The Poetical Works of Alexander Pope

Front matter

I THE POETICAL WORKS OF ALEXANDER POPE. THE POETICAL WORKS OF ALEXANDER POPE. LONDON: WARD, LOCK, & CO., WARWICK HOUSE, DORSET BUILDINGS, SALISBURY SQUARE, E.C. CONTENTS. TAGE Preface ...... i An Essay on Criticism .... 7 The Rape of the Lock • • • ° 33 Moral Essays — Essay on Man •••'•• 64 Epistle I- ...... 65 Epistle II. . . , ... 76 Epistle III. ...... 86 Epistle IV. . ... 96 The Universal Prayer . . . .110 Moral Essays, in Four Epistles to several Persons- Epistle I. (to Lord Cobham) : of the Knowledge and Characters of Men . . . . hi Epistle II. (to a Lady) : of the Characters of Women 124 Epistle III. (to Lord Bathurst) : of the Use of Riches 134 Epistle IV. (to the Earl of Burlington) : of the Use of Riches ...... 153 Epistle V. (to Mr. Addison) : occasioned by his Dialogues on Medals ....

VI CONTENTS. PAGE Satires— Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot, being the Prologue to the Satires ...... 167 Satires and Epistles of Horace Imitated . . 183 The First Satire of the Second Book . . 184 The Second Satire of the Second Book . . 189 The First Epistle of the First Book . . . 195 The Sixth Epistle of the First Book . . 202 The First Epistle of the Second Book . . 207 The Second Epistle of the Second Book . . 223 Epilogue to the Satires in Two Dialogues . . 234 Dialogue I. . . . . . . 234 Dialogue II. . . . . . . 241 The Dunciad — Preface (1727) » . 253 Advertisement (1729) .... 256 A Letter to the Publisher . ... 258 Advertisement (1742) . . . . 264 Advertisement (1743) .... 265 Advertisement (Printed in the Journals, 1 730) . 266 Martinus Scriblerus of the Poem . . . 267 By Authority .. . . . .271 Book I. . . . 271 Book II. ...... 289 Book III. . . . . . .311 Book IV. . . .... 328 By the Author a Declaration . . . 357 A List of Books, Papers, Verses, &c. . . 358 Index of Persons celebrated in this Poem . . 362 Juvenile Poems — Pastorals — A Discourse on Pastoral Poetry . . . 365 Spring . . .... 369 Summer ......

CONTENTS. VII PAGE Juvenile Poems, continued — Autumn ...... 378 Winter . . . . . . 38r Messiah ...... 388 Windsor Forest ..... 392 Odes- Ode on St. Cecilia's Day .... 406 Two Choruses to the Tragedy of Brutus . . 411 Ode on Solitude . • . . . . . 414 The Lying Christian to his Soul . . . 415 Elegy to the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady . 417 Prologue to Mr. Addison's Tragedy of Cato . 420 Epilogue to Mr. Rowe's Jane Shore . . 422 Translations and Imitations — Sappho to Phaon ..... 424 Eloisa to Abelard ..... 432 The Temple of Fame .... 444 January and May ..... 462 The First Book of Statius his Thebais . . 487 Imitations of English Poets — Chaucer . . . . . . 5 '5 Spenser (The Alley) . . . .516 Waller (Of a Lady singing to her Lute) . . 518 (Of a Fan of the Author's Design) . 519 Cowley (The Garden) . . . • • 5'9 (Weeping) . . . . 520 Earl of Rochester (On Silence) . . . 521 Earl of Dorset (Artemisia) _ . .

Preface

. I AM inclined to think that both the writers of books, and the readers of them, are generally not a little unreasonable in their ex pectations. The first seem to fancy that the world must approve whatever they produce, and the latter to imagine that authors are obliged to please them at any rate. Methinks, as on the one hand, no single man is born with a right of controlling the opinions of all the rest ; so on the other, the world has no title to demand, that the whole care and time of any particular person should be sacrificed to its entertainment. Therefore I cannot but believe that writers and readers are under equal obligations, for as much fame, or pleasure, as each affords the other. Every one acknowledges, it would be a wild notion to expect perfection in any work of man : and yet one would think the con trary was taken for granted, by the judgment commonly passed upon poems.

