The Rape of the Lock, and Other Poems
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." 50
"Pitholeon libell'd me,"--"but here's a letter
Informs you, Sir, 't was when he knew no better.
Dare you refuse him? Curll invites to dine,"
"He'll write a _Journal_, or he'll turn Divine."
Bless me! a packet.--"'Tis a stranger sues, 55
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 Play'rs and I are, luckily, no friends, 60
Fir'd that the house reject him, "'Sdeath I'll print it,
And shame the fools--Your Int'rest, 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; 65
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) 70
His very Minister who spy'd them first,
(Some say his Queen) was forc'd to speak, or burst.
And is not mine, my friend, a sorer case,
When ev'ry coxcomb perks them in my face?
A. Good friend, forbear! you deal in dang'rous things. 75
I'd never name Queens, Ministers, or Kings;
Keep close to Ears, and those let asses prick;
'Tis nothing--P. Nothing? if they bite and kick?
Out with it, DUNCIAD! let the secret pass,
That secret to each fool, that he's an Ass: 80
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, 85
Thou unconcern'd canst hear the mighty crack:
Pit, Box, and gall'ry in convulsions hurl'd,
Thou stand'st unshook amidst a bursting world.
Who shames a Scribbler? break one cobweb thro',
He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew: 90
Destroy his fib or sophistry, in vain,
The creature's at his dirty work again,
Thron'd in the centre of his thin designs,
Proud of a vast extent of flimsy lines!
Whom have I hurt? has Poet yet, or Peer, 95
Lost the arch'd eye-brow, or Parnassian sneer?
* * * * *
Does not one table Bavius still admit?
Still to one Bishop Philips seem a wit?
Still Sappho--A. Hold! for God's sake--you 'll offend,
No Names!--be calm!--learn prudence of a friend! 100
I too could write, and I am twice as tall;
But foes like these--P. One Flatt'rer's worse than all.
Of all mad creatures, if the learn'd are right,
It is the slaver kills, and not the bite.
A fool quite angry is quite innocent: 105
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. 110
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, tho' lean, am short,
_Ammon's_ great son one shoulder had too high, 115
Such _Ovid's_ nose, and "Sir! you have an Eye"--
Go on, obliging creatures, make me see
All that disgrac'd my Betters, met in me.
Say for my comfort, languishing in bed,
"Just so immortal _Maro_ held his head:" 120
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
Dipt me in ink, my parents', or my own?
As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, 125
I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came.
I left no calling for this idle trade,
No duty broke, no father disobey'd.
The Muse but serv'd to ease some friend, not Wife,
To help me thro' this long disease, my Life, 130
To second, ARBUTHNOT! thy Art and Care,
And teach the Being you preserv'd, to bear.
But why then publish? _Granville_ the polite,
And knowing _Walsh_, would tell me I could write;
Well-natur'd _Garth_ inflam'd with early praise; 135
And _Congreve_ lov'd, and _Swift_ endur'd my lays;
The courtly _Talbot, Somers, Sheffield_, read;
Ev'n mitred _Rochester_ would nod the head,
And _St. John's_ self (great _Dryden's_ friends before)
With open arms receiv'd one Poet more. 140
Happy my studies, when by these approv'd!
Happier their author, when by these belov'd!
From these the world will judge of men and books,
Not from the _Burnets, Oldmixons_, and _Cookes_.
Soft were my numbers; who could take offence, 145
While pure Description held the place of Sense?
Like gentle _Fanny's_ was my flow'ry theme,
A painted mistress, or a purling stream.
Yet then did _Gildon_ draw his venal quill;--
I wish'd the man a dinner, and sat still. 150
Yet then did _Dennis_ rave in furious fret;
I never answer'd,--I was not in debt.
If want provok'd, or madness made them print,
I wag'd no war with _Bedlam_ or the _Mint_.
Did some more sober Critic come abroad; 155
If wrong, I smil'd; if right, I kiss'd 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. 160
Yet ne'er one sprig of laurel grac'd these ribalds,
From slashing _Bentley_ down to pidling _Tibalds_:
Each wight, who reads not, and but scans and spells,
Each Word-catcher, that lives on syllables,
Ev'n such small Critics some regard may claim, 165
Preserv'd in _Milton's_ or in _Shakespeare's_ 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. 170
Were others angry: I excus'd them too;
Well might they rage, I gave them but their due.
A man's true merit 'tis not hard to find;
But each man's secret standard in his mind,
That Casting-weight pride adds to emptiness, 175
This, who can gratify? for who can _guess?_
The Bard whom pilfer'd 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; 180
He, who still wanting, tho' 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 fustian's so sublimely bad, 185
It is not Poetry, but prose run mad:
All these, my modest Satire bade _translate_,
And own'd that nine such Poets made a _Tate_.
How did they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe!
And swear, not ADDISON himself was safe. 190
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, 195
Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne.
View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes,
And hate for arts that caus'd himself to rise;
Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer,
And without sneering, teach the rest to sneer; 200
Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike,
Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike;
Alike reserv'd to blame, or to commend.
A tim'rous foe, and a suspicious friend;
Dreading ev'n fools, by Flatterers besieg'd, 205
And so obliging, that he ne'er oblig'd;
Like _Cato_, give his little Senate laws,
And sit attentive to his own applause;
While Wits and Templars ev'ry sentence raise,
And wonder with a foolish face of praise:-- 210
Who but must laugh, if such a man there be?
Who would not weep, if Atticus were he?
What tho' my Name stood rubric on the walls
Or plaister'd posts, with claps, in capitals?
Or smoking forth, a hundred hawkers' load, 215
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-rhym'd so long)
No more than thou, great George! a birth-day song. 220
I ne'er with wits or witlings pass'd 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 mouth'd, and cry'd, 225
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, puff'd by ev'ry quill; 230
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,)
Receiv'd of wits an undistinguish'd race, 235
Who first his judgment ask'd, and then a place:
Much they extoll'd his pictures, much his seat,
And flatter'd ev'ry day, and some days eat:
Till grown more frugal in his riper days,
He paid some bards with port, and some with praise; 240
To some a dry rehearsal saw assign'd,
And others (harder still) he paid in kind.
_Dryden_ alone (what wonder?) came not nigh,
_Dryden_ alone escap'd this judging eye:
But still the _Great_ have kindness in reserve, 245
He help'd to bury whom he help'd to starve.
May some choice patron bless each gray goose quill!
May ev'ry _Bavius_ have his _Bufo_ still!
So, when a Statesman wants a day's defence,
Or Envy holds a whole week's war with Sense, 250
Or simple pride for flatt'ry 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, 255
Neglected die, and tell it on his tomb:
Of all thy blameless life the sole return
My Verse, and Queenb'ry weeping o'er thy urn.
Oh let me live my own, and die so too!
(To live and die is all I have to do:) 260
Maintain a Poet's dignity and ease,
And see what friends, and read what books I please;
Above a Patron, tho' I condescend
Sometimes to call a minister my friend.
I was not born for Courts or great affairs; 265
I pay my debts, believe, and say my pray'rs;
Can sleep without a Poem in my head;
Nor know, if _Dennis_ be alive or dead.
Why am I ask'd what next shall see the light?
Heav'ns! was I born for nothing but to write? 270
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.'