THE SIXTH SATIRE OF THE SECOND BOOK OF HORACE

THE FIRST PART IMITATED IN THE YEAR 1714 BY DR. SWIFT; THE LATTER PART ADDED AFTERWARDS

Of the following Imitations of Horace the first two are rather imitations of Swift, Horace merely supplying the text for the travesty. For (as previous editors have not failed to point out) no styles could be found less like one another than the bland and polite style of Horace and the downright, and often cynically plain, manner of Swift. With Pope the attempt to write in Swift's style was a mere tour de force, which he could indeed carry out with success through a few lines, but not further, without relapsing into his own more elaborate manner. Swift's marvellous precision and netteté of expression are something very different from Pope's pointed and rhetorical elegance. The Ode to Venus, which was first published in 1737, more nearly approaches the character of a translation. (Ward.)

I'VE often wish'd that I had clear
For life six hundred pounds a year,
A handsome house to lodge a friend,
A river at my garden's end,
A terrace walk, and half a rood
Of land set out to plant a wood.

Well, now I have all this, and more,
I ask not to increase my store;
But here a grievance seems to lie,

All this is mine but till I die;

ΙΟ

I can't but think 't would sound more

clever,

To me and to my heirs for ever.

If I ne'er got or lost a groat

By any trick or any fault;
And if I pray by Reason's rules,

And not like forty other fools,

As thus: Vouchsafe, O gracious Maker!
To grant me this and t'other acre;
Or, if it be thy will and pleasure,
Direct my plough to find a treasure;
But only what my station fits,
And to be kept in my right wits,
Preserve, almighty Providence!
Just what you gave me, Competence;
And let me in these shades compose
Something in verse as true as prose,
Remov'd from all th' ambitious scene,
Nor puff'd by Pride, nor sunk by Spleen.'
In short, I'm perfectly content,
Let me but live on this side Trent,

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Nor cross the channel twice a year, To spend six months with statesmen here.

I must by all means come to town,
"T is for the service of the Crown;
'Lewis, the Dean will be of use;
Send for him up; take no excuse.'

The toil, the danger of the seas,
Great ministers ne'er think of these;
Or, let it cost five hundred pound,
No matter where the money 's found;
It is but so much more in debt,
And that they ne'er consider'd yet.

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'Good Mr. Dean, go change your gown, Let my Lord know you 're come to town.' I hurry me in haste away, Not thinking it is Levee day, And find His Honour in a pound, Hemm'd by a triple circle round, Chequer'd with ribbons blue and green: How should I thrust myself between ? Some wag observes me thus perplex'd, And smiling, whispers to the next,

I thought the Dean had been too proud
To jostle here among a crowd.'
Another, in a surly fit,

Tells me I have more zeal than wit;
So eager to express your love,
You ne'er consider whom you shove,
But rudely press before a Duke.'
I own I'm pleas'd with this rebuke,
And take it kindly meant, to show
What I desire the world should know.
I get a whisper, and withdraw;
When twenty fools I never saw
Come with petitions fairly penn'd,
Desiring I would stand their friend.

This humbly offers me his Case That begs my int'rest for a Place · A hundred other men's affairs, Like bees, are humming in my ears; 'To-morrow my appeal comes on, Without your help the cause is gone.' 'The Duke expects my Lord and you About some great affair at two.'

Put my Lord Bolingbroke in mind To get my warrant quickly sign'd: Consider, 't is my first request.' 'Be satisfied, I'll do my best: Then presently he falls to tease, 'You may be certain, if you please; I doubt not, if his Lordship knew And, Mr. Dean, one word from you.' 'Tis (let me see) three years and more (October next it will be four)

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Since Harley bid me first attend,
And chose me for an humble friend:
Would take me in his coach to chat,
And question me of this and that;
As, 'What's o'clock?' and, 'How's the
wind?'

'Whose chariot 's that we left behind?' 90
Or gravely try to read the lines
Writ underneath the country signs;
Or, Have you nothing new to-day
From Pope, from Parnell, or from Gay?'
Such tattle often entertains

.

My Lord and me as far as Staines,
As once a week we travel down
To Windsor, and again to town,
Where all that passes inter nos
Might be proclaim'd at Charing-cross.
Yet some I know with envy swell
Because they see me used so well.
'How think you of our friend the Dean?
I wonder what some people mean;
My lord and he are grown so great,
Always together tête-à-tête.