A critic supposes he has done his part, if he proves a writer to have failed in an expression, or erred in any particular point : and can it then be wondered at, if the poets in general seem resolved not to own themselves in any error ? For as long as one side will make no allowances, the other will be brought to no acknowledgments. I am afraid this extreme zeal on both sides is ill-placed ; poetry and criticism being by no means the universal concern of the world, but only the affair of idle men who write in their closets, and ot idle men who read there A"et sure upon the whole, a bad author deserves better usage A

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. 2 than a bad critic: for a writer's endeavour, for the most part is to please his' readers, and he fails merely through the misfortune of an ill judgment ; but such a critic's is to put them out of humour ; a design he could never go upon without both that and an ill temper. I think a good deal may be said to extenuate the fault of bad poets. What we call a genius, is hard to be distinguished by a man himself, from a strong inclination : and if his genius be ever so great, he cannot at first discover it any other way, than by giving way to that prevalent propensity which renders him the more liable to be mistaken. The only method he has, is to make the experiment by writing, and app< lling to the judgment of others : now if he happens to write ill (w^jch is certainly no sin in itself) he is immediately made an object of ridicule.

I wish we had the humanity to reflect that even the worst authors might, m their en deavour to please us, deserve something at our hands. AVe have no cause to quarrel with them but for their obstinacy in persisting to write ; and this too may admit of alleviating circumstances. Their particular friends may be either ignorant, or insincere ; and the rest of the world in general is too well bred to shock them with a truth, which generally their booksellers are the first that inform them of. This happens not till they have spent too much of their time, to apply to any profession which might better fit their talents; and till s"uch talents as they have are so far discredited as to be but of small service to them. For (what is the hardest case imagin able) the reputation of a man generally depends upon the first steps he makes in the world, and people will establish their opinion of us, from what we do at that season when we have least judg ment to direct us.

On the other hand, a good poet no sooner communicates his works with the same desire of information; but it is imagined he is a vain yoang creature given up to the ambition of fame ; when perhaps the poor man is all the while trembling with the lear of being ridiculous. If he is made to hope he may please the world, he falls under very unlucky circumstances : for, from the moment he prints, he must expect to hear no more truth, than if he weie a prince, or a beauty. If he has not very good sense (and indeed there are twenty men of w,it for one man of sense) his living thus in a course ol flattery may put him in nc small danger of becoming

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. 3 a coxcomb : if he has, he will consequently have so much diffidence as not to reap any great satisfaction from his praise ; since, if it be given to his face, it can scarce be distinguished from flattery, and if in his absence, it is hard to be certain of it. AVere he sure to be commended by the best and most knowing, he is as sure of being envied by the worst and most ignorant, which are the majority ; for it is with a fine genius as with a fine fashion, all those are dis pleased at it who are not able to follow it : and it is to be feared that esteem will seldom do any man so much good, as ill-will does him harm. Then there is a third class of people who make the largest part of mankind, those of ordinary or indifferent capa cities ; and these (to a man) will hate, or suspect him : a hundred honest gentlemen will dread him as a wit, and a hundred innocent women as a satirist.

In a word, whatever be his fate in poetry, it is ten to one but he must give up all the reasonable aims of life for it. There are indeed some advantages accruing from a genius to poetry, and they are all I can think of : the agreeable power of self-amusement when a man is idle or alone ; the privilege of being admitted into the best company ; and the freedom of saying as many careless things as other people, without being] so severely remarked upon. I believe, if any one, " f '.rly in his life, should contemplate the dangerous fate of authors, he would scarce be of their number on any consideration. The life of a wit is a warfare upon earth ; and the present spirit of the learned world is such, that to attempt to serve it (any way) one must have the constancy of a martyr, and a resolution to suffer for its sake.

I could wish people would believe what I am pretty certain they will not, that I have been much less concerned about fame than I durst declare till this occasion, when methinks I should find more credit than I could heretofore : since my writings have had their fate already, and it is too late to think of prepossessing the reader in their favour. I would plead it as some merit in me, that the world has never been prepared for these trifles by prefaces, biassed by recommendations, dazzled with the names of great patrons, wheedled with fine reasons and pre tences, or troubled with excuses. I confess it was want of consider ation that made me an author ; I wrote because it amused me ; I corrected because it was as pleasant to me to correct as to write ; and I published because I was told I might please such as it was

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. 4 a credit to please. To what degree I have done this, I am really ignorant ; I had too much fondness for my productions to judge of them at first, and too much judgment to be pleased with them at last. But I have reason to think they can have no reputation which will continue long, or which deserves to do so : for they have always fallen short not only of what I read of others, but even of my own ideas of poetry. If any one should imagine I am not in earnest, I desire him to reflect, that the ancients (to say the least of them) had as much genius as we : and that to take more pains, and employ more time, cannot fail to produce more complete pieces. They constantly applied themselves not only to that art, but to that single branch of an art, to which their talent was most powerfully bent ; and it was the business of their lives to correct and finish their works for pos terity.

