P. shut, shut the door, good John! fatigu'd, I said,<br>
Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead.<br>
The Dog-star rages! nay't is past a doubt,<br>
All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out:<br>
Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand,<br>
They rave, recite, and madden round the land. <br><br>

What walls can guard me, or what shade can hide?<br>
They pierce my thickets, thro' my Grot they glide;<br>
By land, by water, they renew the charge;<br>
They stop the chariot, and they board the barge.<br>
No place is sacred, not the Church is free;<br>
Ev'n Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me;<br>
Then from the Mint walks forth the Man of rhyme,<br>
Happy to catch me just at Dinner-time. <br><br>

Is there a Parson, much bemus'd in beer,<br>
A maudlin Poetess, a rhyming Peer,<br>
A Clerk, foredoom'd his father's soul to cross,<br>
Who pens a Stanza, when he should <i>engross</i>?<br>
Is there, who, lock'd from ink and paper, scrawls<br>
With desp'rate charcoal round his darken'd walls?<br>
All fly to <b>Twit'nam</b>, and in humble strain<br>
Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain.<br>
Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the Laws,<br>
Imputes to me and my damn'd works the cause:<br>
Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope,<br>
And curses Wit, and Poetry, and Pope. <br><br>

Friend to my Life! (which did not you prolong,<br>
The world had wanted many an idle song)<br>
What <i>Drop</i> or <i>Nostrum</i> can this plague remove?<br>
Or which must end me, a Fool's wrath or love?<br>
A dire dilemma! either way I'm sped,<br>
If foes, they write, if friends, they read me dead.<br>
Seiz'd and tied down to judge, how wretched I!<br>
Who can't be silent, and who will not lie.<br>
To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace,<br>
And to be grave, exceeds all Pow'r of face.<br>
I sit with sad civility, I read<br>
With honest anguish, and an aching head; <br>
And drop at last, but in unwilling ears, <br>
This saving counsel, "Keep your piece nine years."<br><br>

"Nine years!" cries he, who high in Drury-lane,<br>
Lull'd by soft Zephyrs thro' the broken pane,<br>
Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before <i>Term</i> ends,<br>
Oblig'd by hunger, and request of friends:<br>
"The piece, you think, is incorrect? why, take it,<br>
I'm all submission, what you'd have it, make it."<br><br>

Three things another's modest wishes bound,<br>
My Friendship, and a Prologue, and ten pound. <br><br>

Pitholeon sends to me: "You know his Grace<br>
I want a Patron; ask him for a Place."<br>
"Pitholeon libell'd me," &mdash; "but here's a letter<br>
Informs you, Sir, 't was when he knew no better.<br>
Dare you refuse him? Curll invites to dine",<br>
"He'll write a <i>Journal</i>, or he'll turn Divine." <br><br>

Bless me! a packet. &mdash; "'Tis a stranger sues,<br>
A Virgin Tragedy, an Orphan Muse."<br>
If I dislike it, "Furies, death and rage!"<br>
If I approve, "Commend it to the Stage."<br>
There (thank my stars) my whole Commission ends,<br>
The Play'rs and I are, luckily, no friends,<br>
Fir'd that the house reject him, "'Sdeath I'll print it,<br>
And shame the fools &mdash; Your Int'rest, Sir, with Lintot!"<br>
'Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much:'<br>
"Not, Sir, if you revise it, and retouch."<br>
All my demurs but double his Attacks;<br>
At last he whispers, "Do; and we go snacks."<br>
Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door,<br>
Sir, let me see your works and you no more. <br><br>

'Tis sung, when Midas' Ears began to spring,<br>
(Midas, a sacred person and a king)<br>
His very Minister who spy'd them first, <br>
(Some say his Queen) was forc'd to speak, or burst.<br>
And is not mine, my friend, a sorer case,<br>
When ev'ry coxcomb perks them in my face?<br>
A. Good friend, forbear! you deal in dang'rous things.<br>
I'd never name Queens, Ministers, or Kings;<br>
Keep close to Ears, and those let asses prick;<br>
'Tis nothing &mdash; P. Nothing? if they bite and kick?<br>
Out with it, <b>Dunciad</b>! let the secret pass,<br>
That secret to each fool, that he's an Ass:<br>
The truth once told (and wherefore should we lie?)<br>
The Queen of Midas slept, and so may I.<br>
  <br>
You think this cruel? take it for a rule,<br>
No creature smarts so little as a fool. <br>
Let peals of laughter, Codrus! round thee break,<br>
Thou unconcern'd canst hear the mighty crack:<br>
Pit, Box, and gall'ry in convulsions hurl'd,<br>
Thou stand'st unshook amidst a bursting world.<br>
Who shames a Scribbler? break one cobweb thro',<br>
He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew:<br>
Destroy his fib or sophistry, in vain,<br>
The creature's at his dirty work again,<br>
Thron'd in the centre of his thin designs,<br>
Proud of a vast extent of flimsy lines! <br>
Whom have I hurt? has Poet yet, or Peer<br>
Lost the arch'd eye-brow, or Parnassian sneer? <br><br>

       *       *       *       *       *<br>
       <br>
Does not one table Bavius still admit? <br>
Still to one Bishop Philips seem a wit? <br>
Still Sappho &mdash; A. Hold! for God's sake &mdash; you 'll offend, <br>
No Names! &mdash; be calm! &mdash; learn prudence of a friend!<br>
I too could write, and I am twice as tall; <br>
But foes like these &mdash; P. One Flatt'rer's worse than all. <br>
Of all mad creatures, if the learn'd are right, <br>
It is the slaver kills, and not the bite. <br>
A fool quite angry is quite innocent:<br>
Alas! 'tis ten times worse when they <i>repent</i>. <br><br>

One dedicates in high heroic prose,<br>
And ridicules beyond a hundred foes:<br>
One from all Grubstreet will my fame defend,<br>
And more abusive, calls himself my friend.<br>
This prints my <i>Letters</i>, that expects a bribe,<br>
And others roar aloud, "Subscribe, subscribe." <br><br>

There are, who to my person pay their court:<br>
I cough like <i>Horace</i>, and, tho' lean, am short,<br>
<i>Ammon's</i> great son one shoulder had too high,<br>
Such <i>Ovid's</i> nose, and "Sir! you have an Eye" &mdash; <br>
Go on, obliging creatures, make me see<br>
All that disgrac'd my Betters, met in me.<br>
Say for my comfort, languishing in bed, <br>
"Just so immortal <i>Maro</i> held his head:"<br>
And when I die, be sure you let me know<br>
Great <i>Homer</i> died three thousand years ago. <br><br>

Why did I write? what sin to me unknown<br>
Dipt me in ink, my parents', or my own?<br>
As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame,  <br>
I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came.<br>
I left no calling for this idle trade,<br>
No duty broke, no father disobey'd.<br>
The Muse but serv'd to ease some friend, not Wife,<br>
To help me thro' this long disease, my Life,<br>
To second, <b>Arbuthnot</b>! thy Art and Care,<br>
And teach the Being you preserv'd, to bear. <br><br>

But why then publish? <i>Granville</i> the polite,<br>
And knowing <i>Walsh</i>, would tell me I could write;<br>
Well-natur'd <i>Garth</i> inflam'd with early praise;<br>
And <i>Congreve</i> lov'd, and <i>Swift</i> endur'd my lays;<br>
The courtly <i>Talbot, Somers, Sheffield</i>, read; <br>
Ev'n mitred <i>Rochester</i> would nod the head, <br>
And <i>St. John's</i> self (great <i>Dryden's</i> friends before) <br>
With open arms receiv'd one Poet more.<br>
Happy my studies, when by these approv'd! <br>
Happier their author, when by these belov'd! <br>
From these the world will judge of men and books, <br>
Not from the <i>Burnets, Oldmixons</i>, and <i>Cookes</i>. <br>
  <br>
Soft were my numbers; who could take offence,<br>
While pure Description held the place of Sense?<br>
Like gentle <i>Fanny's</i> was my flow'ry theme,<br>
A painted mistress, or a purling stream.<br>
Yet then did <i>Gildon</i> draw his venal quill; &mdash; <br>
I wish'd the man a dinner, and sat still.<br>
Yet then did <i>Dennis</i> rave in furious fret;<br>
I never answer'd, &mdash; I was not in debt.<br>
If want provok'd, or madness made them print,<br>
I wag'd no war with <i>Bedlam</i> or the <i>Mint</i>. <br>
  <br>
Did some more sober Critic come abroad;<br>
If wrong, I smil'd; if right, I kiss'd the rod.<br>
Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence,<br>
And all they want is spirit, taste, and sense.<br>
Commas and points they set exactly right,<br>
And 'twere a sin to rob them of their mite.<br>
Yet ne'er one sprig of laurel grac'd these ribalds,<br>
From slashing <i>Bentley</i> down to pidling <i>Tibalds</i>:<br>
Each wight, who reads not, and but scans and spells,<br>
Each Word-catcher, that lives on syllables,<br>
Ev'n such small Critics some regard may claim,<br>
Preserv'd in <i>Milton's</i> or in <i>Shakespeare's</i> name.<br>
Pretty! in amber to observe the forms<br>
Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms!<br>
The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare,<br>
But wonder how the devil they got there.<br><br>

Were others angry: I excus'd them too;<br>
Well might they rage, I gave them but their due.<br>
A man's true merit 'tis not hard to find;<br>
But each man's secret standard in his mind,<br>
That Casting-weight pride adds to emptiness,<br>
This, who can gratify? for who can <i>guess?</i><br>
The Bard whom pilfer'd Pastorals renown,<br>
Who turns a Persian tale for half a Crown,<br>
Just writes to make his barrenness appear,<br>
And strains, from hard-bound brains, eight lines a year;<br>
He, who still wanting, tho' he lives on theft,<br>
Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left:<br>
And He, who now to sense, now nonsense leaning,<br>
Means not, but blunders round about a meaning:<br>
And He, whose fustian's so sublimely bad,<br>
It is not Poetry, but prose run mad:<br>
All these, my modest Satire bade <i>translate</i>,<br>
And own'd that nine such Poets made a <i>Tate</i>.<br>
How did they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe!<br>
And swear, not <b>Addison</b> himself was safe.<br>
  <br>
Peace to all such! but were there One whose fires<br>
True Genius kindles, and fair Fame inspires;<br>
Blest with each talent and each art to please,<br>
And born to write, converse, and live with ease:<br>
Should such a man, too fond to rule alone,<br>
Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne.<br>
View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes,<br>
And hate for arts that caus'd himself to rise;<br>
Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer,<br>
And without sneering, teach the rest to sneer;<br>
Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike,<br>
Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike;<br>
Alike reserv'd to blame, or to commend. <br><br>

A tim'rous foe, and a suspicious friend; <br>
Dreading ev'n fools, by Flatterers besieg'd,<br>
And so obliging, that he ne'er oblig'd; <br>
Like <i>Cato</i>, give his little Senate laws, <br>
And sit attentive to his own applause; <br>
While Wits and Templars ev'ry sentence raise, <br>
And wonder with a foolish face of praise: &mdash; <br>
Who but must laugh, if such a man there be? <br>
Who would not weep, if Atticus were he? <br><br>

What tho' my Name stood rubric on the walls<br>
Or plaister'd posts, with claps, in capitals?<br>
Or smoking forth, a hundred hawkers' load,5<br>
On wings of winds came flying all abroad?<br>
I sought no homage from the Race that write;<br>
I kept, like Asian Monarchs, from their sight:<br>
Poems I heeded (now be-rhym'd so long)<br>
No more than thou, great George! a birth-day song.<br>
I ne'er with wits or witlings pass'd my days,<br>
To spread about the itch of verse and praise;<br>
Nor like a puppy, daggled thro' the town,<br>
To fetch and carry sing-song up and down;<br>
Nor at Rehearsals sweat, and mouth'd, and cry'd,<br>
With handkerchief and orange at my side;<br>
But sick of fops, and poetry, and prate,<br>
To Bufo left the whole Castalian state. <br><br>

Proud as Apollo on his forked hill, <br>
Sat full-blown Bufo, puff'd by ev'ry quill;<br>
Fed with soft Dedication all day long.<br>
Horace and he went hand in hand in song.<br>
His Library (where busts of Poets dead<br>
And a true Pindar stood without a head,)<br>
Receiv'd of wits an undistinguish'd race,<br>
Who first his judgment ask'd, and then a place: <br>
Much they extoll'd his pictures, much his seat, <br>
And flatter'd ev'ry day, and some days eat: <br>
Till grown more frugal in his riper days, <br>
He paid some bards with port, and some with praise;<br>
To some a dry rehearsal saw assign'd, <br>
And others (harder still) he paid in kind. <br>
<i>Dryden</i> alone (what wonder?) came not nigh, <br>
<i>Dryden</i> alone escap'd this judging eye: <br>
But still the <i>Great</i> have kindness in reserve,<br>
He help'd to bury whom he help'd to starve. <br><br>

May some choice patron bless each gray goose quill!<br>
May ev'ry <i>Bavius</i> have his <i>Bufo</i> still!<br>
So, when a Statesman wants a day's defence,<br>
Or Envy holds a whole week's war with Sense,<br>
Or simple pride for flatt'ry makes demands,<br>
May dunce by dunce be whistled off my hands!<br>
Blest be the <i>Great!</i> for those they take away.<br>
And those they left me; for they left me Gay;<br>
Left me to see neglected Genius bloom,<br>
Neglected die, and tell it on his tomb:<br>
Of all thy blameless life the sole return<br>
My Verse, and Queenb'ry weeping o'er thy urn. <br><br>

Oh let me live my own, and die so too! <br>
(To live and die is all I have to do:)<br>
Maintain a Poet's dignity and ease,<br>
And see what friends, and read what books I please;<br>
Above a Patron, tho' I condescend<br>
Sometimes to call a minister my friend. <br>
I was not born for Courts or great affairs;<br>
I pay my debts, believe, and say my pray'rs;<br>
Can sleep without a Poem in my head;<br>
Nor know, if <i>Dennis</i> be alive or dead. <br><br>

Why am I ask'd what next shall see the light? <br>
Heav'ns! was I born for nothing but to write?<br>
Has Life no joys for me? or, (to be grave) <br>
Have I no friend to serve, no soul to save? <br>
"I found him close with <i>Swift</i>" &mdash; 'Indeed? no doubt,' <br>
(Cries prating <i>Balbus</i>) 'something will come out.' <br>
'Tis all in vain, deny it as I will.<br>
'No, such a Genius never can lie still;' <br>
And then for mine obligingly mistakes <br>
The first Lampoon Sir <i>Will</i>, or <i>Bubo</i> makes. <br>
Poor guiltless I! and can I choose but smile, <br>
When ev'ry Coxcomb knows me by my <i>Style</i>?<br>
  <br>
Curst be the verse, how well soe'er it flow,<br>
That tends to make one worthy man my foe,<br>
Give Virtue scandal, Innocence a fear,<br>
Or from the soft-eyed Virgin steal a tear!<br>
But he who hurts a harmless neighbour's peace,<br>
Insults fall'n worth, or Beauty in distress,<br>
Who loves a Lie, lame slander helps about,<br>
Who writes a Libel, or who copies out:<br>
That Fop, whose pride affects a patron's name,<br>
Yet absent, wounds an author's honest fame:<br>
Who can <i>your</i> merit <i>selfishly</i> approve.<br>
And show the <i>sense</i> of it without the <i>love</i>;<br>
Who has the vanity to call you friend,<br>
Yet wants the honour, injur'd, to defend;<br>
Who tells whate'er you think, whate'er you say,<br>
And, if he lie not, must at least betray:<br>
Who to the <i>Dean</i>, and <i>silver bell</i> can swear,<br>
And sees at <i>Canons</i> what was never there;<br>
Who reads, but with a lust to misapply,<br>
Make Satire a Lampoon, and Fiction, Lie.<br>
A lash like mine no honest man shall dread,<br>
But all such babbling blockheads in his stead. <br><br>

Let <i>Sporus</i> tremble &mdash; A. What? that thing of silk,<br>
<i>Sporus</i>, that mere white curd of Ass's milk?<br>
Satire or sense, alas! can <i>Sporus</i> feel?<br>
Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?<br>
P. Yet let me flap this bug with gilded wings,<br>
This painted child of dirt, that stinks and stings;<br>
Whose buzz the witty and the fair annoys,<br>
Yet wit ne'er tastes, and beauty ne'er enjoys:<br>
So well-bred spaniels civilly delight<br>
In mumbling of the game they dare not bite.<br>
Eternal smiles his emptiness betray,<br>
As shallow streams run dimpling all the way.<br>
Whether in florid impotence he speaks,<br>
And, as the prompter breathes, the puppet squeaks;<br>
Or at the ear of <i>Eve</i>, familiar Toad,<br>
Half froth, half venom, spits himself abroad,<br>
In puns, or politics, or tales, or lies, <br>
Or spite, or smut, or rhymes, or blasphemies.<br>
(His wit all see-saw, between <i>that</i> and <i>this</i>,<br>
(Now high, now low, now master up, now miss,<br>
(And he himself one vile Antithesis.<br>
Amphibious thing! that acting either part,<br>
The trifling head or the corrupted heart,<br>
Fop at the toilet, flatt'rer at the board,<br>
Now trips a Lady, and now struts a Lord.<br>
<i>Eve's</i> tempter thus the Rabbins have exprest,<br>
A Cherub's face, a reptile all the rest; <br>
Beauty that shocks you, parts that none will trust;<br>
Wit that can creep, and pride that licks the dust. <br>
  <br>
Not Fortune's worshipper, nor fashion's fool,<br>
Not Lucre's madman, nor Ambition's tool,<br>
Not proud, nor servile; &mdash; be one Poet's praise,<br>
That, if he pleas'd, he pleas'd by manly ways:<br>
That Flatt'ry, ev'n to Kings, he held a shame, <br>
And thought a Lie in verse or prose the same. <br>
That not in Fancy's maze he wander'd long, <br>
But stoop'd to Truth, and moraliz'd his song: <br>
That not for Fame, but Virtue's better end,<br>
He stood the furious foe, the timid friend, <br>
The damning critic, half approving wit, <br>
The coxcomb hit, or fearing to be hit; <br>
Laugh'd at the loss of friends he never had, <br>
The dull, the proud, the wicked, and the mad;<br>
The distant threats of vengeance on his head, <br>
The blow unfelt, the tear he never shed; <br>
The tale reviv'd, the lie so oft o'erthrown, <br>
Th' imputed trash, and dulness not his own; <br>
The morals blacken'd when the writings scape,<br>
The libell'd person, and the pictur'd shape; <br>
Abuse, on all he lov'd, or lov'd him, spread, <br>
A friend in exile, or a father, dead; <br>
The whisper, that to greatness still too near, <br>
Perhaps, yet vibrates on his <b>Sov'reign's</b> ear: &mdash; <br>
Welcome for thee, fair <i>Virtue</i>! all the past; <br>
For thee, fair Virtue! welcome ev'n the <i>last</i>! <br>
  A. But why insult the poor, affront the great?<br>
P. A knave's a knave, to me, in ev'ry state:<br>
Alike my scorn, if he succeed or fail,<br>
<i>Sporus</i> at court, or <i>Japhet</i> in a jail<br>
A hireling scribbler, or a hireling peer,<br>
Knight of the post corrupt, or of the shire;<br>
If on a Pillory, or near a Throne,<br>
He gain his Prince's ear, or lose his own.<br>
  Yet soft by nature, more a dupe than wit,<br>
<i>Sappho</i> can tell you how this man was bit;<br>
This dreaded Sat'rist <i>Dennis</i> will confess <br>
Foe to his pride, but friend to his distress: <br>
So humble, he has knock'd at <i>Tibbald's</i> door,<br>
Has drunk with <i>Cibber</i>, nay has rhym'd for <i>Moore</i>. <br>
Full ten years slander'd, did he once reply? <br>
Three thousand suns went down on <i>Welsted's</i> lie. <br>
To please a Mistress one aspers'd his life; <br>
He lash'd him not, but let her be his wife.<br>
Let <i>Budgel</i> charge low <i>Grubstreet</i> on his quill, <br>
And write whate'er he pleas'd, except his Will; <br>
Let the two <i>Curlls</i> of Town and Court, abuse <br>
His father, mother, body, soul, and muse. <br>
Yet why? that Father held it for a rule,<br>
It was a sin to call our neighbour fool: <br>
That harmless Mother thought no wife a whore: <br>
Hear this, and spare his family, <i>James Moore!</i> <br>
Unspotted names, and memorable long! <br>
If there be force in Virtue, or in Song.<br>
  <br>
Of gentle blood (part shed in Honour's cause.<br>
While yet in <i>Britain</i> Honour had applause)<br>
Each parent sprung &mdash; A. What fortune, pray? &mdash; P. Their own, <br>
And better got, than <i>Bestia's</i> from the throne.<br>
Born to no Pride, inheriting no Strife,<br>
Nor marrying Discord in a noble wife,<br>
Stranger to civil and religious rage,<br>
The good man walk'd innoxious thro' his age.<br>
Nor Courts he saw, no suits would ever try,<br>
Nor dar'd an Oath, nor hazarded a Lie.<br>
Un-learn'd, he knew no schoolman's subtle art,<br>
No language, but the language of the heart.<br>
By Nature honest, by Experience wise,<br>
Healthy by temp'rance, and by exercise;<br>
His life, tho' long, to sickness past unknown,<br>
His death was instant, and without a groan. <br>
O grant me, thus to live, and thus to die! <br>
Who sprung from Kings shall know less joy than I. <br>
  <br>
O Friend! may each domestic bliss be thine!<br>
Be no unpleasing Melancholy mine:<br>
Me, let the tender office long engage,<br>
To rock the cradle of reposing Age,<br>
With lenient arts extend a Mother's breath,<br>
Make Languor smile, and smooth the bed of Death,<br>
Explore the thought, explain the asking eye,<br>
And keep a while one parent from the sky!<br>
On cares like these if length of days attend,<br>
May Heav'n, to bless those days, preserve my friend,<br>
Preserve him social, cheerful, and serene,<br>
And just as rich as when he serv'd a <b>Queen</b>.<br>
A. Whether that blessing be deny'd or giv'n,<br>
Thus far was right, the rest belongs to Heav'n.</td>
<td><br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
5<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
10<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
15<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
20<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
25<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
30<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
35<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
40<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

45<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
50<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
55<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
60<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
65<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

70<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
75<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
80<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
85<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
90<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
95<br>
<br>
<br><br>
<br>
<br>

<br>
<br>
100<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
105<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
110<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
115<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
120<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
125<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
130<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
135<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
140<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
145<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
150<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
155<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
160<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
165<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
170<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
175<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
180<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
185<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
190<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
195<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
200<br><br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

205<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
210<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
215<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
220<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
225<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
230<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
235<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
240<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
245<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
250<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
255<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
<br>
260<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
265<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
270<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
275<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
280<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
285<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
290<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
295<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
300<br><br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
305<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
310<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
315<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
320<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
325<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
330<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
335<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
340<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
345<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
350<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
355<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
360<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
365<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
370<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
375<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
380<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
385<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
390<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
395<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
400<br><br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
405<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
410<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
415<br>
<br>
<br></td>
</tr>
</table><br>

<br>
<p><a href="#toc">Contents</a></p><hr><br><br>



<h2><a name="section5">Ode on Solitude</a></h2><br>

<table summary="ode on solitude" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="20">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td>Happy the man whose wish and care <br>
  A few paternal acres bound,<br>
Content to breathe his native air,<br>
    In his own ground. <br><br>

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,<br>
  Whose flocks supply him with attire,<br>
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,<br>
    In winter fire. <br><br>

Blest, who can unconcern'dly find <br>
  Hours, days, and years slide soft away,<br>
In health of body, peace of mind,<br>
    Quiet by day, <br><br>

Sound sleep by night; study and ease, <br>
  Together mixt; sweet recreation; <br>
And Innocence, which most does please<br>
    With meditation. <br><br>

