Prologue to Mr. Addisons Cato (1713) by Alexander POPE COMPLIMENTS OF WIKISOURCE To wake the soul by tender strokes of art, To raise the genius, and to mend the heart; To make mankind, in conscious virtue bold, Live o’er each scene, and be what they behold: For this the Tragic Muse first trod the stage, Commanding tears to stream thro’ ev’ry age: Tyrants no more their savage nature kept, And foes to virtue wonder’d how they wept. Our author shuns by vulgar springs to move The Hero’s glory, or the Virgin’s love; In pitying Love, we but our weakness show, And wild Ambition well deserves its woe. Here tears shall flow from a more gen’rous cause, Such tears as patriots shed for dying laws. He bids your breasts with ancient ardour rise, And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes: Virtue confess’d in human shape he draws, What Plato thought, and godlike Cato was: No common object to your sight displays, But what with pleasure Heav’n itself surveys, A brave man struggling in the storms of fate, And greatly falling with a falling state. While Cato gives his little senate laws, What bosom beats not in his country’s cause? Who sees him act, but envies ev’ry deed? Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed? Ev’n when proud Cæsar, midst triumphal cars, The spoils of nations, and the pomp of wars, Ignobly vain, and impotently great, Show’d Rome her Cato’s figure drawn in state; As her dead father’s rev’rend image past, The pomp was darken’d, and the day o’ercast; The triumph ceas’d, tears gush’d from ev’ry eye, The world’s great Victor pass’d unheeded by; Her last good man dejected Rome ador’d, And honour’d Cæsar’s less than Cato’s sword. Britons, attend: be worth like this approv’d, And show you have the virtue to be mov’d. With honest scorn the first famed Cato view’d Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she subdued; Your scene precariously subsists too long On French translation and Italian song. Dare to have sense yourselves; assert the stage; Be justly warm’d with your own native rage: Such plays alone should win a British ear As Cato’s self had not disdain’d to hear. Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot (1735) by Alexander POPE Shut, shut the door, good John! fatigud, I said, Tie up the knocker, say Im sick, Im dead. The dog-star rages! nay tis past a doubt, All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out: Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand, They rave, recite, and madden round the land. What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide? They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide; By land, by water, they renew the charge; They stop the chariot, and they board the barge. No place is sacred, not the church is free; Evn Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me: Then from the Mint walks forth the Man of Ryme, Happy! to catch me just at Dinner-time. Is there a Parson, much bemusd in beer, A maudlin Poetess, a ryming Peer, A clerk, foredoomd his fathers soul to cross, Who pens a stanza, when he should engross? Is there, who, lockd from Ink and Paper, scrawls With desprate Charcoal round his darkend walls? All fly to Twitnam, 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 damnd works the cause: Poor Cornus sees his frantic Wife elope, And curses Wit, and Poetry, and Pope. Friend to my Life, (which did not you prolong, The World had wanted many an idle Song) What Drop or Nostrum can this Plague remove? Or which must end me, a fools wrath or love? A dire dilemma! either way Im sped, If foes, they write, if friends, they read me dead. Seizd and tied down to judge, how wretched I! Who cant be silent, and who will not lie; To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace, And to be grave, exceeds all powr 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 Lulld by soft zephyrs through the broken pane, Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before Term ends, Obligd by hunger, and request of friends: The piece, you think, is incorrect: why, take it, Im all submission, what youd have it, make it. Three things anothers 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 libelld me — but heres a letter Informs you, sir, twas when he knew no better. Dare you refuse him? Curl invites to dine, Hell write a Journal, or hell 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 playrs and I are, luckily, no friends. Fird that the house reject him, Sdeath Ill print it, And shame the fools — your intrest, sir, with Lintot. Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much. Not, sir, if you revise it, and retouch. All my demurs but double his attacks; At last he whispers, Do; and we go snacks. Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door, Sir, let me see your works and you no more. Tis sung, when Midas ears began to spring, (Midas, a sacred person and a king) His very minister who spied them first, (Some say his queen) was forcd to speak, or burst. And is not mine, my friend, a sorer case, When evry coxcomb perks them in my face? Good friend, forbear! you deal in dangrous things. Id never name queens, ministers, or kings; Keep close to ears, and those let asses prick; Tis nothing — Nothing? if they bite and kick? Out with it, Dunciad! let the secret pass, That secret to each fool, that hes an ass: The truth once told (and wherefore should we lie?) The Queen of Midas slept, and so may I. You think this cruel? take it for a rule, No creature smarts so little as a fool. Let peals of laughter, Codrus! round thee break, Thou unconcernd canst hear the mighty crack: Pit, box, and gallry in convulsions hurld, Thou standst unshook amidst a bursting world. Who shames a scribbler? break one cobweb through, He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew; Destroy his fib or sophistry, in vain, The creatures at his dirty work again; Thrond in the centre of his thin designs; Proud of a vast extent of flimsy lines! Whom have I hurt? has poet yet, or peer, Lost the archd eye-brow, or Parnassian sneer? And has not Colly still his Lord, and Whore? His butchers Henley, his Free-masons Moor? Does not one table Bavius still admit? Still to one Bishop Philips seem a Wit? Still Sapho — Hold! for God-sake — youll offend: No names! — be calm! — learn prudence of a friend! I too could write, and I am twice as tall; But foes like these! One flattrers worse than all. Of all mad creatures, if the learnd are right, It is the slaver kills, and not the bite. A fool quite angry is quite innocent; Alas! tis ten times worse when they repent. One dedicates in high heroic prose, And ridicules beyond a hundred foes; One from all Grubstreet will my fame defend, And, more abusive, calls himself my friend. This prints my Letters, that expects a bribe, And others roar aloud, Subscribe, subscribe. There are, who to my person pay their court: I cough like Horace, and, though lean, am short, Ammons great Son one shoulder had too high, Such Ovids nose, and Sir! you have an Eye— Go on, obliging creatures, make me see All that disgracd my betters, met in me: Say for my comfort, languishing in bed, Just so immortal Maro held his head: And when I die, be sure you let me know Great Homer died three thousand years ago. Why did I write? what sin to me unknown Dippd me in ink, my parents, or my own? As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, I lispd in numbers, for the numbers came. I left no calling for this idle trade, No duty broke, no father disobeyd. The Muse but servd to ease some friend, not wife, To help me through this long disease, my life, To second, Arbuthnot! thy art and care, And teach the being you preservd, to bear. But why then publish? Granville the polite, And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could write; Well-naturd Garth inflamed with early praise, And Congreve lovd, and Swift endurd my lays; The courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheffield read, Evn mitred Rochester would nod the head, And St. Johns self (great Drydens friends before) With open arms receivd one Poet more. Happy my studies, when by these approvd! Happier their author, when by these belovd! From these the world will judge of men and books, Not from the Burnets, Oldmixons, and Cooks. Soft were my numbers; who could take offence, While pure description held the place of sense? Like gentle Fannys was my flowry theme, A painted mistress, or a purling stream. Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill; I wishd the man a dinner, and sat still. Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret; I never answerd, I was not in debt. If want provokd, or madness made them print, I wagd no war with Bedlam or the Mint. Did some more sober Critic come abroad? If wrong, I smild; if right, I kissd the rod. Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence, And all they want is spirit, taste, and sense. Commas and points they set exactly right, And twere a sin to rob them of their mite. Yet neer one sprig of laurel gracd these ribalds, From slashing Bentley down to pidling Tibbalds. Each Wight who reads not, and but scans and spells, Each Word-catcher that lives on syllables, Evn such small Critics some regard may claim, Preservd in Miltons or in Shakespears name. Pretty! in Amber to observe the forms Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms; The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare, But wonder how the Devil they got there? Were others angry? I excusd them too; Well might they rage; I gave them but their due. A mans true merit tis not hard to find, But each mans secret standard in his mind, That Casting-weight Pride adds to Emptiness, This, who can gratify? for who can guess? The Bard whom pilferd Pastorals renown, Who turns a Persian Tale for half a crown, Just writes to make his barrenness appear, And strains, from hard-bound brains, eight lines a year: He, who still wanting, though he lives on theft, Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left: And he, who now to sense, now nonsense leaning, Means not, but blunders round about a meaning: And he, whose fustians so sublimely bad, It is not poetry, but prose run mad: All these, my modest Satire bad translate, And ownd, that nine such poets made a Tate. How did they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe? And swear, not Addison himself was safe. Peace to all such! but were there one whose fires True Genius kindles, and fair fame inspires, Blest with each talent and each art to please, And born to write, converse, and live with ease: Should such a man, too fond to rule alone, Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne, View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes, And hate for arts that causd himself to rise; Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, And without sneering, teach the rest to sneer; Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike, Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike; Alike reservd to blame, or to commend, A timrous foe, and a suspicious friend; Dreading evn fools, by flatterers besiegd, And so obliging, that he neer obligd; Like Cato, give his little Senate laws, And sit attentive to his own applause; While Wits and Templers evry sentence raise, And wonder with a foolish face of praise. Who but must laugh, if such a man there be? Who would not weep, if Atticus were he? What though my Name stood rubric on the walls, Or plaisterd posts, with Claps in capitals? Or smoking forth, a hundred Hawkers load, On Wings of Winds came flying all abroad? I sought no homage from the Race that write; I kept, like Asian Monarchs, from their sight: Poems I heeded (now be-rymd so long) No more than Thou, great George! a Birth-day Song. I neer with Wits or Witlings passd my days, To spread about the Itch of Verse and Praise; Nor like a Puppy daggled thro the Town, To fetch and carry Sing-song up and down; Nor at Rehearsals sweat, and mouthd, and cried, With Handkerchief and Orange at my side; But sick of fops, and poetry, and prate, To Bufo left the whole Castalian state. Proud as Apollo on his forked hill, Sat full-blown Bufo, puffd by every quill; Fed with soft dedication all day long, Horace and he went hand in hand in song. His Library, (where Busts of Poets dead And a true Pindar stood without a head,) Receivd of Wits an undistinguishd race, Who first his Judgment askd, and then a Place: Much they extolld his pictures, much his seat, And flatterd evry day, and some days eat: Till grown more frugal in his riper days, He paid some Bards with Port, and some with Praise, To some a dry Rehearsal was assignd, And others (harder still) he paid in kind. Dryden alone (what wonder?) came not nigh, Dryden alone escapd this judging eye: But still the great have kindness in reserve, He helpd to bury whom he helpd to starve. May some choice patron bless each grey goose quill! May evry Bavius have his Bufo still! So, when a statesman wants a days defence, Or envy holds a whole weeks war with sense, Or simple pride for flattry makes demands, May dunce by dunce be whistled off my hands! Blest be the Great! for those they take away, And those they left me — for they left me Gay, Left me to see neglected Genius bloom, Neglected die! and tell it on his tomb; Of all thy blameless life the sole return My verse, and Queensbry weeping oer thy Urn! Oh let me live my own! and die so too! (To live and die is all I have to do:) Maintain a Poets Dignity and Ease, And see what friends, and read what books I please. Above a patron, though I condescend Sometimes to call a Minister my Friend: I was not born for Courts or great Affairs; I pay my Debts, believe, and say my Prayrs; Can sleep without a poem in my head, Nor know, if Dennis be alive or dead. Why am I askd what next shall see the light? Heavns! was I born for nothing but to write? Has life no joys for me? or (to be grave) Have I no friend to serve, no soul to save? I found him close with Swift — Indeed? no doubt, (Cries prating Balbus) something will come out. Tis all in vain, deny it as I will. No, such a genius never can lie still, And then for mine obligingly mistakes The first lampoon Sir Will. or Bubo makes. Poor guiltless I! and can I choose but smile, When evry coxcomb knows me by my Style? Curst be the Verse, how well soeer it flow, That tends to make one worthy Man my foe, Give Virtue scandal, Innocence a fear, Or from the soft-eyd Virgin steal a tear! But he, who hurts a harmless neighbours peace, Insults falln Worth, or Beauty in distress, Who loves a Lye, lame slander helps about, Who writes a Libel, or who copies out: That Fop whose pride affects a Patrons name, Yet absent, wounds an Authors honest fame; Who can your merit selfishly approve, And show the sense of it without the love; Who has the vanity to call you friend, Yet wants the honour, injurd, to defend; Who tells whater you think, whateer you say, And, if he lie not, must at least betray: Who to the Dean and silver Bell can swear, And sees at Cannons what was never there; Who reads, but with a lust to misapply, Make Satire a Lampoon, and Fiction, Lye. A lash like mine no honest man shall dread, But all such