If we can pretend to have used the same industry, let us expect the same immortality : though if we took the same care, we should still lie under a farther misfortune : they wrote in languages that became universal and everlasting, while ours are extremely limited both in extent and in duration. A mighty foundation for our pride ! when the utmost we can hope, is but to be read in one island, and to be thrown aside at the end of one age. All that is left us is to recommend our productions by the imi tation of the ancients : and it will be found true, that, in every age, the highest character for sense and learning has been obtained by those who have been most indebted to them. For, to say truth, whatever is very good sense, must have been common sense in all times ; and what we call learning, is but the knowledge of the sense of our predecessors.

Therefore they who say our thoughts are not our own, because they resemble the ancients, may as well say our faces are not our own, because they are like our fathers : and indeed it is very unreasonable, that people should expect us to be scholars, and yet be angry to find us so. I fairly confess that I have served myself all I could by reading; that I made use of the judgment of authors dead and living ; that I omitted no means in my power to be informed of my errors, both by my friends and enemies : but the true reason these pieces are not more correct, is owing to the consideration how short a time they, and I, have to live : one may be ashamed to consume half one's days in bringing sense and rhyme together; and what

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. 5 critic can be so unreasonable, as not to leave a man time enough for any more serious employment, or more agreeable amusement ? The only plea I shall use for the favour of the public, is, that I have as great a respect for it, as most authors have for themselves; and that I have sacrificed much of my own self-love for its sake, in preventing not only many mean things from seeing the light, but many which I thought tolerable. I would not be like those authors, who forgive themselves some particular lines for the sake of a whole poem, and vice versa a whole poem for the sake of some particular lines. I believe no one qualification is so likely to make a good writer, as the power of rejecting his own thoughts ; and it must be this (if anything) that can give me a chance to be one. For what I have published, I can only hope to be pardoned ; but for what I have burned, I deserve to be praised.

On this account the world is under some obligation to me, and owes me the justice in return, to look upon no verses as mine that are not inserted in this collection. And perhaps nothing could make it worth my while to own what are really so, but to avoid the imputation of so many dull and immoral things, as partly by malice, and partly by ignorance, have been ascribed to me. I must farther acquit myself of the presumption of having lent my name to recommend any miscellanies or works of other men ; a thing I never thought be coming a person who has hardly credit enough to answer for his own. In this office of collecting my pieces, I am altogether uncertain, whether to look upon myself as a man building a monument, or burying the dead. If time shall make it the former, may these poems (as long as they last) remain as a testimony, that their author never made his talents subservient to the mean and unworthy ends of party or self-interest ; the gratification of public prejudices, or private pas sions ; the flattery of the undeserving, or the insult of the unfor tunate.

If I have written well, let it be considered that it is what no man can do without good sense, a quality that not only renders one capable of being a good writer, but a good man. And if I have made any acquisition in the opinion of any one under the notion of the former, let it be continued to me under no other title than that of the latter. But if this publication be only a more solemn funeral of my

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. 6 remains, I desire it may be known that I die in charity, and in my senses ; without any murmurs against the justice of this age, or any mad appeals to posterity. I declare I shall think the world in the right, and quietly submit to every truth which time shall discover to the prejudice of these writings ; not so much as wishing so ir rational a thing, as that everybody should be deceived merely for my credit. However, I desire it may then be considered, that there are very few things in this collection, which were not written under the age of five and twenty : so that my youth may be made (as it never fails to be in executions) a case of compassion. That I was never so concerned about my works as to vindicate them in print, believing, if anything was good, it would defend itself, and what was bad could never be defended.

That I used no artifice to raise or continue a reputation, depreciated no dead author I was obliged to, bribed no living one with unjust praise, insulted no ad versary with ill language ; or when I could not attack a rival's works, encouraged reports against his morals. To conclude, if this volume perish, let it serve as a warning to the critics, not to take too much pains for the future to destroy such things as will die of themselves ; and a memento mori to some of my vain con temporaries the poets, to teach them that, when real merit is wanting, it avails nothing to have been encouraged by the great, commended by the eminent, and favoured by the public in general. P. Nov. io, 1 716, AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM. WRITTEN IN THE YEAR MDCCIX. 'Tis hard to say, if greater want of skill Appear in writing or in judging ill ; Cut, of the two, less dangerous is the offence To tire our patience, than mislead our sense.

