But knottier points, we knew not half so well, Convict a papist he, and I a poet. But (thanks to Homer) since I live and thrive, Sure I should want the care of ten Monroes,3 70 If I would scribble, rather than repose. Years following years, steal something every day, At last they steal us from ourselves away; In one our frolics, one amusements end, In one a mistress drops, in one a friend: This subtle thief of life, this paltry time, 75 What will it leave me, if it snatch my rhyme ? That turn'd ten thousand verses, now stands still? But grant I may relapse, for want of grace, 85 Who there his muse, or self, or soul attends, 90 In crowds and courts, law, business, feasts, and friends? A poet begs me I will hear him read: In Palace-yard at nine you'll find me there At ten for certain, sir, in Bloomsbury-square 95 Before the Lords at twelve my cause comes on- 3 Dr. Monroe, physician to Bedlam Hospital. 66 'Oh, but a wit can study in the streets, 100 105 Go, lofty poet! and, in such a crowd, Sing thy sonorous verse-but not aloud. Alas! to grottoes and to groves we run, To ease and silence, every muse's son: Blackmore himself, for any grand effort, Would drink and doze at Tooting or Earl's-Court.4 How shall I rhyme in this eternal roar? 110 How match the bards whom none e'er match'd before? 115 The man, who, stretch'd in Isis' calm retreat, To books and study gives seven years complete, The boys flock round him, and the people stare : 120 125 Composing songs, for fools to get by heart? The Temple late two brother serjeants saw, Who deem'd each other oracles of law; With equal talents, these congenial souls, One lull'd the Exchequer, and one stunn'd the Rolls; 130 Each had a gravity would make you split, And shook his head at Murray, as a wit. "Twas, "Sir, your law"-and "Sir, your eloquence," "Yours, Cowper's manner-and yours, Talbot's sense." Thus we dispose of all poetic merit, 135 Yours Milton's genius, and mine Homer's spirit. 4 Two villages within a few miles of London. Call Tibbald Shakspeare, and he'll swear the Nine, Lord! how we strut through Merlin's Cave, to see No poets there, but Stephen, you, and me. 140 Walk with respect behind, while we at ease Weave laurel crowns, and take what names we please. "My dear Tibullus!" if that will not do, "Let me be Horace, and be Ovid you: Or, I'm content, allow me Dryden's strains, To stop my ears to their confounded stuff. In vain, bad rhymers all mankind reject, 145 150 They treat themselves with most profound respect; Nay though at court (perhaps) it may find grace: 155 160 165 (For use will father what's begot by sense,) 170 Then polish all, with so much life and ease, You think 'tis nature, and a knack to please : "But ease in writing flows from art, not chance; If such the plague and pains to write by rule, 180 185 In all but this, a man of sober life, Not quite a madman, though a pasty fell, And much too wise to walk into a well. Him, the damn'd doctors and his friends immured, 190 They bled, they cupp'd, they purged; in short, they cured: Whereat the gentleman began to stare "My friends!" he cried, 66 pox take you for your care! 195 That, from a patriot of distinguish'd note, Have bled and purged me to a simple vote." Well, on the whole, plain prose must be my fate: Wisdom (curse on it!) will come soon or late. There is a time when poets will grow dull: I'll e'en leave verses to the boys at school: 200 I'll learn to smooth and harmonize my mind, Soon as I enter at my country door, My mind resumes the thread it dropp'd before; 205 There all alone, and compliments apart, 210 I ask these sober questions of my heart: If, when the more you drink, the more you crave, You tell the doctor; when the more you have, The more you want, why not with equal ease 215 The heart resolves this matter in a trice, 5 [Two lines in the Essay on Criticism.] When golden angels cease to cure the evil: If there be truth in law, and use can give 220 225 230 All Worldly's hens, nay, partridge, sold to town, 235 He bought at thousands, what with better wit Now, or long since, what difference will be found? Heathcote himself, and such large-acred men,10 Lords of fat E'sham, or of Lincoln-fen, 240 6 Dr. Ken-t. [Dr. White Kennet had made a fulsome dedication of one of his works to the Duke of Devonshire, through whose influence he was made Dean of Peterborough. In 1718 he was promoted to the bishopric of Peterborough, which he held till his death in 1728. There were two circumstances which must have marked out this divine as a fit object for Pope's satire. He had written against Atterbury on the subject of the Convocation, and he had seceded from the Tory party to join the Whigs. Dr. Walton, the rector of Whitechapel, put up a painting of the Last Supper as an altar-piece in his church, and Dr. Kennet was represented in the character of Judas!] 7 [The "dirty D-," was the Duke of Devonshire-William, the third Duke, a stanch Whig, of whom Horace Walpole said, " the Duke's outside was unpolished, his inside unpolishable."] 8 [Devonshire, the Duke previously alluded to.] 9 [Abbs Court, near Hampton Court. The "Worldly" mentioned in the next couplet was probably Edward Wortley Montagu, whose general avarice, and practice of selling his game, Pope satirizes in his imitation of the second satire of the second book of Horace.] 10 [Sir Gilbert Heathcote. See Moral Essays, Ep. III.] |