So proud, fo grand, of that stupendous Air,
Soft and Agreeable come never there.

Greatness, with Timon, dwells in fuch a Draught
As brings all Brobdignag before your Thought.
To compass this, his Building is a Town,
His Pond an Ocean, his Parterre a Down:
Who but muft laugh, the Mafter when he fees?
A puny Infect, fhiv'ring at a Breeze.

Lo, what huge Heaps of Littlenefs around!
The Whole, a labour'd Quarry above Ground.
Two Cupids fquirt before: a Lake behind
Improves the Keenness of a northern Wind.
His Gardens next your Admiration call,
On ev'ry Side you look, behold the Wall!
No pleafing Intricacies intervene,

No artful Wildness to perplex the Scene;
Grové nods at Grove, each Alley has a Brother,
And half the Platform juft reflects the other.
The fuffr'ing 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-Houfe that knows no Shade.
Here Amphitrite fails thro' Myrtle Bowers;
There Gladiators fight, or die in Flow'rs;
Un-water'd fee the drooping Sea-horse mourn,
And Swallows rooft in Nilus' dufty Urn.

My Lord advances with majeftick Mien,
Smit with the mighty Pleafure, to be feen:
But foft by regular Approach-not yet-
First thro' the Length of yon hot Terras fweat,
And when up ten fteep Slopes you've dragg'd your
Juft at his Study-door he'll blefs your Eyes. [Thighs,
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 Reft as good
For all his Lordfhip knows, but they are Wood.
For Lock or Milton 'tis in vain to look,

These Shelves admit not any modern Book.

And now the Chappel's filver Bell you hear,
That fummons you to all the Pride of Pray'r :
Light Quirks of Mufick, broken and uneven,
Make the Soul dance upon a Jig to Heav'n.
On painted Cielings you devoutly stare,
Where fprawl the Saints of Verrio, or Laguerre,
On gilded Clouds in fair Expanfion lie,
And bring all Paradife before your Eye.
To reft, the Cushion and soft * Dean invite,
Who never mentions Hell to Ears polite.
But hark! The chiming Clocks to Dinner call,
A hundred Footsteps fcrape the Marble Hall:
The rich Beaufet well-colour'd Serpents grace,
And gaping Tritons fpew to wash your Face.
Is this a Dinner? this a Genial Room?
No, 'tis a Temple, and a Hecatomb;
A folemn Sacrifice, perform'd in State,
You drink by Measure, and to Minutes eat.
So quick retires each flying Course, you'd swear
Sancho's dread Doctor and his Wand were there.
Between each Act the trembling Salvers ring,
From Soup to Sweet-wine, and God bless the King.
In Plenty ftarving, tantaliz'd in State,

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 Coft, and little Skill,
And fwear no Day was ever paft fo ill,

Thefe

* This is a Fact, a Reverend Dean of Peterborough preaching at Court, threatned the Sinner with Punishment in a Place which he thought it not decent to name in fo polite an Affembly,"

These Lines to a certain Grandee, no less than a Duke, gave great Offence, the Defcription was too plain not to be known (as the malicious Town faid) who was pointed at at first Sight, and many Perfons began to think that Mr. Pope was out of his Place in attacking a Peer, and one of the firft Rank, in fo publick a Manner, and Terms of fo little Refpect, Numbers of Complaints were made, the Duke himfelf wrote Mr. Pope a Letter, and made him fenfible, that he ought to have confin'd himself to a made Character, and not pretend to give for a real one, what altogether belong'd to no Body, in fhort, Mr. Pope began to wish he had not push'd the Matter fo far, but there was no receding, all he could do was a little to palliate the Bufinefs, and partly deny that the Character was meant for that noble Duke, and this he chose to do, or rather got Mr. Cleland to do, in a Letter to his dear and intrinfick Friend Mr. Gay, dated December 16, 1731;

Am aftonish'd at the Complaints occafioned by a late Epistle to the Earl of Burlington; and I fhould be afflicted, were there the least just Ground for them. Had the Writer attack'd Vice, at a Time when it is not only tolerated, but triumphant, and fo far from being conceal'd as a Defect, that it is proclaim'd with Oftentation as a Merit, I fhould have been apprehenfive of the Confequence: Had he fatiriz'd Gamefters of a hundred thoufand Pounds For

tune, acquir'd by fuch Methods as are daily in Practice, and almoft univerfally encourag'd: Had he over warmly defended the Religion of his Country, against fuch Books as come from every Prefs, are publickly vended in every Shop, and greedily bought by almost every Rank of Men; or had he called our Excellent Weekly Writers by the fame Names which

they

they openly bestow on the greatest Men in the Miniftry, and out of the Miniftry, for which they are all unpunifh'd, and most rewarded: In any of thefe Cafes, indeed, I might have judged him too prefumptuous, and perhaps have trembled for his Rafhnefs.

I could not but hope better for this fmall and modeft Epiftle, which attacks no one Vice whatfoever; which deals only in Folly, and not Folly in general, but a fingle Species of it; that only Branch, for the oppofite Excellency to which, the noble Lord to whom it is written muft neceffarily be celebrated. I fancied it might escape Cenfure, especially seeing how tenderly thofe Follies are treated, and really less accus'd, than apologiz❜d for.

Yet hence the Poor are cloth'd, the Hungry fed,
Health to himself, and to his Infants Bread,
The Lab'rer bears-

Is this fuch a Crime, that to impute it to a Man muft be a grievous Offence? 'tis an innocent Folly, and much more beneficent than the Want of it; for i Tafte employs more Hands, and diffufes Expence more than a good one. Is it a moral Defect? No, it is but a natural one; a want of Tafte. It is what the best good Man living may be liable to: The worthieft Peer may live exemplary in an ill-favour'd Houfe, and the beft reputed Citizen may be pleas'd with a vile Garden. I thought (I fay) the Author had the common Liberty to observe a Defect, and to compliment a Friend for a Quality that distinguishes him: Which I know not how any Quality should do, if we were not to remark that it was wanting in others.

But they fay the Satire is Perfonal. I thought it could not be fo, because all its Reflections are on Things, His Reflections are not on the Man, but on

his House, Garden, &c. Nay, he refpects (as one may fay) the Perfons of the Gladiator, Amphitheatre, the Nile, and the Triton: He is only forry to fee them (as he might be to fee any of his Friends) ridiculous, by being in the wrong Place, and in bad Company. Some fancy, that to say a Thing is perfonal, is the fame as to fay it is unjust, not confidering, that nothing can be just that is not perfonal. I am afraid, that all fuch Writings and Difcourfes as touch no Man, will mend no Man." The Good natur'd, indeed, are apt to be alarm'd at any Thing Jike Satire; and the Guilty readily confer with the Weak for a plain Reason, because the Vicious look upon Folly as their Frontier:

No wonder those who know Ridicule belongs to them find an inward Confolation in removing it from themfelves as far as they can; and it is never fo far, as when they can get it fix'd upon the best Characters: No wonder thofe who are Food for Satirifts, fhould rail at them as Creatures of Prey; every Beaft born for our Ufe would be ready to call a Man fo.

I know no Remedy, unless People in our Age would as little frequent the Theatres, as they begin to do the Churches; unlefs Comedy were forfaken, Satire filent, and every Man left to do what seems good in his own Eyes, as if there were no King, no Priest, no Poet in Ifrael.

But I find myfelf oblig'd to touch a Point, on which I must be more ferious; it well deserves Į should I mean the malicious Applicatiou of the Character of Timen, which I will boldly fay, they would impute to the Perfon the moft different in the World from a Man-hater, and the Perfon whofe Tafte and

Encourage