An Essay on Man Part 12

Public too long, ah let me hide my age!

See, modest Cibber now has left the stage: Our generals now, retired to their estates, Hang their old trophies o'er the garden gates, In life's cool evening satiate of applause, Nor fond of bleeding, even in Brunswick's cause.

A voice there is, that whispers in my ear, ('Tis Reason's voice, which sometimes one can hear) "Friend Pope, be prudent, let your muse take breath, And never gallop Pegasus to death; Lest stiff and stately, void of fire or force, You limp, like Blackmore, on a lord mayor's horse."

Farewell then verse, and love, and every toy, The rhymes and rattles of the man or boy; What right, what true, what fit we justly call, Let this be all my care-for this is all.

To lay this harvest up, and h.o.a.rd with haste What every day will want, and most, the last.

But ask not, to what doctors I apply?

Sworn to no master, of no sect am I: As drives the storm, at any door I knock: And house with Montaigne now, or now with Locke.

Sometimes a patriot, active in debate, Mix with the world, and battle for the State, Free as young Lyttelton, her cause pursue, Still true to virtue, and as warm as true: Sometimes with Aristippus, or St. Paul, Indulge my candour, and grow all to all; Back to my native moderation slide, And win my way by yielding to the tide.

Long, as to him who works for debt, the day, Long as the night to her whose love's away, Long as the year's dull circle seems to run, When the brisk minor pants for twenty-one: So slow th' unprofitable moments roll, That lock up all the functions of my soul; That keep me from myself; and still delay Life's instant business to a future day: That task, which as we follow, or despise, The eldest is a fool, the youngest wise; Which done, the poorest can no wants endure; And which not done, the richest must be poor.

Late as it is, I put myself to school, And feel some comfort, not to be a fool.

Weak though I am of limb, and short of sight, Far from a lynx, and not a giant quite; I'll do what Mead and Cheselden advise, To keep these limbs, and to preserve these eyes.

Not to go back, is somewhat to advance, And men must walk at least before they dance.

Say, does thy blood rebel, thy bosom move With wretched avarice, or as wretched love?

Know, there are words and spells, which can control Between the fits this fever of the soul: Know, there are rhymes, which fresh and fresh applied Will cure the arrant'st puppy of his pride.

Be furious, envious, slothful, mad, or drunk, Slave to a wife, or va.s.sal to a punk, A Switz, a High Dutch, or a Low Dutch bear; All that we ask is but a patient ear.

'Tis the first virtue, vices to abhor; And the first wisdom, to be fool no more.

But to the world no bugbear is so great, As want of figure, and a small estate.

To either India see the merchant fly, Scared at the spectre of pale poverty!

See him, with pains of body, pangs of soul, Burn through the Tropic, freeze beneath the pole!

Wilt thou do nothing for a n.o.bler end, Nothing, to make philosophy thy friend?

To stop thy foolish views, thy long desires, And ease thy heart of all that it admires?

Here, wisdom calls: "Seek virtue first, be bold!

As gold to silver, virtue is to gold."

There, London's voice: "Get money, money still!

And then let virtue follow, if she will."

This, this the saving doctrine, preached to all, From low St. James's up to high St. Paul; From him whose quills stand quivered at his ear, To him who notches sticks at Westminster.

Barnard in spirit, sense, and truth abounds; "Pray then, what wants he?" fourscore thousand pounds; A pension, or such harness for a slave As Bug now has, and Dorimant would have.

Barnard, thou art a Cit, with all thy worth; But Bug and D * l, their honours, and so forth.

Yet every child another song will sing: "Virtue, brave boys! 'tis virtue makes a king."

True, conscious honour is to feel no sin, He's armed without that's innocent within; Be this thy screen, and this thy wall of bra.s.s; Compared to this, a minister's an a.s.s.

And say, to which shall our applause belong, This new Court jargon, or the good old song?

The modern language of corrupted peers, Or what was spoke at Cressy and Poitiers?

Who counsels best? who whispers, "Be but great, With praise or infamy leave that to fate; Get place and wealth, if possible, with grace; If not, by any means get wealth and place-"

For what? to have a box where eunuchs sing, And foremost in the circle eye a king.

Or he, who bids thee face with steady view } Proud fortune, and look shallow greatness through: } And, while he bids thee, sets th' example too? } If such a doctrine, in St. James's air, Should chance to make the well-dressed rabble stare; If honest S * z take scandal at a spark, That less admires the palace than the park: Faith I shall give the answer Reynard gave: "I cannot like, dread sir, your royal cave: Because I see, by all the tracks about, Full many a beast goes in, but none come out."

Adieu to virtue, if you're once a slave: Send her to Court, you send her to her grave.

Well, if a king's a lion, at the least, The people are a many-headed beast: Can they direct what measures to pursue, Who know themselves so little what to do?

Alike in nothing but one l.u.s.t of gold, Just half the land would buy, and half be sold: Their country's wealth our mightier misers drain, Or cross, to plunder provinces, the main; The rest, some farm the poor-box, some the pews; Some keep a.s.semblies, and would keep the stews; Some with fat bucks on childless dotards fawn; Some win rich widows by their chine and brawn; While with the silent growth of ten per cent.

