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    An Essay on Man, The Rape of the Lock, and Other Poems
    An Essay on Man, The Rape of the Lock, and Other Poems
    An Essay on Man, The Rape of the Lock, and Other Poems
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    An Essay on Man, The Rape of the Lock, and Other Poems

    By Alexander Pope

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    Alexander Pope was a gifted poet, literary critic and translator of the Augustan Age, whose powerful poetic satire and perfection of the English heroic couplet makes him one of the most famous and respected poets of all time. Pope embodied eighteenth-century neoclassical ideals like order, beauty, sophisticated wit, and refined moral sentiment. Included in this collection is “The Rape of The Lock”, a satirical poem that mocks ancient epics, one of Pope’s most famous works. Also included is “An Essay on Man”, a work that met immediate acclaim throughout Europe upon publication, and is still renowned today. In this work, Pope attempts to “vindicate the ways of God to man”. Additionally, this collection includes “The Dunciad”, a work regarded as a literary landmark in satirical writing, personifying Dullness as a goddess and the harm she causes to the kingdom of Great Britain. All told, this selection of over forty poems by Alexander Pope provides the reader with a representative sample of one of England’s greatest poets. This edition includes a biographical afterword.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDigireads.com Publishing
    Release dateSep 24, 2020
    ISBN9781420970531
    An Essay on Man, The Rape of the Lock, and Other Poems
    Author

    Alexander Pope

    Alexander Pope kommt 1688 in London zur Welt. Als Katholiken beargwöhnt, zieht sich die Familie bald nach der Geburt Alexanders aufs Land zurück, was die Ausbildung des Jungen schwierig gestaltet. Autodidaktisch erlernt er Latein und Griechisch, aber auch Französisch und Italienisch und beginnt früh, Verse zu schreiben. Die Pastorals erscheinen 1709 und begründen seinen Ruhm als einer der bedeutendsten englischen Dichter des beginnenden 18. Jahrhunderts. Äußerlich kleinwüchsig und an vielerlei Gebrechen leidend, erhalten viele seiner geschliffenen Verse den Stellenwert von Sprichwörtern.Pope ist der erste englische Dichter, der schon zu Lebzeiten bleibenden Ruhm im gesamten europäischen Ausland erfährt. Er führt das Versepos in England zur Blüte und macht es zur beherrschenden poetischen Form seines Jahrhunderts. Bis 1725 widmet sich Pope der Übersetzung der Ilias und der Odyssee, ein Projekt, das so lukrativ für ihn wird, daß es ihn fortan finanziell unabhängig macht. 1733 entsteht dann das philosophische Lehrgedicht Vom Menschen, in dem Pope bezweifelt, das das Wesen des Menschen aus spekulativer Vernunft heraus bestimmt werden kann. Die welthaften Bedingungen und Beziehungen des menschlichen Lebens seien vielmehr Voraussetzung für die philosophische Erkenntnis. Menschliches Glück könne nur in einer Gesellschaft erlangt werden, die größtmögliche Individualität erlaube.Pope stirbt 1744 in Twickenham bei London.

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      An Essay on Man, The Rape of the Lock, and Other Poems - Alexander Pope

      cover.jpg

      AN ESSAY ON MAN,

      THE RAPE OF THE LOCK,

      AND OTHER POEMS

      By ALEXANDER POPE

      An Essay on Man, The Rape of the Lock, and Other Poems

      By Alexander Pope

      Print ISBN 13: 978-1-4209-7052-4

      eBook ISBN 13: 978-1-4209-7053-1

      This edition copyright © 2020. Digireads.com Publishing.

      All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

      Cover Image: a detail of a portrait of Alexander Pope, by Jonathan Richardson (1665-1745), c. 1738 / Bridgeman Images.