Some few in that, but numbers err in this, Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss ; A fool might once himself alone expose, Now one in verse makes many more in prose. 'Tis with our judgments as our watches, none Go just alike, yet each believes his own. io In poets as true genius is but rare, True taste as seldom is the critic's share ; Both must alike from heaven derive their light, These born to judge, as well as those to write. Let such teach others who themselves excel, And censure freely who have written well. Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true, But are not critics to their judgment too? Yet if we look more closely, we shall find Most have the seeds of judgment in their mind : 2 ) Nature affords at least a glimmering light ; The lines, though touched but faintly, are drawn right.

But as the slightest sketch, if justly traced, Is by ill-colouring but the more disgraced, So by false learning is good sense defaced : Some are bewildered in the maze of schools, And some made coxcombs nature meant but fools. In search of wit these lose their common sense, And then turn critics in their own defence : Each burns alike, who can, or cannot write, 30 Or with a rival's, or an eunuch's spite. All fools have still an itching to deride, And fain would be upon the laughing side. If Mævius scribble in Apollo's spite, There are who judge still worse than he can write. Some have at first for wits, then poets past, Turned critics next, and proved plain fools at last. Some neither can for wits nor critics pass, As heavy mules are neither horse nor ass. Those half-learned witlings, numerous in our isle, 40 As half-formed insects on the banks of Nile ; Unfinished things, one knows not what to call, Their generation's so equivocal : To tell 'em, would a hundred tongues require, Or one vain wit's, that might a hundred tire.

But you who seek to give and merit fame, And justly bear a critic's noble name, Be sure yourself and your own reach to know, How far your genius, taste, and learning go ; Launch not beyond your depth, but be discreet, 50 And mark that point where sense and dulness meet. Nature to all things fixed the limits fit, And wisely curbed proud man's pretending wit. As on the land while here the ocean gains, In other parts it leaves wide sandy plains ; Thus in the soul while memory preyails, The solid power of understanding fails ; AAliere beams of warm imagination play, The memory's soft figures melt away. One science only will one genius fit ; So vast is art, so narrow human wit : Not only bounded to peculiar arts, But oft in those confined to single parts. Like kings we lose the conquests gained before, By vain ambition still to make them more ; Each might his several province well command, AA'ould all but stoop to what they understand. 60 First follow nature, and your judgment frame By her just standard, which is still the same : Unerring Nature, still divinely bright, 70 One clear, unchanged, and universal light, Life, force, and beauty, must to all impart, At once the source, and end, and test of art.

Art from that fund each just supply provides, Works without show, and without pomp presides : In some fair body thus the informing soul With spirits feeds, with vigour fills the whole, Each motion guides, and every nerve sustains ; Itself unseen, but in the effects, remains. Some, to whom Heaven in wit has been profuse, 80 Want as much more, to turn it to its use ; For wit and judgment often are at strife, Though meant each other's aid, like man and wife. 'Tis more to guide, than spur the muse's steed ; Restrain his fury, than provoke his speed ; The winged courser, like a generous horse, Shows most true mettle when you check his course. Those rules of old discovered, not devised, Are nature still, but nature methodized ; Nature, like liberty, is but restrained 90 By the same laws which first herself ordained.

Hear how learned Greece her useful rules indites, AVhen to repress, and when indulge our flights : High on Parnassus' top her sons she showed, And pointed out those arduous paths they trod ; Held from afar, aloft, the immortal prize, And urged the rest by equal steps to rise. Just precepts thus from great examples given, She drew from them what they derived from Heaven. The generous critic fanned the poet's fire, 100 100 And taught the world with reason to admire. Then criticism the muse's handmaid proved, To dress her charms, and make her more beloved : But following wits from that intention strayed, AVho could not win the mistress, wooed the maid ; Against the poets their own arms they turned, Sura to hate most the men from whom they learned. So modern 'Pothecaries, taught the art By doctor's bills to play the doctor's part, Bold in the practice of mistaken rules, no Prescribe, apply, and call their masters fools.

Some on the leaves of ancient authors prey, Nor time nor moths e'er spoiled so much as they. Some drily plain, without invention's aid, AVrite dull receipts how poems may be made. These leave the sense, their learning to display, And those explain the meaning quite away. You then whose judgment the right course would steer, Know well each Ancient's proper character ; His fable, subject, scope in every page ; 120 Religion, country, genius of his age : ESSA V ON CRITICISM. 11 Without all these at once before your eyes, Cavil you may, but never criticise.1 Be Homer's works your study and delight, Read them by day, ar.d meditate by night; Thence form your judgment, thence your maxims bring, And trace the muses upward to their spring. Still with itself compared, his text peruse ; And let your comment be the Mantuan muse.

AVhen first young Maro in his boundless mind2 130 A work to outlast immortal Rome designed, Perhaps he seemed above the critic's law, And but from nature's fountains scorned to draw : But when to examine every part he came, Nature and Homer were, he found, the same. Convinced, amazed, he checks the bold design ; And rules as strict his laboured work confine, As if the Stagirite o'erlooked each line. Learn hence for ancient rules a just esteem; To copy nature is to copy them. 140 Some beauties yet no precepts can declare, For there's a happiness as well as care. Music resembles poetry, in each 1 The author after this verse originally inserted the following, which he has, however, omitted in all the editions : — Zoilus, had these been known without a name, Had died, and Perault ne'er been damned to fame ; The sense of sound antiquity had reigned, And sacred Homer yet been unprofaned.

None e'er had thought his comprehensive mind To modern customs, modern rules confined ; AVho for all age writ, and all mankind. 2 It is a tradition preserved by Servius, that Virgil began with writing a poem of the Alban and Roman affairs ; which he found above his years, and descended first to imitate Theocritus on rural subjects, and afterwards to copy Homer in heroic poetry. Are nameless graces which no methods teach, And which a master-hand alone can reach. If, where the rules not far enough extend, (Since rules were made but to promote their end) Some lucky licence answer to the full The intent proposed, that licence is a rule. Thus Pegasus, a nearer way to take, 15° May boldly deviate from the common track ; From vulgar bounds with brave disorder part, And snatch a grace beyond the reach of art, AVhich without passing through the judgment, gains The heart, and all its end at once attains. in prospects thus, some objects please our eyes, AVhich out of nature's common order rise, The shapeless rock, or hanging precipice.

Great wits sometimes may gloriously offend, And rise to faults true critics dare not mend. 160 But though the ancients thus their rules invade, (As kings dispense with laws themselves have made) Moderns, beware ! or if you must offend Against the precept, ne'er transgress its end ; Let it be seldom, and compelled by need ; And have, at least, their precedent to plead. The critic else proceeds without remorse, Seizes your fame, and puts his laws in force. I know there are, to whose presumptuous thoughts Those freer beauties, even in them, seem faults. 170 Some figures monstrous and mis-shaped appear, Considered singly, cr beheld too near, AVhich, but proportioned to their light, or place, Due distance reconciles to form and grace. A prudent chief not always must display His powers in equal ranks, and fair array.

But with the occasion and the place comply, Conceal his force, nay seem sometimes to fly. Those oft are stratagems which error seem, Nor is it Homer nods, but we that dream. 180 Still green with bays each ancient altar stands, Above the reach of sacrilegious hands ; Secure from flames, from envy's fiercer rage, Destructive war, and all-involving age. See, from each clime the learned their incense bring ! Hear, in all tongues consenting pæans ring ! In praise so just let every voice be joined, And fill the general chorus of mankind. Hail, bards triumphant ! born in happier days ; Immortal heirs of universal praise ! 1 90 AVhose honours with increase of ages grow, As streams roll down, enlarging as they flow ; Nations unborn your mighty names shall sound, And worlds applaud that must not yet be found !

Oh may some spark of your celestial fire, The last, the meanest of your sons inspire, (That on weak wings, from far, pursues your flights ; Glows while he reads, but trembles as he writes) To teach vain wits a science little known, To admire superior sense, and doubt their own ! 200 Of all the causes which conspire to blind Man's erring judgment, and misguide the mind, AVhat the weak head with strongest bias rules, Is pride, the never-failing voice of fools. AVhatever nature has in worth denied, She gives in large recruits of needful pride ; For as in bodies, thus in souls, we find AATiat wants in blood and spirits, swelled with wind : Pride, where wits fails, steps in to our defence, And fills up all the mighty void of sense. 210 If once right reason drives that cloud away, Truth breaks upon us with resistless day.

Trust not yourself; but your defects to know, Make use of every friend — and every foe. A little learning is a dangerous thing ; Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring : Their shallow draughts intoxicate the brain, And drinking largely sobers us again. Fired at first sight with what the muse imparts, In fearless youth we tempt the heights of arts, 220 While from the bounded level of our mind Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind; But more advanced, behold with strange surprise New distant scenes of endless science rise ! So pleased at first the towering Alps we try Mount o'er the vales, and seem to tread the sky, The eternal snows appear already past, And the first clouds and mountains seem the last ; But, those attained, we tremble to survey The growing labours of the lengthened way, 230 The increasing prospect tires our wandering eyes, Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise !