THE

POETICAL WORKS

OF

ALEXANDER POPE.

TO WHICH IS PREFIXED

A Life of the Author.

TWO VOLS. IN ONE.

BOSTON:

CROSBY, NICHOLS, LEE & COMPANY,

117 WASHINGTON STREET.

1860.

THE

POETICAL WORKS

OF

ALEXANDER POPE.

EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTINOT

BEING

THE PROLOGUE TO THE SATIRES

ADVERTISEMENT

To the first Publication of this Epistle. This paper is a sort of bill of complaint, begun many years since, and drawn up by snatches, as the several occasions offered. I had no thoughts of publishing it, till it pleased some persons of rank and fortune, [the authors of Verses to the imitator of Horace, and of an Epistle to a Doctor of Divinity from a Nobleman at Hampton Court to attack, in a very extraordinary manner, not only my writings (of which, being public, the public is judge) but my person, morals, and family; whereof, to those who know me not, a truer informa tion may be requisite. Being divided between the necessity to say something of myself, and my own laziness to undertake so awkward a task, I thought it the shortest way to put the last hand to this Epistle. If it have any thing pleasing, it will be that by which I am most desirous to please, the truth and the sentiment; and if any thing offensive, it will be only to those I am least sorry to offend, the vicious or the ungenerous. Many will know their own pictures in it, there being not a circumstance but what is true; but I have, for the most part, spared their names; and they may escape being ughed at, if they please.

I would have some of them to 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 tay this advan tag: and honour on my side, that whereas, by their proceeding any abuse may be duected at any mán, no injury can possibly be done by mine; since a nameless character can never be found out but by its truth and ligeress.

P. 'SHUT, shut the door, good John,' fatigued, I said,

Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dea l'

The dog-star rages! nay, 'tis past a doubt,
All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out:

Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand,
They rave, recite, and madden round the land.

What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide!
They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide,
By land, by water, they renew the charge;
They stop the chariot, and they board the barge.
No place is sacred, not the church is free,
E'en Sunday shines no sabbath-day to me;

Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme, Happy to catch me!—just at dinner time.

Is there a parson, much bemused in beer
A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer

A clerk foredoom'd his father s soul to cross,
Who pens a stanza when he should engross ;
Is there who, lock'd from ink and paper, scrawls
With desperate charcoal round his darken'd walls ¡
A fly to Twit'nam, and in humble strain
Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain.
Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws,
Imputes to me and my damn'd works the cause:
Poor Cornus sces his frantic wife elope,
And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope.

Friend to my life! (which did not you prolong,
The world had wanted many an idle song)

What drop or nostrum can this plague remove?
Or which must end me, a fool's wrath or love?
A dire dilemma! either way I'm sped;
If foes, they write; if friends, they read me dead
Seized and tied down to judge, how wretched I!
Who can't be silent, and who will not lie:
To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace;
And to be grave, exceeds all power of face.
I sit with sad civility; I read

With honest anguish, and an aching head;
And drop at last, but in unwilling ears,
This saving counsel, Keep your piece nine years.
'Nine years!' cries he, who, high in Drury-lane,
Lull'd by soft zephyrs through the broken pane,
Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before term ends
Obliged by hunger and request of friends :
'The piere, you think, is incorrect: why take it,
I'm all submission; what you'd have it make it.'
Three things another's modest wishes bound,
My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound.
Pitholeon sends to me: You know his grace;
I want a patron; ask him for a place.'
Pitholeon bell'd me-but here's a letter
Informs you, sir, 'twas when he knew no better
Dare you refuse him Curll invites to dine?
Ile'll write a journal, or he'll turn divine.'
Bless me! a packet.—“”Tis a stranger sues:
A virgin tragedy, an orphan muse.'

If I dislike it,' Furies, death, and rage!'

If I approve, Commend it to the stage.'

There (thank my stars) my whole commission ends,
The players and I are, luckily, no friends.

Fired that the house reject him, "'Sdeath! I'll print it
And shame the fools-your interest, sir, with Lintot
Lintot, dull rogue! wil think your price too much
'Not, sir, if you revise it, and retouch.'

All my demurs but double his attacks:

At last he whispers, Do; and we go snacks'