Then clap four flices of Pilafter on 't,
That, lac'd with bits of ruftic, makes a Front.
Shall call the winds through long arcades to roar,
Proud to catch cold at a Venetian door;
Confcious they act a true Palladian part,
And if they starve, they starve by rules of art.
Oft have you hinted to your brother Peer,
A certain truth, which many buy too dear.
Something there is more needful than Expense,
And fomething previous ev'n to Tafte-'tis Senfe:
Good Senfe, which only is the gift of Heaven,
And, though no Science, fairly worth the feven:
A Light, which in yourself you must perceive;
Jones and Le Notre have it not to give.
To build, to plant, whatever you intend,
To rear the Column, or the Arch to bend,
To fwell the Terras, or to fink the Grot;
In all, let Nature never be forgot.
But treat the Goddess like a modeft fair,
Nor over-drefs, nor leave her wholly bare;
Let not each beauty every where be spy'd,
Where half the fkill is decently to hide.
He gains all points, who pleasingly confounds,
Surprizes, varies, and conceals the Bounds.
One boundlefs Green, or flourish'd Carpet views, 95
With all the mournful family of Yews:
35 The thriving plants ignoble broomsticks made,
Now fweep thofe Alleys they were born to shade.
At Timon's Villa let us pafs a day,
Where all cry out," What fums are thrown away!"
So proud, fo grand; of that ftupendous air,
Soft and Agreeable come never there.
Greatnefs, with Timon, dwells in fuch a draught
As brings all Brobdignag before your thought
To compafs this, his Building is a Town,
His pond an Ocean, his parterre a Down:
Who but must laugh, the Maiter when he fees,
A puny infect, fhivering at a breeze!
Lo, what huge heaps of littleness around!
The whole, a labour'd Quarry above ground,
Two Cupids fquirt before: a Lake behind
50 Improves the keennefs of the Northern wind.
His Gardens next your admiration call,
On every fide you look, behold the Wall!
No pleafing Intricacies intervene,
Confult the Genius of the Place in all:
That tells the Waters or to rife, or fall;
Or helps th' ambitious Hill the heavens to scale,
Or fcoops in circling theatres the Vale;
Calls-in the country, catches opening glades,
Joins willing woods, and varies fhades from fhades;
Now breaks, or now directs th' intending Lines;
Paints as you plant, and, as you work, designs.
Still follow Sense, of every Art the Soul,
Parts anfwering parts fhall flide into a whole,
Spontaneous beauties all around advance,
Start ev'n from Difficulty, ftrike from Chance ;
Nature fhall join you; Time shall make it grow
A Work to wonder at-perhaps a Sтow.
Without it, proud Versailles! thy glory falls;
And Nero's Terraces defert their walls:
The vaft Parterres a thousand hands fhall make,
Lo! Cobham comes, and floats them with a Lake:
Or cut wide views through mountains to the
Plain,
You'll wish your hill or shelter'd seat again.
Ev'n in an ornament its place remark,
Nor in an Hermitage fet Dr. Clarke.
Behold Villario's ten years toil complete;
His Quincunx darkens, his Espaliers meet;
The wood fupports the Plain, the parts unite,
And ftrength of Shade contends with ftrength
Light;
No artful Wildness to perplex the scene;
Grove nods at grove, each Alley has a brother,
And half the platform juft reflects the other.
The fuffering eye inverted Nature fees,
Trees cut to Statues, Statues thick as trees;
With here a Fountain, never to be play'd;
And there a Summer-house that knows no shade;
Here Amphitrite fails through myrtle bowers:
There Gladiators fight, or die in flowers;
Unwater'd fee the drooping fea-horse mourn,
And fwallows rooft in Nilus' dusty Urn.
My Lord advances with majestic mien,
Smit with the mighty pleasure to be feen:
But foft-by regular approach-not yet-
Firft through the length of yon hot Terrace fweat
And when up ten fteep flopes you've dragg'd your
thighs,
Juft at his Study door he'll blefs your eyes.
His Study! with what Authors is it ftor'd?
In Books, not Authors, curious is my Lord;
To all their dated backs he turns you round;
Thefe Aldus printed, thofe Du Sueil has bound.
Lo, fome are Vellom, and the rest as good
For all his Lordship knows, but they are Wood.
For Locke or Milton, 'tis in vain to look,
Thefe fhelves admit not any modern book.
And now the Chapel's filver bell you hear,
So That fummons you to all the Pride of Prayer:
Light quirks of Mufic, broken and uneven,
of Make the foul dance upon a jig to Heaven.
On painted Cielings you devoutly ftare,
Where fprawl the Saints of Verrio or Laguerre,
Or gilded clouds in fair expantion lie,
85 And bring all Paradife before your eye.
To reft, the Cushion and soft Dean invite,
Who never mentions Hell to ears polite.
A waving Glow the bloomy beds difplay,
Bluthing in bright diverfities of day,
With filver-quivering rills mæander'd o'er-
Enjoy them, you! Villario can no more;
Tir'd of the scene Parterres and Fountains yield,
He finds at laft he better likes a Field.
Through his young Woods how pleas'd Sabinus
ftray'd,
Or fate delighted in the thickening fhade,
With annual joy the reddening shoots to greet,
Or fee the stretching branches long to meet!
His Son's fine Tate an opener Vista loves,
Fot to the Dryads of his Father's groves;
But hark! the chiming clocks to dinner call;
A hundred footsteps fcrape the marble Hall:
The rich Buffet well-colour'd Serpents grace,
90 And gaping Tritons fpew to wash their face.
Is this a dinner? this a genial room?
No, 'tis a Temple, and a Hecatomb.
A folemn Sacrifice perform'd in flate,
You drink by measure, and to minutes eat.
So quick retires each flying courfe, you'd swear
Sancho's dread Doctor and his Wand were there. 160
Between each At the trembling falvers ring,
From foup to fweet-wine, and God blefs the King.
In plenty starving, tantaliz'd in ftate,
And complaifantly help'd to all I hate,
Treated, carefs'd, and tir'd, I take my leave,
Sick of his civil pride from morn to eve;
I curfe fuch lavish çoft, and little skill,
And fwear no day was ever past fo ill...
Imperial wonders rais'd on nations spoil'd,
Where mixed with Slaves the groaning Martyr
toil'd
Huge Theatres, that now unpeopled Woods,
Now drain'd a diftant country of her Floods:
Fanes, which admiring Gods with pride furvey;
165 Statues of Men, fcarce lefs alive than they!
Some felt the filent ftroke of mouldering age,
Some hoftile fury, fome religious rage.
Barbarian blindnefs, Chriftian zeal confpire,
And Papal piety, and Gothic fire.
Yet hence the poor are cloath'd, the hungry fed;
Health to himfelf, and to his infants bread,
The labourer bears: What his hard heart denies,
His charitable vanity fupplies.
Another age fhall fee the golden ear
Imbrown the flope, and nod on the parterre,
Deep harvest bury all his pride has plann'd,
And laughing Ceres re-affume the fand.
170 Perhaps, by its own ruins fav'd from flame,
Some bury'd marble half preferves a name;
That name the learn'd with fierce difputes purfue,
And give to Titus old Vefpafian's due.
Ambition figh'd: fhe found it vain to truft
The faithlefs column, and the crumbling buft: 20
Huge moles, whofe shadow ftretch'd from shore to
fhore,
Their ruins perifh'd, and their place no more! Convinc'd the now contracts her vast design, 180 And all her triumphs fhrink into a coin.
Who then fhall grace, or who improve the foil?
Who plants like Bathurst, or who builds like Boyle.
'Tis ufe alone that fanctifics expenfe,
And fplendor borrows all her rays from sense.
His Father's acres who enjoys in peace,
Or makes his Neighbours glad, if he increase:
Whofe chearful tenants blefs their yearly toil,
Yet to their Lord owe more than to the foil;
Whofe ample lawns are not afham'd to feed
The milky heifer and deferving feed;
Whole rifing forefts, not for pride or show,
But future buildings, future navies, grow:
Let his plantations ftretch from down to down,
First fhade a country, and then raise a town.
You too proceed! make falling arts your care,
Erect new wonders, and the old repair;
Jones and Palladio to themselves restore,
A narrow orb each crouded conqueft keeps,
Beneath her palm here fad Judea weeps.
Now fcantier limits the proud arch confine,
And scarce are feen the proftrate Nile or Rhine;
A fmall Euphrates through the piece is roil'd,
And little Eagles wave their wings in gold.
The Medal, faithful to its charge of fame,
Through climes and ages bears each form and
In one short view fubjected to our eye
Gods, Emperors, Heroes, Sages, Beauties, lie..
With fharpen'd fight pale Antiquaries pore,
Th' infcription value, but the rull adore.
This the blue varnish, that the green endears,
The facred ruft of twice ten hundred years!
To gain Pefcennius one employs his schemes,
One grafps a Cecrops in extatic dreams.
Poor Vadius, long with learn'd fpleen devour'd,
Can tafte no pleafure fince his Shield was fcour'd:
200 And Curio, reftlefs by the Fair.one's fide,
And be whate'er Vitruvius was before:
Till Kings call forth th Ideas of your mind,
(Proud to accomplish what such hands defign'd)
Bid Harbours open, public Ways extend,
Bid Temples worthier of the God afcend;
Bid the Broad Arch the dangerous flood contain,
The Mole projected break the roaring Main;
Back to his bounds their fubject fea command,,
And roll obedient rivers through the land;
Thefe honours, peace to happy Britain brings;
These are Imperial Works, and worthy Kings.
Sighs for an Otho, and neglects his bride.
Theirs is the Vanity, the Learning thine:
Touch'd by thy hand, again Rome's glories fhine:
Her Gods and godlike Heroes rise to view,
And all her faded garlands bloom anew.
Nor blufh, thefe ftudies thy regards engage;
Thefe pleas'd the fathers of poetic rage:
The verfe and fculpture bore an equal part,
And Art reflected images to Art.
Oh, when fhall Britain, confcious of her claim,
Stand emulous of Greek and Roman fanie?..
In living medals fee her wars enroll'd,
And vanquish'd realms fupply recording gold?
Here, rifing bold, the Patriots honeft face;
There, Warriors, frowning in hiftoric brafs :
Then future ages with delight fhall fee,
How Plato's, Bacon's, Newton's looks agree; 60
Or in fair feries laurel'd bards be fhown,
A Virgil there, and Here an Addifon
Then thall thy Craggs.(and let me call him mine)
On the caft ore, another Pollio, fhine įr
With afpect open fhall erect his head,
And round the orb in lafting notes be read,
3 D
"Statefman, yet friend to truth! of foul fincere,
"In action faithful, and in honour clear;
"Who broke no promise, ferv'd no private end,
"Who gain'd no title, and who loft no friend;
"Ennobled by himself, by all approvd
"And prais'd, unenvy'd, by the Muse he lov'd."
6eiz'd and ty'd down to judge, how wretched I!
Who can't be filent, and who will not lie:
To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace; 35
And to be grave, exceeds all power of face.
I fit with fad civility; I read
With honest anguish, and an aching head;
And drop at last, but in unwilling ears,
This faving council," Keep your piece nine years.”
Nine years! cries he, who high in Drury-lane, Lull'd by foft Zephyrs through the broken pane, Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before term ends,
EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT: Oblig'd by hunger, and requeft of friends:
Tye up the knocker, say I'm fick, I'm dead.
The Dog-ftar rages! nay, 'tis past a doubt,
All Bedlam, or Parnaffus, is let out:
Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand,
They rave, recite, and madden round the land.
What walls can guard me, or what shades can
hide?
"The piece, you think, is incorrect? why take
"I'm all fubmiffion; what you'd have it, make
Three things another's modest wishes bound,
My Friendship, and a Prologue, and ten pound.
Pitholeon fends to me: "You know his Grace:
"I want a Patron; afk him for à Place."
Pitholeon libel'd me-" but here's a letter
"Informs you, Sir, 'twas when he knew no better.
Dare you refuse him? Curll'invites to dine,
"He'll write a Journal, or he'll turn Divine."
Blefs me! a packet." "Tis a ftranger fues, 55
I" A Virgin Tragedy, an Orphan Mufe."
If I diflike it, "Furies, death and rage!"
If I approve, "Commend it to the Stage."
There (thank my ftars) my whole commiffion
ends,
5 The players and I are, luckily, no friends.
Fir'd that the house reject him, “Sdeath! I'II
"print it,
They pierce my thickets, through my grot they
glide.
By land, by water, they renew the charge;
They ftop the chariot, and they board the barge.
No place is facred, not the Church is free,"
Ev'n Sunday fhines no Sabbath-day to me;
Then from the Mint walks forth the man
Happy! to catch me, just at dinner-time.
Is there a Parfon, much bemus'd in beer, A maudlin poetefs, a rhyming Peer,
"And fhame the fools-Your intereft, Sir, with
Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much : "Not, Sir, if you revife it, and retouch.” All my demurs but double his attacks: 10 At laft he whifpers, "Do; and we go fnacks." Glad of a quarrel, ftrait I clap the door, "Sir, Tet me fee your works and you no more." 'Tis fang, when Midas' ears began to spring, (Midas, a facred perfon and a King)
His very Minifter, who fpy'd them first, 15(Some fay his Queen) was forc'd to speak, or burft.
A Clerk, fo edoom'd his father's foul to croft,
Who pens a stanza, when he should engrof?
Is there, who, lock'd from ink and paper, fcrawls
With desperate charcoal round his darken'd walls?
All fly to Twit'nam, and in humble strain
Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain,
Arthur, whofe giddy for neglects the laws,
Imputes to me and my damn'd works the cause :
Poor Cornus fees his frantic wife elope,
And curfes Wit, and Poetry, and Pope.
And is not mine, my friend, a forer cafe,
When every coxcomb perks them in my face?
A. Good friend, forbear! you deal in dangerous
things,
20 I'd never name Queens, Minifters, or Kings;
Keep clofe to ears, and thofe let affes prick,
'Tis nothing-P. Nothing? if they bite and kick?
Out with it, Dunciad! let the fecret' pass,
That fecret to each fool, that he's an Afs:
The truth once told (and wherefore fhould we
lie?)
Friend to my life! (which did not you prolong,
The world had wanted many an idle fong)
What drop or noftrum can this plague remove?
Or which must end me, a Fool's wrath or love? 30
A dire dilemma! either way I'm fped;
If foes, they write, if friends, they read me dead.
Pit, box, and gallery, in convulfions hurl'd,
Thou ftand it unfhook amidst a bursting world.
Who fhames a Scribbler? break one cobweb
through,
He fpins the flight, felf-pleafing thread anew:
Deftroy his fib or fophiftry, in vain,
The creature's at his dirty work again,
Thron'd on the centre of his thin defigns,
Proud of a vast extent of flimfy lines!"
Whom have I hurt? has Poet yet, or Peer,
Loft the arch'd eyebrow, or Parnaffian sneer?
And has not Colly still his lord, and whore?
His butchers Henley, his free-mafons Moor?
Does not one table Bavius ftill admit?
Still to one Bishop Philips feen a wit?
Soft were my numbers: who could take offence
While pure defcription held the place of fenfe?
Like gentle Fanny's was my flowery theme,
A painted mistress, or a purling ftream.
90 Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill;
I wish'd the man a dinner, and fate still.
Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret ;
I never anfwer'd, I was not in debt.
Still Sappho-A. Hold; for God's fake-you'll
offend,
No nanies-be calm-learn prudence of a friend:
I too could write, and I am twice as tall;
But foes like thefe-P. One Flatterer's worse than
all.
If want provok'd, or madness made them print, 155
I wag'd no war with Bedlam or the Mint.
Did fome more fober critic come abroad;
If wrong, I fmil'd; if right, I kifs'd the rod.
Pains, reading, ftudy, are their just pretence,
And all they want is fpirit, tafte, and fenfe.
Commas and points they fet exactly right,
And 'twere a fin to rob them of their mite.
Yet ne'er one fprig of laurel grac'd these ribalds,
From flashing Bentley down to pidling Tibalds:
Each wight, who reads not, and but fcans and
fpells,
Each Word-catcher, that lives on syllables,
105 Ev'n fuch fmall Critics fome regard may claim,
Preferv'd in Milton's or in Shakespeare's name.
Pretty! in amber to obferve the forms
Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms! 170 The things we know are neither rich nor rare, 110 But wonder how the devil they got there.
Of all mad creatures, if the learn'd are right,
It is the flaver kills, and not the bite.
A fool quite angry is quite innocent:
Alas! 'tis ten times worfe when they repent.
One dedicates in high heroic profe,
And ridicules beyond a hundred foes:
One from all Grub-freet will my fame defend,
And, more abufive, calls himself my friend.
This prints my letters, that expects a bribe,
And others roar aloud, "Subfcribe, fubfcribe!"
There are, who to my perfon pay their court:
115
I sough like Horace, and, though lean, am fhort.
Ammon's great fon one shoulder had too high,
Such Ovid's nofe, and, "Sir! you have an eye!"-
Go on, obliging creature, make me fee
All that difgrac'd my betters, met in me.
Say for my comfort, languifhing in bed,
"juft fo immortal Maro held his head;"
And when I die, be sure you let me know
Great Homer dy'd three thousand years ago.
Why did I write? what fin to me unknown
Dipp'd me in ink, my parents', or my own?
As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame,
I lifp'd in numbers, for the numbers came.
I left no calling for this idle trade,
No duty broke, no father difobey'd:
Were others angry: I excus'd them too;
125 Means not, but blunders round about a meaning:
And he, whofe fustian's so fublimely bad,
It is not poetry, but profe run mad:
All thefe, my modeft Satire bad translate,
And own'd that nine fuch poets made a l'ate. 190
130 How did they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe!
And fwear, not Addison himself was fafe.
The Mufe but ferv'd to eafe fome friend, not wife;
To help me through this long disease, my life;
To fecond, Arbuthnot! thy art and care,
And teach, the being you preferv'd, to bear.
Peace to all fuch! but were there one whofe fires
True Genius kindles, and fair fame infpires;
Bleft with each talent and each art to please,
And born to write, converfe, and live with cafe:
Should fuch a man, too fond to rule alone,
Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne,
View him with fcornful, yet with jealous eyes,
And hate for arts that caus'd himself to rife;
Damn with faint praise, affent with civil leer,
And, without fneering, teach the relt to fneer;
Willing to wound, and yet afraid to frike,
Juft hint a fault, and hesitate diflike;
Alike referv'd to blame, or to commend,
A timorous foc, and a fufpicious friend;
145 Dreading even fools, by flatterers befieg'd,
And fo obliging, that he ne'er obliged;
But why then publish? Granville the polite, 135
And knowing Walfh, would tell me I could write;
Well-natur'd Garth inflam'd with early praise,
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. Jolm's felf, (great Dryden's friends before)
With open arms received one poet more.
Happy my ftudies, 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 Cooks.
Why am I ask'd what next fhall fee the light? 210 Heavens! was I born for nothing but to write? Has Life no joys for me? or (to be grave) Have I no friend to ferve, no foul to fave? "I found him clofe with Swift-Indeed? no doubt 275
walls," (Cries prating Balbus) fomething will come out.' 215 'Tis all in vain, deny it as I will.
Or plaifter'd pofts, with claps, in capitals?
Or fmoaking forth, a hundred hawkers' load,
On wings of winds came flying all abroad?
I fought no homage from the race that write;'
1 kept, like Afan Monarchs, from their fight:
Poems I heeded (now berhym'd fo long)
No more than thou, great George! a birth-day
1 ne'er with wits or witlings pafs'd my days,
To fpread about the itch of verfe and praife';
Nor, like a puppy, daggled through the town,
To fetch and carry fing-fong up and down;
Nor at Rehearials fweat, and mouth'd, and cry'd,'
With handkerchief and orange at my fide;
But, fick of fops, and poetry, and prate,
To Bufo left the whole Caftalian ftate.
Proud as Apollo on his forked hill,
Sate full-blown Bufo, puff'd by every quill;
Fed with foft Dedication all day long.
Horace and he went hand in hand in fong,
His Library (where busts of Poets dead
And a true Pindar stood without a head)
Receiv'd of wits an undistinguish'd race,
Who firft his judgment ask'd, and then a place;
Much they extoll'd his pictures, much his feat,
And flatter'd every day, and sometimes cat;
Till, grown more frugal in his riper days,
He paid fome bards with port, and fome with praife,
To fome a dry rehearsal was affign'd,
And others (harder ftill) he paid in kind.
Dryden alone (what wonder?) came not nigh,
Dryden alone efcap'd this judging eye:
But fill the Great have kindness in referve,
He help'd to bury whom he help'd to ftarve.
May fome choice patron blefs each grey
quill!
"No, fuch a Genius never can lie ftill;"
And then for mine obligingly miftakes
The firft Lampoon Sir Will or Bubo 'makes.
Poor, guiltlefs I! and can I choose but fmie,
When every Coxcomb knows me by my Style?
Curft be the verfe, how well foe'er it flow,"
That tends to make one worthy man my toe,
Give Virtue fcandal, Innocence a fear,
Or from the foft-ey'd Virgin fteal a Tear!
But he who hurts a harmless neighbour's peace,
Infults fall'n Worth, or Beauty in diftrefs,
Who loves a Lie, lame flander helps about,
Who writes a Libel, or who copies out:
That Fop, whofe pride affects a patron's name,
Yet abfent, wounds an author's honeft fanje:
Who can your merit felfifhly approve,
And fhew the fenfe 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 fay,
And, if he lie not, must at least betray:
Who to the Dean and filver bell can fwear,
And fees at Cannons what was never there;
Who reads but with a luft to mifapply,
240 Make Satire a Lampoon, and Fiction Lie.
A lafh like mine no honeft man fhall dread,
But all fuch babbling blockheads in his ftead.
Let Sporus tremble-A. What? that thing of filk,
395
245 Sporus, that mere white curd of Afs's milk?
Satire of fenfe, alas! can Sporús feel?
Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?
P. Yet let me flap this bug with gilded wings,
This painted child of dirt, that ftinks and ftings;
Whole buzz the witty and the fair annoys,
250 Yet wit ne'er taftes, and beauty ne'er enjoys:
So well-bred spaniels civilly delight
May every Bavius have his Bufo ftill!
So when a Statesman wants a day's defence,
Or Envy holds a whole week's war with Sense,
Or fimple pride for flattery makes demands,
May dunce by dunce be whittled off my hands!
Bleft be the Great! for those they take away,
And those they left me; for they left me Gay
Left me to fee neglected genius bloom,
Neglected die, and tell it on his tomb:
Of all thy blameless life the fole return
In mumbling of the game they dare not bite.
Eternal fmiles his emptiness betray,
As fhallow ftreams run dimpling all the way.
Whether in florid impotence he speaks,
And, as the prompter breathes, the puppet fqueaks;
O at the ear of Eve, familiar Toad,
Half froth, half venom, fpits himself abroad,
In puns, or politics, or tales, or lies,
My Verie, and Queensberry weeping o'er thy urn! Or fpite, or fmut, or rhymes, or blafphemies.
Oh let me live my own, and die fo too!
(To live and die is all I have to do :) Maintain a Poet's dignity and ease,
260 His wit all fee-faw, between that and this,
Now high, now low, now mafter up, now mifs,
And he himself one vile Antithefis.
Amphibious thing! that, acting either part,
And fee what friends, and read what books I pleafe: The trifling head! or the corrupted heart,
Above a Patron, though I condefcend
Sometimes to call a Minister my fr end.
I was not born for Courts or great affairs:
pay my debts, believe, and fay my prayers; Can fleep without a Poem in my head, Nor know, if Dennis be alive or dead.
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