What! they admire him for his jokes
See but the fortune of some folks!'
There flies about a strange report
Of some express arrived at Court;
I'm stopp'd by all the fools I meet,
And catechised in every street.
'You, Mr. Dean, frequent the Great:
Inform us, will the Emp'ror treat?
Or do the prints and papers lie?'
'Faith, Sir, you know as much as I.'
Ah, Doctor, how you love to jest!
'Tis now no secret.' 'I protest

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'Tis one to me.' Then tell us, pray, When are the troops to have their pay?' 120 And tho' I solemnly declare

I know no more than my Lord Mayor, They stand amazed, and think me grown The closest mortal ever known.

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Thus in a sea of folly tost, My choicest hours of life are lost; Yet always wishing to retreat: O, could I see my country-seat! There leaning near a gentle brook, Sleep, or peruse some ancient book, And there, in sweet oblivion drown Those cares that haunt the Court and town. O charming Noons! and Nights divine! Or when I sup, or when I dine, My friends above, my folks below, Chatting and laughing all-a-row, The beans and bacon set before 'em, The grace-cup served with all decorum;

Each willing to be pleas'd, and please,
And ev❜n the very dogs at ease!
Here no man prates of idle things,
How this or that Italian sings,

A Neighbour's madness, or his Spouse's,
Or what's in either of the Houses;
But something much more our concern,
And quite a scandal not to learn;
Which is the happier or the wiser,
A man of merit, or a miser?
Whether we ought to choose our friends
For their own worth or our own ends?
What good, or better, we may call,
And what the very best of all?

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Our friend Dan Prior told (you know) A tale extremely à-propos : Name a town life, and in a trice He had a story of two mice. Once on a time (so runs the Fable) A Country Mouse right hospitable, Received a Town Mouse at his board, Just as a farmer might a Lord. A frugal mouse, upon the whole, Yet lov'd his friend, and had a soul; Knew what was handsome, and would do 't, On just occasion, coûte qui coûte.

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He brought him bacon (nothing lean),
Pudding that might have pleas'd a Dean;
Cheese, such as men in Suffolk make,
But wish'd it Stilton for his sake;
Yet, to his guest tho' no way sparing,
He ate himself the rind and paring.
Our Courtier scarce could touch a bit,
But show'd his breeding and his wit;
He did his best to seem to eat,
And cried, 'I vow you 're mighty neat:
But lord, my friend, this savage scene!
For God's sake come and live with men;
Consider, mice, like men, must die,
Both small and great, both you and I;
Then spend your life in joy and sport,
(This doctrine, friend, I learn'd at court).'
The veriest hermit in the nation
May yield, God knows, to strong tempta-

tion.

Away they came, thro' thick and thin,

To a tall house near Lincoln's-Inn ('T was on the night of a debate, When all their Lordships had sat late).

Behold the place where if a poet Shined in description he might show it; Tell how the moonbeam trembling falls, And tips with silver all the walls; Palladian walls, Venetian doors, Grotesco roofs, and stucco floors:

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But let it (in a word) be said,
The moon was up, and men a-bed,
The napkins white, the carpet red:]
The guests withdrawn had left the treat,
And down the Mice sat tête-à-tête.

Our Courtier walks from dish to dish,
Tastes for his friend of fowl and fish;
Tells all their names, lays down the law, 200
"Que ça est bon ! Ah, goutez ça !
That Jelly 's rich, this Malmsey healing,
Pray, dip your whiskers and your tail in.'
Was ever such a happy swain!

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He stuffs and swills, and stuffs again. 'I'm quite ashamed 't is mighty rude To eat so much but all 's so good I have a thousand thanks to give My Lord alone knows how to live.' No sooner said, but from the hall Rush chaplain, butler, dogs, and all: ‘A rat, a rat! clap to the door' The cat comes bouncing on the floor. O for the art of Homer's mice, Or gods to save them in a trice! (It was by Providence, they think, For your damn'd stucco has no chink!) 'An't please Your Honour,' quoth the

'Tis true, my Lord, I
gave my word
I would be with you June the third;
Changed it to August, and (in short)
Have kept it
as you do at Court.
You humour me when I am sick,
Why not when I am splenetic?
In Town what objects could I meet?
The shops shut up in every street,
And funerals black'ning all the doors,
And yet more melancholy whores:
And what a dust in every place!
And a thin Court that wants your face,
And fevers raging up and down,
And W[ard] and H[enley] both in town!

The dogdays are no more the case.'
'Tis true, but winter comes apace:
Then southward let your bard retire,
Hold out some months 'twixt sun and fire,

ΤΟ

And you shall see the first warm weather Me and the butterflies together.

My Lord, your favours well I know; "T is with distinction you bestow, And not to every one that comes, Just as a Scotchman does his plums. Pray take them, Sir-enough's a feast: Eat some, and pocket up the rest:'

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What, rob your boys? those pretty rogues!
'No, Sir, you'll leave them to the hogs.'
Thus fools with compliments besiege ye,
Contriving never to oblige ye.
Scatter your favours on a Fop,
Ingratitude's the certain crop;

And 't is but just, I'll tell ye wherefore,
You give the things you never care for.
A wise man always is, or should,
Be mighty ready to be good,
But makes a diff'rence in his thought
Betwixt a guinea and a groat.

Now this I'll say, you'll find in me
A safe companion, and a free;
But if you'd have me always near,
A word, pray, in Your Honour's ear:
I hope it is your resolution

To give me back my constitution,
The sprightly wit, the lively eye,
Th' engaging smile, the gayety
That laugh'd down many a summer sun,
And kept you up so oft till one;
And all that voluntary vein,
As when Belinda rais'd my strain.

A Weasel once made shift to slink
In at a corn-loft thro' a chink,
But having amply stuff'd his skin,
Could not get out as he got in;
Which one belonging to the house
('T was not a man, it was a mouse)
Observing, cried, 'You 'scape not so;
Lean as you came, Sir, you must go."
Sir, you may spare your application;
I'm no such beast, nor his relation,
Nor one that Temperance advance,
Cramm'd to the throat with ortolans;
Extremely ready to resign

All that may make me none of mine.
South-Sea subscriptions take who please,
Leave me but liberty and ease:

'T was what I said to Craggs and Child,
Who praised my modesty, and smil❜d.
'Give me,' I cried (enough for me)
'My bread and independency!'
So bought an annual rent or two,
And lived just as you see I do;

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AGAIN? new tumults in my breast?
Ah, spare me, Venus! let me, let me rest!
I am not now, alas! the man

As in the gentle reign of my Queen Anne.
Ah! sound no more thy soft alarms,
Nor circle sober fifty with thy charms.
Mother too fierce of dear desires!

Turn, turn to willing hearts your wanton fires:

To number five direct your doves,
There spread round Murray all your bloom-
ing Loves;

Noble and young, who strikes the heart
With ev'ry sprightly, ev'ry decent part;
Equal the injured to defend,

ΙΟ

To charm the Mistress, or to fix the Friend. He, with a hundred arts refin'd,

Shall stretch thy conquests over half the kind:

To him each rival shall submit, Make but his Riches equal to his Wit. Then shall thy form the marble grace, (Thy Grecian form) and Chloe lend the face:

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His house, embosom'd in the grove,
Sacred to social life and social love,
Shall glitter o'er the pendant green,
Where Thames reflects the visionary scene:
Thither, the silver-sounding lyres
Shall call the smiling Loves, and young

sires;

De

There, ev'ry Grace and Muse shall throng,

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Exalt the dance, or animate the song;
There Youths and Nymphs, in concert gay,
Shall hail the rising, close the parting day.
With me, alas! those joys are o'er;
For me, the vernal garlands bloom no more.
Adieu, fond hope of mutual fire,
The still-believing, still-renew'd desire;
Adieu, the heart-expanding bowl,

And all the kind deceivers of the soul !
But why? ah tell me, ah too dear!
Steals down my cheek th' involuntary
Tear?

Why words so flowing, thoughts so free, Stop, or turn nonsense, at one glance of thee?

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Thee, drest in Fancy's airy beam,
Absent I follow thro' th' extended Dream;
Now, now I seize, I clasp thy charms,
And now you burst (ah cruel!) from my

arms;

And swiftly shoot along the Mall,
Or softly glide by the Canal,
Now, shown by Cynthia's silver ray,
And now, on rolling waters snatch'd away.

THE NINTH ODE OF THE FOURTH BOOK OF HORACE

A FRAGMENT

LEST you should think that verse shall die Which sounds the silver Thames along, Taught on the wings of truth to fly

Above the reach of vulgar song;

Tho' daring Milton sits sublime,

In Spenser native muses play;
Nor yet shall Waller yield to time,
Nor pensive Cowley's moral lay –

Sages and Chiefs long since had birth
Ere Cæsar was or Newton named;
These rais'd new empires o'er the earth,
And those new heav'ns and systems
framed.

Vain was the Chief's, the Sage's Pride! They had no Poet, and they died.

In vain they schemed, in vain they bled! They had no Poet, and are dead.

THE first edition of The Dunciad was published in the spring of 1728, and included the first three books. In 1729 an edition with notes and other illustrative matter appeared, the original frontispiece of the owl being superseded by a vignette of a donkey bearing a pile of books upon which an owl perched. In this edition appeared the Dedication to Swift and the Letter to the Publisher. William Cleland, whose name is signed to this letter, was a real person and an acquaintance of Pope's, but it is generally con

MARTINUS SCRIBLERUS OF THE POEM

This poem, as it celebrateth the most grave and ancient of things, Chaos, Night, and Dulness, so is it of the most grave and ancient kind. Homer (saith Aristotle) was the first who gave the form, and (saith Horace) who adapted the measure, to heroic poesy. But even before this may be rationally presumed, from what the ancients have left written. was a piece by Homer, composed of like nature and matter with this of our poet; for of epic sort it appeareth to have been, yet of matter surely not unpleasant; witness what is reported of it by the learned Archbishop Eustathius, in Odyssey X. And accordingly Aristotle, in his Poetic, chap. iv., doth further set forth, that as the Iliad and Odyssey gave an example to Tragedy, so did this poem to Comedy its first idea.

From these authors also it should seem that the hero, or chief personage of it, was no less obscure, and his understanding and sentiments no less quaint and strange (if indeed not more so) than any of the actors of our poem. Margites was the name of this personage, whom antiquity recordeth to have been Dunce the First; and surely, from what we hear of him, not unworthy to be the root of so spreading a tree, and so numerous a posterity. The poem, therefore, celebrating him, was properly and absolutely a Dunciad; which though now unhappily lost, yet is its nature sufficiently known by the infallible tokens aforesaid. And thus it doth appear that the first Dunciad was the first epic poem, written by Homer himself, and anterior even to the Iliad or Odyssey.

Now, forasmuch as our poet bath translated those two famous works of Homer which are yet left, he did conceive it in some sort his duty to imitate that also which was lost; and

ceded that the letter is directly or indirectly the work of Pope himself. The fourth book, then called The New Dunciad, was published separately in 1742. In the complete edition of 1743, Cibber takes the place of Theobald as hero of the poem. During these fifteen years, public interest in the satire, which was undoubtedly great, was artificially stimulated by Pope. So subtle were his mystifications that the confusion into which he threw his commentators has only recently been set straight.

was therefore induced to bestow on it the same form which Homer's is reported to have had, namely, that of epic poem; with a title also framed after the ancient Greek manner, to wit, that of Dunciad.

Wonderful it is that so few of the moderns have been stimulated to attempt some Dunciad; since, in the opinion of the multitude, it might cost less pain and toil than an imitation of the greater epic. But possible it is also that, on due reflection, the maker might find it easier to paint a Charlemagne, a Brute, or a Godfrey, with just pomp and dignity heroic, than a Margites, a Codrus, or a Fleckno.

We shall next declare the occasion and the cause which moved our poet to this particular work. He lived in those days when (after Providence had permitted the invention of printing as a scourge for the sins of the learned) paper also became so cheap, and printers so numerous, that a deluge of authors covered the land whereby not only the peace of the honest unwriting subject was daily molested, but unmerciful demands were made of his applause, yea, of his money, by such as would neither earn the one nor deserve the other. At the same time the license of the press was such, that it grew dangerous to refuse them either; for they would forthwith publish slanders unpunished, the authors being anonymous, and skulking under the wings of publishers, a set of men who never scrupled to vend either calumny or blasphemy, as long as the town would call for it.

1 Now our author, living in those times, did conceive it an endeavour well worthy an honest satirist, to dissuade the dull, and punish the wicked, the only way that was left. In that public-spirited view he laid the Plan of this poem, as the greatest service he was 1 Vide Bossu, du Poeme Epique, chap. viii.