Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, EPILOGUE TO THE SATIRES: DIALOGUE 2, by ALEXANDER POPE


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

EPILOGUE TO THE SATIRES: DIALOGUE 2, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Tis all a libel -- paxton, sir, will say
Last Line: And write next winter more essays on man.
Subject(s): Dalrymple, John. 2d Earl Of Stair; