III. Search then the ruling passion: there alone,
The wild are constant, and the cunning known;
The fool consistent, and the false sincere;
Priests, princes, women, no dissemblers here.
This clue once found unravels all the rest,
The prospect clears, and Wharton stands confest.
Wharton! the scorn and wonder of our days,
Whose ruling passion was the lust of praise;
Born with whate'er could win it from the wise,
Women and fools must like him, or he dies:
Though wondering senates hung on all he spoke,
The club must hail him master of the joke.
Shall parts so various aim at nothing new?
He'll shine a Tully and a Wilmot too:
Then turns repentant, and his God adores
With the same spirit that he drinks and whores;
Enough if all around him but admire,

And now the punk applaud, and now the friar.
Thus with each gift of nature and of art,
And wanting nothing but an honest heart;
Grown all to all, from no one vice exempt,
And most contemptible, to shun contempt;
His passion still, to covet general praise;
His life, to forfeit it a thousand ways;

A constant bounty, which no friend has made;
An angel tongue, which no man can persuade;
A fool, with more of wit than half mankind,
Too rash for thought, for action too refin'd:
A tyrant to the wife his heart approves ;
A rebel to the very king he loves;

He dies, sad outcast of each church and state,
And, harder still! flagitious, yet not great.

Ask you why Wharton broke through every rule?
'Twas all for fear the knaves should call him fool.
Nature well known, no prodigies remain,
Comets are regular, and Wharton plain.

Yet, in this search, the wisest may mistake,
If second qualities for first they take.
When Catiline by rapine swell'd his store;
When Cæsar made a noble dame a whore;

In this the lust, in that the avarice,

Were means, not ends; ambition was the vice.
That very Cæsar, born in Scipio's days,
Had aim'd, like him, by chastity at praise.
Lucullus, when frugality could charm,
Had roasted turnips in the Sabine farm.
In vain the observer eyes the builder's toil,
But quite mistakes the scaffold for the pile.

In this one passion man can strength enjoy,
As fits give vigour just when they destroy.
Time, that on all things lays his lenient hand,
Yet tames not this; it sticks to our last sand.
Consistent in our follies and our sins,
Here honest nature ends as she begins.

Old politicians chew on wisdom past,
And totter on in business to the last;
As weak, as earnest; and as gravely out,
As sober Lanesborow dancing in the gout.

Behold a reverend sire, whom want of grace
Has made the father of a nameless race,
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. 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.'

The courtier smooth, who forty years had shin'd An humble servant to all human-kind,

N

Just brought out this, when scarce his tongue

could stir,

'If-where I'm going-I could serve you, sir!' 'I give and I devise,' old Euclio said, And sigh'd, 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 cried, 'Not that,---I cannot part with that,'--and died. 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,

'Oh, save my country, Heaven!' shall be your last.

EPISTLE II.

TO A LADY.

OF THE CHARACTERS OF WOMEN.

ARGUMENT.

That the particular characters of women are not so strongly marked as those of men, seldom so fixed, and still more inconsistent with themselves, ver. 1, &c. Instances of contrarieties given, even from such characters as are more strongly marked, and seemingly, therefore, most consistent: as, 1. In the affected.-2. In the soft-natured.---3. In the cunning and artful.---4. In the whimsical.-5. In the lewd and vicious.-6. In the witty and refined. --7. In the stupid and simple, ver. 21 to 207. The former part having shown that the particular cha racters of women are more various than those of men, it is nevertheless observed that the general characteristic of the sex, as to the ruling passion, is more uniform, ver. 207. This is occasioned partly by their nature, partly by their education, and in some degree by necessity, ver. 211. What are the aims and the fate of this sex:--1. As to power.-2. As to pleasure, ver. 219.--Advice for their true interest.--The picture of an estimable woman, with the best kind of contrarieties, ver. 249 to the end.

There is nothing in Mr. Pope's works more high ly 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 experienced little curiosity about a satire, in whichthere was nothing personal.

NOTHING so true as what you once let fall,

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 Magdalen'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 grows romantic, I must paint it.

Come then, the colours and the ground prepare! Dip in the rainbow, trick her off in air;

Choose a firm cloud, before it fall, and in it
Catch, ere she change, the Cynthia of this minute.
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.