The Rape of the Lock and Other Poems Part 11

All my demurs but double his Attacks; 65 At last he whispers, "Do; and we go snacks."

Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door, Sir, let me see your works and you no more.

'Tis sung, when Midas' Ears began to spring, (Midas, a sacred person and a king) 70 His very Minister who spy'd them first, (Some say his Queen) was forc'd to speak, or burst.

And is not mine, my friend, a sorer case, When ev'ry c.o.xcomb perks them in my face?

A. Good friend, forbear! you deal in dang'rous things. 75 I'd never name Queens, Ministers, or Kings; Keep close to Ears, and those let a.s.ses p.r.i.c.k; 'Tis nothing--P. Nothing? if they bite and kick?

Out with it, DUNCIAD! let the secret pa.s.s, That secret to each fool, that he's an a.s.s: 80 The truth once told (and wherefore should we lie?) The Queen of Midas slept, and so may I.

You think this cruel? take it for a rule, No creature smarts so little as a fool.

Let peals of laughter, Codrus! round thee break, 85 Thou unconcern'd canst hear the mighty crack: Pit, Box, and gall'ry in convulsions hurl'd, Thou stand'st unshook amidst a bursting world.

Who shames a Scribbler? break one cobweb thro', He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew: 90 Destroy his fib or sophistry, in vain, The creature's at his dirty work again, Thron'd in the centre of his thin designs, Proud of a vast extent of flimsy lines!

Whom have I hurt? has Poet yet, or Peer, 95 Lost the arch'd eye-brow, or Parna.s.sian sneer?

Does not one table Bavius still admit?

Still to one Bishop Philips seem a wit?

Still Sappho--A. Hold! for G.o.d's sake--you 'll offend, No Names!--be calm!--learn prudence of a friend! 100 I too could write, and I am twice as tall; But foes like these--P. One Flatt'rer's worse than all.

Of all mad creatures, if the learn'd are right, It is the slaver kills, and not the bite.

A fool quite angry is quite innocent: 105 Alas! 'tis ten times worse when they _repent_.

One dedicates in high heroic prose, And ridicules beyond a hundred foes: One from all Grubstreet will my fame defend, And more abusive, calls himself my friend. 110 This prints my _Letters_, that expects a bribe, And others roar aloud, "Subscribe, subscribe."

There are, who to my person pay their court: I cough like _Horace_, and, tho' lean, am short, _Ammon's_ great son one shoulder had too high, 115 Such _Ovid's_ nose, and "Sir! you have an Eye"-- Go on, obliging creatures, make me see All that disgrac'd my Betters, met in me.

Say for my comfort, languis.h.i.+ng in bed, "Just so immortal _Maro_ held his head:" 120 And when I die, be sure you let me know Great _Homer_ died three thousand years ago.

Why did I write? what sin to me unknown Dipt me in ink, my parents', or my own?

As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, 125 I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came.

I left no calling for this idle trade, No duty broke, no father disobey'd.

The Muse but serv'd to ease some friend, not Wife, To help me thro' this long disease, my Life, 130 To second, ARBUTHNOT! thy Art and Care, And teach the Being you preserv'd, to bear.

But why then publish? _Granville_ the polite, And knowing _Walsh_, would tell me I could write; Well-natur'd _Garth_ inflam'd with early praise; 135 And _Congreve_ lov'd, and _Swift_ endur'd my lays; The courtly _Talbot, Somers, Sheffield_, read; Ev'n mitred _Rochester_ would nod the head, And _St. John's_ self (great _Dryden's_ friends before) With open arms receiv'd one Poet more. 140 Happy my studies, when by these approv'd!

Happier their author, when by these belov'd!

From these the world will judge of men and books, Not from the _Burnets, Oldmixons_, and _Cookes_.

Soft were my numbers; who could take offence, 145 While pure Description held the place of Sense?

Like gentle _f.a.n.n.y's_ was my flow'ry theme, A painted mistress, or a purling stream.

Yet then did _Gildon_ draw his venal quill;-- I wish'd the man a dinner, and sat still. 150 Yet then did _Dennis_ rave in furious fret; I never answer'd,--I was not in debt.

If want provok'd, or madness made them print, I wag'd no war with _Bedlam_ or the _Mint_.

Did some more sober Critic come abroad; 155 If wrong, I smil'd; if right, I kiss'd the rod.

Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence, And all they want is spirit, taste, and sense.

Commas and points they set exactly right, And 'twere a sin to rob them of their mite. 160 Yet ne'er one sprig of laurel grac'd these ribalds, From slas.h.i.+ng _Bentley_ down to pidling _Tibalds_: Each wight, who reads not, and but scans and spells, Each Word-catcher, that lives on syllables, Ev'n such small Critics some regard may claim, 165 Preserv'd in _Milton's_ or in _Shakespeare's_ name.

Pretty! in amber to observe the forms Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms!

The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare, But wonder how the devil they got there. 170

Were others angry: I excus'd them too; Well might they rage, I gave them but their due.

A man's true merit 'tis not hard to find; But each man's secret standard in his mind, That Casting-weight pride adds to emptiness, 175 This, who can gratify? for who can _guess?_ The Bard whom pilfer'd Pastorals renown, Who turns a Persian tale for half a Crown, Just writes to make his barrenness appear, And strains, from hard-bound brains, eight lines a year; 180 He, who still wanting, tho' he lives on theft, Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left: And He, who now to sense, now nonsense leaning, Means not, but blunders round about a meaning: And He, whose fustian's so sublimely bad, 185 It is not Poetry, but prose run mad: All these, my modest Satire bade _translate_, And own'd that nine such Poets made a _Tate_.

How did they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe!

And swear, not ADDISON himself was safe. 190

Peace to all such! but were there One whose fires True Genius kindles, and fair Fame inspires; Blest with each talent and each art to please, And born to write, converse, and live with ease: Should such a man, too fond to rule alone, 195 Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne.

View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes, And hate for arts that caus'd himself to rise; d.a.m.n with faint praise, a.s.sent with civil leer, And without sneering, teach the rest to sneer; 200 Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike, Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike; Alike reserv'd to blame, or to commend.

A tim'rous foe, and a suspicious friend; Dreading ev'n fools, by Flatterers besieg'd, 205 And so obliging, that he ne'er oblig'd; Like _Cato_, give his little Senate laws, And sit attentive to his own applause; While Wits and Templars ev'ry sentence raise, And wonder with a foolish face of praise:-- 210 Who but must laugh, if such a man there be?

Who would not weep, if Atticus were he?

What tho' my Name stood rubric on the walls Or plaister'd posts, with claps, in capitals?

Or smoking forth, a hundred hawkers' load, 215 On wings of winds came flying all abroad?

I sought no homage from the Race that write; I kept, like Asian Monarchs, from their sight: Poems I heeded (now be-rhym'd so long) No more than thou, great George! a birth-day song. 220 I ne'er with wits or witlings pa.s.s'd my days, To spread about the itch of verse and praise; Nor like a puppy, daggled thro' the town, To fetch and carry sing-song up and down; Nor at Rehearsals sweat, and mouth'd, and cry'd, 225 With handkerchief and orange at my side; But sick of fops, and poetry, and prate, To Bufo left the whole Castalian state.

Proud as Apollo on his forked hill, Sat full-blown Bufo, puff'd by ev'ry quill; 230 Fed with soft Dedication all day long.

Horace and he went hand in hand in song.

His Library (where busts of Poets dead And a true Pindar stood without a head,) Receiv'd of wits an undistinguish'd race, 235 Who first his judgment ask'd, and then a place: Much they extoll'd his pictures, much his seat, And flatter'd ev'ry day, and some days eat: Till grown more frugal in his riper days, He paid some bards with port, and some with praise; 240 To some a dry rehearsal saw a.s.sign'd, And others (harder still) he paid in kind.

_Dryden_ alone (what wonder?) came not nigh, _Dryden_ alone escap'd this judging eye: But still the _Great_ have kindness in reserve, 245 He help'd to bury whom he help'd to starve.

May some choice patron bless each gray goose quill!

May ev'ry _Bavius_ have his _Bufo_ still!

So, when a Statesman wants a day's defence, Or Envy holds a whole week's war with Sense, 250 Or simple pride for flatt'ry makes demands, May dunce by dunce be whistled off my hands!

Blest be the _Great!_ for those they take away.

And those they left me; for they left me Gay; Left me to see neglected Genius bloom, 255 Neglected die, and tell it on his tomb: Of all thy blameless life the sole return My Verse, and Queenb'ry weeping o'er thy urn.

Oh let me live my own, and die so too!

(To live and die is all I have to do:) 260 Maintain a Poet's dignity and ease, And see what friends, and read what books I please; Above a Patron, tho' I condescend Sometimes to call a minister my friend.

I was not born for Courts or great affairs; 265 I pay my debts, believe, and say my pray'rs; Can sleep without a Poem in my head; Nor know, if _Dennis_ be alive or dead.

Why am I ask'd what next shall see the light?

Heav'ns! was I born for nothing but to write? 270 Has Life no joys for me? or, (to be grave) Have I no friend to serve, no soul to save?

"I found him close with _Swift_"--'Indeed? no doubt,'

(Cries prating _Balbus_) 'something will come out.'

'Tis all in vain, deny it as I will. 275 'No, such a Genius never can lie still;'

And then for mine obligingly mistakes The first Lampoon Sir _Will_, or _Bubo_ makes.

Poor guiltless I! and can I choose but smile, When ev'ry c.o.xcomb knows me by my _Style_? 280

Curst be the verse, how well soe'er it flow, That tends to make one worthy man my foe, Give Virtue scandal, Innocence a fear, Or from the soft-eyed Virgin steal a tear!

But he who hurts a harmless neighbour's peace, 285 Insults fall'n worth, or Beauty in distress, Who loves a Lie, lame slander helps about, Who writes a Libel, or who copies out: That Fop, whose pride affects a patron's name, Yet absent, wounds an author's honest fame: 290 Who can _your_ merit _selfishly_ approve.

And show the _sense_ of it without the _love_; Who has the vanity to call you friend, Yet wants the honour, injur'd, to defend; Who tells whate'er you think, whate'er you say, 295 And, if he lie not, must at least betray: Who to the _Dean_, and _silver bell_ can swear, And sees at _Canons_ what was never there; Who reads, but with a l.u.s.t to misapply, Make Satire a Lampoon, and Fiction, Lie. 300 A lash like mine no honest man shall dread, But all such babbling blockheads in his stead.

Let _Sporus_ tremble--A. What? that thing of silk, _Sporus_, that mere white curd of a.s.s's milk?

Satire or sense, alas! can _Sporus_ feel? 305 Who breaks a b.u.t.terfly upon a wheel?

P. Yet let me flap this bug with gilded wings, This painted child of dirt, that stinks and stings; Whose buzz the witty and the fair annoys, Yet wit ne'er tastes, and beauty ne'er enjoys: 310 So well-bred spaniels civilly delight In mumbling of the game they dare not bite.

Eternal smiles his emptiness betray, As shallow streams run dimpling all the way.

Whether in florid impotence he speaks, 315 And, as the prompter breathes, the puppet squeaks; Or at the ear of _Eve_, familiar Toad, Half froth, half venom, spits himself abroad, In puns, or politics, or tales, or lies, Or spite, or s.m.u.t, or rhymes, or blasphemies. 320 His wit all see-saw, between _that_ and _this_, } Now high, now low, now master up, now miss, } And he himself one vile Ant.i.thesis. } Amphibious thing! that acting either part, The trifling head or the corrupted heart, 325 Fop at the toilet, flatt'rer at the board, Now trips a Lady, and now struts a Lord.

_Eve's_ tempter thus the Rabbins have exprest, A Cherub's face, a reptile all the rest; Beauty that shocks you, parts that none will trust; 330 Wit that can creep, and pride that licks the dust.

Not Fortune's wors.h.i.+pper, nor fas.h.i.+on's fool, Not Lucre's madman, nor Ambition's tool, Not proud, nor servile;--be one Poet's praise, That, if he pleas'd, he pleas'd by manly ways: 335 That Flatt'ry, ev'n to Kings, he held a shame, And thought a Lie in verse or prose the same.

That not in Fancy's maze he wander'd long, But stoop'd to Truth, and moraliz'd his song: That not for Fame, but Virtue's better end, 340 He stood the furious foe, the timid friend, The d.a.m.ning critic, half approving wit, The c.o.xcomb hit, or fearing to be hit; Laugh'd at the loss of friends he never had, The dull, the proud, the wicked, and the mad; 345 The distant threats of vengeance on his head, The blow unfelt, the tear he never shed; The tale reviv'd, the lie so oft o'erthrown, Th' imputed trash, and dulness not his own; The morals blacken'd when the writings scape, 350 The libell'd person, and the pictur'd shape; Abuse, on all he lov'd, or lov'd him, spread, A friend in exile, or a father, dead; The whisper, that to greatness still too near, Perhaps, yet vibrates on his SOV'REIGN'S ear:-- 355 Welcome for thee, fair _Virtue_! all the past; For thee, fair Virtue! welcome ev'n the _last_!

A. But why insult the poor, affront the great?

P. A knave's a knave, to me, in ev'ry state: Alike my scorn, if he succeed or fail, 360 _Sporus_ at court, or _j.a.phet_ in a jail A hireling scribbler, or a hireling peer, Knight of the post corrupt, or of the s.h.i.+re; If on a Pillory, or near a Throne, He gain his Prince's ear, or lose his own. 365 Yet soft by nature, more a dupe than wit, _Sappho_ can tell you how this man was bit; This dreaded Sat'rist _Dennis_ will confess Foe to his pride, but friend to his distress: So humble, he has knock'd at _Tibbald's_ door, 370 Has drunk with _Cibber_, nay has rhym'd for _Moore_.

Full ten years slander'd, did he once reply?