babbling blockheads in his stead. Let Sporus tremble — What? that thing of silk, Sporus, that mere white curd of asss milk? Satire or sense, alas! can Sporus feel? Who breaks a Butterfly upon a Wheel? Yet let me flap this Bug with gilded wings, This painted Child of Dirt that stinks and stings; Whose Buzz the Witty and the Fair annoys, Yet Wit neer tastes, and Beauty neer enjoys, So well-bred Spaniels civilly delight In mumbling of the Game they dare not bite. Eternal Smiles his Emptiness betray, As shallow streams run dimpling all the way. Whether in florid Impotence he speaks, And, as the Prompter breathes, the Puppet squeaks; Or at the Ear of Eve, familiar Toad, Half Froth, half Venom, spits himself abroad, In Puns, or Politicks, or Tales, or Lyes, Or Spite, or Smut, or Rymes, or Blasphemies. His Wit all see-saw between that and this, Now high, now low, now Master up, now Miss, And he himself one vile Antithesis. Amphibious Thing! that acting either Part, The trifling Head, or the corrupted Heart! Fop at the Toilet, Flattrer at the Board, Now trips a Lady, and now struts a Lord. Eves Tempter thus the Rabbins have exprest, A Cherubs face, a Reptile all the rest; Beauty that shocks you, Parts that none will trust, Wit that can creep, and Pride that licks the dust. Not Fortunes Worshipper, nor Fashions Fool, Not Lucres Madman, nor Ambitions Tool, Not proud, nor servile, be one Poets praise, That, if he pleasd, he pleasd by manly ways; That Flattry, even to Kings, he held a shame, And thought a Lye in Verse or Prose the same: That not in Fancys Maze he wanderd long, But stoopd to Truth, and moralizd his song: That not for Fame, but Virtues better end, He stood the furious Foe, the timid Friend, The damning Critic, half-approving Wit, The Coxcomb hit, or fearing to be hit; Laughd at the loss of Friends he never had, The dull, the proud, the wicked, and the mad; The distant Threats of Vengeance on his head, The Blow unfelt, the Tear he never shed; The Tale revivd, the Lye so oft oerthrown; Th imputed Trash, and Dulness not his own; The Morals blackend when the Writings scape; The libelld Person, and the picturd Shape; Abuse on all he lovd, or lovd him, spread, A Friend in Exile, or a Father, dead; The Whisper that to Greatness still too near, Perhaps, yet vibrates on his Sovereigns ear:— Welcome for thee, fair Virtue! all the past: For thee, fair Virtue! welcome evn the last! But why insult the Poor, affront the Great? A Knaves a Knave, to me, in evry State: Alike my scorn, if he succeed or fail, Sporus at court, or Japhet in a Jayl, A hireling Scribler, or a hireling Peer, Knight of the Post corrupt, or of the Shire; If on a Pillory, or near a Throne, He gain his Princes Ear, or lose his own. Yet soft by Nature, more a Dupe than Wit, Sapho can tell you how this Man was bit: This dreaded Satrist Dennis will confess Foe to his Pride, but Friend to his Distress: So humble, he has knockd at Tibbalds door, Has drunk with Cibber, nay has rymd for Moor. Full ten years slanderd, did he once reply? Three thousand Suns went down on Welsteds Lye: To please a Mistress, One aspersd his life; He lashd him not, but let her be his Wife: Let Budgel charge low Grubstreet on his quill, And write whateer he pleasd, except his Will; Let the Two Curls of Town and Court, abuse His Father, Mother, Body, Soul, and Muse. Yet why? that Father held it for a rule, It was a Sin to call our Neighbour Fool, That harmless Mother thought no Wife a Whore, — Hear this! and spare his Family, James More! Unspotted Names! and memorable long, If there be Force in Virtue, or in Song. Of gentle Blood (part shed in Honours Cause, While yet in Britain Honour had Applause) Each Parent sprung — What Fortune, pray? — Their own, And better got, than Bestias from the Throne. Born to no Pride, inheriting no Strife, Nor marrying Discord in a Noble Wife, Stranger to Civil and Religious Rage, The good Man walkd innoxious thro his age. No Courts he saw, no Suits would ever try, Nor dard an Oath, nor hazarded a Lye: Un-learnd, he knew no Schoolmans subtle Art, No Language, but the Language of the Heart. By Nature honest, by Experience wise, Healthy by Temprance and by Exercise: His Life, tho long, to sickness past unknown; His Death was instant, and without a groan. O grant me, thus to live, and thus to die! Who sprung from Kings shall know less joy than I. O Friend! may each Domestick Bliss be thine! Be no unpleasing Melancholy mine: Me, let the tender Office long engage To rock the Cradle of reposing Age, With lenient Arts extend a Mothers breath, Make Languor smile, and smooth the Bed of Death, Explore the Thought, explain the asking Eye, And keep a while one Parent from the Sky! On Cares like these if Length of days attend, May Heavn, to bless those days, preserve my Friend, Preserve him social, cheerful, and serene, And just as rich as when he servd a Queen! Whether that Blessing be denied or givn, Thus far was right, the rest belongs to Heavn.
Posted on: Mon, 28 Oct 2013 14:34:11 +0000
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