Shov'd from the wall perhaps, or rudely press'd
By his own son, that passes by unbless'd :
Still to his wench he crawls on knocking knees,
And envies every sparrow that he sees.

A salmon's belly, Helluo, was thy fate;
The doctor call'd, declares all help too late: [240
66 Mercy!" cries Helluo, " mercy on my soul !
Is there no hope ?-Alas!-then bring the jowl."
The frugal crone, whom praying priests attend,
Still strives to save the hallow'd taper's end,
Collects her breath, as ebbing life retires,
For one puff more, and in that puff expires,
"Odious! in woollen! 'twould a saint provoke,"
(Were the last words that poor Narcissa spoke)
"No, let a charming chintz and Brussel's lace,
Wrap my cold limbs, and shade my lifeless face:
One would not, sure, be frightful when one's dead—
And-Betty-give this cheek a little red." [250
The courtier smooth, who forty years had shin'd
An humble servant to all human-kind, [stir,
Just brought out this, when scarce his tongue could
"If-where I'm going-I could serve you, sir!"
"I give and I devise" (old Euclio said,
And sigh'd)
66 my lands and tenements to Ned,”
Your money, sir?" My money, sir, what all?
"Why, if I must"-(then wept) " I give it Paul."
The manor, sir?" The manor! hold, he cry'd.
"Not that, I cannot part with that,”—and dy'd,
And you brave Cobham, to the latest breath,
Shall feel your ruling passion strong in death:
Such in those moments as in all the past, [last.
"Oh, save my country, Heaven!" shall be your

EPISTLE II.

TO A LADY,

OF THE CHARACTERS OF WOMEN,

THERE is nothing in Mr. Pope's works more highly finished than this epistle: yet its success was in no proportion to the pains he took in composing it. Something he chanced to drop in a short advertisement prefixed to it, on its first publication, may perhaps account for the small attention given to it. He said that no one character in it was drawn from the life. The public believed him on his word, and expressed little curiosity about a satire, in which there was nothing personal,

NOTHING SO true as what you once let fall,

Rufa, whose eye, quick glancing o'er the Park,
Attracts each light gay meteor of a spark,
Agrees as ill with Rufa studying Locke,
As Sappho's diamonds with her dirty smock;
Or Sappho at her toilet's greasy task,
With Sappho fragrant at an evening mask:
So morning insects, that in muck begun,
Shine, buzz, and fly-blow in the setting-sun.
How soft is Silia! fearful to offend;
The frail-one's advocate, the weak-one's friend. 30
To her Calista prov'd her conduct nice;
And good Simplicius asks of her advice.
Sudden, she storms! she raves! You tip the wink,
But spare your censure; Silja does not drink.
All eyes may see from what the change arose,
All eyes may see-a pimple on her nose.

Papillia, wedded to her amorous spark,
Sighs for the shades-"How charming is a park!"
A park is purchas'd, but the fair he sees
All bath'd in tears-" Oh odious, odious trees!" 40
Ladies,, like variegated tulips, show,
"Tis to their changes half their charms we owe;
Fine by defect, and delicately weak,
Their happy spots the nice admirer take.
'Twas thus Calypso once each heart alarm'd,
Aw'd without virtue, without beauty charm'd¡
Her tongue bewitch'd as oddly as her eyes,
Less wit than minic, more a wit than wise;
Strange graces still, and stranger flights she had,
Was just not ugly, and was just not mad;
Yet ne'er so sure our passion to create,
As when she touch'd the brink of all we hate.

Narcissa's nature, tolerably mild,

50

60

To make a wash, would hardly stew a child;
Has ev'n been prov'd to grant a lover's prayer,
And paid a tradesman once to make him stare;
Gave alms at Easter, in a Christian trim,
And made a widow happy, for a whim.
Why then declare good-nature is her scorn,
When 'tis by that alone she can be borne?
Why pique all mortals, yet affect a name?
A fool to pleasure, yet a slave to fame:
Now deep in Taylor and the Book of Martyrs,
Now drinking citron with his grace and Chartres;
Now conscience chills her, and now passion burns;-
And atheism and religion take their turns;
A very Heathen in the carnal part,
Yet still a sad good Christian at her heart.
See Sin in state, majestically drunk,
Froud as a peeress, prouder as a punk;
Chaste to her husband, frank to all beside,
A teeming mistress, but a barren bride.
What then? let blood and body bear the fault,
Her head's untouch'd, that noble seat of thought;
Such this day's doctrine-in another fit
She sins with poets through pure love of wit.
What has not fir'd her bosom or her brain?
Cæsar and Tall-boy, Charles and Charlemagne.
As Helluo, late dictator of the feast,
10 The nose of Haut-gout, and the tip of Taste,
Critiqu'd your wine, and analyz'd your meat,
Yet on plain pudding deign'd at home to eat:
So Philomedé, lecturing all mankind
On the soft passion, and the taste refin'd,

"Most women have no characters at all."
Matter too soft a lasting mark to bear,
And best distinguish'd by black, brown, or fair,
How many pictures of one nymph we view,
All how unlike each other, all how true!
Arcadia's countess, here, in ermin'd pride,
Is there, Pastora by a fountain side.
Here Fannia, leering on her own good man,
And there, a naked Leda with a swan.
Let then the fair-one beautifully cry,
In Magdalene's loose hair, and lifted eye,
Or drest in smiles of sweet Cecilia shine,
With simpering angels, palms, and harps divine;
Whether the charmer sinner it, or saint it,
If folly grow romantic, I must paint it.

VARIATION.

Ver. 77. What has not fir'd, &c.] In the MS.
In whose mad brain the mix'd ideas roH,
Of Tail-boy's breeches, and of Cæsar's soul.

70

80

Th' address, the delicacy-stoops at once,
Aud makes her hearty meal upon a dunce.
Flavia's a wit, has too much sense to pray;
To toast our wants and wishes, is her way;
Nor asks of God, but of her stars, to give

Atossa, curs'd with every granted prayer,
Childless with all her children, wants an heir.
To heirs unknown descends th' unguarded store,
Or wanders, Heaven-directed, to the poor.
Pictures, like these, dear madam, to design,

The mighty blessing, "while we live, to live." 90 Asks no firm hand, and no unerring line;

Then all for death, that opiate of the soul!
Lucretia's dagger, Rosamonda's bowl.
Say, what can cause such impotence of mind?
A spark too fickle, or a spouse too kind.
Wise wretch! with pleasures too refin'd to please;
With too much spirit to be e'er at ease;
With too much quickness ever to be taught;
With too much thinking to have common thought:
You purchase pain with all that joy can give,
And die of nothing but a rage to live.

100

Turn then from wits; and look on Simo's mate,
No ass so meek, no ass so obstinate.
Or her, that owns her faults, but never mends,
Because she's honest, and the best of friends.
Or her, whose life the church and scandal share,
For ever in a passion, or a prayer.

66

Or her, who laughs at Hell, but (like her grace)
Cries, Ah! how charming, if there's no such
place!"

Or who in sweet vicissitude appears
Of mirth and opium, ratafie and tears,
The daily anodyne, and nightly draught,

Some wandering touches, some reflected light,
Some flying stroke alone can hit them right:
For how should equal colours do the knack?
Chameleons who can paint in white and black?

150

"Yet Chloe sure was form'd without a spot.”-
Nature in her then err'd not, but forgot.
"With every pleasing, every prudent part, [160
Say, what can Chloe want?"-She wants a heart.
She speaks, behaves, and acts just as she ought;
But never, never reach'd one generous thought.
Virtue she finds too painful an endeavour,
Content to dwell in decencies for ever.
So very reasonable, so unmov'd,
As never yet to love, or to be lov'd.

She, while her lover pants upon her breast,
Can mark the figures on an Indian chest ;
And when she sees her friend in deep despair,
Observes how much a chintz exceeds mohair. 170
Forbid it Heaven, a favour or a debt
She e'er should cancel-but she may forget.
110 Safe is your secret still in Chloe's ear;

To kill those foes to fair-ones, time and thought.
Woman and fool are two hard things to hit ;
For true no-meaning puzzles more than wit.

120

But what are these to great Atossa's mind?
Scarce once herself, by turns all womankind!
Who, with herself, or others, from her birth
Finds all her life one warfare upon Earth:
Shines, in exposing knaves, and painting fools,
Yet is, whate'er she hates and ridicules.
No thought advances, but her eddy brain
Whisks it about, and down it goes again.
Full sixty years the world has been her trade,
The wisest fool much time has ever made.
From loveless youth to unrespected age,
No passion gratify'd, except her rage,
So much the fury still outran the wit,
The pleasure mist her, and the scandal hit.
Who breaks with her, provokes revenge from
Hell,

150

But he's a bolder man who dares be well.
Her every turn with violence pursued,
Nor more a storm her hate than gratitude:
To that each passion turns, or soon or late;
Love, if it makes her yield, must make her hate :
Superiors death! and equals? what a curse
But an inferior not dependant? worse.
Offend her, and she knows not to forgive;
Oblige her, and she'll hate you while you live:
But die, and she'll adore you-Then the bust
And temple rise-then fall again to dust.
Last night, her lord was all that's good and great ;
A knave this morning, and his will a cheat.
Strange! by the means defeated of the ends,
By spirit robb'd of power, by warmth of friends,
By wealth of followers! without one distress
Sick of herself, through very selfishness!