      Please visit www.digireads.com

      CONTENTS

      A Farewell to London in the Year 1715

      A Paraphrase (On Thomas à Kempis)

      A Prologue to a Play for Mr. Dennis’s Benefit, in 1733, when He Was Old, Blind, and in Great Distress, a Little before His Death

      An Epistle to a Lady

      An Epistle to Richard Boyle, Earl of Burlington

      An Epistle to Sir Richard Temple, Lord Cobham

      An Essay on Criticism

      Part I.

      Part II.

      Part III.

      An Essay on Man

      The Design

      Epistle I.

      Epistle II.

      Epistle III.

      Epistle IV.

      Answer to the Following Question of Mrs. Howe

      Elegy to the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady

      Eloisa to Abelard

      Epigram Engraved on the Collar of a Dog

      Epilogue to the Satires

      Dialogue I

      Dialogue II

      An Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot

      Epistle to Miss Blount

      Epitaph of By-Words

      Epitaph Intended for Sir Isaac Newton

      Epitaph on Dr. Francis Atterbury

      Epitaph on Mr. Gay

      Imitations of English Poets

      Earl of Dorset: Artemisia

      Earl of Dorset: Phryne

      Spenser: The Alley

      Mary Gulliver to Captain Lemuel Gulliver

      Ode on Solitude

      On a Lady Who P—st at the Tragedy of Cato

      On His Grotto at Twickenham

      Prologue to Mr. Addison’s Tragedy of Cato

      The Balance of Europe

      The Dunciad

      Book the First

      Book the Second

      Book the Third

      Book the Fourth

      Appendix I

      Appendix II

      Appendix III

      Appendix IV

      The Dying Christian to his Soul

      The First Satire of the Second Book of Horace Imitated

      The Second Satire of the Second Book of Horace Imitated

      The Rape of the Lock

      Canto I

      Canto II

      Canto III

      Canto IV

      Canto V

      To Belinda on the Rape of the Lock

      The First Epistle of the First Book of Horace Imitated

      The Sixth Epistle of the First Book of Horace Imitated

      The Fourth Satire of Dr. John Donne Versified

      To Mr. Gay

      To Mr. Thomas Southern, On His Birth-day

      Two Epitaphs on Himself

      For One Who Would Not Be Buried in Westminster Abbey

      Another on the Same

      Two Or Three: Or, A Receipt to Make A Cuckold.

      Windsor Forest

      Biographical Afterword

      A Farewell to London in the Year 1715

      Dear, damned, distracting town, farewell!

      Thy fools no more I'll tease:

      This year in peace, ye critics, dwell,

      Ye harlots, sleep at ease!

      Soft Bethel and rough Craggs, adieu!

      Earl Warwick, make your moan,

      The lively Hinchinbrook and you

      May knock up whores alone.

      To drink and droll be Rowe allowed

      Till the third watchman's toll;

      Let Jervas gratis paint, and Frowde

      Save threepence and his soul.

      Farewell Arbuthnot's raillery

      On every learned sot;

      And Garth, the best good Christian he,

      Although he knows it not.

      Lintot, farewell! thy bard must go;

      Farewell, unhappy Tonson!

      Heaven gives thee for thy loss of Rowe,

      Lean Philips, and fat Johnson.

      Why should I stay? Both parties rage;

      My vixen mistress squalls;

      The wits in envious feuds engage:

      And Homer (damn him) calls.

      The love of arts lies cold and dead

      In Halifax's urn;

      And not one muse of all he fed,

      Has yet the grace to mourn.

      My friends, by turns, my friends confound,

      Betray, and are betrayed:

      Poor Younger's sold for fifty pounds,

      And Bicknell is a jade.

      Why make I friendships with the great,

      When I no favour seek?

      Or follow girls seven hours in eight?—

      I need but once a week.

      Still idle, with a busy air,

      Deep whimsies to contrive;

      The gayest valetudinaire,

      Most thinking rake alive.

      Solicitous for others' ends,

      Though fond of dear repose;

      Careless or drowsy with my friends,

      And frolic with my foes.

      Luxurious lobster-nights, farewell,

      For sober, studious days;

      And Burlington's delicious meal,

      For salads, tarts, and pease.