In dirt and darkness, hundreds stink content.

Of all these ways, if each pursues his own, Satire be kind, and let the wretch alone: But show me one who has it in his power To act consistent with himself an hour.

Sir Job sailed forth, the evening bright and still, "No place on earth," he cried, "like Greenwich Hill!"

Up starts a palace; lo, th' obedient base } Slopes at its foot, the woods its sides embrace, } The silver Thames reflects its marble face. } Now let some whimsy, or that devil within } Which guides all those who know not what they mean, } But give the knight (or give his lady) spleen; } "Away, away! take all your scaffolds down, For snug's the word: my dear! we'll live in town."

At amorous Flavio is the stocking thrown?

That very night he longs to lie alone.

The fool, whose wife elopes some thrice a quarter, For matrimonial solace dies a martyr.

Did ever Proteus, Merlin, any witch, } Transform themselves so strangely as the rich? } Well, but the poor-the poor have the same itch; } They change their weekly barber, weekly news, Prefer a new j.a.panner to their shoes, Discharge their garrets, move their beds, and run (They know not whither) in a chaise and one; They hire their sculler, and when once aboard, Grow sick, and d.a.m.n the climate-like a lord.

You laugh, half beau, half sloven if I stand, My wig all powder, and all snuff my band; You laugh, if coat and breeches strangely vary, White gloves, and linen worthy Lady Mary!

But when no prelate's lawn with hair-s.h.i.+rt lined, Is half so incoherent as my mind, When (each opinion with the next at strife, One ebb and flow of follies all my life) I plant, root up; I build, and then confound; Turn round to square, and square again to round; You never change one muscle of your face, You think this madness but a common case, Nor once to Chancery, nor to Hale apply; Yet hang your lip, to see a seam awry!

Careless how ill I with myself agree, Kind to my dress, my figure, not to me.

Is this my guide, philosopher, and Friend?

This, he who loves me, and who ought to mend?

Who ought to make me (what he can, or none), That man divine whom wisdom calls her own; Great without t.i.tle, without fortune blessed; Rich even when plundered, honoured while oppressed; Loved without youth, and followed without power; At home, though exiled; free, though in the Tower; In short, that reasoning, high, immortal thing, Just less than Jove, and much above a king, Nay, half in heaven-except (what's mighty odd) A fit of vapours clouds this demi-G.o.d.

THE SIXTH EPISTLE OF THE FIRST BOOK OF HORACE.

EPISTLE VI. TO MR. MURRAY.

"Not to admire, is all the art I know, To make men happy, and to keep them so."

(Plain truth, dear Murray, needs no flowers of speech, So take it in the very words of Creech.) This vault of air, this congregated ball, Self-centred sun, and stars that rise and fall, There are, my friend! whose philosophic eyes Look through, and trust the ruler with his skies, To him commit the hour, the day, the year, And view this dreadful all without a fear.

Admire we, then, what earth's low entrails hold, } Arabian sh.o.r.es, or Indian seas infold. } All the mad trade of fools and slaves for gold? } Or popularity? or stars and strings?

The mob's applauses, or the gifts of kings?

Say with what eyes we ought at courts to gaze, And pay the great our homage of amaze?

If weak the pleasure that from these can spring, The fear to want them is as weak a thing: Whether we dread, or whether we desire, In either case, believe me, we admire; Whether we joy or grieve, the same the curse, Surprised at better, or surprised at worse.

Thus good or bad, to one extreme betray Th' unbalanced mind, and s.n.a.t.c.h the man away; For virtue's self may too much zeal be had; The worst of madmen is a saint run mad.

Go then, and if you can, admire the state Of beaming diamonds, and reflected plate; Procure a taste to double the surprise, And gaze on Parian charms with learned eyes: Be struck with bright brocade, or Tyrian dye, Our birthday n.o.bles' splendid livery.

If not so pleased, at council-board rejoice, To see their judgments hang upon thy voice; From morn to night, at senate, rolls, and hall, Plead much, read more, dine late, or not at all.

But wherefore all this labour, all this strife?

For fame, for riches, for a n.o.ble wife?

Shall one whom nature, learning, birth, conspired To form not to admire but be admired, Sigh, while his Chloe blind to wit and worth Weds the rich dulness of some son of earth?

Yet time enn.o.bles, or degrades each line; It brightened Craggs's, and may darken thine: And what is fame? the meanest have their day, The greatest can but blaze and pa.s.s away.

Graced as thou art, with all the power of words, So known, so honoured, at the House of Lords: Conspicuous scene! another yet is nigh, (More silent far) where kings and poets lie; Where Murray (long enough his country's pride) Shall be no more than Tully, or than Hyde!

Racked with sciatics, martyred with the stone, Will any mortal let himself alone?

See Ward by battered beaux invited over, And desperate misery lays hold on Dover.