VARIATION.

After ver. 122, in the MS.

140

Oppress'd with wealth and wit, abundance sad!
One makes her poor, the other makes her mad.

But none of Chloe's shall you ever hear.
Of all her dears she never slander'd one,
But cares not if a thousand are undone.
Would Chloe know if you're alive or dead?
She bids her footman put it in her head.
Chloe is prudent-Would you too be wise?
Then never break your heart when Chloe dies. 180
One certain portrait may (I grant) be seen,
Which Heaven has varnish'd out, and made a queen:
The same for ever! and describ'd by all
With truth and goodness, as with crown and ball.
Poets heap virtues, painters gems at will,
And show their zcal, and hide their want of skill.
"Tis well-but, artists! who can paint or write,
To draw the naked is your true delight.
That robe of quality so struts and swells,
None see what parts of Nature it conceals:
Th' exactest traits of body or of mind,
We owe to models of an humble kind.
If Queensberry to strip there's no compelling,
'Tis from a handmaid we must take a Helen.
From peer or bishop 'tis no easy thing
To draw the man who loves his God, or king:
Alas! I copy (or my draught would fail)
From honest Mah'met, or plain parson Hale.

190

This Death decides; nor lets the blessing fall
On any one she hates, but on them all.
Curs'd chance! this only could afflict her more,
If any part should wander to the poor.
After ver. 198, in the MS.

Fain I'd in Fulvia spy the tender wife ;
I cannot prove it on her for my life:
And, for a noble pride, I blush no less,
Instead of Berenice to think ou Bess.
Thus while immortal Cibber only sings
(As Clarke and Hoadly preach) for queens and
The nymph that ne'er read Milton's mighty line,
May, if she love and inerit verse, have mine.

[kings,

236

POPE'S POEMS.

be wicked than ridiculous: and therefore it I will may be safer to attack vices than follies.

A statesman's slumbers how this speech would spoil◄ "Sir, Spain has sent a thousand jars of oil; therefore leave my betters in the quiet posses-Huge bales of British cloth blockade the door; sion of their idols, their groves, and their highplaces; and change my subject from their pride to their meanness, from their vanities to their miseries; and as the only certain way to avoid misconstructions, to lessen offence, and not to multiply ill-natured applications, I may probably in my next make use of real names instead of fictitious ones."

P. WHO shall decide when doctors disagree,
And soundest casuists doubt, like you and me?
You hold the word, from Jove to Momus given,
That man was made the standing jest of Heaven;
And gold but sent to keep the fools in play,
For some to heap, and some to throw away,
But I, who think more highly of our kind,
are of a mind)
(And, surely, Heaven and

Opine, that Nature, as in duty bound,
Deep hid the shining mischief under ground:
But when, by man's audacious labour won,
Flam'd forth this rival too, its sire, the Sun,
Then careful Heaven supply'd two sorts of men,
To squander these, and those to hide again.

10

Like doctors thus, when much dispute has past,
We find our tenets just the same at last,
Both fairly owning, riches, in effect,
No grace of Heaven, or token of th' elect;
Given to the fool, the mad, the vain, the evil,
To Ward, to Waters, Chartres, and the Devil, 20
B. What nature wants, commodious gold bestows;
'Tis thus we eat the bread another sows,

P. But how unequal it bestows, observe;
'Tis thus we riot, while, who sow it, starve:
What nature wants (a phrase I must distrust)
Extends to luxury, extends to lust
Useful, I grant, it serves what life requires,
But dreadful too, the dark assassin hires.

B. Trade it may help, society extend:

30

P. But lures the pirate, and corrupts the friend.
B. It raises armies in a nation's aid:

P. But bribes a senate, and the land's betray'd.

40

In vain may heroes fight, and patriots rave,
If secret gold sap on from knave to knave.
Once we confess, beneath the patriot's cloak,
From the crack'd bag the dropping Guinea spoke,
And jingling down the back-stairs, told the crew,
"Old Cato is as great a rogue as you."
Blest Paper-credit! last and best supply!
That lends Corruption lighter wings to fly!
Gold, imp'd by thee, can compass hardest things,
Can pocket states, can fetch or carry kings
A single leaf shall waft an army o'er,
Or ship off senates to some distant shore;
A leaf, like Sibyl's, scatter to and fro
Our fates and fortunes, as the wind shall blow:
Pregnant with thousands flits the scrap unseen,
And silent sells a king, or buys a queen.

