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Load some valn church with old theatric state, At Timon's villa let us pass a day,
Greatness, with Tinon, dwells in such a draught
His pond an ocean, his parterre a dowi: Conscious they act a trie Palladlán part,
Who but must laugh, the master when he sees, And if they starte, they starve by rules of artı A puny insect, shivering at a breeze !
Oft have you hinted to your brother peer, Lo, what huge heaps of littleness around! A certain truth, which many buy too dear: 40 The whole a labour'd quarry above ground. 110 Something there is more needful than expense, Two Cupids squirt before : a lake behind And something previous ev'n to taste tis sense: Improves the keepness of the northeni wind. Good sense, which only is the gift of Heaven, His gardens next your admiratioa call, And, though no science, fairly worth the seven : On every side you look, bahold the wall! A light which in yourself you must perceive; No pleasing intricacies intervene, Jones and Le Nôtre have it not to give.
No artful wildness to perplex the scene; To build, to plant, whatever you intend, Grove nods at grove, each alley has a brother, To rear the column, or the arch' to bend,
And half the platform just reflects the other. To swell the terrace, or to sink the grot;
The suffering eye inverted Nature sees, In all, let Nature never be forgot.
50 Trees cut to statues, statues thick as trees; 120 But treat the goddess like a modest fair,
With bere a fountain, never to be play'd ;
There gladiators fight, or die in Aowers;
My lord advances with majestic mien,
Smit with the mighty pleasure to be seen: Or helps th' ambitious hill the heavens to scale, But soft-by regular approach---not yet (130 Or scuops in circling theatres the vale ; 60 First through the length of yon bot terrace sweat; Calls in the country, catches opening glades, And when up ten steep slopes you've dragg'd your Joins willing woods, and varies shades from shades; Just at his study-door he'll bless your eyes. (thighs, Now breaks, or now directs th’intending lines; His study! with what authors, is it stord? Paints as you plant, and, as you work, designs. In books, not authors, curious is my lord; Still follow sense, of every art the soul,
To all their dated backs he turns you round; Parts answering parts shall slide into a whole, These Aldus printed, those Du Sueil has bound. Spontaneous beauties all around advance,
Lo, some are vellum, and the rest as good Start ev'n from difficulty, strike from chance; For all his lordship knows, but they are wood. Nature shall join you ; Time shall make it grow For Locke or Milton, 'tis in vain to look, 149 A work to wonder at---perhaps a Stow. 70 These shelves admit not any modern book.
Without it, proud Versailles ! thy glory falls; And now the chapel's silver bell you hear, And Nero's terraces desert their walls :
That summons you to all the pride of prayer : The vast parterres a thousand hands shall make, Light quirks of music, broken and uneven, Lo! Cobham comes, and Boats them with a lake: Make the soul dance upon a jig to Heaven. Or cut wide views through mountains to the plain, On painted cielings you devoutly stare, You'll wish your hill or shelter'd seat again. Where sprawl the saints of Verrio or Laguerre, Evin in an ornament its place remark,
Or gilded clouds in fair expansion lie, Nor in an bermitage set Dr. Clarke.
And bring all Paradise before your eye. Behold Villario's ten years toil complete;
To rest, the cushion and soft dean invite,
And gaping Tritons spew to wash your face.
No 'tis a temple, and a hecatomb.
You drink by measure, and to minutes eat. Through his young woods how pleas'd Sabinns So quick retires each flying course, you'd swear Or sate delighted in the thickening shade, (stray'd, Sancho's dread doctor and his wand were there. With annual joy the reddening shoots to greet, (90 Between each act the trembling salvers ring, [160 Or see the stretching branches long to meet !
From soup to sweet-wine, and God bless the King. His son's fine taste an opener Vista loves,
In plenty starving, tantaliz'd in state, Foe to the Dryads of his father's groves;
And complaisantly help'd to all I hate, One boundless green, or flourish'd carpet views, Treated, caress'd, and tir'd, I take my leave, With all the mournful family of yews :
Sick of his civil pride from morn to eve; The thriving plants, ignoble broomsticks made, I curse such lavish cost, and little skill, Now sweep those alleys they were born to shade. And swear no day was ever pass'd so ille
Yet hence the poor are cloth'd, the hungry fed; Imperial wonders rais'd on nations spoild, Health to himself, and to his infants bread, Where mix'd with slaves the groaning martyr The labourer bears : What his hard heart denies,
toil'd: His charitable vanity supplies.
Huge theatres, that now unpeopled woods, Another age shall see the golden car
Now drain'd a distant country of her floods : Imbrówn the slope, and nod on the parterre,
Fanes, which admiring gods with pride survey; Deep harvest bury all his pride has plann'd, Statues of men, scarce less alive than they! And laughing Ceres re-assume the land.
Some felt the silent stroke of mouldering age,
And papal piety, and gothic fire.
Some bury'd marble half preserves a name;
Ambition sigh'd : she found it vain to trust Whose ample lawns are not asbam'd to feed The faithless column and the crumbling bust : The milky heifer and deserving steed;
Huge moles, whose shadow stretch'd from shore to Whose rising forests, not for pride or show,
shore, But future buildings, future navjes, grow : Their ruins perish’d, and their place no more! Let his plantations stretch from down to down, Convine'd, she now contracts her vast design, First shade a country, and then raise a town. And all her triumphs shrink into a coin. You too proceed! make falling arts your care,
A narrow orb each crouded conquest keeps, Erect new wonders, and the old repair;
Beneath her palm here sad Judea weeps Jones and Palladio to themselves restore,
Now scantier limits the proud arch confine, And be whate'er Vitruvius was before:
And scarce are seen the prostrate Nile or Rhine; Till kings call forth the ideas of your mind,
A small Euphrates through the piece is rollid, (Proud to accomplish what such hands design'd) And little eagles wave their wings in gold. Bid harbours open, public ways extend,
The medal, faithful to its charge of fame, Bid temples worthier of the God ascend;
Through climes and ages bears each form and name: Bid the broad arch the dangerous food contain,
In one short view subjected to our eye
'Th'ir:scription value, but the rust adore. These honours, Peace to happy Britain brings; This the blue varnish, that the greca endears, These are iinperial works and worthy kings.
The sacred rust of twice ten hundred years !
And Curio, restless by the fair-one's side,
Sighs for an Otho, and neglects his bride.
Theirs is the vanity, the learning thine:
Touch'd by thy hand, again Rome's glories shine :
Her gods and godlike heroes rise to view,
And all her faded garlands bloom anew.
Nor blush, these studies thy regard engage :
The verse and sculpture bore an equal part,
Mr. Addison intended to publish his book of Oh, when shall Britain, conscious of her claim, medals; it was some time before he was serre- Stand emulous of Greek and Roman fame? tary of state; but not published till Mr. Tickell's In living medals see her wars enroll’d, edition of his works; at which tine his verseson And vanquish'd realms supply recording gold ? Mr. Cragas, which conclude the poem, were Here, rising bold, the patriot's honest face; added. viz. in 1720.
There, warriors frowning in historic brass : As the third epistle treated of the extremes of Then future ages with delight shall see
avarice and profusion; and the fourth took nip How Plato's, Bacon's, Newton's looks agree; one particular branch of the latter, namely, the Or in fair series laureld bards be shown, vanity of expense in people of wealth and qua- A Virgil there, and here an Addison. lity, and was therefore a corollary to the third; Then stall thy Craggs (and let me call him mine) so this treats of one circumstance of that vanity, On the cast ore, another Pollio, shine : as it appears in the common collectors of oid With aspect open shall erect his head, coins; and is, therefore, a corollary to the and round the orb in lasting notes be read, fourth.
“ Statesman, best friend to truth! of soul sincere,
In action faithful, and in bonour clear;
Who gain'd no title, and who lost no fiiend;
TO THE FIRST PUBLICATION OF THIS EPISTLE.
All fly to Twit'nam, and in humble strain 21 EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT: 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 : THE PROLOGUE TO THE SATIRES.
Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope,
Friend to my life! (which did you not prolong,
The world had wanted many an idle song)
What drop of nostrum can this plague r move?
A dire dilemma! either way I'm sped; This paper is a sort of bill of complaint, begun If foes, they write, if friends, they read me dead.. many years since, and drawn up by snaiches, as Seiz'd and ty'd down to judge, bow wretched 1! the several occasions offered. I had no thoughts Who can't be silent, and who will not lie : of publishing it, till it pleased some persons of To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace ; rank and fortune (the authors of Verses to the And to be grave, exceeds all power of face. Imitator of Horace, and of an Epistle to a Doctor I sit with sad civility; I read of Divinity from a Nobleman at Hampton-Court] With honest anguish, and an aching head; to attack, in a very extraordinary manner, not And drop at last, but in unwilling ears,
39 only my writings (of which, being public, the pub. This saving counsel, “ Keep your piece nine years." lic is judge) but my person, morals, and family, Nine years !” cries he, who high in Drury-lane, whereof, to those who know me not, a truer in- Lull’d by soft zephyrs through the broken pane, formation may be requisite. Being divided be- Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before term ends, tween the necessity to say something of myself, Oblig'd by hunger and request of friends : and my own laziness to undertake so awkward a “The piece, you think, is incorrect ?.why take it; task, I thought it the shortest way to put the last I'm all submission ; what you'd have it, make it.” hand to this epistle. If it have any thing pleas- Three things another's modest wishes bound, ing, it will be that by which I am most desirous to My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound. please, the truth and the sentiment; and if any Pitholeon sends to me: “ you know his grace: thing offensive, it will be only to those I am least I want a patron ; ask him for a place." 50 sorry to offend, the vicious or the ungenerous. Pitholeon libell'd mee" but here's a letter
Many will know their own pictures in it, there Informs you, sir, 'twas when he knew no better. being not a circumstance but what is true: but I Dare you refuse him? Curll invites to dine, have, for the most part, spared their names; and He'll write a journal, or he'll turn divine." they may escape being langhed at, if they please. Bless me! a packet.—“'Tis a stranger sues,
I would have some of them to know, it was ow- A Virgin Tragedy, an Orphan Muse.” ing to the request of the learned and candid friend If I dislike it, Furies, death and rage !" to whom it is inscribed, that I make not as free If I approve, " Commend it to the stage.” use of theirs as they have done of mine. How- | There (thank my stars) my whole commission ends, ever, I shall have this advantage, and honour, on The players and I are, luckily, no friends. 60 sit, my side, that whereas, by their proceeding, any Fir'd that the house reject him, “'Sdeath! I'll print abuse may be directed at any man, no injury can And shame the fools-your interest, sir, with Lintot.” possibly be done by mine, since a nameless cha-Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much : racter can never be found out, but by its truth Not, sir, if you revise it, and retouch.” and likeness.
All my demurs but double his attacks:
“ Sir, let me see your works and you no more." P.Shut, shut the door, good John! fatigu'd I said, 'Tis sung, when Milas' ears began to spring, Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I 'm dead. (Midas, a sacred person and a king)
70 The Dog-star rages ! nay, 'tis past a doubt, His very minister, who spy'd them first, All Bediam, or Parnassus, is let out:
(Some say his queen) was forc'd to speak, or burst. Fire in each each eye, and papers in each hand, And is not mine, my friend, a sorer case, They rave, recite, and madden round the land. When every coxcomb perks them in my face? What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide ?
[glide. They pierce my thickets, through my grot they | After ver. 20, in the MS. By land, by water, they renew the charge ;
Is there a bard in durance ? turn them free, They stop the chariot, and they board the barge.
With all their brandish: reams they run to me: No place is sacred, not the church is free,
Is there a 'prentice, having seen two plays, Evin Sunday shines no sabbath-day to me;
Who would do something in his seinpstress' praise, Then from the mint walks forth the man of rhyme, Happy! to catch me, just at dimur-time.
Ver. 29, in the 1st Fd. Is there a parson, much bemus'd in beer,
Dear doctor, tell me, is not this a curse? A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer,
Say, is their anger, or their friendship worse? A clerk, foredoom'd his father's soul to cross, Ver. 53, in the MS. Who pens a stanza, when he should engross? If you refuse, he goes, as fates incline, Is there, who, lock'd from ink and paper, scrawls To plague sir Robert, or to turn divine. With desperate charcoal round his darken'd
Ver. 60, in the foriner edition. walls?
Cibber and I are luckily no friends.
d. Goo1 friend, forbear! you deal in dangerous Why did I write? what sin to me unknown things,
Dipp'd me in ink, my parents', or my own?
No duty broke, no father disobey'd;
130 That secret to each fool, that he's an ass: 80 The Muse but serv'd to ease some friend, not wife ; The truth once told (and wherefore shonld we lie ?) To help me through this long disease, my life; The queen of Milas slept, an'l so may l.
To second, Arbuthnot! thy art and care, You think this cruel Take it for a rule,
And teach, the being you preserv'd, to bear. No creature sınarts so little as a fool.
But why then publish? Granville the polite, let peals of laughter, Colrus ! round thee break, And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could write; Thou unconrern'd canst hear the mighty crack: Well-natur'd Garth injam'd with carly praise, Pit, box, and gallery, in convulsions hurl'd, And Congreve lov’d, and Swift endur'd my lays; Thou stand'st nnshook amidst a bursting world. The courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheffield read, Who shames a scribbler? Break one cobweb through, Ev'n mitred Rochester would nod the head, 140 He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew : 90 And St. John's self (great Dryden's friend before) Destroy his fib or sophistry, in vain,
With open arms receiv'd one poet inore. The creature's at his dirty work again,
Happy my studies, when by these approv'd ! Thron'd on the centre of his thin designs,
Happier their author, when by these belor'd! Proud of a vast extent of Ainsy liges !
From these the world will judge of men and books, Whom have I hurt? has poet yet, or peer,
Not from the Burnets, Oldmixons, and Cooks. Lost the arch'd eyebrow, or Parnassian sneer? Soft were my numbers: who could take oficnce And has not Colly still his lord, an! whore? While pure description held the place of sense? His butchers Henley, his free masons Moor? Like gentle Fanny's was my flowery theme, Dexts not one table Barius still admit?
99 A painted mistress, or a purling stream. 150 Still to one bishop Philips scrips a wit? [fend, Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill; Still Sappho-A. Hold ; for Gol's sake-you'll of- I wish'd the man a dinner, and sate still. No names-be calm-learn prudence of a friend : Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret; I too could write, and I am twice as tall;
I never answer'd, I was not in debt. But foes like these-P. Oneflatterer's worse than all. If want provok’d, or madness inade them print, Of all mad creatures, if the learn'd are right, I wag'd no war with Bedlam or the Mint. It is the slaver kills, and not the bite.
Did some more sober critic come abroad; A fool quite angry is uite innocent :
If wrong, I smil'd; if right, I kiss'd the rod. Alas! 'tis ten times worse when they repent.
Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence, One dedicates in high heroic prose,
Ani all they want is spirit, taste, and sense. 160 And ridicules beyond a hundred foes:
110 | Commas and points they set exactly right, One from all Grub.street will my fame defend, And 'twcre a sin to rob then of their mite. And, more abusive, calls himself my friend. Yet ue'er one sprig of laurel grac'd these ribalds, This prints my letters, that expects a bribe, From slashing Bentley down to pidling Tibalds : And others roar aloud,“ Subscribe, subscribe !"" Fach wight, who reads not, and but scans and spells,
Tiere are, who to my person pay their court : Each worl-catcher, that lives on syllables, I cough like Horace, and, though lean, am short. Ev'y such small critics some regard may claim, Ammon's great son one shoulder had too high, Preserv'd in Milton's or in Shakespeare's name. Such Ovid's nose, and,“ Sir! you have an eye !" | Pretty! in amber to observe the forms Go on, obliging creature, make me see
Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms! All that disgrac'd my betters, met in me.
120 | 'The things we know are neither rich nor rare, 171 Say for iny comfort, langaishing in bed,
But wonder how the devil they got there. “ Just so immortal Maro held his head ;"
Were others angry: I excus'd them too; And when I die, be sure you let me know
Well might they rage, I gare them but their due. Great Homer dy'd three thousand years ago.
A man's true merit 'tis not hard to find ;
That casting-weight pride adds to emptiness,
This, who can gratify? for who can guess?
The bard whom pilfer'd pastorals reuown, For sony, for silence some expect a bribe : Who turns a Persian tale for half a crown, 180 And others roar aloud, Subscribe, subscribe !!? | Just writes to make his barrenness appear, (year; 'Time, praise, or money, is the least th: y crave, And strains from hard-bound brains, eight lines a Yet each declares the other fool or knare.
He, who, still wanting, though he lives on theft, After ver. 124, in the MS.
Sieals much, spends little, yet has nothing left:
And he, who, now to'sense, now nonsense leaning, But, friend, this shape, which you and Curll' adCame not from Ammon's son, but from my sire?;
Means not, but blunders round about a meaning : And for my head, if you'll the truth excuse,
And be, whose fustjan's so sublimely bad, I had it from my mother!, not the Muse.
It is not poetry, but prose run mad: Happy, if ne, in whom these frailties join'd,
All tisse, my modest satire bad translate, Had heir'd as well the virtues of the mind.
And own'd that nine such poets made a Tate. 190
How did they fiume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe ! · Curll set up his head for a sign.
And swear, not Aldison himself was safe. ? His father was crooked.
Peace to all such! but were there one whose fires ? His mother was much articted with headachs. True geuius kindies, and fair fame inspires;
Blest with each talent and each art to please, Or simple pride for flattery makes demands, And born to write, converse, and live with ease : May dunce by dunce be whistled off my hands! Should such a man, too fond to rule alone,
Blest be the great! for those they take away, Bear, like the Turk, no brotber near the throne, And those they left me; for they left me Gay: View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes, Left me to see neglected genius bloom, And hate for arts that caus'd himself to rise; 200 Neglected die, and tell it on his tomb: Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, Of all thy blameless life the sole return And, without sneering, teach the rest to sneer; My verse, and Queensberry weeping o'er thy urn! Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike,
Oh let me live my own, and die so too ! 261 Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike ;
(To live and die is all I have to do :) Alike reserv'd to blame, or to commend,
Maintain a poet's dignity and ease, A timorous foe, and a suspicious friend;
And see what friends, and read what books I please : Dreading ev'n fools by flatterers besieg'd,
Above a patron, though I condes end And so obliging, that he ne'er oblig'd;
Sometimes to call a minister my friend. Like Cato, give his little senate laws,
I was not born for courts or great affairs : And sit attentive to his own applause; 210) I pay my debts, believe, and say my prayers; While wits and templars every sentence raise, Can sleep without a poem in my head, And wonder with a foolish face of praise
Nor know, if Dennis be alive or dead. 270 Who but must laugh, if such a man there be ? Why am I ask'd what next shall see the light? Who would not weep, if Atticus were he!
Heavens ! was I born for nothing but to write ? What though my name stood rubric on the walls, Has life no joys for me? or (to be grave) Or plaster'd posts, with claps, in capitals ? Have I no friend to serve, no soul to save ? Or smoaking forth, a hundred hawkers load,
I found him close with Swift-Indeed? no doubt On wings of winds came flying all abroad? (Cries prating Balbus) something will come out.” I sought no homage from the race that write; "Tis all in vain, deny it as I will, I kept, like Asian monarchs, from their sight : 220 “ No, such a genius never can lie still;" Poems I heeded (now berhym'd so long)
And then for mine obligingly mistakes No more than thou, great George! a birth-day song. The first lampoon sir Will or Bubo makes. 280 I ne'er with wits or witlings pass'd my days, Poor, guiltless I! and can I choose but smile, To spread about the itch of verse and praise ; When every coxcomb knows me by my style? Nor like a puppy, daggled through the town, Curst be the verse, how well soe'er it flow, To fetch and carry sing-song up and down ; That tends to make one worthy man my foe, Nor at rehearsals sweat, and mouth'd, and cry'd, Give virtue scandal, innocence a fear, With handkerchief and orange at my side! Or from the soft-ey'l virgin steal a tear! But, sick of fops, and poetry, and prate,
But he who hurts a harmless neighbour's peace, To Bufo left the whole Castalian state. 230 Insults fall’n worth, or beauty in distress, Proud as Apollo on his forked bill,
Who loves a lie, lame slander helps about, Sate full-blown Bufo, puff'd by every quill; Who writes a libel, or who copies out:
290 Fed with soft dedication all day long,
That fop, whose pride affects a patron's name, Horace and he went hand in hand in song,
Yet absent, wounds an author's honest fame : His library (where busts of poets dead
Who can your merit selfishly approve, And a true Pindar stood without a head)
And show the sense of it without the love ; Receiv'd of wits an undistinguish'd race,
Who has the vanity to call you friend,
After ver. 270, in the MS.
still : But still the great have kindness in reserve,
Fame, like the wind, may breathe where'er it He help'd to bury whom he help'd to starve.
will. May some choice patron bless each grey goose The world I knew, but made it not my school, quill!
And in a course of flattery liv'd no fool.
After ver. 282, in the MS.
P. What if I sing Augustus, great and good ?
Be nice no more, but, with a mouth profound,
As rumbling Dennis or a Norfolk hound ; After ver. 208, in the MS.
With George and Frederic roughen every verse, Who, if two wits on rival themes contest,
Then smooth up all, and Caroline rehearse. Approves of each, but likes the worst the best.
P. Northe high task to lift up kings to gods, Alluding to Mr. Pope's and Tickell's 'Translation of
Leave to court sermons, and to birth-day odes. the first Book of the Iliad.
On themes like these, superior far to thire, After ver. 234, in the MS.
Let laurelid Cibber and great Arnal shine. To bards reciting he vouchsaf'd a nod,
Why write at all?--A. Yes, silence if you keep, And snuff d their incense like a gracious god. The town, the court, the wits, the dunces weep: