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The season, when to come, and when to go,
To sing, or cease to sing, we never know;

MERLIN'S CAVE.

And if we will recite nine hours in ten,
You lose your patience just like other men.
Then, too, we hurt ourselves, when to defend
A single verse, we quarrel with a friend;
Repeat unask'd; lament, the wit's too fine
For vulgar eyes, and point out every line.

But most, when straining with too weak a wing,
We needs will write epistles to the king;
And from the moment we oblige the town,
Expect a place, or pension from the crown;
Or dubb'd historians by express command,
To enrol your triumphs o'er the seas and land,
Be call'd to Court to plan some work divine,
As once for Louis, Boileau and Racine.

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Yet think, great sir! (so many virtues shown) Ah think, what poet best may make them known?

Or choose, at least, some minister of grace,
Fit to bestow the laureate's weighty place.

RGIVS II REX·ET·

CAROLINA

MDCCXXXII

REGINA

MEDAL OF GEORGE II. AND CAROLINE.

Charles, to late times to be transmitted fair,
Assign'd his figure to Bernini's care;
And great Nassau to Kneller's hand decreed

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To fix him graceful on the bounding steed;

So well in paint and stone they judged of merit ;
But kings in wit may want discerning spirit.
The hero William, and the martyr Charles,
One knighted Blackmore, and one pension'd Quarles;

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25 [Quarles held a small sinecure place in the court of James I., but there s no record of his being pensioned by Charles, in support of whose cause he lost his property, books, &c., by which his death (1644) was supposed to be hastened. There may have been some instance of royal favour shown to Quarles which made "Old Ben" swear over his cups; and Dennis was an habitual gambler.]

Which made old Ben, and surly Dennis swear,

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No Lord's anointed, but a Russian bear.”
Not with such majesty, such bold relief,
The forms august of king, or conqu'ring chief,
E'er swell'd on marble, as in verse have shined
(In polish'd verse) the manners and the mind.
Oh! could I mount on the Mæonian wing,
Your arms, your actions, your repose to sing!

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What seas you traversed, and what fields you fought!
Your country's peace, how oft, how dearly bought!
How barb'rous rage subsided at your word,

And nations wonder'd, while they dropp'd the sword!
How, when you nodded, o'er the land and deep,

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Peace stole her wing, and wrapp'd the world in sleep;
Till earth's extremes your mediation own,
And Asia's tyrants tremble at your throne.

But verse, alas! your Majesty disdains;

And I'm not used to panegyric strains :
The zeal of fools offends at any time,
But most of all the zeal of fools in rhyme.
Besides, a fate attends on all I write,

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That when I aim at praise, they say I bite.
A vile encomium doubly ridicules:

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There's nothing blackens like the ink of fools.
If true, a woeful likeness; and if lies,
“Praise undeserved is scandal in disguise :"
Well may he blush, who gives it, or receives;
And when I flatter, let my dirty leaves
(Like journals, odes, and such forgotten things
As Eusden, Philips, Settle, writ of kings)
Clothe spice, line trunks, or flutt'ring in a row,
Befringe the rails of Bedlam and Soho.

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THE SECOND EPISTLE

OF THE

SECOND BOOK OF HORACE.

[This Second Epistle was also published in 1737. Colonel Cotterell, to whom it is addressed, was son of Sir Charles Ludowick Cotterell, who succeeded his father in 1686, as Master of the Ceremonies, and in 1697 was appointed one of the Commissioners of the Privy Seal. The family had been long established at their seat of Rousham Hall, near Oxford, and Pope's friend was the founder of the Cotterells of Hadley, in Middlesex. Sir William Trumbull, the poet's early patron and friend in "the Forest," was married into this family. Colonel Cotterell died at Bath, October 13, 1746.]

DEAR

EAR Colonel, Cobham's and your country's friend!
You love a verse, take such as I can send.

A Frenchman comes, presents you with his boy,
Bows and begins :-
:-"This lad, sir, is of Blois : 1
Observe his shape how clean! his locks how curl'd!
My only son;-I'd have him see the world:

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His French is pure; his voice too-you shall hear.
Sir, he's your slave, for twenty pound a year.
Mere wax as yet, you fashion him with ease,
Your barber, cook, upholsterer, what you please :

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A perfect genius at an opera song—

To say too much, might do my honour wrong.

Take him, with all his virtues, on my word;
His whole ambition was to serve a lord:

But, sir, to you, with what would I not part?

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Though faith, I fear, 'twill break his mother's heart.

-Once (and but once) I caught him in a lie,

And then, unwhipp'd, he had the grace to cry:
The fault he has I fairly shall reveal,

(Could you o'erlook but that) it is, to steal."

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1 A town in Beauce, where the French tongue is spoke in great purity.

If, after this, you took the graceless lad,
Could you complain, my friend, he proved so bad?
Faith, in such case, if you should prosecute,
I think Sir Godfrey should decide the suit; 2
Who sent the thief that stole the cash away,
And punish'd him that put it in his way.

Consider then, and judge me in this light;
I told you when I went, I could not write;
You said the same; and are you discontent
With laws, to which you gave your own assent ?
Nay, worse, to ask for verse at such a time!
D'ye think me good for nothing but to rhyme ?
In Anna's wars, a soldier, poor and old,
Had dearly earn'd a little purse of gold:
Tired with a tedious march, one luckless night,
He slept, poor dog! and lost it, to a doit.
This put the man in such a desperate mind,
Between revenge, and grief, and hunger join'd,
Against the foe, himself, and all mankind,
He leap'd the trenches, scaled a castle-wall,
Tore down a standard, took the fort and all.

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Prodigious well;" his great commander cried,
Gave him much praise, and some reward beside.
Next, pleased his excellence a town to batter;
(Its name I know not, and 'tis no great matter ;)

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Go on, my friend, (he cried) see yonder walls!
Advance and conquer! go where glory calls!
More honours, more rewards, attend the brave."
Don't you remember what reply he gave?
“D'ye think me, noble general, such a sot?
Let him take castles who has ne'er a groat."
Bred up at home, full early I begun

To read in Greek the wrath of Peleus' son.
Besides, my father taught me, from a lad,
The better art to know the good from bad:
(And little sure imported to remove,

To hunt for Truth in Maudlin's learned grove.)

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2 An eminent justice of peace, who decided much in the manner of Sancho Pancha

[Sir Godfrey Kneller was the eminent justice. The egregious vanity and absurdities of Sir Godfrey seem to have been a fertile source of amusement to Pope and his friends.]

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