      Adieu to all but Gay alone,

      Whose soul sincere and free,

      Loves all mankind but flatters none,

      And so may starve with me.

      A Paraphrase (On Thomas à Kempis)

      Supposed to have been written in 1700; first published from the Caryll Papers in the Athenaeum, July 15, 1854.

      Speak, Gracious Lord, oh, speak; thy servant hears:

      For I’m thy servant and I’ll still be so:

      Speak words of comfort in my willing ears;

      And since my tongue is in thy praises slow,

      And since that thine all Rhetoric exceeds:

      Speak thou in words, but let me speak in deeds!

      Nor speak alone, but give me grace to hear

      What thy celestial Sweetness does impart;

      Let in not stop when entered at the ear,

      But sink, and take deep rooting in my heart.

      As the parch’d Earth drinks rain (but grace afford)

      With such a gust will I receive thy word.

      Nor with the Israelites shall I desire

      Thy heav’nly word by Moses to receive,

      Lest I should die: but Thou who didst inspire

      Moses himself, speak Thou, that I may live.

      Rather with Samuel I beseech with tears,

      Speak, gracious Lord, oh, speak, thy servant hears.

      Moses, indeed, may say the words, but Thou

      Must give the Spirit, and the Life inspire;

      Our Love to thee his fervent breath may blow,

      But ’tis thyself alone can give the fire:

      Thou without them may’st speak and profit too;

      But without thee what could the Prophets do?

      They preach the Doctrine, but thou mak’st us do’t;

      They teach the mysteries thou dost open lay;

      The trees they water, but thou giv’st the fruit;

      They to Salvation show the arduous way,

      But none but you can give us strength to walk;

      You give the Practice, they but give the Talk.

      Let them be silent then; and thou alone,

      My God! speak comfort to my ravish’d ears;

      Light of my eyes, my Consolation,

      Speak when thou wilt, for still thy servant hears.

      Whate’er thou speak’st, let this be understood:

      Thy greater Glory, and my greater Good!

      A Prologue to a Play for Mr. Dennis’s Benefit, in 1733, when He Was Old, Blind, and in Great Distress, a Little before His Death

      As when that Hero, who in each Campaign,

      Had braved the Goth, and many a Vandal slain,

      Lay fortune-struck, a spectacle of woe!

      Wept by each friend, forgiven by every foe:

      Was there a generous, a reflecting mind,

      But pitied BELISARIUS old and blind?

      Was there a chief but melted at the sight?

      A common soldier, but who clubb’d his Mite?

      Such, such emotions should in Britons rise,

      When press’d by want and weakness DENNIS lies;

      Dennis, who long had warr’d with modern Huns,

      Their quibbles routed, and defied their puns;

      A desperate bulwark, sturdy, firm, and fierce

      Against the Gothic sons of frozen verse:

      How changed from him who made the boxes groan,

      And shook the stage with thunders all his own!

      Stood up to dash each vain pretender’s hope,

      Maul the French tyrant, or pull down the POPE!

      If there’s a Briton then, true bred and born,

      Who holds dragoons and wooden shoes in scorn;

      If there’s a critic of distinguish’d rage;

      If there’s a senior, who contemns this age;

      Let him to-night his just assistance lend,

      And be the Critic’s, Briton’s, old man’s friend.

      An Epistle to a Lady

      OF THE CHARACTERS OF WOMEN.

      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 distinguished 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 ermined 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 dressed in smiles of sweet Cecilia shine,

      With simpering angels, palms, and harps divine;

      Whether the charmer sinner it, or saint it,

      If folly grow 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, e’er 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:

      To her, Calista proved her conduct nice,

      And good Simplicius asks of her advice.

      Sudden, she storms! she raves! You tip the wink,

      But spare your censure; Silia does not drink.

      All eyes may see from what the change arose,

      All eyes may see—a pimple on her nose.

      Papillia, wedded to her amorous spark,

      Sighs for the shades—‘How charming is a park!’