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown, <br>
  Thus unlamented let me die,<br>
Steal from the world, and not a stone <br>
    Tell where I lie.</td>
	<td><br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

5<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
<br>
10<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
15<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
20</td>
</tr>
</table><br>

<br>
<p><a href="#toc">Contents</a></p>
<hr><br><br>


<h2><a name="section6">The Descent of Dullness</a></h2><br>

<h3>from <i>The Dunciad</i>, Book IV.</h3>
<br>
<table summary="descent of dullness" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="20">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td>In vain, in vain &mdash; the all-composing Hour<br>
Resistless falls: the Muse obeys the Pow'r.<br>
She comes! she comes! the sable Throne behold<br>
Of <i>Night</i> primæval and of <i>Chaos</i> old!<br>
Before her, <i>Fancy's</i> gilded clouds decay,<br>
And all its varying Rain-bows die away.<br>
<i>Wit</i> shoots in vain its momentary fires,<br>
The meteor drops, and in a flash expires.<br>
As one by one, at dread Medea's strain,<br>
The sick'ning stars fade off th' ethereal plain;<br>
As Argus' eyes by Hermes' wand opprest,<br>
Clos'd one by one to everlasting rest;<br>
Thus at her felt approach, and secret might,<br>
<i>Art</i> after <i>Art</i> goes out, and all is Night.<br>
See skulking <i>Truth</i> to her old cavern fled,<br>
Mountains of Casuistry heap'd o'er her head!<br>
<i>Philosophy</i>, that lean'd on Heav'n before,<br>
Shrinks to her second cause, and is no more.<br>
<i>Physic</i> of <i>Metaphysic</i> begs defence,<br>
And <i>Metaphysic</i> calls for aid on <i>Sense</i>!<br>
See <i>Mystery</i> to <i>Mathematics</i> fly!<br>
In vain! they gaze, turn giddy, rave, and die.<br>
<i>Religion</i> blushing veils her sacred fires,<br>
And unawares <i>Morality</i> expires. <br>
For <i>public</i> Flame, nor <i>private</i>, dares to shine;<br>
Nor <i>human</i> Spark is left, nor Glimpse <i>divine</i>!<br>
Lo! thy dread Empire, <b>Chaos</b>! is restor'd;<br>
Light dies before thy uncreating word;<br>
Thy hand, great Anarch! lets the curtain fall,<br>
And universal Darkness buries All.</td>
	<td><br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
5<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
10<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
15<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
20<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
25<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
30</td>
</tr>
</table><br>
<br>
<p><a href="#toc">Contents</a></p><hr><br><br>


<h2><a name="section7">Epitaph on Gay</a></h2><br>

<h3><i>In Westminster Abbey, 1732</i></h3><br>

<table summary="Gay" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="20">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td>Of Manners gentle, of Affections mild;<br>
In Wit, a Man; Simplicity, a Child:<br>
With native Humour temp'ring virtuous Rage,<br>
Form'd to delight at once and lash the age:<br>
Above Temptation, in a low Estate,<br>
And uncorrupted, ev'n among the Great:<br>
A safe Companion, and an easy Friend,<br>
Unblam'd thro' Life, lamented in thy End.<br>
These are Thy Honours! not that here thy Bust<br>
Is mix'd with Heroes, or with Kings thy dust;<br>
But that the Worthy and the Good shall say,<br>
Striking their pensive bosoms &mdash; <i>Here</i> lies <b>Gay</b>.</td>
	<td><br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
5<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
10<br>
<br>
<br></td>
</tr>
</table><br>
<br>
<p><a href="#toc">Contents</a></p><hr><br><br>


<h2><a name="section8">Notes on <i>The Rape of the Lock</i></a></h2><br>
<h4>Introduction</h4><br>

In 1711 Pope, who had just published his <i>Essay on Criticism</i>, was
looking about for new worlds to conquer. A fortunate chance threw in his
way a subject exactly suited to his tastes and powers. He seized upon
it, dashed off his first sketch in less than a fortnight, and published
it anonymously in a <i>Miscellany</i> issued by Lintot in 1712. But the
theme had taken firm root in his mind. Dissatisfied with his first
treatment of it, he determined, against the advice of the best critic of
the day, to recast the work, and lift it from a mere society <i>jeu
d'esprit</i> into an elaborate mock-heroic poem. He did so and won a
complete success. Even yet, however, he was not completely satisfied and
from time to time he added a touch to his work until he finally produced
the finished picture which we know as <i>The Rape of the Lock</i>. As it
stands, it is an almost flawless masterpiece, a brilliant picture and
light-hearted mockery of the gay society of Queen Anne's day, on the
whole the most satisfactory creation of Pope's genius, and, perhaps, the
best example of the mock-heroic in any literature.<br>
<br>
The occasion which gave rise to <i>The Rape of the Lock</i> has been so
often related that it requires only a brief restatement. Among the
Catholic families of Queen Anne's day, who formed a little society of
their own, Miss Arabella Fermor was a reigning belle. In a youthful
frolic which overstepped the bounds of propriety Lord Petre, a young
nobleman of her acquaintance, cut off a lock of her hair. The lady was
offended, the two families took up the quarrel, a lasting estrangement,
possibly even a duel, was threatened. At this juncture a common friend
of the two families, a Mr. Caryll, nephew of a well-known Jacobite exile
for whom he is sometimes mistaken, suggested to Pope "to write a poem to
make a jest of it," and so kill the quarrel with laughter. Pope
consented, wrote his first draft of <i>The Rape of the Lock</i>, and
passed it about in manuscript. Pope says himself that it had its effect
in the two families; certainly nothing more is heard of the feud. How
Miss Fermor received the poem is a little uncertain. Pope complains in a
letter written some months after the poem had appeared in print that
"the celebrated lady is offended." According to Johnson she liked the
verses well enough to show them to her friends, and a niece of hers said
years afterward that Mr. Pope's praise had made her aunt "very
troublesome and conceited." It is not improbable that Belinda was both
flattered and offended. Delighted with the praise of her beauty she may
none the less have felt called upon to play the part of the offended
lady when the poem got about and the ribald wits of the day began to
read into it double meanings which reflected upon her reputation. To
soothe her ruffled feelings Pope dedicated the second edition of the
poem to her in a delightful letter in which he thanked her for having
permitted the publication of the first edition to forestall an imperfect
copy offered to a bookseller, declared that the character of Belinda
resembled her in nothing but in beauty, and affirmed that he could never
hope that his poem should pass through the world half so uncensured as
she had done. It would seem that the modern critics who have undertaken
to champion Miss Fermor against what they are pleased to term the
revolting behavior of the poet are fighting a needless battle. A pretty
girl who would long since have been forgotten sat as an unconscious
model to a great poet; he made her the central figure in a brilliant
picture and rendered her name immortal. That is the whole story, and
when carping critics begin to search the poem for the improprieties of
conduct to which they say Pope alluded, one has but to answer in Pope's
own words.

<blockquote>If to her share some female errors fall,<br>
Look on her face, and you'll forget 'em all. </blockquote>

Pope's statement in the dedication that he had been forced into
publishing the first draft of the poem before his design of enlarging it
was half executed is probably to be taken, like many of his statements,
with a sufficient grain of salt. Pope had a curious habit of protesting
that he was forced into publishing his letters, poems, and other
trifles, merely to forestall the appearance of unauthorized editions. It
is more likely that it was the undoubted success of <i>The Rape of the
Lock</i> in its first form which gave him the idea of working up the
sketch into a complete mock-heroic poem.<br>
<br>
Examples of such a poem were familiar enough to Pope. Not to go back to
the pseudo-Homeric mock epic which relates the battle of the frogs and
mice, Vida in Italy and Boileau in France, with both of whom Pope, as
the <i>Essay on Criticism</i> shows, was well acquainted, had done work
of this kind. Vida's description of the game of chess in his <i>Scacchia
Ludus</i> certainly gave him the model for the game of ombre in the
third canto of <i>The Rape of the Lock</i>; Boileau's <i>Lutrin</i>
probably suggested to him the idea of using the mock-heroic for the
purposes of satire.<br>
<br>
Now it was a dogma of the critical creed of the day, which Pope devoutly
accepted, that every epic must have a well-recognized "machinery."
Machinery, as he kindly explained to Miss Fermor, was a "term invented
by the critics to signify that part which the deities, angels, or demons
are made to act in a poem," in short for the whole supernatural element.
Such machinery was quite wanting in the first draft of the Rape; it must
be supplied if the poem was to be a true epic, even of the comic kind.
And the machinery must be of a nature which would lend itself to the
light satiric tone of the poem. What was it to be? The employment of
what we may call Christian machinery, the angels and devils of Tasso and
Milton, was, of course, out of the question. The employment of the
classic machinery was almost as impossible. It would have been hard for
such an admirer of the classics as Pope to have taken the deities of
Olympus otherwise than seriously. And even if he had been able to treat
them humorously, the humor would have been a form of burlesque quite at
variance with what he had set out to accomplish. For Pope's purpose,
springing naturally from the occasion which set him to writing the
<i>Rape</i>, was not to burlesque what was naturally lofty by exhibiting
it in a degraded light, but to show the true littleness of the trivial
by treating it in a grandiose and mock-heroic fashion, to make the
quarrel over the stolen lock ridiculous by raising it to the plane of
the epic contest before the walls of Troy.<br>
<br>
In his perplexity a happy thought, little less in fact than an
inspiration of genius, came to Pope. He had been reading a book by a
clever French abbé treating in a satiric fashion of the doctrines of the
so-called Rosicrucians, in particular of their ideas of elemental
spirits and the influence of these spirits upon human affairs. Here was
the machinery he was looking for made to his hand. There would be no
burlesque in introducing the Rosicrucian sylphs and gnomes into a
mock-heroic poem, for few people, certainly not the author of the
<i>Comte de Gabalis</i>, took them seriously. Yet the widespread
popularity of this book, to say nothing of the existence of certain
Rosicrucian societies, had rendered their names familiar to the society
for which Pope wrote. He had but to weave them into the action of his
poem, and the brilliant little sketch of society was transformed into a
true mock-epic.<br>
<br>
The manner in which this interweaving was accomplished is one of the
most satisfactory evidences of Pope's artistic genius. He was proud of
it himself. "The making the machinery, and what was published before,
hit so well together, is," he told Spencer, "I think, one of the
greatest proofs of judgment of anything I ever did." And he might well
be proud. Macaulay, in a well-known passage, has pointed out how seldom
in the history of literature such a recasting of a poem has been
successfully accomplished. But Pope's revision of <i>The Rape of the
Lock</i> was so successful that the original form was practically done
away with. No one reads it now but professed students of the literature
of Queen Anne's time. And so artfully has the new matter been woven into
the old that if the recasting of <i>The Rape of the Lock</i> were not a
commonplace even in school histories of English literature, not one
reader in a hundred would suspect that the original sketch had been
revised and enlarged to more than twice its length. It would be an
interesting task for the student to compare the two forms printed in
this edition, to note exactly what has been added, and the reasons for
its addition, and to mark how Pope has smoothed the junctures and
blended the old and the new. Nothing that he could do would admit him
more intimately to the secrets of Pope's mastery of his art.<br>
<br>
A word must be said in closing as to the merits of <i>The Rape of the
Lock</i> and its position in English literature. In the first place it
is an inimitable picture of one phase, at least, of the life of the
time, of the gay, witty, heartless society of Queen Anne's day. Slowly
recovering from the licentious excesses of the Restoration, society at
this time was perhaps unmoral rather than immoral. It was quite without
ideals, unless indeed the conventions of "good form" may be dignified by
that name. It lacked the brilliant enthusiasm of Elizabethan times as
well as the religious earnestness of the Puritans and the devotion to
patriotic and social ideals which marked a later age. Nothing, perhaps,
is more characteristic of the age than its attitude toward women. It
affected indeed a tone of high-flown adoration which thinly veiled a
cynical contempt. It styled woman a goddess and really regarded her as
little better than a doll. The passion of love had fallen from the high
estate it once possessed and become the mere relaxation of the idle
moments of a man of fashion.<br>
<br>
In the comedies of Congreve, for example, a lover even if honestly in
love thinks it as incumbent upon him to make light of his passion before
his friends as to exaggerate it in all the forms of affected compliment
before his mistress.<br>
<br>
In <i>The Rape of the Lock</i> Pope has caught and fixed forever the
atmosphere of this age. It is not the mere outward form and
circumstance, the manners and customs, the patching, powdering, ogling,
gambling, of the day that he has reproduced, though his account of these
would alone suffice to secure the poem immortality as a contribution to
the history of society. The essential spirit of the age breathes from
every line. No great English poem is at once so brilliant and so empty,
so artistic, and yet so devoid of the ideals on which all high art
rests. It is incorrect, I think, to consider Pope in <i>The Rape of the
Lock</i> as the satirist of his age. He was indeed clever enough to
perceive its follies, and witty enough to make sport of them, but it is
much to be doubted whether he was wise enough at this time to raise his
eyes to anything better. In the social satires of Pope's great admirer,
Byron, we are at no loss to perceive the ideal of personal liberty which
the poet opposes to the conventions he tears to shreds. Is it possible
to discover in <i>The Rape of the Lock</i> any substitute for Belinda's
fancies and the Baron's freaks? The speech of Clarissa which Pope
inserted as an afterthought to point the moral of the poem recommends
Belinda to trust to merit rather than to charms. But "merit" is
explicitly identified with good humor, a very amiable quality, but
hardly of the highest rank among the moral virtues. And the avowed end
and purpose of "merit" is merely to preserve what beauty gains, the
flattering attentions of the other sex, &mdash; surely the lowest ideal ever
set before womankind. The truth is, I think, that <i>The Rape of the
Lock</i> represents Pope's attitude toward the social life of his time
in the period of his brilliant youth. He was at once dazzled, amused,
and delighted by the gay world in which he found himself. The apples of
pleasure had not yet turned to ashes on his lips, and it is the poet's
sympathy with the world he paints which gives to the poem the air, most
characteristic of the age itself, of easy, idle, unthinking gayety. We
would not have it otherwise. There are sermons and satires in abundance
in English literature, but there is only one <i>Rape of the Lock</i>.<br>
<br>
The form of the poem is in perfect correspondence with its spirit. There
is an immense advance over the <i>Essay on Criticism</i> in ease,
polish, and balance of matter and manner. And it is not merely in
matters of detail that the supremacy of the latter poem is apparent.
<i>The Rape of the Lock</i> is remarkable among all Pope's longer
poems as the one complete and perfect whole. It is no mosaic of
brilliant epigrams, but an organic creation. It is impossible to detach
any one of its witty paragraphs and read it with the same pleasure it
arouses when read in its proper connection. Thalestris' call to arms and
Clarissa's moral reproof are integral parts of the poem. And as a
result, perhaps, of its essential unity <i>The Rape of the Lock</i>
bears witness to the presence of a power in Pope that we should hardly
have suspected from his other works, the power of dramatic
characterization. Elsewhere he has shown himself a master of brilliant
portraiture, but Belinda, the Baron, and Thalestris are something more
than portraits. They are living people, acting and speaking with
admirable consistency. Even the little sketch of Sir Plume is instinct
with life.<br>
<br>
Finally <i>The Rape of the Lock</i>, in its limitations and defects, no
less than in its excellencies, represents a whole period of English
poetry, the period which reaches with but few exceptions from Dryden to
Wordsworth. The creed which dominated poetic composition during this
period is discussed in the <a href="#section2">introduction</a> to the <i>Essay on Criticism</i>, and is admirably illustrated in that poem itself. Its repression
of individuality, its insistence upon the necessity of following in the
footsteps of the classic poets, and of checking the outbursts of
imagination by the rules of common sense, simply incapacitated the poets
of the period from producing works of the highest order. And its
insistence upon man as he appeared in the conventional, urban society of
the day as the one true theme of poetry, its belief that the end of
poetry was to instruct and improve either by positive teaching or by
negative satire, still further limited its field. One must remember in
attempting an estimate of <i>The Rape of the Lock</i> that it was
composed with an undoubting acceptance of this creed and within all
these narrowing limitations. And when this is borne in mind, it is
hardly too much to say that the poem attains the highest point possible.
In its treatment of the supernatural it is as original as a poem could
be at that day. The brilliancy of its picture of contemporary society
could not be heightened by a single stroke. Its satire is swift and
keen, but never ill natured. And the personality of Pope himself shines
through every line. Johnson advised authors who wished to attain a
perfect style to give their days and nights to a study of Addison. With
equal justice one might advise students who wish to catch the spirit of
our so-called Augustan age, and to realize at once the limitations and
possibilities of its poetry, to devote themselves to the study of <i>The
Rape of the Lock</i>. <br>
<br>
<br>
<br>

<table summary="cribs" width="100%" border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="20">
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><th>line</th><th>reference</th><th>meaning</th>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><h4>Dedication</h4>
</td><td>Mrs. Arabella</td><td>the title of Mrs. was still given in Pope's time
to unmarried ladies as soon as they were old enough to enter society.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td></td><td>the Rosicrucian doctrine</td><td>the first mention of the Rosicrucians
is in a book published in Germany in 1614, inviting all scholars to join
the ranks of a secret society said to have been founded two centuries
before by a certain Christian Rosenkreuz who had mastered the hidden
wisdom of the East. It seems probable that this book was an elaborate
hoax, but it was taken seriously at the time, and the seventeenth
century saw the formation of numerous groups of "Brothers of the Rosy
Cross." They dabbled in alchemy, spiritualism, and magic, and mingled
modern science with superstitions handed down from ancient times. Pope
probably knew nothing more of them than what he had read in <i>Le Comte
de Gabalis</i>.<br>
<br>
This was the work of a French abbé, de Montfaucon Villars (1635-1673),
who was well known in his day both as a preacher and a man of letters.
It is really a satire upon the fashionable mystical studies, but treats
in a tone of pretended seriousness of secret sciences, of elemental
spirits, and of their intercourse with men. It was translated into
English in 1680 and again in 1714. </td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><h4>Canto I</h4>
</td><td></td><td></td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>1-2</b></td><td></td><td>Pope opens his mock-epic with the usual epic formula,
the statement of the subject. Compare the first lines of the
<i>Iliad</i>, the <i>Æneid</i>, and <i>Paradise Lost</i>. In l. 7 he
goes on to call upon the "goddess," i.e. the muse, to relate the cause
of the rape. This, too, is an epic formula. Compare <i>Æneid</i>, I, 8,
and <i>Paradise Lost</i>, I, 27-33.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>3</b></td><td>Caryl</td><td>see <a href="#section8">Introduction</a>. In accordance with his wish his
name was not printed in the editions of the poem that came out in Pope's
lifetime, appearing there only as C &mdash;  &mdash;  or C &mdash;  &mdash; l.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>4</b></td><td>Belinda</td><td>a name used by Pope to denote Miss Fermor, the heroine
of <i>The Rape of the Lock</i></td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>12</b></td><td></td><td> This line is almost a translation of a line in the
<i>Æneid</i> (I, 11), where Virgil asks if it be possible that such
fierce passions (as Juno's) should exist in the minds of gods.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>13</b></td><td>Sol</td><td>a good instance of the fondness which Pope shared with
most poets of his time for giving classical names to objects of nature.
This trick was supposed to adorn and elevate poetic diction. Try to find
other instances of this in <i>The Rape of the Lock</i>.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td></td><td></td><td>Why is the sun's ray called "tim'rous"?</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>16</b></td><td></td><td> It was an old convention that lovers were so troubled by their
passion that they could not sleep. In the <i>Prologue to the Canterbury
Tales</i> (ll. 97-98), Chaucer says of the young squire:

<blockquote>So hote he lovede, that by nightertale<br>
  He sleep namore than dooth a nightingale. </blockquote>