50
Oh! that such bulky bribes as all might see,
Still, as of old, encumber'd villainy!
Could France or Rome divert our brave designs,
With all their brandies, or with all their wines?
What could they more than knights and 's uires
Or waterall the quorum ten miles round? [confound,

VARIATION.

After ver. 50, in the MS.

To break a trust were Peter brib'd with wine,
Peter! 'twould pose as wise a head as thine.

60

A hundred oxen at your levee roar,"
Poor Avarice one torment more would find;
Astride his cheese sir Morgan might we meet :
Nor could Profusion squander all in kind.
And Worldly crying coals from street to street,
Whom, with a wig so wild, and mien so maz'd,
Had Colepepper's whole wealth been hops and hogs,
Pity inistakes for some poor tradesman craz'd.
Could he himself have sent it to the dogs?
His grace will game: to White's a bull be led,
With spurning heels and with a butting head.
To White's be carry'd, as to ancient games,
Fair coursers, vases, and alluring dames.
Shall then Uxorio, if the stakes he sweep,
Bear home six whores, and make his lady weep?
Or soft Adonis, so perfum'd and fine,

Drive to St. James's a whole herd of swine?
Oh filthy check on all industrious skill,

ΤΟ

To spoil the nation's last great trade, quadrille !
Since then, my lord, on such a world we fall,
What say you? B. Say? Why take it, gold and all,
P. What riches give us, let us then inquire?
80
Meat, fire, and clothes. B. What more? P. Meat,
clothes, and fire.

Is this too little? would you more than live?
Alas! 'Tis more than Turner finds they give,
Alas! 'tis more than (all his visions past)
Unhappy Wharton, waking, found at last!
What can they give? to dying Hopkins, heirs ;
To Chartres, vigour; Japhet, nose and ears?
Can they, in gems bid pallid Hippia glow,
In Fulvia's buckle ease the throbs below;
Or heal, old Narses, thy obscener ail,
With all th' embroidery plaister'd at thy tail? 90
They might (were Harpax not too wise to spend)
Give Harpax self the blessing of a friend;
Or find some doctor that would save the life
Of wretched Shylock, spite of Shylock's wife ;
But thousands die, without or this or that,
Die, and endow a college, or a cat,

To some, indeed, Heaven grants the happier fate,
T" enrich a bastard, or a son they hate.

[100

Perhaps you think the poor might have their part;
Bond damns the poor, and hates them from his beart:
The grave sir Gilbert holds it for a rule
That every man in want is knave or fool:
"God cannot love" (says Blunt, with tearless eyes)
"The wretch he starves"and piously denies :
But the good bishop, with a meeker air,
Admits, and leaves them, Providence's care.

Yet to be just to these poor men of petf,
Fach does but hate his neighbour as himself:
Dama'd to the mines, an equal fate betides [110
The slave that digs it, and the slave that hides.

B. Who suffer thus, mere charity should own,
Must act on motives powerful, though unknown.
P. Some war, some plague, or famine, they foresee,
Some revelation hid from you and me.
Why Shylock wants a meal, the cause is found;
He thinks a loaf will rise to fifty pound.
What made directors cheat in South-Sea year?
To live on venison when it sold so dear.

130

Wise Peter sees the world's respect for gold,
And therefore hopes this nation may be sold:
Glorious ambition! Peter, swell thy store,
And be what Rome's great Didius was before.
The crown of Poland, venal twice an age,
To just three millions stinted modest Gage.
But nobler scenes, Maria's dreams unfold,
Hereditary realms, and worlds of gold.
Congenial souls; whose life one avarice joins,
And one fate buries in th' Asturian mines.
Much-injur'd Blunt! why bears he Britain's
A wizard told him in these words our fate: [hate?
At length Corruption, like a general flood,
(So long by watchful ministers withstood)
Shall deluge all; and Avarice, creeping on,
Spread like a low born mist, and blot the Sun;
Statesman and patriot ply alike the stocks,
Peeress and butler share alike the box,
And judges job, and bishops bite the town,
And mighty dukes pack cards for half a crown.
See Britain sunk in Lucre's sordid charms,
And France reveng'd of Anne's and Edward's arms!"
'Twas no court-badge, great scrivener, fir'd thy
Nor lordly luxury, nor city gain :

No, 'twas thy righteous end, asham'd to see
Senates degenerate, patriots disagree,

And nobly wishing party-rage to cease,

140

[brain,

No rafter'd roofs with dance and tabor sound,
No noontide bell invites the country round:
Tenants with sighs the smoakless towers survey,
And turn th' unwilling steeds another way:
Benighted wanderers, the forest o'er,
Curs'd the sav'd candle, and unopening door;
While the gaunt mastiff, growling at the gate,
Affrights the beggar whom he longs to eat.

190

200

Not so his son: he mark'd this oversight,
And then mistook reverse of wrong for right.
(For what to shun, will no great knowledge need;
But what to follow, is a task indeed.)
Yet sure, of qualities deserving praise,
More go to ruin fortunes, than to raise.
What slaughter'd hecatombs, what ficods of wine,
Fill the capacious 'squire, and deep divine!
Yet no mean motives this profusion draws,
His oxen perish in his country's cause;
'Tis George and Liberty that crowns the cup,
And zeal for that great house which eats him up.
The woods recede around the naked seat,
The Sylvans groan-no matter-for the fleet: 210
Next goes his wool-to clothe our valiant bands:
Last, for his country's love, he sells his lands.
To town he comes, completes the nation's hope,
And heads the boid train-bands, and burns a pope.
And shall not Britain now reward his toils,
Britain that pays her patriots with her spoils?
In vain at court the bankrupt pleads his cause,
His thankless country leaves him to her laws.
The sense to value riches, with the art

To buy both sides, and give thy country peace. 150 T" enjoy them, and the virtue to impart,

"All this is madness," cries a sober sage:

But who, my friend has reason in his rage?
"The ruling passion, be it what it will,
The ruling passion conquers reason still."
Less mad the wildest whimsey we can frame,
Than even that passion, if it has no aim;
For though such motives folly you may call,
The folly's greater to have none at all.

[sends,

160

170

Hear then the truth: ""Tis Heaven each passion
And different men directs to different ends.
Extremes in Nature equal good produce,
Extremes in man concur to general use."
Ask we what makes one keep, and one bestow?
That Power who bids the ocean ebb and flow,
Bids seed-time, harvest, equal course maintain,
Through reconcil'd extremes of drought and rain,
Builds life on death, on change duration founds,
And gives th' eternal wheels to know their rounds.
Riches, like insects, when conceal'd they lie,
Wait but for wings, and in their season fly.
Who sees pale Mammon pine amidst his store,
Sees but a backward steward for the poor;
This year a reservoir, to keep and spare;
The next, a fountain, spouting through his heir,
In lavish streams to quench a country's thirst,
And men and dogs shall drink him till they burst.
Old Cotta sham'd his fortune and his birth,
Yet was not Cotta void of wit or worth:
What though (the use of barbarous spits forgot)
His kitchen vied in coolness with bis grot?
His court with nettles, moats with cresses stor'd,
With soups unbought and sallads bless'd his board?
If Cotta liv'd on pulse, it was no more
Than Bramins, saints, and sages did before;
To cram the rich, was prodigal expense,
And who would take the poor from Providence?
Like some lone Chartreux stands the good old Hall,
Silence without, and fasts within the wall;

180

220

Not meanly, nor ambitiously pursued,
Not sunk by sloth, nor rais'd by servitude;
To balance fortune by a just expense,
Join with econoiny, magnificence;
With splendour, charity; with plenty, health;
Oh teach us, Bathurst! yet unspoil'd by wealth!
That secret rare, between th' extremes to move
Of mad Good-nature, and of mean Self-love.
B. To worth or want well-weigh'd, be bounty
given,

And ease, or emulate, the care of Heaven;
(Whose measure full o'erflows on human race)
Mend Fortune's fault, and justify her grace.
Wealth in the gross is death, but life diffus'd;
As poison heals, in just proportion us'd:
In heaps, like ambergris, a stink it lies,
But well dispers'd, is incense to the skies.

230

Where one lean herring furnish'd Cotta's board,
And nettles grew, fit porridge for their lord;
Where mad Good-nature, bounty misapply'd,
In lavish Curio blaz'd awhile, and dy'd;
There Providence once more shall shift the scene,
And showing H-y, teach the golden mean.
After ver. 226, in the MS.

The secret rare, which Affluence hardly join'd,
Which W-n lost, yet B-y ne'er could find:
Still miss'd by Vice, and scarce by Virtue hit,
By G's goodness, or by S-'s wit.