The case is easier in the mind's disease; There all men may be cured, whene'er they please, Would ye be blest? despise low joys, low gains; } Disdain whatever Cornbury disdains; } Be virtuous and be happy for your pains. } But art thou one, whom new opinions sway, One who believes as Tindal leads the way, Who virtue and a church alike disowns, Thinks that but words, and this but brick and stones?

Fly then on all the wings of wild desire, Admire whate'er the maddest can admire.

Is wealth thy pa.s.sion? Hence! from pole to pole, Where winds can carry, or where waves can roll, For Indian spices, for Peruvian gold, Prevent the greedy, and out-bid the bold: Advance thy golden mountain to the skies; On the broad base of fifty thousand rise, Add one round hundred, and (if that's not fair) Add fifty more, and bring it to a square.

For, mark th' advantage; just so many score Will gain a wife with half as many more, Procure her beauty, make that beauty chaste, And then such friends-as cannot fail to last.

A man of wealth is dubbed a man of worth, Venus shall give him form, and Antis birth.

(Believe me, many a German Prince is worse, Who proud of pedigree, is poor of purse.) His wealth brave Timon gloriously confounds; Asked for a groat, he gives a hundred pounds; Or if three ladies like a luckless play, Takes the whole house upon the poet's day.

Now, in such exigencies not to need, Upon my word, you must be rich indeed; A n.o.ble superfluity it craves, Not for yourself, but for your fools and knaves: Something, which for your honour they may cheat, And which it much becomes you to forget.

If wealth alone then make and keep us blest, Still, still be getting, never, never rest.

But if to power and place your pa.s.sion lie, If in the pomp of life consist the joy; Then hire a slave, or (if you will) a lord To do the honours, and to give the word; Tell at your levee, as the crowds approach, To whom to nod, whom take into your coach, Whom honour with your hand: to make remarks, Who rules in Cornwall, or who rules in Berks: "This may be troublesome, is near the chair; That makes three members, this can choose a mayor."

Instructed thus, you bow, embrace, protest, } Adopt him son, or cousin at the least, } Then turn about, and laugh at your own jest. } Or if your life be one continued treat, If to live well means nothing but to eat; Up, up! cries gluttony, 'tis break of day, Go drive the deer, and drag the finny prey; With hounds and horns go hunt an appet.i.te- So Russel did, but could not eat at night, Called happy dog! the beggar at his door, And envied thirst and hunger to the poor.

Or shall we every decency confound, Through taverns, stews, and bagnios take our round, Go dine with Chartres, in each vice out-do K---l's lewd cargo, or Ty---y's crew, From Latian Syrens, French Circean feasts, Return well travelled, and transformed to beasts.

If, after all, we must with Wilmot own, The cordial drop of life is love alone, And Swift cry wisely, "Vive la Bagatelle!"

The man that loves and laughs, must sure do well.

Adieu-if this advice appear the worst, E'en take the counsel which I gave you first: Or better precepts if you can impart, Why do, I'll follow them with all my heart.

THE FIRST EPISTLE OF THE SECOND BOOK OF HORACE.

ADVERTIs.e.m.e.nT.

The Reflections of Horace, and the Judgments past in his Epistle to Augustus, seemed so seasonable to the present Times, that I could not help applying them to the use of my own Country. The Author thought them considerable enough to address them to his Prince; whom he paints with all the great and good qualities of a Monarch, upon whom the Romans depended for the Increase of an Absolute Empire. But to make the Poem entirely English, I was willing to add one or two of those which contribute to the Happiness of a Free People, and are more consistent with the Welfare of our Neighbours.

This Epistle will show the learned World to have fallen into Two mistakes: one, that Augustus was a Patron of Poets in general; whereas he not only prohibited all but the Best Writers to name him, but recommended that Care even to the Civil Magistrate: Admonebat Praetores, ne paterentur Nomen suum obsolefieri, etc. The other, that this Piece was only a general Discourse of Poetry; whereas it was an Apology for the Poets, in order to render Augustus more their Patron. Horace here pleads the Cause of his Contemporaries, first against the Taste of the Town, whose humour it was to magnify the Authors of the preceding Age; secondly against the Court and n.o.bility, who encouraged only the Writers for the Theatre; and lastly against the Emperor himself, who had conceived them of little Use to the Government. He shows (by a View of the Progress of Learning, and the Change of Taste among the Romans) that the Introduction of the Polite Arts of Greece had given the Writers of his Time great advantages over their Predecessors; that their Morals were much improved, and the Licence of those ancient Poets restrained: that Satire and Comedy were become more just and useful; that, whatever extravagances were left on the Stage, were owing to the Ill Taste of the n.o.bility; that Poets, under due Regulations, were in many respects useful to the State, and concludes, that it was upon them the Emperor himself must depend for his Fame with Posterity.

We may farther learn from this Epistle, that Horace made his Court to this great Prince by writing with a decent Freedom toward him, with a just Contempt of his low Flatterers, and with a manly Regard to his own Character. P.

EPISTLE I. TO AUGUSTUS.