Pope, of course, is laughing at the easy-going lovers of his day who in
spite of their troubles sleep very comfortably till noon.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>17</b></td><td></td><td> The lady on awaking rang a little hand-bell that stood on a
table by her bed to call her maid. Then as the maid did not appear at
once she tapped impatiently on the floor with the heel of her slipper.
The watch in the next line was a repeater.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>19</b></td><td></td><td>All the rest of this canto was added in the second edition of
the poem. See pp. 84-86. Pope did not notice that he describes Belinda
as waking in I. 14 and still asleep and dreaming in II. 19-116.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>20</b></td><td> guardian Sylph</td><td>compare ll. 67-78</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>23</b></td><td>a Birth-night Beau</td><td>a fine gentleman in his best clothes, such
as he would wear at a ball on the occasion of a royal birthday.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>30</b></td><td></td><td>The nurse would have told Belinda the old tales of fairies who
danced by moonlight on rings in the greensward, and dropped silver coins
into the shoes of tidy little maids. The priest, on the other hand,
would have repeated to her the legend of St. Cecilia and her guardian
angel who once appeared in bodily form to her husband holding two rose
garlands gathered in Paradise, or of St. Dorothea, who sent an angel
messenger with a basket of heavenly fruits and flowers to convert the
pagan Theophilus.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>42</b></td><td>militia</td><td>used here in the general sense of "soldiery."</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>44</b></td><td>the box</td><td> in the theater.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td></td><td>the ring</td><td>the drive in Hyde Park, where the ladies of society took the
air.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>46</b></td><td>a chair</td><td>a sedan chair in which ladies used to be carried
about. Why is Belinda told to scorn it?</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>50</b></td><td></td><td>What is the meaning of "vehicles" in this line?</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>56</b></td><td>Ombre</td><td>the fashionable game of cards in Pope's day. See his
account of a game in Canto III and the notes on that passage.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>57-67</b></td><td></td><td> See <a href="#section8"><i>Introduction</i></a></td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>69-70</b></td><td></td><td>Compare <i>Paradise Lost</i>, I, 423-431.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>79</b></td><td></td><td>conscious of their face: proud of their beauty.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>81</b></td><td>These</td><td>the gnomes who urge the vain beauties to disdain all
offers of love and play the part of prudes.</td>
</tr>
 <tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>85</b></td><td>garters, stars, and coronets</td><td>the garter is the badge of the
Knights of the Garter, an order founded by Edward III, to which only
noble princes and noblemen of the highest rank were admitted. "Stars"
are the jeweled decorations worn by members of other noble orders.
"Coronets" are the inferior crowns worn by princes and nobles, not by
sovereigns.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>86</b></td><td>"Your Grace"</td><td> the title bestowed in England on a duchess &mdash; The
idea in this passage, ll. 83-86, is that the gnomes fill the girls'
minds with hopes of a splendid marriage and so induce them to "deny
love."</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>94</b></td><td>impertinence</td><td> purposeless flirtation.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>97-98</b></td><td>Florio ... Damon</td><td> poetic names for fine gentlemen; no
special individuals are meant.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>100</b></td><td></td><td>Why is a woman's heart called a "toy-shop"?</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>101</b></td><td>Sword-knots</td><td> tassels worn at the hilts of swords. In Pope's
day every gentleman carried a sword, and these sword-knots were often
very gay.</td>
</tr>
 <tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>105</b></td><td>who thy protection claim</td><td>what is the exact meaning of his
phrase?</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>108</b></td><td>thy ruling Star</td><td> the star that controls thy destinies, a
reference to the old belief in astrology.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>115</b></td><td>Shock</td><td>Belinda's pet dog. His name would seem to show that he
was a rough-haired terrier.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>118</b></td><td></td><td>Does this line mean that Belinda had never seen a billet-doux
before?</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>119</b></td><td>Wounds, Charms, and Ardors</td><td>the usual language of a
love-letter at this time.</td>
</tr>
 <tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>124</b></td><td>the Cosmetic pow'rs</td><td>the deities that preside over a lady's
toilet. Note the playful satire with which Pope describes Belinda's
toilet as if it were a religious ceremony. Who is "th' inferior
priestess" in l. 127?</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>131</b></td><td>nicely</td><td>carefully.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>134</b></td><td>Arabia</td><td> famous for its perfumes.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>145</b></td><td>set the head</td><td>arrange the head-dress.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>147</b></td><td>Betty</td><td>Belinda's maid.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><h4>Canto II</h4>
</td><td></td><td></td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>4</b></td><td>Launch'd</td><td>embarked</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>25</b></td><td>springes</td><td>snares</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>26</b></td><td>the finny prey</td><td>a characteristic instance of Pope's preference
or circumlocution to a direct phrase.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>35-36</b></td><td></td><td>A regular formula in classical epics. In Virgil (XI,
794-795) Ph&oelig;bus grants part of the prayer of Arruns; the other part he
scatters to the light winds.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>38</b></td><td>vast French Romances</td><td>these romances were the customary
reading of society in Pope's day when there were as yet no English
novels. Some of them were of enormous length. Addison found several of
them in a typical lady's library, great folio volumes, finely bound in
gilt (<i>Spectator</i>, 37).</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>58</b></td><td> All but the Sylph</td><td> so in Homer (1-25), while all the rest of
the army is sleeping Agamemnon is disturbed by fear of the doom
impending over the Greeks at the hands of Hector.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>60</b></td><td>Waft</td><td>wave, or flutter.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>70</b></td><td>Superior by the head</td><td>so in Homer (<i>Iliad</i>, III, 225-227)
Ajax is described as towering over the other Greeks by head and
shoulders.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>73</b></td><td>sylphids</td><td>a feminine form of "sylphs."</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>74</b></td><td></td><td> This formal opening of Ariel's address to his followers is a
parody of a passage in <i>Paradise Lost</i>, V, 600-601.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>75</b></td><td>spheres</td><td>either "worlds" or in a more general sense "regions."</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>79</b></td><td></td><td>What are the "wandering orbs," and how do they differ from
planets in l. 80?</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>97</b></td><td>a wash</td><td>a lotion for the complexion.</td>
</tr>
 <tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>105</b></td><td></td><td>Diana, the virgin huntress, was in a peculiar sense the
goddess of chastity.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>106</b></td><td>China jar</td><td>the taste for collecting old china was
comparatively new in England at this time. It had been introduced from
Holland by Queen Anne's sister, Queen Mary, and was eagerly caught up by
fashionable society.</td>
</tr>
 <tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>113</b></td><td>The drops</td><td> the diamond earrings.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>118</b></td><td>the Petticoat</td><td>the huge hoop skirt which had recently become
fashionable. Addison, in a humorous paper in the <i>Tatler</i> (No.
116), describes one as about twenty-four yards in circumference.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>128</b></td><td>bodkin</td><td>a large needle.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>133</b></td><td>rivel'd</td><td>an obsolete raiment of "obrivelled."</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>133</b></td><td>Ixion</td><td> according to classical mythology Ixion was punished
for his sins by being bound forever upon a whirling wheel.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>134</b></td><td>Mill</td><td> the mill in which cakes of chocolate were ground up
preparatory to making the beverage.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>138</b></td><td>orb in orb</td><td>in concentric circles.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>139</b></td><td>thrid</td><td>a variant form of "thread." </td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><h4>Canto III</h4>
</td><td></td><td></td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>3</b></td><td>a structure</td><td>Hampton Court, a palace on the Thames, a few miles
above London. It was begun by Wolsey, and much enlarged by William III.
Queen Anne visited it occasionally, and cabinet meetings were sometimes
held there. Pope insinuates (l. 6) that the statesmen who met in these
councils were as interested in the conquest of English ladies as of
foreign enemies.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>8</b></td><td></td><td> Tea was still in Queen Anne's day a luxury confined to the
rich. It cost, in 1710, from twelve to twenty-eight shillings per pound.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>9</b></td><td>The heroes and the nymphs</td><td> the boating party which started for
Hampton Court in Canto II.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>17</b></td><td></td><td>Snuff-taking had just become fashionable at this time. The
practice is said to date from 1702, when an English admiral brought back
fifty tons of snuff found on board some Spanish ships which he had
captured in Vigo Bay.<br>
<br>
In the <i>Spectator</i> for August 8, 1711, a mock advertisement is
inserted professing to teach "the exercise of the snuff-box according to
the most fashionable airs and motions," and in the number for April
4, 1712, Steele protests against "an impertinent custom the fine women
have lately fallen into of taking snuff."</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>22</b></td><td>dine</td><td>the usual dinner hour in Queen Anne's reign was about 3
P.M. Fashionable people dined at 4, or later. This allowed the
fashionable lady who rose at noon time to do a little shopping and
perform "the long labours of the toilet."</td>
</tr>
 <tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>26</b></td><td>two ... Knights</td><td>one of these was the baron, see l. 66.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>27</b></td><td>Ombre</td><td>a game of cards invented in Spain. It takes its name
from the Spanish phrase originally used by the player who declared
trumps: "Yo soy l'hombre," <i>i. e.</i> I am the man. It could be played
by three, five, or nine players, but the usual number was three as here.
Each of these received nine cards, and one of them named the trump and
thus became the "ombre," who played against the two others. If either of
the ombre's opponents took more tricks than the ombre, it was "codille"
(l. 92). This meant that the opponent took the stake and the ombre had
to replace it for the next hand.<br>
<br>
A peculiar feature of ombre is the rank, or value, of the cards. The
three best cards were called "matadores," a Spanish word meaning
"killers." The first of these matadores was "Spadillio," the ace of
spades; the third was "Basto," the ace of clubs. The second, "Manillio,"
varied according to the suit. If a black suit were declared, Maniilio
was the two of trumps; if a red suit, Manillio was the seven of trumps.
It is worth noting also that the red aces were inferior to the face
cards of their suits except when a red suit was trump.<br>
<br>
A brief analysis of the game played on this occasion will clear up the
passage and leave the reader free to admire the ingenuity with which
Pope has described the contest in terms of epic poetry.<br>
<br>
Belinda declares spades trumps and so becomes the "ombre." She leads one
after the other the three matadores; and takes three tricks. She then
leads the next highest card, the king of spades, and wins a fourth
trick. Being out of trumps she now leads the king of clubs; but the
baron, who has actually held more spades than Belinda, trumps it with
the queen of spades. All the trumps are now exhausted and the baron's
long suit of diamonds is established. He takes the sixth, seventh, and
eighth tricks with the king, queen, and knave of diamonds, respectively.
Everything now depends on the last trick, since Belinda and the baron
each have taken four. The baron leads the ace of hearts and Belinda
takes it with the king, thus escaping "codille" and winning the stake.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>30</b></td><td>the sacred nine</td><td>the nine Muses.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>41</b></td><td>succint</td><td>tucked up.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>54</b></td><td>one Plebeian card</td><td>one of Belinda's opponents is now out of
trumps and discards a low card on her lead.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>61</b></td><td>Pam</td><td>a term applied to the knave of clubs which was always the
highest card in Lu, another popular game of that day.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>74</b></td><td>the globe</td><td>the jeweled ball which forms one of the regalia of
a monarch. The aspect of playing cards has changed not a little since
Pope's day, but the globe is still to be seen on the king of clubs.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>79</b></td><td>Clubs, Diamonds, Hearts</td><td>these are the losing cards played by
Belinda and the third player on the baron's winning diamonds.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>99</b></td><td></td><td> Pope's old enemy, Dennis, objected to the impropriety of
Belinda's filling the sky with exulting shouts, and some modern critics
have been foolish enough to echo his objection. The whole scene is a
masterpiece of the mock-heroic. The game is a battle, the cards are
warriors, and Belinda's exclamations of pleasure at winning are in the
same fashion magnified into the cheers of a victorious army.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>100</b></td><td>long canals</td><td>the canals which run through the splendid
gardens of Hampton Court, laid out by William III in the Dutch fashion.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>106</b></td><td>The berries crackle</td><td> it would seem from this phrase that
coffee was at that time roasted as well as ground in the drawing-room.
In a letter written shortly after the date of this poem Pope describes
Swift as roasting coffee "with his own hands in an engine made for that
purpose."<br>
<br>
Coffee had been introduced into England about the middle of the
seventeenth century. In 1657 a barber who had opened one of the first
coffeehouses in London was indicted for "making and selling a sort of
liquor called coffee, as a great nuisance and prejudice of the
neighborhood." In Pope's time there were nearly three thousand
coffee-houses in London.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td></td><td>The mill</td><td> the coffee-mill.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>107</b></td><td>Altars of Japan</td><td>japanned stands for the lamps.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>117-118</b></td><td></td><td>The parenthesis in these lines contains a hit at the
would-be omniscient politicians who haunted the coffee-houses of Queen
Anne's day, and who professed their ability to see through all problems
of state with their eyes half-shut. Pope jestingly attributes their
wisdom to the inspiring power of coffee.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>122</b></td><td>Scylla</td><td> the daughter of King Nisus in Grecian legends. Nisus
had a purple hair and so long as it was untouched he was unconquerable.
Scylla fell in love with one of his enemies and pulled out the hair
while Nisus slept. For this crime she was turned into a bird. The story
is told in full in Ovid's <i>Metamorphoses</i>, Bk. VIII.</td>
</tr>
 <tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>127</b></td><td>Clarissa</td><td> it does not appear that Pope had any individual
lady in mind. We do not know, at least, that any lady instigated or
aided Lord Petre to cut off the lock.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>144</b></td><td>An earthly Lover</td><td>we know nothing of any love affair of Miss
Fermor's. Pope mentions the "earthly lover" here to account for Ariel's
desertion of Belinda, for he could only protect her so long as she
"rejected mankind"; compare Canto I, ll. 67-68.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>147</b></td><td>Forfex</td><td>a Latin word meaning scissors.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>152</b> </td><td></td><td>Pope borrowed this idea from Milton, who represents the wound
inflicted on Satan, by the Archangel Michael as healing immediately:

<blockquote> Th' ethereal substance closed <br>
Not long divisible.</blockquote>

<i>Paradise Lost</i>, VI, 330-331.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>165</b></td><td>Atalantis</td><td><i>The New Atalantis</i>, a four-volume
"cornucopia of scandal" involving almost every public character of the
day, was published by a Mrs. Manley in 1709. It was very widely read.
The Spectator found it, along with a key which revealed the identities
of its characters, in the lady's library already mentioned
(<i>Spectator</i>, No. 37).</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>166</b></td><td>the small pillow</td><td>a richly decorated pillow which fashionable
ladies used to prop them up in bed when they received morning visits
from gentlemen. Addison gives an account of such a visit in the
<i>Spectator</i>, No. 45.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>167</b></td><td>solemn days</td><td>days of marriage or mourning, on which at this
time formal calls were paid.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>173</b></td><td>the labour of the gods</td><td> the walls of Troy built by Apollo
and Neptune for King Laomedon.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>178</b></td><td>unresisted</td><td>irresistible.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><h4>Canto IV</h4>
</td><td></td><td></td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>8</b></td><td>Cynthia</td><td>a fanciful name for any fashionable lady. No
individual is meant.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td></td><td>manteau</td><td> a loose upper garment for women.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>16</b></td><td>Spleen</td><td>the word is used here as a personification of
melancholy, or low spirits. It was not an uncommon affectation in
England at this time. A letter to the <i>Spectator</i>, No. 53, calls it
"the distemper of the great and the polite."</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>17</b></td><td>the Gnome</td><td> Umbriel, who in accordance with his nature now
proceeds to stir up trouble. Compare Canto I, ll. 63-64.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>20</b></td><td></td><td>The bitter east wind which put every one into a bad humor was
supposed to be one of the main causes of the spleen.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>23</b></td><td>She</td><td> the goddess of the spleen. Compare l. 79.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>84</b></td><td>Megrim</td><td> headache.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>29</b></td><td>store</td><td>a large supply.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>38</b></td><td>night-dress</td><td>the modern dressing-gown. The line means that
whenever a fashionable beauty bought a new dressing-gown she pretended
to be ill in order to show her new possession to sympathetic friends who
called on her.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>40</b></td><td>phantoms</td><td>these are the visions, dreadful or delightful, of
the disordered imagination produced by spleen.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>43</b></td><td>snakes on rolling spires</td><td> like the serpent which Milton
describes in <i>Paradise Lost</i>, IX, 501-502, "erect amidst his
circling spires."</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>46</b></td><td>angels in machines</td><td> angels coming to help their votaries. The
word "machine" here has an old-fashioned technical sense. It was first
used to describe the apparatus by which a god was let down upon the
stage of the Greek theater. Since a god was only introduced at a
critical moment to help the distressed hero, the phrase, "deus ex
machina," came to mean a god who rendered aid. Pope transfers it here to
angels.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>47</b></td><td>throngs</td><td> Pope now describes the mad fancies of people so
affected by spleen as to imagine themselves transformed to inanimate
objects.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>51</b></td><td>pipkin</td><td>a little jar. Homer (<i>Iliad</i>, XVIII, 373-377)
tells how Vulcan had made twenty wonderful tripods on living wheels that
moved from place to place of their own accord.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>52</b></td><td></td><td>Pope in a note to this poem says that a lady of his time
actually imagined herself to be a goose-pie.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>56</b></td><td>A branch</td><td>so Æneas bore a magic branch to protect him when he
descended to the infernal regions (<i>Æneid</i>, VI,
136-143).</td>
</tr>
 <tr align="left" valign="middle"><td></td><td>Spleenwort</td><td>a sort of fern which was once supposed to
be a remedy against the spleen.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>58</b></td><td>the sex</td><td>women.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>59</b></td><td>vapours</td><td>a form of spleen to which women were supposed to be
peculiarly liable, something like our modern hysteria. It seems to have
taken its name from the fogs of England which were thought to cause it.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>65</b></td><td>a nymph</td><td>Belinda, who had always been so light-hearted that
she had never been a victim of the spleen.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>89</b></td><td>Citron-waters</td><td>a liqueur made by distilling brandy with the
rind of citrons. It was a fashionable drink for ladies at this time.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>71</b></td><td></td><td>Made men suspicious of their wives.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>82</b></td><td>Ulysses</td><td>Homer (<i>Odyssey</i>, X, 1-25) tells how Æolus, the
god of the winds, gave Ulysses a wallet of oxhide in which all the winds
that might oppose his journey homeward were closely bound up.</td>
</tr>
 <tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>89</b></td><td>Thalestris</td><td> the name of a warlike queen of the Amazons. Pope
uses it here for a friend of Belinda's, who excites her to revenge
herself for the rape of her lock. It is said that this friend was a
certain Mrs. Morley.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>102</b></td><td>loads of lead</td><td>curl papers used to be fastened with strips of lead.
</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>105</b></td><td>Honour</td><td>female reputation.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>109</b></td><td>toast</td><td>a slang term in Pope's day for a reigning beauty whose
health was regularly drunk by her admirers. Steele (<i>Tatler</i>, No.
24) says that the term had its rise from an accident that happened at
Bath in the reign of Charles II. A famous beauty was bathing there in
public, and one of her admirers filled a glass with the water in which
she stood and drank her health.

<blockquote> "There was in the place," says Steele "a
gay fellow, half-fuddled, who offered to jump in, and swore though he
liked not the liquor, he would have the Toast. He was opposed in his
resolution; yet this whim gave foundation to the present honor which is
done to the lady we mention in our liquors, who has ever since been
called a <b>Toast</b>." </blockquote>

To understand the point of the story one must know that
it was an old custom to put a bit of toast in hot drinks.<br>
<br>
In this line in the poem Thalestris insinuates that if Belinda submits
tamely to the rape of the lock, her position as a toast will be
forfeited.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>113-116</b></td><td></td><td> Thalestris supposes that the baron will have the lock set
in a ring under a bit of crystal. Old-fashioned hair-rings of this kind
are still to be seen.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>117</b></td><td>Hyde-park Circus</td><td> the Ring of Canto I, l. 44. Grass was not
likely to grow there so long as it remained the fashionable place to
drive.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>118</b></td><td>in the sound of Bow</td><td>within hearing of the bells of the
church of St. Mary le Bow in Cheapside. So far back as Ben Jonson's time
(<i>Eastward Ho</i>, I, ii, 36) it was the mark of the unfashionable
middle-class citizen to live in this quarter. A "wit" in Queen Anne's
day would have scorned to lodge there.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>121</b></td><td>Sir Plume</td><td> this was Sir George Brown, brother of Mrs. Morley
(Thalestris). He was not unnaturally offended at the picture drawn of
him in this poem. Pope told a friend many years later that<blockquote> "nobody was
angry but Sir George Brown, and he was a good deal so, and for a long
time. He could not bear that Sir Plume should talk nothing but
nonsense."</blockquote></td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>124</b></td><td>a clouded cane</td><td> a cane of polished wood with cloudlike
markings. In the <i>Tatler</i>, Mr. Bickerstaff sits in judgment on
canes, and takes away a cane, "curiously clouded, with a transparent
amber head, and a blue ribband to hang upon his wrist," from a young
gentleman as a piece of idle foppery. There are some amusing remarks on
the "conduct" of canes in the same essay.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>133</b></td><td></td><td> The baron's oath is a parody of the oath of Achilles
(<i>Iliad</i>, I, 234).</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>142</b></td><td></td><td> The breaking of the bottle of sorrows, etc., is the cause of
Belinda's change of mood from wrath as in l. 93 to tears, 143-144.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>155</b></td><td>the gilt Chariot</td><td> the painted and gilded coach in which
ladies took the air in London.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>156</b></td><td>Bohea</td><td> tea, the name comes from a range of hills in China
where a certain kind of tea was grown.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>162</b></td><td>the patch-box</td><td> the box which held the little bits of black
sticking-plaster with which ladies used to adorn their faces. According
to Addison (<i>Spectator</i>, No. 81), ladies even went so far in this
fad as to patch on one side of the face or the other, according to their
politics. </td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><h4>Canto V</h4>
</td><td></td><td></td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>5</b></td><td>the Trojan</td><td>Æneas, who left Carthage in spite of the wrath of
Dido and the entreaties of her sister Anna.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>7-36</b></td><td></td><td>Pope inserted these lines in a late revision in 1717, in
order, as he said, to open more clearly the moral of the poem. The
speech of Clarissa is a parody of a famous speech by Sarpedon in the
<i>Iliad</i>, XII, 310-328.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>14</b></td><td></td><td>At this time the gentlemen always sat in the side boxes of the
theater; the ladies in the front boxes.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>20</b></td><td></td><td> As vaccination had not yet been introduced, small-pox was at
this time a terribly dreaded scourge.</td>
</tr>
 <tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>23</b></td><td></td><td> In the <i>Spectator</i>, No. 23, there is inserted a mock
advertisement, professing to teach the whole art of ogling, the church
ogle, the playhouse ogle, a flying ogle fit for the ring, etc.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>24</b></td><td></td><td>Painting the face was a common practice of the belles of this
time. <i>The Spectator</i>, No. 41, contains a bitter attack on the
painted ladies whom it calls the "Picts."</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>37</b></td><td>virago</td><td> a fierce, masculine woman, here used for Thalestris.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>45</b></td><td></td><td> In the <i>Iliad</i> (Bk. XX) the gods are represented as
taking sides for the Greeks and Trojans and fighting among themselves.
Pallas opposes Ares, or Mars; and Hermes, Latona.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>48</b></td><td>Olympus</td><td>the hill on whose summit the gods were supposed to
dwell, often used for heaven itself.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>50</b></td><td>Neptune</td><td> used here for the sea over which Neptune presided.</td>
</tr>
 <tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>53</b></td><td>a sconce's height</td><td> the top of an ornamental bracket for
holding candles.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>61</b></td><td></td><td>Explain the metaphor in this line.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>64</b></td><td></td><td> The quotation is from a song in an opera called
<i>Camilla</i>.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>65</b></td><td></td><td>The Mæander is a river in Asia Minor. Ovid (<i>Heroides</i>,
VII, 1-2) represents the swan as singing his death-song on its banks.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>68</b></td><td></td><td>Chloe: a fanciful name. No real person is meant.</td>
</tr>
 <tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>71</b></td><td></td><td>The figure of Jove weighing the issue of a battle in his
scales is found in the <i>Iliad</i>, VIII, 69-73. Milton imitated it in
<i>Paradise Lost</i>, IX, 996-1004. When the men's wits mounted it
showed that they were lighter, less important, than the lady's hair, and
so were destined to lose the battle.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>89-96</b></td><td></td><td> This pedigree of Belinda's bodkin is a parody of Homer's
account of Agamemnon's scepter (<i>Iliad</i>, II, 100-108).</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>105-106</b></td><td></td><td> In Shakespeare's play Othello fiercely demands to see a
handkerchief which he has given his wife, and takes her inability to
show it to him as a proof of her infidelity.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>113</b></td><td></td><td> the lunar sphere: it was an old superstition that everything
lost on earth went to the moon. An Italian poet, Ariosto, uses this
notion in a poem with which Pope was familiar (<i>Orlando Furioso</i>,
Canto XXXIV), and from which he borrowed some of his ideas for the cave
of Spleen.
</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>122</b></td><td></td><td>Why does Pope include "tomes of casuistry" in this
collection?</td>
</tr>
 <tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>125</b></td><td></td><td>There was a legend that Romulus never died, but had been
caught up to the skies in a storm. Proculus, a Roman senator, said that
Romulus had descended from heaven and spoken to him and then ascended
again (Livy, I, 16).</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>129</b></td><td>Berenice's Locks</td><td> : Berenice was an Egyptian queen who
dedicated a lock of hair for her husband's safe return from war. It was
said afterward to have become a constellation, and a Greek poet wrote
some verses on the marvel.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>132</b></td><td></td><td>Why were the Sylphs pleased?</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>133</b></td><td> the Mall</td><td>the upper side of St. James's park in London, a
favorite place at this time for promenades.</td>
</tr>
 <tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>136</b></td><td> Rosamonda's lake</td><td>a pond near one of the gates of St. James's
park, a favorite rendezvous for lovers.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>137</b></td><td>Partridge</td><td>an almanac maker of Pope's day who was given to
prophesying future events. Shortly before this poem was written Swift
had issued a mock almanac foretelling that Partridge would die on a
certain day. When that day came Swift got out a pamphlet giving a full
account of Partridge's death. In spite of the poor man's protests, Swift
and his friends kept on insisting that he was dead. He was still living,
however, when Pope wrote this poem. Why does Pope call him "th'
egregious wizard"?</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>138</b></td><td>Galileo's eyes</td><td> the telescope, first used by the Italian
astronomer Galileo.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>140</b></td><td></td><td> Louis XIV of France, the great enemy of England at this time.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td></td><td>Rome</td><td> here used to denote the Roman Catholic Church.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>143</b></td><td>the shining sphere</td><td>an allusion to the old notion that all
the stars were set in one sphere in the sky. Belinda's lost lock, now a
star, is said to add a new light to this sphere.</td>
</tr>
 <tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>147</b></td><td></td><td>What are the "fair suns"?</td>
</tr>
</table>
 <br>
<br>
<p><a href="#toc">Contents</a></p><hr><br><br>