      A park is purchased, but the fair he sees

      All bathed in tears—‘Oh, odious, odious trees!’

      Ladies, like variegated tulips show;

      ’Tis to their changes half their charms we owe;

      Their happy spots the nice admirer take,

      Fine by defect, and delicately weak,

      ’Twas thus Calypso once each heart alarmed,

      Awed without virtue, without beauty charmed;

      Her tongue bewitched as oddly as her eyes,

      Less wit than mimic, more a wit than wise;

      Strange graces still, and stranger flights she had,

      Was just not ugly, and was just not mad;

      Yet ne’er so sure our passion to create,

      As when she touched the brink of all we hate.

      Narcissa’s nature, tolerably mild,

      To make a wash, would hardly stew a child;

      Has even been proved to grant a lover’s prayer,

      And paid a tradesman once to make him stare;

      Gave alms at Easter, in a Christian trim,

      And made a widow happy, for a whim.

      Why then declare good-nature is her scorn,

      When ’tis by that alone she can be borne?

      Why pique all mortals, yet affect a name?

      A fool to pleasure, yet a slave to fame:

      Now deep in Taylor and the Book of Martyrs,

      Now drinking citron with his Grace and Chartres:

      Now conscience chills her, and now passion burns;

      And atheism and religion take their turns;

      A very heathen in the carnal part,

      See sin in state, majestically drunk;

      Proud as peeress, prouder as a punk;

      Chaste to her husband, frank to all beside,

      A teeming mistress, but a barren bride.

      What then? let blood and body bear the fault,

      Her head’s untouched, that noble seat of thought:

      Such this day’s doctrine—in another fit

      She sins with poets through pure love of wit.

      What has not fired her bosom or her brain?

      Caesar and Tall-boy, Charles and Charlemagne.

      As Helluo, late dictator of the feast,

      The nose of hautgout, and the tip of taste,

      Critiqued your wine, and analyzed your meat,

      Yet on plain pudding deigned at home to eat;

      So Philomedé, lecturing all mankind

      On the soft passion, and the taste refined,

      The address, the delicacy—stoops at once,

      And makes her hearty meal upon a dunce.

      Flavia’s a wit, has too much sense to pray;

      To toast our wants and wishes, is her way;

      Nor asks of God, but of her stars, to give

      The mighty blessing, ‘while we live, to live.’

      Then all for death, that opiate of the soul!

      Lucretia’s dagger, Rosamonda’s bowl.

      Say, what can cause such impotence of mind?

      A spark too fickle, or a spouse too kind.

      Wise wretch! with pleasures too refined to please,

      With too much spirit to be e’er at ease,

      With too much quickness ever to be taught,

      With too much thinking to have common thought:

      You purchase pain with all that joy can give,

      And die of nothing but a rage to live.

      Turn then from wits; and look on Simo’s mate,

      No ass so meek, no ass so obstinate:

      Or her, that owns her faults, but never mends,

      Because she’s honest, and the best of friends:

      Or her, whose life the Church and scandal share,

      For ever in a passion, or a prayer:

      Or her, who laughs at hell, but (like her Grace)

      Cries, ‘Ah! how charming, if there’s no such place!’

      Or who in sweet vicissitude appears

      Of mirth and opium, ratafee and tears,

      The daily anodyne, and nightly draught,

      To kill those foes to fair ones, time and thought.

      Woman and fool are two hard things to hit;

      For true no-meaning puzzles more than wit.

      But what are these to great Atossa’s mind?

      Scarce once herself, by turns all womankind!

      Who, with herself, or others, from her birth

      Finds all her life one warfare upon earth:

      Shines in exposing knaves, and painting fools,

      Yet is, whate’er she hates and ridicules.

      No thought advances, but her eddy brain

      Whisks it about, and down it goes again.

      Full sixty years the world has been her trade,

      The wisest fool much time has ever made.

      From loveless youth to unrespected age,

      No passion gratified except her rage.

      So much the fury still outran the wit,

      The pleasure missed her, and the scandal hit.

      Who breaks with her, provokes revenge from hell,

      But he’s a bolder man who dares be well.

      Her every turn with violence pursued,

      Nor more a storm her hate than gratitude:

      To that each passion turns, or soon or late;

      Love, if it makes her yield, must make her hate:

      Superiors? death! and equals? what a curse!

      But an inferior not dependent? worse.

      Offend her, and she knows not to forgive;

      Oblige her, and she’ll hate you while you live:

      But die, and she’ll adore you—Then the bust

      And temple rise—then fall again to dust.

      Last night, her lord was all that’s good and great;

      A knave this morning, and his will a cheat.

      Strange! by the means defeated of the ends,

      By spirit robbed of power, by warmth of friends,

      By wealth of followers! without one distress

      Sick of herself through very selfishness!

      Atossa, cursed with every granted prayer,

      Childless with all her children, wants an heir.

      To heirs unknown descends th’ unguarded store

      Or wanders, heaven-directed, to the poor.

      Pictures like these, dear Madam, to design,

      Asks no firm hand, and no unerring line;

      Some wandering touches, some reflected light,

      Some flying stroke alone can hit ’em right:

      For how should equal colours do the knack?

      Chameleons who can paint in white and black?

      ‘Yet Cloe sure was formed without a spot’—

      Nature in her then erred not, but forgot.

      ‘With every pleasing, every prudent part,

      Say, what can Cloe want?’—She wants a heart.

      She speaks, behaves, and acts just as she ought;

      But never, never, reached one generous thought.

      Virtue she finds too painful an endeavour,

      Content to dwell in decencies for ever.

      So very reasonable, so unmoved,

      As never yet to love, or to be loved.

      She, while her lover pants upon her breast,

      Can mark the figures on an Indian chest;

      And when she sees her friend in deep despair,

      Observes how much a chintz exceeds mohair.

      Forbid it, Heaven, a favour or a debt

      She e’er should cancel—but she may forget.

      Safe is your secret still in Cloe’s ear;

      But none of Cloe’s shall you ever hear.

      Of all her dears she never slandered one,

      But cares not if a thousand are undone.

      Would Cloe know if you’re alive or dead?

      She bids her footman put it in her head.

      Cloe is prudent—would you too be wise?

      Then never break your heart when Cloe dies.

      One certain portrait may (I grant) be seen,

      Which heaven has varnished out, and made a Queen.

      THE SAME FOR EVER! and described by all

      With truth and goodness, as with crown and ball.

      Poets heap virtues, painters gems at will,

      And show their zeal, and hide their want of skill.

      ’Tis well—but, artists! who can paint or write,

      To draw the naked is your true delight.

      That robe of quality so struts and swells,

      None see what parts of nature it conceals:

      The exactest traits of body or of mind,

      We owe to models of an humble kind.

      If QUEENSBURY to strip there’s no compelling,

      ’Tis from a handmaid we must take a Helen,

      From peer or bishop ’tis no easy thing

      To draw the man who loves his God or king:

      Alas! I copy (or my draught would fail)

      From honest Mah’met, or plain Parson Hale.

      But grant, in public men sometimes are shown,

      A woman’s seen in private life alone:

      Our bolder talents in full light displayed;

      Your virtues open fairest in the shade.

      Bred to disguise, in public ’tis you hide;

      There, none distinguish ’twixt your shame or pride,

      Weakness or delicacy; all so nice,

      That each may seem a virtue, or a vice.

      In men, we various ruling passions find;

      In women, two almost divide the kind;

      Those, only fixed, they first or last obey,

      The love of pleasure, and the love of sway.

      That, nature gives; and where the lesson taught

      Is but to please, can pleasure seem a fault?

      Experience, this; by man’s oppression cursed,

      They seek the second not to lose the first.

      Men, some to business, some to pleasure take;

      But every woman is at heart a rake:

      Men, some to quiet, some to public strife;

      But every lady would be queen for life.

      Yet mark the fate of a whole sex of queens!

      Power all their end, but beauty all the means:

      In youth they conquer, with so wild a rage,

      As leaves them scarce a subject in their age:

      For foreign glory, foreign joy, they roam;

      No thought of peace or happiness at home.

      But wisdom’s triumph is well-timed retreat,

      As hard a science to the fair as great!

      Beauties, like tyrants, old and friendless grown,

      Yet hate repose, and dread to be alone,

      Worn out in public, weary every eye,

      Nor leave one sigh behind them when they die.

      Pleasures the sex, as children birds, pursue,

      Still out of reach, yet never out of view;

      Sure, if they catch, to spoil the toy at most,

      To covet flying, and regret when lost:

      At last, to follies youth could scarce defend,

      It grows their age’s prudence to pretend;

      Ashamed to own they gave delight before,

      Reduced to feign it, when they give no more:

      As hags hold Sabbaths, less for joy than spite,

      So these their merry, miserable night;

      Still round and round the ghosts of beauty glide,

      And haunt the places where their honour died.

      See how the world its veterans rewards!

      A youth of frolics, an old age of cards;

      Fair to no purpose, artful to no end,

      Young without lovers, old without a friend;

      A fop their passion, but their prize a sot;

      Alive, ridiculous, and dead, forgot!

      Ah! friend! to dazzle let the vain design;

      To raise the thought, and touch the heart be thine!

      That charm shall grow, while what fatigues the ring

      Flaunts and goes down, an unregarded thing:

      So when the sun’s broad beam has tired the sight,

      All mild ascends the moon’s more sober light,

      Serene in virgin modesty she shines,

      And unobserved the glaring orb declines.

      Oh! blessed with temper whose unclouded ray

      Can make to-morrow cheerful as today;

      She, who can love a sister’s charms, or hear

      Sighs for a daughter with unwounded ear;

      She, who ne’er answers till a husband cools,

      Or, if she rules him, never shows she rules;

      Charms by accepting, by submitting sways,

      Yet has her humour most, when she obeys;

      Let fops or fortune fly which way they will;

      Disdains all loss of tickets, or codille;

      Spleen, vapours, or small-pox, above them all,

      And mistress of herself, though China fall.

      And yet, believe me, good as well as ill,

      Woman’s at best a contradiction still.

      Heaven, when it strives to polish all it can

      Its last best work, but forms a softer man;

      Picks from each sex, to make the favourite blest,

      Your love of pleasure, our desire of rest:

      Blends, in exception to all general rules,

      Your taste of follies, with our scorn of fools,

      Reserve with frankness, art with truth allied,

      Courage with softness, modesty with pride,

      Fixed principles, with fancy ever new;

      Shakes all together, and produces—You.

      Be this a woman’s fame: with this unblessed,

      Toasts live a scorn, and queens may die a jest.

      This Phoebus promised (I forget the year)

      When those blue eyes first opened on the sphere;

      Ascendant Phoebus watched that hour with care,

      Averted half your parents’ simple prayer,

      And gave you beauty, but denied the pelf

      That buys your sex a tyrant o’er itself.

      The generous God, who wit and gold refines,

      And ripens spirits as he ripens mines,

      Kept dross for duchesses, the world shall know it,

      To you gave sense, good-humour, and a poet.

      An Epistle to Richard Boyle, Earl of Burlington

      ARGUMENT

      OF THE USE OF RICHES

      The vanity of Expense in people of wealth and quality. The abuse of the word taste. That the first principle and foundation in this, as in every thing else, is good sense. The chief proof of it is to follow nature, even in works of mere luxury and elegance. Instanced in architecture and gardening, where all must be adapted to the genius and use of the place, and the beauties not forced into it, but resulting from it. How men are disappointed in their most expensive undertakings for want of this true foundation, without which nothing can please long, if at all; and the best examples and rules will but be perverted into something burdensome or ridiculous. A description of the false taste of magnificence; the first grand error of which is to imagine that greatness consists in the size and dimension, instead of the proportion and harmony, of the whole, and the second, either in joining together parts incoherent, or too minutely resembling, or in the repetition of the same too frequently. A word or two of false taste in books, in music, in painting, even in preaching and prayer, and lastly in entertainments. Yet PROVIDENCE is justified in giving wealth to be squandered in this manner, since it is dispersed to the poor and laborious part of mankind. [recurring to what is laid down in the first book, Ep. ii. and in the Epistle preceding this.] What are the proper objects of magnificence, and a proper field for the expense of great men. and finally, the great and public works which become a prince.

      ’Tis strange the miser should his cares employ

      To gain those riches he can ne’er enjoy.

      Is it less strange the prodigal should waste

      His wealth, to purchase what he ne’er can taste?

      Not for himself he sees, or hears, or eats;

      Artists must choose his pictures, music, meats:

      He buys for Topham, drawings and designs;

      For Pembroke statues, dirty gods, and coins;

      Rare monkish manuscripts for Hearne alone,

      And books for Mead, and butterflies for Sloane.

      Think we all these are for himself? no more

      Than his fine wife, alas! or finer whore.

      For what has Virro painted, built, and planted?

      Only to show, how many tastes he wanted.

      What brought Sir Visto’s ill got wealth to waste?

      Some demon whispered, ‘Visto! have a taste.’

      Heaven visits with a taste the wealthy fool,

      And needs no rod but Ripley with a rule.

      See! sportive fate, to punish awkward pride,

      Bids Bubo build, and sends him such a guide:

      A standing sermon, at each year’s expense,

      That never coxcomb reached magnificence!

      You show us, Rome was glorious, not profuse,

      And pompous buildings once were things of use.

      Yet shall (my Lord) your just, your noble rules

      Fill half the land with imitating fools;

      Who random drawings from your sheets shall take,

      And of one beauty many blunders make;

      Load some vain church with old theatric state,

      Turn arcs of triumph to a garden-gate;

      Reverse your ornaments, and hang them all

      On some patched dog-hole eked with ends of wall,

      Then clap four slices of pilaster on’t,

      That, laced with bits of rustic, makes a front:

      Or call the winds through long arcades to roar,

      Proud to catch cold at a Venetian door;

      Conscious they act a true Palladian part,

      And if they starve, they starve by rules of art.

      Oft have you hinted to your brother peer,

      A certain truth, which many buy too dear:

      Something there is, more needful than expense,

      And something previous even to taste—’tis sense:

      Good sense, which only is the gift of heaven,

      And though no science, fairly worth the seven:

      A light, which in yourself you must perceive;

      Jones and Le Nôtre have it not to give.

      To build, to plant, whatever you intend,

      To rear the column, or the arch to bend,

      To swell the terrace, or to sink the grot,

      In all, let nature never be forgot.

      But treat the goddess like a modest fair,

      Nor over-dress, nor leave her wholly bare;

      Let not each beauty everywhere be spied,

      Where half the skill is decently to hide.

      He gains all points, who pleasingly confounds,

      Surprises, varies, and conceals the bounds.

      Consult the genius of the place in all;

      That tells the waters or to rise, or fall,

      Or helps th’ ambitious hill the heavens to scale,

      Or scoops in circling theatres the vale;

      Calls in the country, catches opening glades,

      Joins willing woods, and varies shades from shades;

      Now breaks, or now directs, th’ intending lines,

      Paints as you plant, and as you work, designs.

      Still follow sense, of every art the soul,

      Parts answering parts shall slide into a whole,

      Spontaneous beauties all around advance,

      Start even from difficulty, strike from chance;

      Nature shall join you; time shall make it grow

      A work to wonder at—perhaps a STOWE.

      Without it, proud Versailles! thy glory falls,

      And Nero’s terraces desert their walls:

      The vast parterres a thousand hands shall make,

      Lo! COBHAM comes, and floats them with a lake:

      Or cut wide views through mountains to the

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