<h2><a name="section9">Notes on <i>An Essay on Criticism</i></a></h2><br>

<h3>Introduction</h3>
<br>
The <i>Essay on Criticism</i> was the first really important work that
Pope gave to the world. He had been composing verses from early boyhood,
and had actually published a set of <i>Pastorals</i> which had attracted
some attention. He was already known to the literary set of London
coffeehouses as a young man of keen wit and high promise, but to the
reading public at large he was as yet an unknown quantity. With the
appearance of the <i>Essay</i>, Pope not only sprang at once into the
full light of publicity, but seized almost undisputed that position as
the first of living English poets which he was to retain unchallenged
till his death. Even after his death down to the Romantic revival, in
fact, Pope's supremacy was an article of critical faith, and this
supremacy was in no small measure founded upon the acknowledged merits
of the <i>Essay on Criticism.</i> Johnson, the last great representative
of Pope's own school of thought in matters literary, held that the poet
had never excelled this early work and gave it as his deliberate opinion
that if Pope had written nothing else, the <i>Essay</i> would have
placed him among the first poets and the first critics. The <i>Essay on
Criticism</i> is hardly an epoch-making poem, but it certainly "made"
Alexander Pope.<br>
<br>
The poem was published anonymously in the spring of 1711, when Pope was
twenty-three years old. There has been considerable dispute as to the
date of its composition; but the facts seem to be that it was begun in
1707 and finished in 1709 when Pope had it printed, not for publication,
but for purposes of further correction. As it stands, therefore, it
represents a work planned at the close of Pope's precocious youth, and
executed and polished in the first flush of his manhood. And it is quite
fair to say that considering the age of its author the <i>Essay on
Criticism</i> is one of the most remarkable works in English.<br>
<br>
Not that there is anything particularly original about the <i>Essay.</i>
On the contrary, it is one of the most conventional of all Pope's works.
It has nothing of the lively fancy of <i>The Rape of the Lock</i>,
little or nothing of the personal note which stamps the later satires
and epistles as so peculiarly Pope's own. Apart from its brilliant
epigrammatic expression the <i>Essay on Criticism</i> might have been
written by almost any man of letters in Queen Anne's day who took the
trouble to think a little about the laws of literature, and who thought
about those laws strictly in accordance with the accepted conventions of
his time. Pope is not in the least to be blamed for this lack of
originality. Profound original criticism is perhaps the very last thing
to be expected of a brilliant boy, and Pope was little more when he
planned this work. But boy as he was, he had already accomplished an
immense amount of desultory reading, not only in literature proper, but
in literary criticism as well. He told Spence in later years that in his
youth he had gone through all the best critics, naming especially
Quintilian, Rapin, and Bossu. A mere cursory reading of the Essay shows
that he had also studied Horace, Vida, and Boileau. Before he began to
write he had, so he told Spence, "digested all the matter of the poem
into prose." In other words, then, the <i>Essay on Criticism</i> is at
once the result of Pope's early studies, the embodiment of the received
literary doctrines of his age, and, as a consecutive study of his poems
shows, the programme in accordance with which, making due allowance for
certain exceptions and inconsistencies, he evolved the main body of his
work.<br>
<br>
It would, however, be a mistake to treat, as did Pope's first editor,
the <i>Essay on Criticism</i> as a methodical, elaborate, and systematic
treatise. Pope, indeed, was flattered to have a scholar of such
recognized authority as Warburton to interpret his works, and permitted
him to print a commentary upon the <i>Essay</i>, which is quite as long
and infinitely duller than the original. But the true nature of the poem
is indicated by its title. It is not an <i>Art of Poetry</i> such as
Boileau composed, but an <i>Essay</i>. And by the word "essay," Pope
meant exactly what Bacon did, &mdash; a tentative sketch, a series of detached
thoughts upon a subject, not a complete study or a methodical treatise.
All that we know of Pope's method of study, habit of thought, and
practice of composition goes to support this opinion. He read widely but
desultorily; thought swiftly and brilliantly, but illogically and
inconsistently; and composed in minute sections, on the backs of letters
and scraps of waste paper, fragments which he afterward united, rather
than blended, to make a complete poem, a mosaic, rather than a picture.<br>
<br>
Yet the <i>Essay</i> is by no means the "collection of independent
maxims tied together by the printer, but having no natural order," which
De Quincey pronounced it to be. It falls naturally into three parts. The
first deals with the rules derived by classic critics from the practice
of great poets, and ever since of binding force both in the composition
and in the criticism of poetry. The second analyzes with admirable
sagacity the causes of faulty criticism as pride, imperfect learning,
prejudice, and so on. The third part discusses the qualities which a
true critic should possess, good taste, learning, modesty, frankness,
and tact, and concludes with a brief sketch of the history of criticism
from Aristotle to Walsh. This is the general outline of the poem,
sufficient, I think, to show that it is not a mere bundle of poetic
formulæ. But within these broad limits the thought of the poem wanders
freely, and is quite rambling, inconsistent, and illogical enough to
show that Pope is not formulating an exact and definitely determined
system of thought.<br>
<br>
Such indeed was, I fancy, hardly his purpose. It was rather to give
clear, vivid, and convincing expression to certain ideas which were at
that time generally accepted as orthodox in the realm of literary
criticism. No better expression of these ideas can be found anywhere
than in the <i>Essay</i> itself, but a brief statement in simple prose
of some of the most important may serve as a guide to the young student
of the essay.<br>
<br>
In the first place, the ultimate source alike of poetry and criticism is
a certain intuitive faculty, common to all men, though more highly
developed in some than others, called Reason, or, sometimes, Good Sense.
The first rule for the budding poet or critic is "Follow Nature." This,
by the way, sounds rather modern, and might be accepted by any romantic
poet. But by "Nature" was meant not at all the natural impulses of the
individual, but those rules founded upon the natural and common reason
of mankind which the ancient critics had extracted and codified from the
practice of the ancient poets. Pope says explicitly "to follow nature is
to follow them;" and he praises Virgil for turning aside from his own
original conceptions to imitate Homer, for:

<blockquote>Nature and Homer were, he found, the same.</blockquote>

Certain exceptions to these rules were, indeed, allowable, &mdash; severer
critics than Pope, by the way, absolutely denied this, &mdash; but only to the
ancient poets. The moderns must not dare to make use of them, or at the
very best moderns must only venture upon such exceptions to the rules as
classic precedents would justify. Inasmuch as all these rules were
discovered and illustrated in ancient times, it followed logically that
the great breach with antiquity, which is called the Middle Ages, was a
period of hopeless and unredeemed barbarism, incapable of bringing forth
any good thing. The light of literature began to dawn again with the
revival of learning at the Renaissance, but the great poets of the
Renaissance, Spenser and Shakespeare, for example, were "irregular,"
that is, they trusted too much to their individual powers and did not
accept with sufficient humility the orthodox rules of poetry. This
dogma, by the way, is hardly touched upon in the <i>Essay</i>, but is
elaborated with great emphasis in Pope's later utterance on the
principles of literature, the well-known <i>Epistle to Augustus</i>.
Finally with the establishment of the reign of Reason in France under
Louis XIV, and in England a little later, the full day had come, and
literary sins of omission and commission that might be winked at in such
an untutored genius as Shakespeare were now unpardonable. This last
dogma explains the fact that in the brief sketch of the history of
criticism which concludes the <i>Essay</i>, Pope does not condescend to
name an English poet or critic prior to the reign of Charles II.<br>
<br>
It would be beside the purpose to discuss these ideas to-day or to
attempt an elaborate refutation of their claims to acceptance. Time has
done its work upon them, and the literary creed of the wits of Queen
Anne's day is as antiquated as their periwigs and knee-breeches. Except
for purposes of historical investigation it is quite absurd to take the
<i>Essay on Criticism</i> seriously.<br>
<br>
And yet it has even for us of to-day a real value. Our age absolutely
lacks a standard of literary criticism; and of all standards the one
least likely to be accepted is that of Pope and his fellow-believers.
Individual taste reigns supreme in this democratic age, and one man's
judgment is as good as, perhaps a little better than, another's. But
even this democratic and individual age may profit by turning back for a
time to consider some of the general truths, as valid to-day as ever, to
which Pope gave such inimitable expression, or to study the outlines of
that noble picture of the true critic which St. Beuve declared every
professed critic should frame and hang up in his study. An age which
seems at times upon the point of throwing classical studies overboard as
useless lumber might do far worse than listen to the eloquent tribute
which the poet pays to the great writers of antiquity. And finally
nothing could be more salutary for an age in which literature itself has
caught something of the taint of the prevailing commercialism than to
bathe itself again in that spirit of sincere and disinterested love of
letters which breathes throughout the <i>Essay</i> and which, in spite
of all his errors, and jealousies, and petty vices, was the
master-passion of Alexander Pope.<br><br>
<br>

<br>
<table summary="cribs2" width="100%" border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="20">
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><th>line</th><th>reference</th><th>meaning</th>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>6</b></td><td>censure</td><td>the word has here its original meaning of "judge," not its
modern "judge severely" or "blame."</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>8</b></td><td></td><td>Because each foolish poem provokes a host of foolish commentators and
critics.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>15-16</b></td><td></td><td>This assertion that only a good writer can be a fair critic is not to be
accepted without reservation.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>17</b></td><td>wit</td><td>The word "wit" has a number of different meanings in this poem, and the
student should be careful to discriminate between them. It means
<ol type="1">
<li>mind, intellect, l. 61; </li>
<li>learning, culture, l 727; </li>
<li>imagination, genius, l. 82; </li>
<li>the power to discover amusing analogies, or the apt expression of
such an analogy, ll. 449, 297; </li>
<li>a man possessed of wit in its various significations, l. 45; </li>
</ol>
this last form usually occurs in the plural, ll. 104, 539.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>26</b></td><td>the maze of schools</td><td>the labyrinth of conflicting systems of thought, especially of criticism.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>21</b></td><td>coxcombs ... fools</td><td>what is the difference in meaning between these
words in this passage?</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>30-31</b></td><td></td><td>In this couplet Pope hits off the spiteful envy of conceited critics
toward successful writers. If the critic can write himself, he hates the
author as a rival; if he cannot, he entertains against him the deep
grudge an incapable man so often cherishes toward an effective worker.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>34</b></td><td>Mævius</td><td>a poetaster whose name has been handed down by Virgil and Horace. His
name, like that of his associate, Bavius, has become a by-word for a
wretched scribbler.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td></td><td>Apollo</td><td>here thought of as the god of poetry. The true poet was inspired by
Apollo; but a poetaster like Mævius wrote without inspiration, as it
were, in spite of the god.</td>
</tr><tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>40-43</b></td><td></td><td>Pope here compares "half-learned" critics to the animals which old
writers reported were bred from the Nile mud. In <i>Antony and Cleopatra</i>,
for example, Lepidus says, "Your serpent of Egypt is bred now of your
mud by the operation of your sun; so is your crocodile." Pope thinks of
these animals as in the unformed stage, part "kindled into life, part a
lump of mud." So these critics are unfinished things for which no proper
name can be found. "Equivocal generation" is the old term used to denote
spontaneous generation of this sort. Pope applies it here to critics
without proper training who spring spontaneously from the mire of
ignorance.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>44</b></td><td>tell</td><td>count</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>45</b></td><td></td><td>The idea is that a vain wit's tongue could out-talk a hundred ordinary
men's.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>53</b></td><td>pretending wit</td><td>presuming, or ambitious mind.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>56-58</b></td><td>memory ... understanding imagination</td><td>This is the old threefold division of the human mind. Pope means that
where one of these faculties is above the average in any individual,
another of them is sure to fall below. Is this always the case?</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>63</b></td><td>peculiar arts</td><td>special branches of knowledge.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>73</b></td><td></td><td>In what sense can nature be called the source, the end, and the test of
art?</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>76</b></td><td>th' informing soul</td><td>explanation</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>80-81</b></td><td></td><td>What two meanings are attached to "wit" in this couplet?</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>84</b></td><td>'Tis more</td><td>it is more important.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td></td><td>the Muse's steed</td><td>Pegasus, the winged horse of Greek mythology, was supposed to be the
horse of the Muses and came to be considered a symbol of poetic genius.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>86</b></td><td>gen'rous</td><td>high-bred.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>88</b></td><td></td><td>What is the difference between "discovered" and "devised"?</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>94</b></td><td>Parnassus' top</td><td>the Muses were supposed to dwell on the top of Parnassus, a mountain in
Greece. Great poets are here thought of as having climbed the mountain
to dwell with the Muses.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>96</b></td><td></td><td>What is (cf. text) "the immortal prize"?</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>99</b></td><td>She</td><td>i. e. learned Greece, especially Greek criticism, which obtained the
rules of poetry from the practice of great poets, and, as it were,
systematized their inspiration.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>104</b></td><td>following wits</td><td>later scholars.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>105</b></td><td></td><td>What is meant by "the mistress" and "the maid" in this line?</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>109</b></td><td>Doctor's bills</td><td>prescriptions.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>112</b></td><td></td><td>These are the prosy commentators on great poets, whose dreary notes
often disgust readers with the original.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>120</b></td><td>fable</td><td>a plot.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>123</b></td><td></td><td>What is the difference between "cavil" and "criticise"?</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>129</b></td><td>the Mantuan Muse</td><td>the poetry of Virgil, which Pope thinks the best commentary on Homer. In
what sense is this to be understood?</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>130</b></td><td>Maro</td><td>Virgil, whose full name was Publius Vergilius Maro, Pope here praises
Virgil's well-known imitation of Homer. Since "nature and Homer were the
same," a young poet like Virgil could do nothing better than copy Homer.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>138</b></td><td>the Stagirite</td><td>Aristotle, a native of Stagyra, was the first and one of the greatest of
literary critics. His "rules" were drawn from the practice of great
poets, and so, according to Pope, to imitate Homer was to obey the
"ancient rules."</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>141</b></td><td></td><td>There are some beauties in poetry which cannot be explained by criticism.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>142</b></td><td>happiness</td><td>used here to express the peculiar charm of spontaneous poetic expression
as contrasted with "care," 'i.e.' the art of revising and improving,
which can be taught.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>152</b></td><td>vulgar bounds</td><td>the limitations imposed upon ordinary writers.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>157</b></td><td>out of ... rise</td><td>surpass the ordinary scenes of nature.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>159</b></td><td>Great wits</td><td>poets of real genius.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>160</b></td><td>faults</td><td>here used in the sense of irregularities, exceptions to the rules of
poetry. When these are justified by the poet's genius, true critics do
not presume to correct them. In many editions this couplet comes after
l. 151. This was Pope's first arrangement, but he later shifted it to
its present position.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>162</b></td><td>As Kings</td><td>the Stuart kings claimed the right to "dispense with laws," that is, to
set them aside in special instances. In 1686 eleven out of twelve
English judges decided in a test case that "it is a privilege
inseparably connected with the sovereignty of the king to dispense with
penal laws, and that according to his own judgment." The English people
very naturally felt that such a privilege opened the door to absolute
monarchy, and after the fall of James II, Parliament declared in 1689
that "the pretended power of suspending of laws ... without the consent
of Parliament, is illegal."</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>164</b></td><td>its End</td><td>the purpose of every law of poetry, namely, to please the reader. This
purpose must not be "transgressed," 'i.e.' forgotten by those who wish
to make exceptions to these laws.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>166</b></td><td>their precedent</td><td>the example of classic poets.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>179</b></td><td>stratagems ... error</td><td>things in the classic poets which to carping critics seem faults are
often clever devices to make a deeper impression on the reader.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>180</b></td><td>Homer nods</td><td>Horace in his <i>Art of Poetry</i> used this figure to imply that even the
greatest poet sometimes made mistakes. Pope very neatly suggests that it
may be the critic rather than the poet who is asleep.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>181</b></td><td>each ancient Altar</td><td>used here to denote the works of the great classic writers. The whole
passage down to l. 200 is a noble outburst of enthusiasm for the poets
whom Pope had read so eagerly in early youth.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>186</b></td><td>consenting Pæans</td><td>unanimous hymns of praise.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>194</b></td><td>must ... found</td><td>are not destined to be discovered till some future time.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>196</b></td><td></td><td>Who is "the last, the meanest of your sons"?</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>203</b></td><td>bias</td><td>mental bent, or inclination.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>208</b></td><td></td><td>This line is based upon physiological theories which are now obsolete.
According to these wind or air supplied the lack of blood or of animal
spirits in imperfectly constituted bodies. To such bodies Pope compares
those ill-regulated minds where a deficiency of learning and natural
ability is supplied by self-conceit.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>216</b></td><td>The Pierian spring</td><td>the spring of the Muses, who were called Pierides in
Greek mythology. It is used here as a symbol for learning, particularly
for the study of literature.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>222</b></td><td>the lengths behind</td><td>the great spaces of learning that lie behind the first objects of our
study.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>225-232</b></td><td></td><td>This fine simile is one of the best expressions in English verse of the
modesty of the true scholar, due to his realization of the boundless
extent of knowledge. It was such a feeling that led Sir Isaac Newton to
say after all his wonderful discoveries,

 <blockquote> "I do not know what I may appear to the world, but to myself I seem to
  have been only like a boy playing on the seashore and diverting myself
  in now and then finding a smoother pebble or a prettier shell than
  ordinary whilst the great ocean of truth lay all the time undiscovered
  before me."</blockquote></td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>224</b></td><td>peculiar parts</td><td>individual parts.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>248</b></td><td>ev'n thine, O Rome</td><td>there are so many splendid churches in Rome that an inhabitant of this
city would be less inclined than a stranger to wonder at the perfect
proportions of any of them. But there are two, at least, the Pantheon
and St. Peter's, which might justly evoke the admiration even of a
Roman. It was probably of one of these that Pope was thinking.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>265</b></td><td></td><td>What is the difference between "principles" and "notions" in this line?</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>265</b></td><td>La Mancha's Knight</td><td>Don Quixote. The anecdote that follows is not taken from Cervantes'
novel, but from a continuation of it by an author calling himself
Avellanada. The story is that Don Quixote once fell in with a scholar
who had written a play about a persecuted queen of Bohemia. Her
innocence in the original story was established by a combat in the
lists, but this the poet proposed to omit as contrary to the rules of
Aristotle. The Don, although professing great respect for Aristotle,
insisted that the combat was the best part of the story and must be
acted, even if a special theater had to be built for the purpose, or the
play given in the open fields. Pope quotes this anecdote to show how
some critics in spite of their professed acceptance of general rules are
so prejudiced in favor of a minor point as to judge a whole work of art
from one standpoint only.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>270</b></td><td>Dennis</td><td>John Dennis, a playwright and critic of Pope's time. Pope and he were
engaged in frequent quarrels, but this first reference to him in Pope's
works is distinctly complimentary. The line probably refers to some
remarks by Dennis on the Grecian stage in his <i>Impartial Critic</i>, a
pamphlet published in 1693.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>273</b></td><td>nice</td><td>discriminating; in l. 286 the meaning is "over-scrupulous, finicky."</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>276</b></td><td>unities</td><td>according to the laws of dramatic composition generally accepted in
Pope's day, a play must observe the unities of subject, place, and time.
That is, it must have one main theme, not a number of diverse stories,
for its plot; all the scenes must be laid in one place, or as nearly so
as possible; and the action must be begun and finished within the space
of twenty-four hours.
</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>286</b></td><td>curious</td><td>fastidious, over-particular.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>288</b></td><td>by a love to parts</td><td>by too diligent attention to particular parts of a work of art, which
hinders them from forming a true judgment of the work as a whole.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>289</b></td><td>conceit</td><td>an uncommon or fantastic expression of thought. "Conceits" had been much
sought after by the poets who wrote in the first half of the seventeenth
century.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>297</b></td><td>True Wit</td><td>here opposed to the "conceit" of which Pope has been speaking. It is
defined as a natural idea expressed in fit words.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>299</b></td><td>whose truth ... find</td><td>of whose truth we find ourselves at once convinced.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>308</b></td><td>take upon content</td><td>take for granted.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>311-317</b></td><td></td><td>Show how Pope uses the simile of the "prismatic glass" to distinguish
between "false eloquence" and "true expression."</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>319</b></td><td>decent</td><td>becoming</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>328</b></td><td>Fungoso</td><td>a character in Ben Jonson's <i>Every Man out of his Humour</i>. He is the son
of a miserly farmer, and tries hard, though all in vain, to imitate the
dress and manners of a fine gentleman.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>329</b></td><td>These sparks</td><td>these would-be dandies.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>337</b></td><td>Numbers</td><td>rhythm, meter.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>341</b></td><td>haunt Parnassus</td><td>read poetry. &mdash; ear:' note that in Pope's day this word rhymed with
"repair" and "there."</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>344</b></td><td>these</td><td>critics who care for the meter only in poetry insist on the proper
number of syllables in a line, no matter what sort of sound or sense
results. For instance, they do not object to a series of "open vowels,"
<i>i. e.</i> hiatuses caused by the juxtaposition of such words as "tho" and
"oft," "the" and "ear." Line 345 is composed especially to show how
feeble a rhythm results from such a succession of "open vowels." They do
not object to bolstering up a line with "expletives," such as "do" in l.
346, nor to using ten "low words," <i>i.e.</i> short, monosyllabic words to
make up a line.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>347</b></td><td></td><td>With this line Pope passes unconsciously from speaking of bad critics to
denouncing some of the errors of bad poets, who keep on using hackneyed
phrases and worn-out metrical devices.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>356</b></td><td>Alexandrine</td><td>a line of six iambic feet, such as l. 357, written especially to
illustrate this form. Why does Pope use the adjective "needless" here?</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>361</b></td><td>Denham's strength ... Waller's sweetness</td><td>Waller and Denham were poets of the century before Pope; they are almost
forgotten to-day, but were extravagantly admired in his time. Waller
began and Denham continued the fashion of writing in "closed" heroic
couplets, <i>i.e.</i> in verses where the sense is for the most part
contained within one couplet and does not run over into the next as had
been the fashion in earlier verse. Dryden said that "the excellence and
dignity of rhyme were never fully known till Mr. Waller taught it," and
the same critic spoke of Denham's poetry as "majestic and correct."</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>370</b></td><td>Ajax</td><td>one of the heroes of the <i>Iliad</i>. He is represented more than once as
hurling huge stones at his enemies. Note that Pope has endeavored in
this and the following line to convey the sense of effort and struggle.
What means does he employ? Do you think he succeeds?</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>372</b></td><td>Camilla</td><td>a heroine who appears in the latter part of the <i>Æneid</i> fighting against
the Trojan invaders of Italy. Virgil says that she was so swift of foot
that she might have run over a field of wheat without breaking the
stalks, or across the sea without wetting her feet. Pope attempts in l.
373 to reproduce in the sound and movement of his verse the sense of
swift flight.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>374</b></td><td>Timotheus</td><td>a Greek poet and singer who was said to have played and sung before
Alexander the Great. The reference in this passage is to Dryden's famous
poem, <i>Alexander's Feast</i>.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>376</b></td><td>the son of Libyan Jove</td><td>Alexander the Great, who boasted that he was the son of Jupiter. The
famous oracle of Jupiter Ammon situated in the Libyan desert was visited
by Alexander, who was said to have learned there the secret of his
parentage.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>383</b></td><td>Dryden</td><td>this fine compliment is paid to a poet whom Pope was proud to
acknowledge as his master. "I learned versification wholly from Dryden's
works," he once said. Pope's admiration for Dryden dated from early
youth, and while still a boy he induced a friend to take him to see the
old poet in his favorite coffee-house.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>391</b></td><td>admire</td><td>not used in our modern sense, but in its original meaning, "to wonder
at." According to Pope, it is only fools who are lost in wonder at the
beauties of a poem; wise men "approve,"<i> i.e.</i> test and pronounce them
good.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>396-7</b></td><td></td><td>Pope acknowledged that in these lines he was alluding to the
uncharitable belief of his fellow-Catholics that all outside the fold of
the Catholic church were sure to be damned.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>400</b></td><td>sublimes</td><td>purifies</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>404</b></td><td>each</td><td>each age.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>415</b></td><td>joins with Quality</td><td>takes sides with "the quality,"<i> i.e.</i> people of rank.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>429</b></td><td></td><td>Are so clever that they refuse to accept the common and true belief, and
so forfeit their salvation.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>441</b></td><td>sentences</td><td>the reference is to a mediaeval treatise on Theology, by Peter Lombard,
called the <i>Book of Sentences</i>. It was long used as a university
text-book.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>444</b></td><td>Scotists and Thomists</td><td>mediæval scholars, followers respectively of Duns Scotus and Thomas
Aquinas. A long dispute raged between their disciples. In this couplet
Pope points out that the dispute is now forgotten, and the books of the
old disputants lie covered with cobwebs in Duck-lane, a street in London
where second-hand books were sold in Pope's day. He calls the cobwebs
"kindred," because the arguments of Thomists and Scotists were as fine
spun as a spider's web.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>449</b></td><td></td><td>"The latest fashionable folly is the test, or the proof, of a quick,
up-to-date wit." In other words, to be generally accepted an author must
accept the current fashion, foolish though it may be.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>457</b></td><td></td><td>This was especially true in Pope's day when literature was so closely
connected with politics that an author's work was praised or blamed not
upon its merits, but according to his, and the critic's, politics.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>459</b></td><td>Parsons, Critics, Beaus</td><td>Dryden, the head of English letters in the generation before Pope, had
been bitterly assailed on various charges by parsons, like Jeremy
Collier, critics like Milbourn, and fine gentlemen like the Duke of
Buckingham. But his works remained when the jests that were made against
them were forgotten.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>463</b></td><td></td><td>Sir Richard Blackmore, a famous doctor in Dryden's day, was also a very
dull and voluminous writer. He attacked Dryden in a poem called <i>A
Satire against Wit</i>. Luke Milbourn was a clergyman of the same period,
who abused Dryden's translation of Virgil.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>465</b></td><td>Zoilus</td><td>a Greek critic who attacked Homer.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>481</b></td><td></td><td>The English language and the public taste had changed very rapidly
during the century preceding Pope. He imagined that these changes would
continue so that no poet's reputation would last longer than a man's
life, "bare threescore," and Dryden's poetry would come to be as hard to
understand and as little read as Chaucer's at that time. It is worth
noting that both Dryden and Pope rewrote parts of Chaucer in modern
English.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>506-7</b></td><td></td><td>Explain why "wit" is feared by wicked men and shunned by the virtuous,
hated by fools, and "undone" or ruined by knaves.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>521</b></td><td>sacred</td><td>accursed, like the Latin <i>sacer</i>.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>527</b></td><td>spleen</td><td>bad temper.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>534</b></td><td>the fat age</td><td>the reign of Charles II, as ll. 536-537 show, when literature became
notoriously licentious.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>538</b></td><td>Jilts ... statesmen</td><td>loose women like Lady Castlemaine and the Duchess of Portsmouth had
great influence on the politics of Charles II's time, and statesmen of
that day like Buckingham and Etheredge wrote comedies.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>541</b></td><td>mask</td><td>it was not uncommon in Restoration times for ladies to wear a mask in
public, especially at the theater. Here the word is used to denote the
woman who wore a mask.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>544</b></td><td>a Foreign reign</td><td>the reign of William III, a Dutchman. Pope, as a Tory and a Catholic,
hated the memory of William, and here asserts, rather unfairly, that his
age was marked by an increase of heresy and infidelity.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>545</b></td><td>Socinus</td><td>the name of two famous heretics, uncle and nephew, of the sixteenth
century, who denied the divinity of Christ.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>549</b></td><td></td><td>Pope insinuates here that the clergy under William III hated an absolute
monarch so much that they even encouraged their hearers to question the
absolute power of God.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>551</b></td><td>admir'd</td><td>see note to l. 391.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>552</b></td><td>Wit's Titans</td><td>wits who defied heaven as the old Titans did the gods. The reference is
to a group of freethinkers who came into prominence in King William's
reign.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>556</b></td><td>scandalously nice</td><td>so over-particular as to find cause for scandal where none exists.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>557</b></td><td>mistake an author into vice</td><td>mistakenly read into an author vicious ideas which are not really to be
found in his work.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>575</b></td><td></td><td>Things that men really do not know must be brought forward modestly as
if they had only been forgotten for a time.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>577</b></td><td>that only</td><td>good-breeding alone</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>585</b></td><td>Appius</td><td>a nickname for John Dennis, taken from his tragedy, <i>Appius and
Virginia</i>, which appeared two years before the <i>Essay on Criticism</i>.
Lines 585-587 hit off some of the personal characteristics of this
hot-tempered critic. "Tremendous" was a favorite word with Dennis.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>588</b></td><td>tax</td><td>blame, find fault with.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>591</b></td><td></td><td>In Pope's time noblemen could take degrees at the English universities
without passing the regular examinations.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>617</b></td><td></td><td>Dryden's <i>Fables</i> published in 1700 represented the very best narrative
poetry of the greatest poet of his day. D'Urfey's <i>Tales</i>, on the other
hand, published in 1704 and 1706, were collections of dull and obscene
doggerel by a wretched poet.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>618</b></td><td>with him</td><td>according to "the bookful blockhead."</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>619</b></td><td>Garth</td><td>a well-known doctor of the day, who wrote a much admired mock-heroic
poem called <i>The Dispensary</i>. His enemies asserted that he was not
really the author of the poem.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>623</b></td><td></td><td>Such foolish critics are just as ready to pour out their opinions on a
man in St. Paul's cathedral as in the bookseller's shops in the square
around the church, which is called St. Paul's churchyard.
</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>632</b></td><td>proud to know</td><td>proud of his knowledge.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>636</b></td><td>humanly</td><td>an old form for "humanely."</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>642</b></td><td>love to praise</td><td>a love of praising men.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>648</b></td><td>Mæonian Star</td><td>Homer. Mæonia, or Lydia, was a district in Asia which was said to have
been the birthplace of Homer.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>652</b></td><td>conquered Nature</td><td>Aristotle was a master of all the knowledge of nature extant in his day.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>653</b></td><td>Horace</td><td>the famous Latin poet whose <i>Ars Poetica</i> was one of Pope's models for
the <i>Essay on Criticism</i>.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>662</b></td><td>fle'me</td><td>phlegm, according to old ideas of physiology, one of the four "humours"
or fluids which composed the body. Where it abounded it made men dull
and heavy, or as we still say "phlegmatic."</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>663-4</b></td><td></td><td>A rather confused couplet. It means, "Horace suffers as much by the
misquotations critics make from his work as by the bad translations that
wits make of them."</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>665</b></td><td>Dionysius</td><td>Dionysius of Halicarnassus, a famous Greek critic. Pope's manner of
reference to him seems to show that he had never read his works.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>667</b></td><td>Petronius</td><td>a courtier and man of letters of the time of Nero. Only a few lines of
his remaining work contain any criticism.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>669</b></td><td>Quintilian's work</td><td>the <i>Institutiones Oratoriæ</i> of Quintilianus, a famous Latin critic of
the first century A.D.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>675</b></td><td>Longinus</td><td>a Greek critic of the third century A.D., who composed a famous work
called <i>A Treatise on the Sublime</i>. It is a work showing high
imagination as well as careful reasoning, and hence Pope speaks of the
author as inspired by the Nine, <i>i. e.</i> the Muses.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>692</b></td><td></td><td>The willful hatred of the monks for the works of classical antiquity
tended to complete that destruction of old books which the Goths began
when they sacked the Roman cities. Many ancient writings were erased,
for example, in order to get parchment for monkish chronicles and
commentaries.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>693</b></td><td>Erasmus</td><td>perhaps the greatest scholar of the Renaissance. Pope calls him the
"glory of the priesthood" on account of his being a monk of such
extraordinary learning, and "the shame" of his order, because he was so
abused by monks in his lifetime. Is this a good antithesis?</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>697</b></td><td>Leo's golden days</td><td>the pontificate of Leo X (1513-1521). Leo himself was a generous patron
of art and learning. He paid particular attention to sacred music (l.
703), and engaged Raphael to decorate the Vatican with frescoes. Vida
(l. 704) was an Italian poet of his time, who became famous by the
excellence of his Latin verse. One of his poems was on the art of
poetry, and it is to this that Pope refers in l. 706.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>707-8</b></td><td></td><td>Cremona was the birthplace of Vida; Mantua, of Virgil.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>709</b></td><td></td><td>The allusion is to the sack of Rome by the Constable Bourbon's army in
1527. This marked the end of the golden age of arts in Italy.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>714</b></td><td>Boileau</td><td>a French poet and critic (1636-1711). His <i>L'Art Poetique</i> is founded on
Horace's <i>Ars Poetica</i>.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>723</b></td><td>the Muse</td><td><i>i. e.</i> the genius, of John Sheffield (1649-1720), Duke of Buckingham
(not to be confounded with Dryden's enemy). Line 724 is quoted from his
<i>Essay on Poetry</i>.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>725</b></td><td>Roscommon</td><td>Wentworth Dillon (1633-1684), Earl of Roscommon, author of a translation
of the <i>Ars Poetica</i> and of <i>An Essay on Translated Verse</i>.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>729</b></td><td>Walsh</td><td>a commonplace poet (1663-1708), but apparently a good critic. Dryden, in
fact, called him the best critic in the nation. He was an early friend
and judicious adviser of Pope himself, who showed him much of his early
work, including the first draft of this very poem. Pope was sincerely
attached to him, and this tribute to his dead friend is marked by deep
and genuine feeling.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>738</b></td><td>short excursions</td><td>such as this <i>Essay on Criticism</i> instead of longer and more ambitious
poems which Pope planned and in part executed in his boyhood. There is
no reason to believe with Mr. Elwin that this passage proves that Pope
formed the design of the poem after the death of Walsh.</td>
</tr>
</table><br>

<br>
<p><a href="#toc">Contents</a></p><hr><br><br>

<h2><a name="section10">Notes on <i>An Essay on Man, Epistle I</i></a></h2><br>

<h3>Introduction</h3>
<br>
The <i>Essay on Man</i> is the longest and in some ways the most
important work of the third period of Pope's career. It corresponds
closely to his early work, the <i>Essay on Criticism</i>. Like the
earlier work, the <i>Essay on Man</i> is a didactic poem, written
primarily to diffuse and popularize certain ideas of the poet. As in the
earlier work these ideas are by no means original with Pope, but were
the common property of a school of thinkers in his day. As in the
<i>Essay on Criticism</i>, Pope here attempts to show that these ideas
have their origin in nature and are consistent with the common sense of
man. And finally the merit of the later work, even more than of the
earlier, is due to the force and brilliancy of detached passages rather
than to any coherent, consistent, and well-balanced system which it
presents.<br>
<br>
The close of the seventeenth century and beginning of the eighteenth was
marked by a change of ground in the sphere of religious controversy. The
old debates between the Catholic and Protestant churches gradually died
out as these two branches of Western Christianity settled down in quiet
possession of the territory they still occupy. In their place arose a
vigorous controversy on the first principles of religion in general, on
the nature of God, the origin of evil, the place of man in the universe,
and the respective merits of optimism and pessimism as philosophic
theories. The controversialists as a rule either rejected or neglected
the dogmas of revealed religion and based their arguments upon real or
supposed facts of history, physical nature, and the mental processes and
moral characteristics of man. In this controversy the two parties at
times were curiously mingled. Orthodox clergymen used arguments which
justified a strong suspicion of their orthodoxy; and avowed freethinkers
bitterly disclaimed the imputation of atheism and wrote in terms that
might be easily adopted by a devout believer.<br>
<br>
Into this controversy Pope was led by his deepening intimacy with
Bolingbroke, who had returned from France in 1725 and settled at his
country place within a few miles of Twickenham. During his long exile
Bolingbroke had amused himself with the study of moral philosophy and
natural religion, and in his frequent intercourse with Pope he poured
out his new-found opinions with all the fluency, vigor, and polish which
made him so famous among the orators and talkers of the day.
Bolingbroke's views were for that time distinctly heterodox, and, if
logically developed, led to complete agnosticism. But he seems to have
avoided a complete statement of his ideas to Pope, possibly for fear of
shocking or frightening the sensitive little poet who still remained a
professed Catholic. Pope, however, was very far from being a strict
Catholic, and indeed prided himself on the breadth and liberality of his
opinions. He was, therefore, at once fascinated and stimulated by the
eloquent conversation of Bolingbroke, and resolved to write a
philosophical poem in which to embody the ideas they held in common.
Bolingbroke approved of the idea, and went so far as to furnish the poet
with seven or eight sheets of notes "to direct the plan in general and
to supply matter for particular epistles." Lord Bathurst, who knew both
Pope and Bolingbroke, went so far as to say in later years that the
<i>Essay</i> was originally composed by Bolingbroke in prose and that
Pope only put it into verse. But this is undoubtedly an exaggeration of
what Pope himself frankly acknowledged, that the poem was composed under
the influence of Bolingbroke, that in the main it reflected his
opinions, and that Bolingbroke had assisted him in the general plan and
in numerous details. Very properly, therefore, the poem is addressed to
Bolingbroke and begins and closes with a direct address to the poet's
"guide, philosopher, and friend."<br>
<br>
In substance the <i>Essay on Man</i> is a discussion of the moral order
of the world. Its purpose is "to vindicate the ways of God to man," and
it may therefore be regarded as an attempt to confute the skeptics who
argued from the existence of evil in the world and the wretchedness of
man's existence to the impossibility of belief in an all-good and
all-wise God. It attempts to do this, not by an appeal to revelation or
the doctrines of Christianity, but simply on the basis of a common-sense
interpretation of the facts of existence.<br>
<br>
A brief outline of the poem will show the general tenor of Pope's
argument.<br>
<br>
The first epistle deals with the nature and state of man with respect to
the universe. It insists on the limitations of man's knowledge, and the
consequent absurdity of his presuming to murmur against God. It teaches
that the universe was not made for man, but that man with all his
apparent imperfections is exactly fitted to the place which he occupies
in the universe. In the physical universe all things work together for
good, although certain aspects of nature seem evil to man, and likewise
in the moral universe all things, even man's passions and crimes conduce
to the general good of the whole. Finally it urges calm submission and
acquiescence in what is hard to understand, since "one truth is
clear, &mdash; whatever is, is right."<br>
<br>
The second epistle deals with the nature of man as an individual. It
begins by urging men to abandon vain questionings of God's providence
and to take up the consideration of their own natures, for "the proper
study of mankind is man." Pope points out that the two cardinal
principles of man's nature are self-love and reason, the first an
impelling, the second a regulating power. The aim of both these
principles is pleasure, by which Pope means happiness, which he takes
for the highest good. Each man is dominated by a master passion, and it
is the proper function of reason to control this passion for good and to
make it bear fruit in virtue. No man is wholly virtuous or vicious, and
Heaven uses the mingled qualities of men to bind them together in mutual
interdependence, and makes the various passions and imperfections of
mankind serve the general good. And the final conclusion is that "though
man's a fool, yet God is wise."<br>
<br>
The third epistle treats of the nature of man with respect to society.
All creatures, Pope asserts, are bound together and live not for
themselves alone, but man is preeminently a social being. The first
state of man was the state of nature when he lived in innocent ignorance
with his fellow-creatures. Obeying the voice of nature, man learned to
copy and improve upon the instincts of the animals, to build, to plow,
to spin, to unite in societies like those of ants and bees. The first
form of government was patriarchal; then monarchies arose in which
virtue, "in arms or arts," made one man ruler over many. In either case
the origin of true government as of true religion was love. Gradually
force crept in and uniting with superstition gave rise to tyranny and
false religions. Poets and patriots, however, restored the ancient faith
and taught power's due use by showing the necessity of harmony in the
state. Pope concludes by asserting the folly of contention for forms of
government or modes of faith. The common end of government as of
religion is the general good. It may be noticed in passing that Pope's
account of the evolution of society bears even less relation to
historical facts than does his account of the development of literature
in the <i>Essay on Criticism.</i><br>
<br>
The last epistle discusses the nature of happiness, "our being's end and
aim." Happiness is attainable by all men who think right and mean well.
It consists not in individual, but in mutual pleasure. It does not
consist in external things, mere gifts of fortune, but in health, peace,
and competence. Virtuous men are, indeed, subject to calamities of
nature; but God cannot be expected to suspend the operation of general
laws to spare the virtuous. Objectors who would construct a system in
which all virtuous men are blest, are challenged to define the virtuous
and to specify what is meant by blessings. Honors, nobility, fame,
superior talents, often merely serve to make their possessors unhappy.
Virtue alone is happiness, and virtue consists in a recognition of the
laws of Providence, and in love for one's fellow-man.<br>
<br>
Even this brief outline will show, I think, some of the inconsistencies
and omissions of Pope's train of thought. A careful examination of his
arguments in detail would be wholly out of place here. The reader who
wishes to pursue the subject further may consult Warburton's elaborate
vindication of Pope's argument, and Elwin's equally prosy refutation, or
better still the admirable summary by Leslie Stephen in the chapter on
this poem in his life of Pope (<i>English Men of Letters</i>). No one is
now likely to turn to the writer of the early eighteenth century for a
system of the universe, least of all to a writer so incapable of exact
or systematic thinking as Alexander Pope. If the <i>Essay on Man</i> has
any claim to be read to-day, it must be as a piece of literature pure
and simple. For philosophy and poetry combined, Browning and Tennyson
lie nearer to our age and mode of thought than Pope.<br>
<br>
Even regarded as a piece of literature the <i>Essay on Man</i> cannot, I
think, claim the highest place among Pope's works. It obtained, indeed,
a success at home and abroad such as was achieved by no other English
poem until the appearance of <i>Childe Harold</i>. It was translated
into French, German, Italian, Portuguese, Polish, and Latin. It was
imitated by Wieland, praised by Voltaire, and quoted by Kant. But this
success was due in part to the accuracy with which it reflected ideas
which were the common property of its age, in part to the extraordinary
vigor and finish of its epigrams, which made it one of the most quotable
of English poems. But as a whole the Essay is not a great poem. The poet
is evidently struggling with a subject that is too weighty for him, and
at times he staggers and sinks beneath his burden. The second and third
books in particular are, it must be confessed, with the exception of one
or two fine outbursts, little better than dull, and dullness is not a
quality one is accustomed to associate with Pope. The <i>Essay on
Man</i> lacks the bright humor and imaginative artistry of <i>The Rape
of the Lock,</i> and the lively portraiture, vigorous satire, and strong
personal note of the <i>Moral Epistles</i> and <i>Imitations of
Horace</i>. Pope is at his best when he is dealing with a concrete world
of men and women as they lived and moved in the London of his day; he is
at his worst when he is attempting to seize and render abstract ideas.<br>
<br>
Yet the <i>Essay on Man</i> is a very remarkable work. In the first
place, it shows Pope's wonderful power of expression. No one can read
the poem for the first time without meeting on page after page phrases
and epigrams which have become part of the common currency of our
language. Pope's "precision and firmness of touch," to quote the apt
statement of Leslie Stephen, "enables him to get the greatest possible
meaning into a narrow compass. He uses only one epithet, but it is the
right one." Even when the thought is commonplace enough, the felicity of
the expression gives it a new and effective force. And there are whole
passages where Pope rises high above the mere coining of epigrams. As I
have tried to show in my notes he composed by separate paragraphs, and
when he chances upon a topic that appeals to his imagination or touches
his heart, we get an outburst of poetry that shines in splendid contrast
to the prosaic plainness of its surroundings. Such, for example, are the
noble verses that tell of the immanence of God in his creation at the
close of the first epistle, or the magnificent invective against tyranny
and superstition in the third (ll. 241-268).<br>
<br>
Finally the <i>Essay on Man</i> is of interest in what it tells us of
Pope himself. Mr. Elwin's idea that in the <i>Essay on Man</i> Pope,
"partly the dupe, partly the accomplice of Bolingbroke," was attempting
craftily to undermine the foundations of religion, is a notion curiously
compounded of critical blindness and theological rancor. In spite of all
its incoherencies and futilities the <i>Essay</i> is an honest attempt
to express Pope's opinions, borrowed in part, of course, from his
admired friend, but in part the current notions of his age, on some of
the greatest questions that have perplexed the mind of man. And Pope's
attitude toward the questions is that of the best minds of his day, at
once religious, independent, and sincere. He acknowledges the
omnipotence and benevolence of God, confesses the limitations and
imperfections of human knowledge, teaches humility in the presence of
unanswerable problems, urges submission to Divine Providence, extols
virtue as the true source of happiness, and love of man as an essential
of virtue. If we study the <i>Essay on Man</i> as the reasoned argument
of a philosopher, we shall turn from it with something like contempt; if
we read it as the expression of a poet's sentiments, we shall, I think,
leave it with an admiration warmer than before for a character that has
been so much abused and so little understood as that of Pope.<br>
<br><br>
<br>

<table summary="cribs3" width="100%" border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="20">
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><th>line</th><th>reference</th><th>meaning</th>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><h4>The Design</h4>
</td><td></td><td></td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>2</b></td><td>Bacon's expression</td><td>in the dedication of his <i>Essays</i> (1625) to Buckingham, Bacon speaks of
them as the most popular of his writings, "for that, as it seems, they
come home to men's business and bosoms."</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>11</b></td><td>anatomy</td><td>dissection</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><h4>Epistle I</h4>
</td><td></td><td></td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>1</b></td><td>St. John</td><td>Henry St. John, Lord Bolingbroke, Pope's "guide, philosopher, and
friend," under whose influence the <i>Essay on Man</i> was composed.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>5</b></td><td>expatiate</td><td>range, wander.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>6</b></td><td></td><td>Pope says that this line alludes to the subject of this first Epistle,
"the state of man here and hereafter, disposed by Providence, though to
him unknown." The next two lines allude to the main topics of the three
remaining epistles, "the constitution of the human mind ... the
temptations of misapplied self-love, and the wrong pursuits of power,
pleasure, and false happiness."</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>9</b></td><td>beat ... field</td><td>the metaphor is drawn from hunting. Note how it is elaborated in the
following lines.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>12</b></td><td>blindly creep ... sightless soar</td><td>the first are the ignorant and indifferent; those who "sightless soar"
are the presumptuous who reason blindly about things too high for human
knowledge.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>15</b></td><td>candid</td><td>lenient, free from harsh judgments.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>16</b></td><td></td><td>An adaptation of a well-known line of Milton's <i>Paradise Lost</i>, l, 26.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>17-23</b></td><td></td><td>Pope lays down as the basis of his system that all argument about man or
God must be based upon what we know of man's present life, and of God's
workings in this world of ours.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>29</b></td><td>this frame</td><td>the universe. Compare <i>Hamlet</i>, II, ii, 310, "this goodly frame, the
earth."</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>30</b></td><td>nice dependencies</td><td>subtle inter-relations.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>31</b></td><td>Gradations just</td><td>exact shades of difference.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>32</b></td><td>a part</td><td>the mind of man, which is but a part of the whole universe.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>33</b></td><td>the great chain</td><td>according to Homer, Jove, the supreme God, sustained the whole creation
by a golden chain. Milton also makes use of this idea of the visible
universe as linked to heaven in a golden chain, <i>Paradise Lost</i>, II,
1004-1006, and 1051-1052.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>41</b></td><td>yonder argent fields</td><td>the sky spangled with silvery stars. The phrase is borrowed from Milton,
<i>Paradise Lost</i>, III, 460.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>42</b></td><td>Jove</td><td>the planet Jupiter.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td></td><td>satellites</td><td>Pope preserves here the Latin
pronunciation, four syllables, with the accent on the antepenult.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>43-40</b></td><td></td><td>Pope here takes it for granted that our universe, inasmuch as it is the
work of God's infinite wisdom, must be the best system possible. If this
be granted, he says, it is plain that man must have a place somewhere in
this system, and the only question is whether "God has placed him wrong."</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>45</b></td><td></td><td>Every grade in creation must be complete, so as to join with that which
is beneath and with that which is above it or there would be a lack of
coherency, a break, somewhere in the system.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>47</b></td><td>reas'ning life</td><td>conscious mental life.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>51-60</b></td><td></td><td>Pope argues here that since man is a part of the best possible system,
whatever seems wrong in him must be right when considered in relation to
the whole order of the universe. It is only our ignorance of this order
which keeps us from realizing this fact.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>55</b></td><td>one single</td><td>the word "movement" is understood after "single."</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>61-8</b></td><td></td><td>Pope here illustrates his preceding argument by analogy. We can know no
more of God's purpose in the ordering of our lives than the animals can
know of our ordering of theirs.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>64</b></td><td>Ægypt's God</td><td>One of the gods of the Egyptians was the sacred bull, Apis.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>68</b></td><td>a deity</td><td>worshiped as a god, like the Egyptian kings and Roman emperors.
</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>69-76</b></td><td></td><td>Pope now goes on to argue that on the basis of what has been proved we
ought not to regard man as an imperfect being, but rather as one who is
perfectly adapted to his place in the universe. His knowledge, for
example, is measured by the brief time he has to live and the brief
space he can survey.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>69</b></td><td>fault</td><td>pronounced in Pope's day as rhyming with "ought."</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>73-6</b></td><td></td><td>These lines are really out of place. They first appeared after l. 98;
then Pope struck them out altogether. Just before his death he put them
into their present place on the advice of Warburton, who probably
approved of them because of their reference to a future state of bliss.
It is plain that they interfere with the regular argument of the poem.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>79</b></td><td></td><td>This line is grammatically dependent upon "hides," l. 77.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>81</b></td><td>riot</td><td>used here in the sense of "luxurious life." The lamb is slain to provide
for some feast.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>86</b></td><td>Heav'n</td><td><i>i. e.</i> God. Hence the relative "who" in the next line.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>92-8</b></td><td></td><td>Pope urges man to comfort himself with hope, seeing that he cannot know
the future.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>93</b></td><td>What future bliss</td><td>the words "shall be" are to be understood after this phrase.
</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>96</b></td><td></td><td>Point out the exact meaning of this familiar line.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>97</b></td><td>from home</td><td>away from its true home, the life to come. This line represents one of
the alterations which Warburton induced Pope to make. The poet first
wrote "confined at home," thus representing this life as the home of the
soul. His friend led him to make the change in order to express more
clearly his belief in the soul's immortality.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>89</b></td><td></td><td>Show how "rests" and "expatiates" in this line contrast with "uneasy"
and "confined" in l. 97.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>99-112</b></td><td></td><td>In this famous passage Pope shows how the belief in immortality is found
even among the most ignorant tribes. This is to Pope an argument that
the soul must be immortal, since only Nature, or God working through
Nature, could have implanted this conception in the Indian's mind.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>102</b></td><td>the solar walk</td><td>the sun's path in the heavens.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td></td><td>the milky way</td><td>some old philosophers held that the souls of good men went thither after
death.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>...</b></td><td></td><td>Pope means that the ignorant Indian had no conception of a heaven
reserved for the just such as Greek sages and Christian believers have.
All he believes in is "an humbler heaven," where he shall be free from
the evils of this life. Line 108 has special reference to the tortures
inflicted upon the natives of Mexico and Peru by the avaricious Spanish
conquerors.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>109-10</b></td><td></td><td>He is contented with a future existence, without asking for the glories
of the Christian's heaven.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>111</b></td><td>equal sky</td><td>impartial heaven, for the heaven of the Indians was open to all men,
good or bad.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>113-30</b></td><td></td><td>In this passage Pope blames those civilized men who, though they should
be wiser than the Indian, murmur against the decrees of God. The
imperative verbs "weigh," "call," "say," etc., are used satirically.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>113</b></td><td>scale of sense</td><td>the scale, or means of judgment, which our senses give us.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>117</b></td><td>gust</td><td>the pleasure of taste.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>120</b></td><td></td><td>The murmurers are dissatisfied that man is not at once perfect in his
present state and destined to immortality, although such gifts have been
given to no other creature.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>123</b></td><td>reas'ning pride</td><td>the pride of the intellect which assumes to condemn God's providence.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>131-172</b></td><td></td><td>In this passage Pope imagines a dialogue between one of the proud
murmurers he has described and himself. His opponent insists that the
world was made primarily for man's enjoyment (ll. 132-140). Pope asks
whether nature does not seem to swerve from this end of promoting human
happiness in times of pestilence, earthquake, and tempest (ll. 141-144).
The other answers that these are only rare exceptions to the general
laws, due perhaps to some change in nature since the world began (ll.
145-148). Pope replies by asking why there should not be exceptions in
the moral as well as in the physical world; may not great villains be
compared to terrible catastrophes in nature (ll. 148-156)? He goes on to
say that no one but God can answer this question, that our human
reasoning springs from pride, and that the true course of reasoning is
simply to submit (ll. 156-164). He then suggests that "passions," by
which he means vices, are as necessary a part of the moral order as
storms of the physical world (ll. 165-172).</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>142</b></td><td>livid deaths</td><td>pestilence</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>143-4</b></td><td></td><td>Pope was perhaps thinking of a terrible earthquake and flood that had
caused great loss of life in Chili the year before this poem appeared.
</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>150</b></td><td>then Nature deviates</td><td>Nature departs from her regular order on such occasions as these
catastrophes.
</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>151</b></td><td>that end</td><td>human happiness, as in l. 149.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>156</b></td><td></td><td>Cæsar Borgia, the wicked son of Pope Alexander VI, and Catiline are
mentioned here as portents in the moral world parallel to plagues and
earthquakes in the physical.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>160</b></td><td>young Ammon</td><td>Alexander the Great. See note on <i>Essay on Criticism</i>, l. 376.
</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>163</b></td><td></td><td>Why do we accuse God for permitting wickedness when we do not blame Him
for permitting evil in the natural world?</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>166</b></td><td>there</td><td>in nature</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td></td><td>here</td><td>in man</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>173-206</b></td><td></td><td>In this section Pope reproves those who are dissatisfied with man's
faculties. He points out that all animals, man included, have powers
suited to their position in the world (ll. 179-188), and asserts that if
man had keener senses than he now has, he would be exposed to evils from
which he now is free (ll. 193-203).</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>176</b></td><td>to want</td><td>to lack</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>177</b></td><td></td><td>Paraphrase this line in prose.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>181</b></td><td>compensated</td><td>accented on the antepenult.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>183</b></td><td>the state</td><td>the place which the creature occupies in the natural world.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>195</b></td><td>finer optics</td><td>keener power of sight.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>197</b></td><td>touch</td><td>a noun, subject of "were given," understood from l. 195.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>199</b></td><td>quick effluvia</td><td>pungent odors. The construction is very condensed here; "effluvia" may
be regarded like "touch" as a subject of "were given" (l. 195); but one
would expect rather a phrase to denote a keener sense of smell than man
now possesses.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>202</b></td><td>music of the spheres</td><td>it was an old belief that the stars and planets uttered musical notes as
they moved along their courses. These notes made up the "harmony of the
spheres." Shakespeare ('Merchant of Venice', V, 64-5) says that our
senses are too dull to hear it. Pope, following a passage in Cicero's
<i>Somnium Scipionis</i>, suggests that this music is too loud for human
senses.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>207-232</b></td><td></td><td>Pope now goes on to show how in the animal world there is an exact
gradation of the faculties of sense and of the powers of instinct. Man
alone is endowed with reason which is more than equivalent to all these
powers and makes him lord over all animals.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>212</b></td><td></td><td>The mole is almost blind; the lynx was supposed to be the most
keen-sighted of animals.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>213-4</b></td><td></td><td>The lion was supposed by Pope to hunt by sight alone as the dog by
scent. What does he mean by "the tainted green"?</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>215-6</b></td><td></td><td>Fishes are almost deaf, while birds are very quick of hearing.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>219</b></td><td>nice</td><td>keenly discriminating.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td></td><td>healing dew</td><td>healthful honey.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>221-222</b></td><td></td><td>The power of instinct which is barely perceptible in the pig amounts
almost to the power of reason in the elephant.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>223</b></td><td>barrier</td><td>pronounced like the French 'barrière', as a word of two syllables with
the accent on the last.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>226</b></td><td>Sense ... Thought</td><td>sensation and reason.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>227</b></td><td>middle natures</td><td>intermediate natures, which long to unite with those above or below
them. The exact sense is not very clear.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>233-58</b></td><td></td><td>In this passage Pope insists that the chain of being stretches unbroken
from God through man to the lowest created forms. If any link in this
chain were broken, as would happen if men possessed higher faculties
than are now assigned them, the whole universe would be thrown into
confusion. This is another answer to those who complain of the
imperfections of man's nature.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>234</b></td><td>quick</td><td>living. Pope does not discriminate between organic and inorganic matter.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>240</b></td><td>glass</td><td>microscope</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>242-44</b></td><td></td><td>Inferior beings might then press upon us. If they did not, a fatal gap
would be left by our ascent in the scale.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>247</b></td><td>each system</td><td>Pope imagines the universe to be composed of an infinite number of
systems like ours. Since each of these is essential to the orderly
arrangement of the universe, any disorder such as he has imagined would
have infinitely destructive consequences. These are described in ll.
251-257.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>267-80</b></td><td></td><td>In these lines Pope speaks of God as the soul of the world in an
outburst of really exalted enthusiasm that is rare enough in his work.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>269</b></td><td>that</td><td>a relative pronoun referring to "soul," l. 268.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>270</b></td><td>th' ethereal frame</td><td>the heavens</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>276</b></td><td>as perfect in a hair as heart</td><td>this has been called "a vile antithesis," on the ground that there is no
reason why hair and heart should be contrasted. But Pope may have had in
mind the saying of Christ. "the very hairs of your head are all
numbered." The hairs are spoken of here as the least important part of
the body; the heart, on the other hand, has always been thought of as
the most important organ. There is, therefore, a real antithesis between
the two.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>278</b></td><td>Seraph ... burns</td><td>the seraphim according to old commentators are on fire with the love of
God.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>280</b></td><td>equals all</td><td>makes all things equal. This does not seem consistent with the idea of
the gradations of existence which Pope has been preaching throughout
this Epistle. Possibly it means that all things high and low are filled
alike with the divine spirit and in this sense all things are equal. But
one must not expect to find exact and consistent philosophy in the
<i>Essay on Man</i>.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>281-94</b></td><td></td><td>Here Pope sums up the argument of this Epistle, urging man to recognize
his ignorance, to be content with his seeming imperfections, and to
realize that "whatever is, is right."</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>282</b></td><td>our proper bliss</td><td>our happiness as men.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>283</b></td><td>point</td><td>appointed place in the universe.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>286</b></td><td>Secure</td><td>sure.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>289</b></td><td></td><td>Hobbes, an English philosopher with whose work Pope was, no doubt,
acquainted, says, "Nature is the art whereby God governs the world."
</td>
</tr>
</table><br>
<br>
<p><a href="#toc">Contents</a></p><hr><br><br>

<h2><a name="section11">An Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot</a></h2><br>

<h4>Introduction</h4><br>

Next to <i>The Rape of the Lock</i>, I think, the <i>Epistle to
Arbuthnot</i> is the most interesting and the most important of Pope's
poems &mdash; the most important since it shows the master poet of the age
employing his ripened powers in the field most suitable for their
display, that of personal satire, the most interesting, because, unlike
his former satiric poem the <i>Dunciad</i>, it is not mere invective,
but gives us, as no other poem of Pope's can be said to do, a portrait
of the poet himself.<br>
<br>
Like most of Pope's poems, the <i>Epistle to Arbuthnot</i> owes its
existence to an objective cause. This was the poet's wish to justify
himself against a series of savage attacks, which had recently been
directed against him. If Pope had expected by the publication of the
<i>Dunciad</i> to crush the herd of scribblers who had been for years
abusing him, he must have been woefully disappointed. On the contrary,
the roar of insult and calumny rose louder than ever, and new voices
were added to the chorus. In the year 1733 two enemies entered the field
against Pope such as he had never yet had to encounter &mdash; enemies of high
social position, of acknowledged wit, and of a certain, though as the
sequel proved quite inadequate, talent for satire. These were Lady Mary
Wortley Montague and Lord John Hervey.<br>
<br>
Lady Mary had been for years acknowledged as one of the wittiest, most
learned, and most beautiful women of her day. Pope seems to have met her
in 1715 and at once joined the train of her admirers. When she
accompanied her husband on his embassy to Constantinople in the
following year, the poet entered into a long correspondence with her,
protesting in the most elaborate fashion his undying devotion. On her
return he induced her to settle with her husband at Twickenham. Here he
continued his attentions, half real, half in the affected gallantry of
the day, until, to quote the lady's own words to her daughter many years
after, <blockquote>"at some ill-chosen time when she least expected what romancers
call a declaration, he made such passionate love to her, as, in spite of
her utmost endeavours to be angry and look grave, provoked an immoderate
fit of laughter,"</blockquote> and, she added, from that moment Pope became her
implacable enemy. Certainly by the time Pope began to write the
<i>Dunciad</i> he was so far estranged from his old friend that he
permitted himself in that poem a scoffing allusion to a scandal in which
she had recently become involved. The lady answered, or the poet thought
that she did, with an anonymous pamphlet, <i>A Pop upon Pope</i>,
describing a castigation, wholly imaginary, said to have been inflicted
upon the poet as a proper reward for his satire. After this, of course,
all hope of a reconciliation was at an end, and in his satires and
epistles Pope repeatedly introduced Lady Mary under various titles in
the most offensive fashion. In his first <i>Imitation of Horace</i>,
published in February, 1733, he referred in the most unpardonable manner
to a certain Sappho, and the dangers attendant upon any acquaintance
with her. Lady Mary was foolish enough to apply the lines to herself and
to send a common friend to remonstrate with Pope. He coolly replied that
he was surprised that Lady Mary should feel hurt, since the lines could
only apply to certain women, naming four notorious scribblers, whose
lives were as immoral as their works. Such an answer was by no means
calculated to turn away the lady's wrath, and for an ally in the
campaign of anonymous abuse that she now planned she sought out her
friend Lord Hervey. John Hervey, called by courtesy Lord Hervey, the
second son of the Earl of Bristol, was one of the most prominent figures
at the court of George II. He had been made vice-chamberlain of the
royal household in 1730, and was the intimate friend and confidential
adviser of Queen Caroline. Clever, affable, unprincipled, and cynical,
he was a perfect type of the Georgian courtier to whom loyalty,
patriotism, honesty, and honor were so many synonyms for folly. He was
effeminate in habits and appearance, but notoriously licentious; he
affected to scoff at learning but made some pretense to literature, and
had written <i>Four Epistles after the Manner of Ovid</i>, and numerous
political pamphlets. Pope, who had some slight personal acquaintance
with him, disliked his political connections and probably despised his
verses, and in the <i>Imitation</i> already mentioned had alluded to him
under the title of Lord Fanny as capable of turning out a thousand lines
of verse a day. This was sufficient cause, if cause were needed, to
induce Hervey to join Lady Mary in her warfare against Pope.<br>
<br>
The first blow was struck in an anonymous poem, probably the combined
work of the two allies, called <i>Verses addressed to the Imitator of
Horace</i>, which appeared in March, 1733, and it was followed up in August
by an <i>Epistle from a Nobleman to a Doctor of Divinity</i>, which also
appeared anonymously, but was well known to be the work of Lord Hervey.
In these poems Pope was abused in the most unmeasured terms. His work
was styled a mere collection of libels; he had no invention except in
defamation; he was a mere pretender to genius. His morals were not left
unimpeached; he was charged with selling other men's work printed in his
name, &mdash; a gross distortion of his employing assistants in the translation
of the <i>Odyssey</i>, &mdash; he was ungrateful, unjust, a foe to human kind, an
enemy like the devil to all that have being. The noble authors, probably
well aware how they could give the most pain, proceeded to attack his
family and his distorted person. His parents were obscure and vulgar
people; and he himself a wretched outcast:

<blockquote>with the emblem of [his] crooked mind<br>
Marked on [his] back like Cain by God's own hand. </blockquote>

And to cap the climax, as soon as these shameful libels were in print,
Lord Hervey bustled off to show them to the Queen and to laugh with her
over the fine way in which he had put down the bitter little poet.<br>
<br>
In order to understand and appreciate Pope's reception of these attacks,
we must recall to ourselves the position in which he lived. He was a
Catholic, and I have already (<a href="#introduction">Introduction</a>) called attention to
the precarious, tenure by which the Catholics of his time held their
goods, their persons, their very lives, in security. He was the intimate
of Bolingbroke, of all men living the most detested by the court, and
his noble friends were almost without exception the avowed enemies of
the court party. Pope had good reason to fear that the malice of his
enemies might not be content to stop with abusive doggerel. But he was
not in the least intimidated. On the contrary, he broke out in a fine
flame of wrath against Lord Hervey, whom he evidently considered the
chief offender, challenged his enemy to disavow the <i>Epistle</i>, and on
his declining to do so, proceeded to make what he called "a proper
reply" in a prose <i>Letter to a Noble Lord</i>. This masterly piece of
satire was passed about from hand to hand, but never printed. We are
told that Sir Robert Walpole, who found Hervey a convenient tool in
court intrigues, bribed Pope not to print it by securing a good position
in France for one of the priests who had watched over the poet's youth.
If this story be true, and we have Horace Walpole's authority for it, we
may well imagine that the entry of the bribe, like that of Uncle Toby's
oath, was blotted out by a tear from the books of the Recording Angel.<br>
<br>
But Pope was by no means disposed to let the attacks go without an
answer of some kind, and the particular form which his answer took seems
to have been suggested by a letter from Arbuthnot. <blockquote>"I make it my last
request," wrote his beloved physician, now sinking fast under the
diseases that brought him to the grave, "that you continue that noble
disdain and abhorrence of vice, which you seem so naturally endued with,
but still with a due regard to your own safety; and study more to reform
than to chastise, though the one often cannot be effected without the
other."</blockquote> <blockquote>"I took very kindly your advice," Pope replied, "... and it has
worked so much upon me considering the time and state you gave it in,
that I determined to address to you one of my epistles written by
piecemeal many years, and which I have now made haste to put together;
wherein the question is stated, what were, and are my motives of
writing, the objections to them, and my answers."</blockquote>

 In other words, the
<i>Epistle to Arbuthnot</i> which we see that Pope was working over at the
date of this letter, August 25, 1734, was, in the old-fashioned phrase,
his <i>Apologia</i>, his defense of his life and work.<br>
<br>
As usual, Pope's account of his work cannot be taken literally. A
comparison of dates shows that the <i>Epistle</i> instead of having been
"written by piecemeal many years" is essentially the work of one
impulse, the desire to vindicate his character, his parents, and his
work from the aspersions cast upon them by Lord Hervey and Lady Mary.
The exceptions to this statement are two, or possibly three, passages
which we know to have been written earlier and worked into the poem with
infinite art.<br>
<br>
The first of these is the famous portrait of Addison as Atticus. I have
already spoken of the reasons that led to Pope's breach with Addison
(Introduction); and there is good reason to believe that this
portrait sprang directly from Pope's bitter feeling toward the elder
writer for his preference of Tickell's translation. The lines were
certainly written in Addison's lifetime, though we may be permitted to
doubt whether Pope really did send them to him, as he once asserted.
They did not appear in print, however, till four years after Addison's
death, when they were printed apparently without Pope's consent in a
volume of miscellanies. It is interesting to note that in this form the
full name "Addison" appeared in the last line. Some time later Pope
acknowledged the verses and printed them with a few changes in his
<i>Miscellany</i> of 1727, substituting the more decorous "A &mdash; -n" for
the "Addison" of the first text. Finally he worked over the passage
again and inserted it, for a purpose that will be shown later, in the
<i>Epistle to Arbuthnot</i>.<br>
<br>
It is not worth while to discuss here the justice or injustice of this
famous portrait. In fact, the question hardly deserves to be raised. The
passage is admittedly a satire, and a satire makes no claim to be a just
and final sentence. Admitting, as we must, that Pope was in the wrong in
his quarrel with Addison, we may well admit that he has not done him
full justice. But we must equally admit that the picture is drawn with
wonderful skill, that praise and blame are deftly mingled, and that the
satire is all the more severe because of its frank admission of the
great man's merits. And it must also be said that Pope has hit off some
of the faults of Addison's character, &mdash; his coldness, his
self-complacency, his quiet sneer, his indulgence of flattering
fools &mdash; in a way that none of his biographers have done. That Pope was
not blind to Addison's chief merit as an author is fully shown by a
passage in a later poem, less well known than the portrait of Atticus,
but well worth quotation. After speaking of the licentiousness of
literature in Restoration days, he goes on to say:

<blockquote>In our own (excuse some courtly stains)<br>
No whiter page than Addison's remains,<br>
He from the taste obscene reclaims our youth,<br>
And sets the passions on the side of truth,<br>
Forms the soft bosom with the gentlest art,<br>
And pours each human virtue in the heart. <br><br>

<i>Epistle to Augustus, II</i>. 215-220.</blockquote>

If Pope was unjust to Addison the man, he at least made amends to
Addison the moralist.<br>
<br>
The second passage that may have had an independent existence before the
<i>Epistle</i> was conceived is the portrait of Bufo, ll. 229-247. There is
reason to believe that this attack was first aimed at Bubb Doddington, a
courtier of Hervey's class, though hardly of so finished a type, to whom
Pope alludes as Bubo in l. 278. When Pope was working on the <i>Epistle</i>,
however, he saw an opportunity to vindicate his own independence of
patronage by a satiric portrait of the great Mæcenas of his younger
days, Lord Halifax, who had ventured some foolish criticisms on Pope's
translation of the <i>Iliad</i>, and seems to have expected that the poet
should dedicate the great work to him in return for an offer of a
pension which he made and Pope declined. There is no reason to believe
that Pope cherished any very bitter resentment toward Halifax. On the
contrary, in a poem published some years after the <i>Epistle</i> he boasted
of his friendship with Halifax, naming him outright, and adding in a
note that the noble lord was no less distinguished by his love of
letters than his abilities in Parliament.<br>
<br>
The third passage, a tender reference to his mother's age and weakness,
was written at least as early as 1731, &mdash; Mrs. Pope died in 1733, &mdash; and was
incorporated in the <i>Epistle</i> to round it off with a picture of the poet
absorbed in his filial duties at the very time that Hervey and Lady Mary
were heaping abuse upon him, as a monster devoid of all good qualities.
And now having discussed the various insertions in the <i>Epistle</i>, let us
look for a moment at the poem as a whole, and see what is the nature of
Pope's defense of himself and of his reply to his enemies.<br>
<br>
It is cast in the form of a dialogue between the poet himself and
Arbuthnot. Pope begins by complaining of the misfortunes which his
reputation as a successful man of letters has brought upon him. He is a
mark for all the starving scribblers of the town who besiege him for
advice, recommendations, and hard cash. Is it not enough to make a man
write <i>Dunciads</i>? Arbuthnot warns him against the danger of making foes
(ll. 101- 104), but Pope replies that his flatterers are even more
intolerable than his open enemies. And with a little outburst of
impatience, such as we may well imagine him to have indulged in during
his later years, he cries:

<blockquote>Why did I write? What sin to me unknown<br>
Dipt me in ink, my parents' or my own? </blockquote>

and begins with l. 125 his poetical autobiography. He tells of his first
childish efforts, of poetry taken up "to help me thro' this long disease
my life," and then goes on to speak of the noble and famous friends who
had praised his early work and urged him to try his fortune in the open
field of letters. He speaks of his first poems, the <i>Pastorals</i> and
<i>Windsor Forest</i>, harmless as Hervey's own verses, and tells how
even then critics like Dennis fell foul of him. Rival authors hated him,
too, especially such pilfering bards as Philips. This he could endure,
but the coldness and even jealousy of such a man as Addison &mdash; and here
appears the famous portrait of Atticus &mdash; was another matter, serious
enough to draw tears from all lovers of mankind.<br>
<br>
Passing on (l. 213) to the days of his great success when his
<i>Homer</i> was the talk of the town, he asserts his ignorance of all
the arts of puffery and his independence of mutual admiration societies.
He left those who wished a patron to the tender mercies of Halifax, who
fed fat on flattery and repaid his flatterers merely with a good word or
a seat at his table. After all, the poet could afford to lose the
society of Bufo's toadies while such a friend as Gay was left him (l.
254).<br>
<br>
After an eloquent expression of his wish for independence (ll. 261-270),
he goes on to speak of the babbling friends who insist that he is always
meditating some new satire, and persist in recognizing some wretched
poetaster's lampoon as his. And so by a natural transition Pope comes to
speak of his own satiric poems and their aims. He says, and rightly,
that he has never attacked virtue or innocence. He reserves his lash for
those who trample on their neighbors and insult "fallen worth," for cold
or treacherous friends, liars, and babbling blockheads. Let Sporus
(Hervey) tremble (l. 303). Arbuthnot interposes herewith an ejaculation
of contemptuous pity; is it really worth the poet's while to castigate
such a slight thing as Hervey, that "mere white curd"? But Pope has
suffered too much from Hervey's insolence to stay his hand, and he now
proceeds to lay on the lash with equal fury and precision, drawing blood
at every stroke, until we seem to see the wretched fop writhing and
shrieking beneath the whip. And then with a magnificent transition he
goes on (ll. 332-337) to draw a portrait of himself. Here, he says in
effect, is the real man that Sporus has so maligned. The portrait is
idealized, of course; one could hardly expect a poet speaking in his own
defense in reply to venomous attacks to dissect his own character with
the stern impartiality of the critics of the succeeding century, but it
is in all essentials a portrait at once impressive and true.<br>
<br>
Arbuthnot again interrupts (l. 358) to ask why he spares neither the
poor nor the great in his satire, and Pope replies that he hates knaves
in every rank of life. Yet by nature, he insists, he is of an easy
temper, more readily deceived than angered, and in a long catalogue of
instances he illustrates his own patience and good nature (ll. 366-385).
It must be frankly confessed that these lines do not ring true. Pope
might in the heat of argument convince himself that he was humble and
slow to wrath, but he has never succeeded in convincing his readers.<br>
<br>
With l. 382 Pope turns to the defense of his family, which, as we have
seen, his enemies had abused as base and obscure. He draws a noble
picture of his dead father, "by nature honest, by experience wise"
simple, modest, and temperate, and passes to the description of himself
watching over the last years of his old mother, his sole care to

<blockquote>Explore the thought, explain the asking eye<br>
And keep a while one parent from the sky. </blockquote>

If the length of days which Heaven has promised those who honor father
and mother fall to his lot, may Heaven preserve him such a friend as
Arbuthnot to bless those days. And Arbuthnot closes the dialogue with a
word which is meant, I think, to sum up the whole discussion and to
pronounce the verdict that Pope's life had been good and honorable.

<blockquote><a name="frarb1">Whether</a> that blessing<a href="#farb1"><sup>1</sup></a> be deny'd or giv'n,<br>
Thus far was right, the rest belongs to Heav'n. </blockquote>

It seems hardly necessary to point out the merits of so patent a
masterpiece as the <i>Epistle to Arbuthnot</i>. In order to enjoy it to the
full, indeed, one must know something of the life of the author, of the
circumstances under which it was written, and, in general, of the social
and political life of the time. But even without this special knowledge
no reader can fail to appreciate the marvelous ease, fluency, and
poignancy of this admirable satire. There is nothing like it in our
language except Pope's other satires, and of all his satires it is, by
common consent, easily the first. It surpasses the satiric poetry of
Dryden in pungency and depth of feeling as easily as it does that of
Byron in polish and artistic restraint. Its range of tone is remarkable.
At times it reads like glorified conversation, as in the opening lines;
at times it flames and quivers with emotion, as in the assault on
Hervey, or in the defense of his parents. Even in the limited field of
satiric portraiture there is a wide difference between the manner in
which Pope has drawn the portrait of Atticus and that of Sporus. The
latter is a masterpiece of pure invective; no allowances are made, no
lights relieve the darkness of the shadows, the portrait is frankly
inhuman. It is the product of an unrestrained outburst of bitter
passion. The portrait of Atticus, on the other hand, was, as we know,
the work of years. It is the product not of an outburst of fury, but of
a slowly growing and intense dislike, which, while recognizing the
merits of its object, fastened with peculiar power upon his faults and
weaknesses. The studious restraint which controls the satirist's hand
makes it only the more effective. We know well enough that the portrait
is not a fair one, but we are forced to remind ourselves of this at
every step to avoid the spell which Pope's apparent impartiality casts
over our judgments. The whole passage reads not so much like the heated
plea of an advocate as the measured summing-up of a judge, and the last
couplet falls on our ears with the inevitability of a final sentence.
But the peculiar merit of the <i>Epistle to Arbuthnot</i> consists
neither in the ease and polish of its style, nor in the vigor and
effectiveness of its satire, but in the insight it gives us into the
heart and mind of the poet himself. It presents an ideal picture of
Pope, the man and the author, of his life, his friendships, his love of
his parents, his literary relationships and aims. And it is quite futile
to object, as some critics have done, that this picture is not exactly
in accordance with the known facts of Pope's life. No great man can be
tried and judged on the mere record of his acts. We must know the
circumstances that shaped these, and the motives that inspired them. A
man's ideals, if genuinely held and honestly followed, are perhaps even
more valuable contributions to our final estimate of the man himself
than all he did or left undone.

<blockquote>All I could never be, <br>
All, men ignored in me, <br>
This, I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped. </blockquote>

And in the <i>Epistle to Arbuthnot</i> we recognize in Pope ideals of
independence, of devotion to his art, of simple living, of loyal
friendship, and of filial piety which shine in splendid contrast with
the gross, servile, and cynically immoral tone of the age and society in
which he lived.<br>
<br>
<br>
<hr width="50%" align="left"><br>
<br>
<a name="farb1"><span style="color: #FF0000;">Footnote 1:</span></a> &nbsp; <i>i. e.</i> the blessing of Arbuthnot's future companionship,
for which Pope (l. 413) had just prayed.<br>
<a href="#frarb1">return to footnote mark</a><br>
<br>
<br><br>

<table summary="cribs4" width="100%" border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="20">
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><th>line</th><th>reference</th><th>meaning</th>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><h4>Advertisement</h4>
</td><td></td><td>Dr. John Arbuthnot, one of Pope's most intimate friends, had been
physician to Queen Anne, and was a man of letters as well as a doctor.
Arbuthnot, Pope, and Swift had combined to get out a volume of
Miscellanies in 1737. His health was failing rapidly at this time, and
he died a month or so after the appearance of this <i>Epistle</i>. </td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><h4>Epistle</h4>
</td><td></td><td></td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>1</b></td><td>John</td><td>John Searle, Pope's faithful servant.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>4</b></td><td>Bedlam</td><td>a lunatic asylum in London in Pope's day. Notice how Pope mentions, in
the same breath, Bedlam and Parnassus, the hill of the Muses which poets
might well be supposed to haunt.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>8</b></td><td>thickets</td><td>the groves surrounding Pope's villa.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td></td><td>Grot.</td><td>see Introduction [grotto]</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>10</b></td><td>the chariot</td><td>the coach in which Pope drove.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td></td><td>the barge</td><td>the boat in which Pope was rowed upon the Thames.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>13</b></td><td>the Mint</td><td>a district in London where debtors were free from arrest. As they could
not be arrested anywhere on Sunday, Pope represents them as taking that
day to inflict their visits on him.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>15</b></td><td>parson</td><td>probably a certain Eusden, who had some pretensions to letters, but who
ruined himself by drink.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>17</b></td><td>clerk</td><td>a law clerk.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>18</b></td><td>engross</td><td>write legal papers.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>19-20</b></td><td></td><td>An imaginary portrait of a mad poet who keeps on writing verses even in
his cell in Bedlam. Pope may have been thinking of Lee, a dramatist of
Dryden's day who was confined for a time in this asylum.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>23</b></td><td>Arthur</td><td>Arthur Moore, a member of Parliament for some years and well known in
London society. His "giddy son," James Moore, who took the name of Moore
Smythe, dabbled in letters and was a bitter enemy of Pope.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>25</b></td><td>Cornus</td><td>Robert Lord Walpole, whose wife deserted him in 1734. Horace Walpole
speaks of her as half mad.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>31</b></td><td>sped</td><td>done for.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>40</b></td><td></td><td>Pope's counsel to delay the publication of the works read to him is
borrowed from Horace: "nonumque prematur in annum" '(<i>Ars Poetica,</i> 388).'</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>41</b></td><td>Drury-land</td><td>like Grub Street, a haunt of poor authors at this time.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>43</b></td><td>before Term ends</td><td>before the season is over; that is, as soon as the poem is written.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>48</b></td><td>a Prologue</td><td>for a play. Of course a prologue by the famous Mr. Pope would be of
great value to a poor and unknown dramatist.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>49</b></td><td>Pitholeon</td><td>the name of a foolish poet mentioned by Horace. Pope uses it here for
his enemy Welsted, mentioned in l. 373. &mdash; 'his Grace:' the title given a
Duke in Great Britain. The Duke here referred to is said to be the Duke
of Argyle, one of the most influential of the great Whig lords.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>53</b></td><td>Curll</td><td>a notorious publisher of the day, and an enemy of Pope. The implication
is that if Pope will not grant Pitholeon's request, the latter will
accept Curll's invitation and concoct a new libel against the poet.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>60</b></td><td></td><td>Pope was one of the few men of letters of his day who had not written a
play, and he was at this time on bad terms with certain actors.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>62</b></td><td></td><td>Bernard Lintot, the publisher of Pope's translation of Homer.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>66</b></td><td>go snacks</td><td>share the profits. Pope represents the unknown dramatist as trying to
bribe him to give a favorable report of the play.
</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>69</b></td><td>Midas</td><td>an old legend tells us that Midas was presented with a pair of ass's
ears by an angry god whose music he had slighted. His barber, or,
Chaucer says, his queen, discovered the change which Midas had tried to
conceal, and unable to keep the secret whispered it to the reeds in the
river, who straightway spread the news abroad.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>75</b></td><td></td><td>With this line Arbuthnot is supposed to take up the conversation. This
is indicated here and elsewhere by the letter A.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>79</b></td><td><i>Dunciad</i></td><td>see Introduction</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>85</b></td><td>Codrus</td><td>a name borrowed from Juvenal to denote a foolish poet. Pope uses it here
for some conceited dramatist who thinks none the less of himself because
his tragedy is rejected with shouts of laughter.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>96</b></td><td></td><td>Explain the exact meaning of this line.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>97</b></td><td>Bavius</td><td>a stock name for a bad poet. See note on <i>Essay on Criticism</i>, l. 34.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>98</b></td><td>Philips</td><td>Ambrose Philips, author among other things of a set of <i>Pastorals</i> that
appeared in the same volume with Pope, 1709. Pope and he soon became
bitter enemies. He was patronized by a Bishop Boulter.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>99</b></td><td>Sappho</td><td>Here as elsewhere Pope uses the name of the Greek poetess for his enemy,
Lady Mary Wortley Montague.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>109</b></td><td>Grubstreet</td><td>a wretched street in London, inhabited in Pope's day by hack writers,
most of whom were his enemies.
</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>111</b></td><td>Curll</td><td>(see note to l. 53) had printed a number of Pope's letters without the
poet's consent some years before this poem was written.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>113-32</b></td><td></td><td>Pope here describes the flatterers who were foolish enough to pay him
personal compliments. They compare him to Horace who was short like
Pope, though fat, and who seems to have suffered from colds; also to
Alexander, one of whose shoulders was higher than the other, and to
Ovid, whose other name, Naso, might indicate that long noses were a
characteristic feature of his family. Pope really had large and
beautiful eyes. Maro, l. 122, is Virgil.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>123</b></td><td></td><td>With this line Pope begins an account of his life as a poet. For his
precocity, see Introduction.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>129</b></td><td>ease</td><td>amuse, entertain.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td></td><td>'friend, not Wife:' </td><td>the reference is, perhaps, to
Martha Blount, Pope's friend, and may have been meant as a contradiction
of his reported secret marriage to her.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>132</b></td><td>to bear</td><td>to endure the pains and troubles of an invalid's life.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>133</b></td><td>Granville</td><td>George Granville, Lord Lansdowne, a poet and patron of letters to whom
Pope had dedicated his <i>Windsor Forest.</i></td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>134</b></td><td>Walsh</td><td>see note on <i>Essay on Criticism</i>, l. 729.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>135</b></td><td>Garth</td><td>Sir Samuel Garth, like Arbuthnot, a doctor, a man of letters, and an
early friend of Pope.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>137</b></td><td></td><td>Charles Talbot, Duke of Shrewsbury; John, Lord Somers; and John
Sheffield, Duke of Buckingham; all leading statesmen and patrons of
literature in Queen Anne's day.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>138</b></td><td>Rochester</td><td>Francis Atterbury, Bishop of Rochester, an intimate friend of Pope.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>139</b></td><td>St. John</td><td>Bolingbroke. For Pope's relations with him, see introduction to the
<i>Essay on Man</i>, p. 116.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>143</b></td><td></td><td>Gilbert Burnet and John Oldmixon had written historical works from the
Whig point of view. Roger Cooke, a now forgotten writer, had published a
<i>Detection of the Court and State of England</i>. Pope in a note on this
line calls them all three authors of secret and scandalous history.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>146</b></td><td></td><td>The reference is to Pope's early descriptive poems, the <i>Pastorals</i> and
<i>Windsor Forest</i>.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>147</b></td><td>gentle Fanny's</td><td>a sneer at Lord Hervey's verses. See the introduction to this poem.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>149</b></td><td>Gildon</td><td>a critic of the time who had repeatedly attacked Pope. The poet told
Spence that he had heard Addison gave Gildon ten pounds to slander him.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>151</b></td><td>Dennis</td><td>see note on <i>Essay on Criticism</i>. l. 270.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>156</b></td><td>kiss'd the rod</td><td>Pope was sensible enough to profit by the criticisms even of his
enemies. He corrected several passages in the <i>Essay on Criticism</i> which
Dennis had properly found fault with.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>162</b></td><td>Bentley</td><td>the most famous scholar of Pope's day. Pope disliked him because of his
criticism of the poet's translation of the <i>Iliad</i>, "good verses, but
not Homer." The epithet "slashing" refers to Bentley's edition of
<i>Paradise Lost</i> in which he altered and corrected the poet's text to
suit his own ideas.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td></td><td>Tibbalds</td><td>Lewis Theobald (pronounced Tibbald), a
scholar who had attacked Pope's edition of Shakespeare. Pope calls him
"piddling" because of his scrupulous attention to details.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>177</b></td><td>the Bard</td><td>Philips, see note on l. 98. Pope claimed that Philips's <i>Pastorals</i> were
plagiarized from Spenser, and other poets. Philips, also, translated
some <i>Persian Tales</i> for the low figure of half a crown apiece.
</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>187</b></td><td>bade translate</td><td>suggested that they translate other men's work, since they could write
nothing valuable of their own.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>188</b></td><td>Tate</td><td>a poetaster of the generation before Pope. He is remembered as the part
author of a doggerel version of the Psalms.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>191-212</b></td><td></td><td>For a discussion of this famous passage, see introduction to the
<i>Epistle</i>.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>196</b></td><td>the Turk</td><td>it was formerly the practice for a Turkish monarch when succeeding to
the throne to have all his brothers murdered so as to do away with
possible rivals.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>199</b></td><td>faint praise</td><td>Addison was hearty enough when he cared to praise his friends. Pope is
thinking of the coldness with which Addison treated his <i>Pastorals</i> as
compared to those of Philips.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>206</b></td><td>oblig'd</td><td>note the old-fashioned pronunciation to rhyme with "besieged."</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>207</b></td><td>Cato</td><td>an unmistakable allusion to Addison's tragedy in which the famous Roman
appears laying down the law to the remnants of the Senate.
</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>209</b></td><td>Templars</td><td>students of law at the "Temple" in London who prided themselves on their
good taste in literature. A body of them came on purpose to applaud
'Cato' on the first night.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td></td><td>raise</td><td>exalt, praise.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>211-2</b></td><td>laugh ... weep</td><td>explain the reason for these actions.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td></td><td>Atticus</td><td>Addison's name was given in the first version of this passage. Then it
was changed to "A &mdash; -n." Addison had been mentioned in the <i>Spectator</i>
(No. 150) under the name of Atticus as "in every way one of the greatest
geniuses the age has produced."</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>213</b></td><td>rubric on the walls</td><td>Lintot, Pope's old publisher, used to stick up the titles of new books
in red letters on the walls of his shop.
</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>214</b></td><td>with claps</td><td>with clap-bills, posters.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>215</b></td><td>smoking</td><td>hot from the press.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>220</b></td><td>George</td><td>George II, king of England at this time. His indifference to literature
was notorious.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>228</b></td><td>Bufo</td><td>the picture of a proud but grudging patron of letters which follows was
first meant for Bubb Doddington, a courtier and patron of letters at the
time the poem was written. In order to connect it more closely with the
time of which he was writing, Pope added ll. 243-246, which pointed to
Charles Montague, Earl of Halifax. Halifax was himself a poet and
affected to be a great patron of poetry, but his enemies accused him of
only giving his clients "good words and good dinners." Pope tells an
amusing story of Montague's comments on his translation of the <i>Iliad</i>
(Spence, <i>Anecdotes</i>, p. 134). But Halifax subscribed for ten copies of
the translation, so that Pope, at least, could not complain of his lack
of generosity.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td></td><td>Castalian state</td><td>the kingdom of poets</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>232</b></td><td></td><td>His name was coupled with that of Horace as a poet and critic.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>234</b></td><td>Pindar without a head</td><td>some headless statue which Bufo insisted was a genuine classic figure of
Pindar, the famous Greek lyric poet.
</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>237</b></td><td>his seat</td><td>his country seat.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>242</b></td><td>paid in kind</td><td>What does this phrase mean?</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>243</b></td><td></td><td>Dryden died in 1700. He had been poor and obliged to work hard for a
living in his last years, but hardly had to starve. Halifax offered to
pay the expenses of his funeral and contribute five hundred pounds for a
monument, and Pope not unreasonably suggests that some of this bounty
might have been bestowed on Dryden in his lifetime.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>249</b></td><td></td><td>When a politician wants a writer to put in a day's work in defending
him. Walpole, for example, who cared nothing for poetry, spent large
sums in retaining writers to defend him in the journals and pamphlets of
the day.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>254</b></td><td></td><td>John Gay, the author of some very entertaining verses, was an intimate
friend of Pope. On account of some supposed satirical allusions his
opera <i>Polly</i> was refused a license, and when his friends, the Duke and
Duchess of Queensberry (see l. 260) solicited subscriptions for it in
the palace, they were driven from the court. Gay died in 1732, and Pope
wrote an epitaph for his tomb in Westminster Abbey. It is to this that
he alludes in l. 258.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>274</b></td><td>Balbus</td><td>Balbus is said to mean the Earl of Kinnoul, at one time an acquaintance
of Pope and Swift.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>278</b></td><td></td><td>Sir William Yonge, a Whig politician whom Pope disliked. He seems to
have written occasional verses. Bubo is Bubo Doddington (see note on l
230).</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>297-8</b></td><td></td><td>In the Fourth Moral Essay, published in 1731 as an <i>Epistle to the Earl
of Burlington</i>, Pope had given a satirical description of a nobleman's
house and grounds, adorned and laid out at vast expense, but in bad
taste. Certain features of this description were taken from Canons, the
splendid country place of the Duke of Chandos, and the duke was at once
identified by a scandal-loving public with the Timon of the poem. In the
description Pope speaks of the silver bell which calls worshipers to
Timon's chapel, and of the soft Dean preaching there "who never mentions
Hell to ears polite." In this passage of the <i>Epistle to Arbuthnot</i> he
is protesting against the people who swore that they could identify the
bell and the Dean as belonging to the chapel at Canons.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>303</b></td><td>Sporus</td><td>a favorite of Nero, used here for Lord Hervey. See introduction to this
poem.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>304</b></td><td>ass's milk</td><td>Hervey was obliged by bad health to keep a strict diet, and a cup of
ass's milk was his daily drink.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>308</b></td><td>painted child</td><td>Hervey was accustomed to paint his face like a woman.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>317-9</b></td><td></td><td>Pope is thinking of Milton's striking description of Satan "squat like a
toad" by the ear of the sleeping Eve (<i>Paradise Lost</i>, IV, 800). In this
passage "Eve" refers to Queen Caroline with whom Hervey was on intimate
terms. It is said that he used to have a seat in the queen's hunting
chaise "where he sat close behind her perched at her ear".</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>322</b></td><td>now master up, now miss</td><td>Pope borrowed this telling phrase from a pamphlet against Hervey written
by Pulteney, a political opponent, in which the former is called "a
pretty little master-miss."</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>326</b></td><td>the board</td><td>the Council board where Hervey sat as member of the Privy Council.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>328-9</b></td><td></td><td>An allusion to the old pictures of the serpent in Eden with a snake's
body and a woman's, or angel's, face.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>330</b></td><td>parts</td><td>talents, natural gifts.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>338-9</b></td><td></td><td>An allusion to Pope's abandoning the imaginative topics to his early
poems, as the <i>Pastorals</i> and <i>The Rape of the Lock</i>, and turning to
didactic verse as in the <i>Essay on Man</i>, and the <i>Moral Epistles</i>.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>347</b></td><td></td><td>An allusion to a story circulated, in an abusive pamphlet called <i>A Pop
upon Pope</i>, that the poet had been whipped for his satire and that he
had cried like a child.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>349</b></td><td></td><td>Dull and scandalous poems printed under Pope's name, or attributed to
him by his enemies.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>351</b></td><td>the pictur'd shape</td><td>Pope was especially hurt by the caricatures which exaggerated his
personal deformity.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>353</b></td><td>a friend is exile</td><td>probably Bishop Atterbury, then in exile for his Jacobite opinions.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>354-5</b></td><td></td><td>Another reference to Hervey who was suspected of poisoning the mind of
the King against Pope.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>361</b></td><td>Japhet</td><td>Japhet Crooke, a notorious forger of the time. He died in prison in
1734, after having had his nose slit and ears cropped for his crimes;
see below, l. 365.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>363</b></td><td>Knight of the post</td><td>a slang term for a professional witness ready to, swear to anything for
money. A knight of the shire, on the other hand, is the representative
of a county in the House of Commons.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>367</b></td><td>bit</td><td>tricked, taken in, a piece of Queen Anne slang. The allusion is probably
to the way in which Lady Mary Wortley Montague allowed Pope to make love
to her and then laughed at him.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>369</b></td><td>friend to his distress</td><td>in 1733, when old Dennis was in great poverty, a play was performed for
his benefit, for which Pope obligingly wrote a prologue.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>371</b></td><td></td><td>Colley Gibber, actor and poet laureate. Pope speaks as if it were an act
of condescension for him to have drunk with Gibber.''</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td></td><td>Moore</td><td>James
Moore Smythe (see note on l. 23), whom Pope used to meet at the house of
the Blounts. He wrote a comedy, <i>The Rival Modes</i>, in which he
introduced six lines that Pope had written. Pope apparently had given
him leave to do so, and then retracted his permission. But Moore used
them without the permission and an undignified quarrel arose as to the
true authorship of the passage.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>373</b></td><td>Welsted</td><td>a hack writer of the day, had falsely charged Pope with being
responsible for the death of the lady who is celebrated in Pope's <i>Elegy
to the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady</i>.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>374-5</b></td><td></td><td>There is an allusion here that has never been fully explained. Possibly
the passage refers to Teresa Blount whom Pope suspected of having
circulated slanderous reports concerning his relations with her sister.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>376-7</b></td><td></td><td>Suffered Budgell to attribute to his (Pope's) pen the slanderous gossip
of the <i>Grub Street Journal</i>, &mdash; a paper to which Pope did, as a matter of
fact, contribute &mdash; and let him (Budgell) write anything he pleased except
his (Pope's) will. Budgell, a distant cousin of Addison's, fell into bad
habits after his friend's death. He was strongly suspected of having
forged a will by which Dr. Tindal of Oxford left him a considerable sum
of money. He finally drowned himself in the Thames.
</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>378</b></td><td>the two Curlls</td><td>Curll, the bookseller, and Lord Hervey whom Pope here couples with him
because of Hervey's vulgar abuse of Pope's personal deformities and
obscure parentage.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>380</b></td><td>yet why</td><td>Why should they abuse Pope's inoffensive parents? Compare the following
lines.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>383</b></td><td></td><td>Moore's own mother was suspected of loose conduct.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>386-8</b></td><td>Of gentle blood ... each parent</td><td>Pope asserted, perhaps incorrectly, that his father belonged to a
gentleman's family, the head of which was the Earl of Downe. His mother
was the daughter of a Yorkshire gentleman, who lost two sons in the
service of Charles I (cf. l. 386).</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>389</b></td><td>Bestia</td><td>probably the elder Horace Walpole, who was in receipt of a handsome
pension.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>391</b></td><td></td><td>An allusion to Addison's unhappy marriage with the Countess of Warwick.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>393</b></td><td>the good man</td><td>Pope's father, who as a devout Roman Catholic refused to take the oath
of allegiance (cf. l. 395), or risk the equivocations sanctioned by the
"schoolmen,"<i> i.e.</i> the Catholic casuists of the day (l. 398).</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>404</b></td><td>friend</td><td>Arbuthnot, to whom the epistle is addressed.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>405-11</b></td><td></td><td>The first draft of these appeared in a letter to Aaron Hill, September
3, 1731, where Pope speaks of having sent them "the other day to a
particular friend," perhaps the poet Thomson. Mrs. Pope, who was very
old and feeble, was of course alive when they were first written, but
died more than a year before the passage appeared in its revised form in
this <i>Epistle</i>.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>412</b></td><td></td><td>An allusion to the promise contained in the fifth commandment.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>415</b></td><td>served a Queen</td><td>Arbuthnot had been Queen Anne's doctor, but was driven out of his rooms
in the palace after her death.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="middle"><td><b>416</b></td><td>that blessing</td><td>long life for Arbuthnot. It was, in fact, denied, for he died a month or
so after the appearance of the <i>Epistle</i>.
</td>
</tr>
</table>
<br>
<br>
<p><a href="#toc">Contents</a></p><hr><br><br>

<h2><a name="section11a">Notes on <i>An Ode on Solitude</i></a></h2><br>

Pope says that this delightful little poem was written at the early age
of twelve. It first appeared in a letter to his friend, Henry Cromwell,
dated July 17, 1709. There are several variations between this first
form and that in which it was finally published, and it is probable that
Pope thought enough of his boyish production to subject it to repeated
revision. Its spirit is characteristic of a side of Pope's nature that
is often forgotten. He was, indeed, the poet of the society of his day,
urban, cultured, and pleasure-loving; but to the end of his days he
retained a love for the quiet charm of country life which he had come to
feel in his boyhood at Binfield, and for which he early withdrew from
the whirl and dissipations of London to the groves and the grotto of his
villa at Twickenham. <br>
<br>
<p><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp2">Contents, p. 2</a></p><hr><br><br>

<h2><a name="section11b">Notes on <i>The Descent of Dullness</i></a></h2><br>
In the fourth book of the <i>Dunciad</i>, Pope abandons the satire on
the pretenders to literary fame which had run through the earlier books,
and flies at higher game. He represents the Goddess Dullness as "coming
in her majesty to destroy Order and Science, and to substitute the
Kingdom of the Dull upon earth." He attacks the pedantry and formalism
of university education in his day, the dissipation and false taste of
the traveled gentry, the foolish pretensions to learning of collectors
and virtuosi, and the daringly irreverent speculations of freethinkers
and infidels. At the close of the book he represents the Goddess as
dismissing her worshipers with a speech which she concludes with "a yawn
of extraordinary virtue." Under its influence "all nature nods," and
pulpits, colleges, and Parliament succumb. The poem closes with the
magnificent description of the descent of Dullness and her final
conquest of art, philosophy, and religion. It is said that Pope himself
admired these lines so much that he could not repeat them without his
voice faltering with emotion. "And well it might, sir," said Dr. Johnson
when this anecdote was repeated to him, "for they are noble lines." And
Thackeray in his lecture on Pope in <i>The English Humorists</i> says:

<blockquote>"In these astonishing lines Pope reaches, I think, to the very
  greatest height which his sublime art has attained, and shows himself
  the equal of all poets of all times. It is the brightest ardor, the
  loftiest assertion of truth, the most generous wisdom, illustrated by
  the noblest poetic figure, and spoken in words the aptest, grandest,
  and most harmonious."</blockquote>
<br>
<br>
<p><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp2">Contents, p. 2</a></p><hr><br><br>

<h2><a name="section11c">Notes on <i>The Epitaph on Gay</i></a></h2><br>
John Gay, the idlest, best-natured, and best-loved man of letters of his
day, was the special friend of Pope. His early work, <i>The Shepherd's
Week</i>, was planned as a parody on the <i>Pastorals</i> of Pope's
rival, Ambrose Philips, and Pope assisted him in the composition of his
luckless farce, <i>Three Hours after Marriage</i>. When Gay's opera
<i>Polly</i> was forbidden by the licenser, and Gay's patrons, the Duke
and Duchess of Queensberry, were driven from court for soliciting
subscriptions for him, Pope warmly espoused his cause. Gay died in 1732
and was buried in Westminster Abbey. Pope's epitaph for his tomb was
first published in the quarto edition of Pope's works in 1735 &mdash; Johnson,
in his discussion of Pope's epitaphs (<i>Lives of the Poets</i>),
devotes a couple of pages of somewhat captious criticism to these lines;
but they have at least the virtue of simplicity and sincerity, and are
at once an admirable portrait of the man and a lasting tribute to the
poet Gay.
<br>
<br>
<p><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp2">Contents, p. 2</a></p><hr><br><br>

<h2><a name="section13">Appendix</a></h2><br>

<h3><i>The Rape of the Lock</i>: First Edition</h3><br>

<blockquote>Nolueram, Belinda, tuos violare capillos <br>
Sed juvat, hoc precibus me tribuisse tuis.<br><br>

<b>Mart</b>. </blockquote><br>
<br>
<h3>Canto I</h3><br>

<table summary="Canto I" width="75%" cellspacing="50" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td width="90%">What dire offence from am'rous causes springs, <br>
What mighty quarrels rise from trivial things, <br>
I sing &mdash; This verse to C &mdash; l, Muse! is due: <br>
This, ev'n Belinda may vouchsafe to view: <br>
Slight is the subject, but not so the praise,<br>
If she inspire, and he approve my lays. <br><br>

Say what strange motive, goddess! could compel<br>
A well-bred lord t' assault a gentle belle?<br>
O say what stranger cause, yet unexplored,<br>
Could make a gentle belle reject a lord?<br>
And dwells such rage in softest bosoms then,<br>
And lodge such daring souls in little men? <br><br>

Sol through white curtains did his beams display,<br>
And ope'd those eyes which brighter shine than they,<br>
Shock just had giv'n himself the rousing shake,<br>
And nymphs prepared their chocolate to take;<br>
Thrice the wrought slipper knocked against the ground,<br>
And striking watches the tenth hour resound.<br>
Belinda rose, and midst attending dames,<br>
Launched on the bosom of the silver Thames:<br>
A train of well-dressed youths around her shone,<br>
And ev'ry eye was fixed on her alone:<br>
On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore<br>
Which Jews might kiss and infidels adore.<br>
Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose,<br>
Quick as her eyes, and as unfixed as those: <br>
Favours to none, to all she smiles extends; <br>
Oft she rejects, but never once offends. <br>
Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike, <br>
And, like the sun, they shine on all alike.<br>
Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride, <br>
Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to hide: <br>
If to her share some female errors fall, <br>
Look on her face, and you'll forgive 'em all. <br><br>

This nymph, to the destruction of mankind,<br>
Nourished two locks, which graceful hung behind<br>
In equal curls, and well conspired to deck<br>
With shining ringlets her smooth iv'ry neck.<br>
Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains,<br>
And mighty hearts are held in slender chains.<br>
With hairy springes we the birds betray,<br>
Slight lines of hair surprise the finny prey,<br>
Fair tresses man's imperial race insnare,<br>
And beauty draws us with a single hair. <br><br>

Th' adventurous baron the bright locks admired;<br>
He saw, he wished, and to the prize aspired.<br>
Resolved to win, he meditates the way,<br>
By force to ravish, or by fraud betray;<br>
For when success a lover's toil attends,<br>
Few ask if fraud or force attained his ends.<br><br>

For this, ere Phoebus rose, he had implored<br>
Propitious heav'n, and every pow'r adored,<br>
But chiefly Love &mdash; to Love an altar built,<br>
Of twelve vast French romances, neatly gilt.<br>
There lay the sword-knot Sylvia's hands had sewn<br>
With Flavia's busk that oft had wrapped his own:<br>
A fan, a garter, half a pair of gloves,<br>
And all the trophies of his former loves. <br>
With tender billets-doux he lights the pire, <br>
And breathes three am'rous sighs to raise the fire.<br>
Then prostrate falls, and begs with ardent eyes <br>
Soon to obtain, and long possess the prize: <br>
The pow'rs gave ear, and granted half his pray'r, <br>
The rest the winds dispersed in empty air. <br><br>

Close by those meads, for ever crowned with flow'rs,<br>
Where Thames with pride surveys his rising tow'rs,<br>
There stands a structure of majestic frame,<br>
Which from the neighb'ring Hampton takes its name.<br>
Here Britain's statesmen oft the fall foredoom<br>
Of foreign tyrants, and of nymphs at home;<br>
Here thou, great Anna! whom three realms obey,<br>
Dost sometimes counsel take &mdash; and sometimes tea. <br><br>

Hither our nymphs and heroes did resort,<br>
To taste awhile the pleasures of a court;<br>
In various talk the cheerful hours they passed,<br>
Of who was bit, or who capotted last;<br>
This speaks the glory of the British queen,<br>
And that describes a charming Indian screen;<br>
A third interprets motions, looks, and eyes;<br>
At ev'ry word a reputation dies.<br>
Snuff, or the fan, supply each pause of chat,<br>
With singing, laughing, ogling, and all that. <br><br>

Now when, declining from the noon of day,<br>
The sun obliquely shoots his burning ray;<br>
When hungry judges soon the sentence sign,<br>
And wretches hang that jurymen may dine;<br>
When merchants from th' Exchange return in peace,<br>
And the long labours of the toilet cease,<br>
The board's with cups and spoons, alternate, crowned,<br>
The berries crackle, and the mill turns round;<br>
On shining altars of Japan they raise <br>
The silver lamp, and fiery spirits blaze: <br>
From silver spouts the grateful liquors glide, <br>
While China's earth receives the smoking tide. <br>
At once they gratify their smell and taste,<br>
While frequent cups prolong the rich repast. <br>
Coffee (which makes the politician wise, <br>
And see through all things with his half-shut eyes) <br>
Sent up in vapours to the baron's brain <br>
New stratagems, the radiant lock to gain.<br>
Ah cease, rash youth! desist ere't is too late, <br>
Fear the just gods, and think of Scylla's fate! <br>
Changed to a bird, and sent to flit in air, <br>
She dearly pays for Nisus' injured hair! <br><br>

But when to mischief mortals bend their mind,<br>
How soon fit instruments of ill they find!<br>
Just then, Clarissa drew with tempting grace<br>
A two-edged weapon from her shining case:<br>
So ladies, in romance, assist their knight,<br>
Present the spear, and arm him for the fight;<br>
He takes the gift with rev'rence, and extends<br>
The little engine on his fingers' ends;<br>
This just behind Belinda's neck he spread,<br>
As o'er the fragrant steams she bends her head.<br>
He first expands the glitt'ring forfex wide<br>
T' enclose the lock; then joins it, to divide;<br>
One fatal stroke the sacred hair does sever<br>
From the fair head, for ever, and for ever! <br><br>

The living fires come flashing from her eyes,<br>
And screams of horror rend th' affrighted skies.<br>
Not louder shrieks by dames to heav'n are cast,<br>
When husbands die, or lapdogs breathe their last;<br>
Or when rich china vessels, fall'n from high,<br>
In glitt'ring dust and painted fragments lie! <br><br>

"Let wreaths of triumph now my temples twine,"<br>
The victor cried, "the glorious prize is mine!<br>
While fish in streams, or birds delight in air,<br>
Or in a coach and six the British fair,<br>
As long as Atalantis shall be read, <br>
Or the small pillow grace a lady's bed,<br>
While visits shall be paid on solemn days,<br>
When num'rous wax-lights in bright order blaze,<br>
While nymphs take treats, or assignations give,<br>
So long my honour, name, and praise shall live!"<br><br>

What time would spare, from steel receives its date,<br>
And monuments, like men, submit to fate!<br>
Steel did the labour of the gods destroy,<br>
And strike to dust th' aspiring tow'rs of Troy;<br>
Steel could the works of mortal pride confound,<br>
And hew triumphal arches to the ground.<br>
What wonder then, fair nymph! thy hairs should feel<br>
The conqu'ring force of unresisted steel? </td>
<td><br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
5<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
10<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
15<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
20<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
25<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
30<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
35<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
40<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
45<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
50<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

55<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
60<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
65<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
70<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
<br>
75<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
80<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
85<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
90<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
95<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
100<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
105<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
110<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
115<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
120<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
125<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
130<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
135<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
140<br>
<br>
<br></td>
</tr>
</table><br>

<hr width="25%" align="left"><br>

<h3>Canto II</h3><br>

<table summary="Canto II" width="75%" cellspacing="50" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td width="90%">But anxious cares the pensive nymph oppressed, <br>
And secret passions laboured in her breast. <br>
Not youthful kings in battle seized alive, <br>
Not scornful virgins who their charms survive, <br>
Not ardent lover robbed of all his bliss,<br>
Not ancient lady when refused a kiss, <br>
Not tyrants fierce that unrepenting die, <br>
Not Cynthia when her manteau's pinned awry, <br>
E'er felt such rage, resentment, and despair, <br>
As thou, sad virgin! for thy ravished hair.<br><br>

While her racked soul repose and peace requires,<br>
The fierce Thalestris fans the rising fires. <br>
"O wretched maid!" she spread her hands, and cried,<br>
(And Hampton's echoes, "Wretched maid!" replied)<br>
"Was it for this you took such constant care<br>
Combs, bodkins, leads, pomatums to prepare?<br>
For this your locks in paper durance bound?<br>
For this with tort'ring irons wreathed around?<br>
Oh had the youth been but content to seize<br>
Hairs less in sight, or any hairs but these!<br>
Gods! shall the ravisher display this hair,<br>
While the fops envy, and the ladies stare!<br>
Honour forbid! at whose unrivalled shrine<br>
Ease, pleasure, virtue, all, our sex resign.<br>
Methinks already I your tears survey,<br>
Already hear the horrid things they say,<br>
Already see you a degraded toast,<br>
And all your honour in a whisper lost!<br>
How shall I, then, your helpless fame defend?<br>
'T will then be infamy to seem your friend!<br>
And shall this prize, th' inestimable prize,<br>
Exposed through crystal to the gazing eyes,<br>
And heightened by the diamond's circling rays,<br>
On that rapacious hand for ever blaze? <br>
Sooner shall grass in Hyde Park Circus grow,<br>
And wits take lodgings in the sound of Bow;<br>
Sooner let earth, air, sea, to chaos fall,<br>
Men, monkeys, lapdogs, parrots, perish all!"<br><br>

She said; then raging to Sir Plume repairs,<br>
And bids her beau demand the precious hairs:<br>
Sir Plume, of amber snuff-box justly vain,<br>
And the nice conduct of a clouded cane,<br>
With earnest eyes, and round unthinking face,<br>
He first the snuff-box opened, then the case,<br>
And thus broke out &mdash; "My lord, why, what the devil!<br>
Zounds! damn the lock! 'fore Gad, you must be civil!<br>
Plague on't! 't is past a jest &mdash; nay, prithee, pox!<br>
Give her the hair." &mdash; He spoke, and rapped his box. <br><br>

"It grieves me much," replied the peer again,<br>
"Who speaks so well should ever speak in vain:<br>
But by this lock, this sacred lock, I swear,<br>
(Which never more shall join its parted hair;<br>
Which never more its honours shall renew,<br>
Clipped from the lovely head where once it grew)<br>
That, while my nostrils draw the vital air,<br>
This hand, which won it, shall for ever wear."<br>
He spoke, and speaking, in proud triumph spread<br>
The long-contended honours of her head. <br><br>

But see! the nymph in sorrow's pomp appears,<br>
Her eyes half-languishing, half drowned in tears;<br>
Now livid pale her cheeks, now glowing red<br>
On her heaved bosom hung her drooping head,<br>
Which with a sigh she raised, and thus she said:<br>
"For ever cursed be this detested day, <br>
Which snatched my best, my fav'rite curl away;<br>
Happy! ah ten times happy had I been,<br>
If Hampton Court these eyes had never seen!<br>
Yet am not I the first mistaken maid,<br>
By love of courts to num'rous ills betrayed.<br>
O had I rather unadmired remained<br>
In some lone isle, or distant northern land,<br>
Where the gilt chariot never marked the way,<br>
Where none learn ombre, none e'er taste bohea!<br>
There kept my charms concealed from mortal eye,<br>
Like roses, that in deserts bloom and die.<br>
What moved my mind with youthful lords to roam?<br>
O had I stayed, and said my pray'rs at home!<br>
'Twas this the morning omens did foretell, <br>
Thrice from my trembling hand the patchbox fell; <br>
The tott'ring china shook without a wind,<br>
Nay, Poll sat mute, and Shock was most unkind! <br>
See the poor remnants of this slighted hair! <br>
My hands shall rend what ev'n thy own did spare: <br>
This in two sable ringlets taught to break, <br>
Once gave new beauties to the snowy neck;<br>
The sister-lock now sits uncouth, alone, <br>
And in its fellow's fate foresees its own; <br>
Uncurled it hangs, the fatal shears demands, <br>
And tempts once more thy sacrilegious hands."<br><br>

She said: the pitying audience melt in tears;<br>
But fate and Jove had stopped the baron's ears.<br>
In vain Thalestris with reproach assails,<br>
For who can move when fair Belinda fails?<br>
Not half so fixed the Trojan could remain,<br>
While Anna begged and Dido raged in vain.<br>
"To arms, to arms!" the bold Thalestris cries,<br>
And swift as lightning to the combat flies.<br>
All side in parties, and begin th' attack;<br>
Fans clap, silks rustle, and tough whalebones crack;<br>
Heroes' and heroines' shouts confus'dly rise,<br>
And bass and treble voices strike the skies;<br>
No common weapons in their hands are found,<br>
Like gods they fight, nor dread a mortal wound. <br><br>

So when bold Homer makes the gods engage,<br>
And heav'nly breasts with human passions rage,<br>
'Gainst Pallas, Mars; Latona, Hermes arms,<br>
And all Olympus rings with loud alarms;<br>
Jove's thunder roars, heav'n trembles all around,<br>
Blue Neptune storms, the bellowing deeps resound:<br>
Earth shakes her nodding tow'rs, the ground gives way,<br>
And the pale ghosts start at the flash of day! <br><br>

While through the press enraged Thalestris flies,<br>
And scatters death around from both her eyes,<br>
A beau and witling perished in the throng,<br>
One died in metaphor, and one in song.<br>
"O cruel nymph; a living death I bear,"<br>
Cried Dapperwit, and sunk beside his chair.<br>
A mournful glance Sir Fopling upwards cast,<br>
"Those eyes are made so killing" &mdash; was his last.<br>
Thus on Mæander's flow'ry margin lies<br>
Th' expiring swan, and as he sings he dies. <br><br>

As bold Sir Plume had drawn Clarissa down,<br>
Chloe stepped in, and killed him with a frown;<br>
She smiled to see the doughty hero slain,<br>
But at her smile the beau revived again.<br><br>

Now Jove suspends his golden scales in air,<br>
Weighs the men's wits against the lady's hair;<br>
The doubtful beam long nods from side to side;<br>
At length the wits mount up, the hairs subside. <br><br>

See fierce Belinda on the baron flies,<br>
With more than usual lightning in her eyes:<br>
Nor feared the chief th' unequal fight to try,<br>
Who sought no more than on his foe to die.<br>
But this bold lord, with manly strength endued,<br>
She with one finger and a thumb subdued:<br>
Just where the breath of life his nostrils drew,<br>
A charge of snuff the wily virgin threw;<br>
Sudden, with starting tears each eye o'erflows,<br>
And the high dome re-echoes to his nose. <br><br>

"Now meet thy fate," th' incensed virago cried,<br>
And drew a deadly bodkin from her side. <br><br>

"Boast not my fall," he said, "insulting foe!<br>
Thou by some other shalt be laid as low;<br>
Nor think to die dejects my lofty mind; <br>
All that I dread is leaving you behind!<br>
Rather than so, ah let me still survive,<br>
And still burn on, in Cupid's flames, alive."<br><br>

"Restore the lock!" she cries; and all around<br>
"Restore the lock!" the vaulted roofs rebound.<br>
Not fierce Othello in so loud a strain<br>
Roared for the handkerchief that caused his pain.<br>
But see how oft ambitious aims are crossed,<br>
And chiefs contend till all the prize is lost!<br>
The lock, obtained with guilt, and kept with pain,<br>
In ev'ry place is sought, but sought in vain:<br>
With such a prize no mortal must be blessed,<br>
So heav'n decrees! with heav'n who can contest?<br>
Some thought it mounted to the lunar sphere,<br>
Since all that man e'er lost is treasured there.<br>
There heroes' wits are kept in pond'rous vases,<br>
And beaux' in snuff-boxes and tweezer-cases.<br>
There broken vows, and death-bed alms are found,<br>
And lovers' hearts with ends of ribbon bound,<br>
The courtier's promises, and sick man's pray'rs,<br>
The smiles of harlots, and the tears of heirs,<br>
Cages for gnats, and chains to yoke a flea,<br>
Dried butterflies, and tomes of casuistry. <br><br>

But trust the muse &mdash; she saw it upward rise,<br>
Though marked by none but quick poetic eyes:<br>
(Thus Rome's great founder to the heav'ns withdrew,<br>
To Proculus alone confessed in view)<br>
A sudden star, it shot through liquid air,<br>
And drew behind a radiant trail of hair.<br>
Not Berenice's locks first rose so bright, <br>
The skies bespangling with dishevelled light.<br>
(This the beau monde shall from the Mall survey,<br>
(As through the moonlight shade they nightly stray,<br>
(And hail with music its propitious ray;<br>
This Partridge soon shall view in cloudless skies, <br>
When next he looks through Galileo's eyes;<br>
And hence th' egregious wizard shall foredoom <br>
The fate of Louis, and the fall of Rome. <br><br>

Then cease, bright nymph! to mourn thy ravished hair,<br>
Which adds new glory to the shining sphere!<br>
Not all the tresses that fair head can boast,<br>
Shall draw such envy as the lock you lost.<br>
For after all the murders of your eye,<br>
When, after millions slain, yourself shall die;<br>
When those fair suns shall set, as set they must,<br>
And all those tresses shall be laid in dust,<br>
This lock the muse shall consecrate to fame,<br>
And 'midst the stars inscribe Belinda's name.</td>
<td><br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
5<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
10<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
15<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
20<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
25<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
30<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
35<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
40<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
45<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
<br>
50<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
55<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
60<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
65<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
70<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
75<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
80<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
85<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
90<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
95<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
100<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

105<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
110<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
115<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
120<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
125<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>
<br>

<br>
130<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
135<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
140<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
145<br>
<br><br>

<br>
<br>
<br>
150<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
155<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
160<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
165<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
170<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
175<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
180<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>

<br>
185<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
190<br>
<br>
<br></td>
</tr>
</table><br>


<br>
<p><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp2">Contents, p. 2</a></p><hr><br><br>

<br>
<br>
<b><i>end of text</i></b>
<br>
<br>
<hr><br>







<pre>





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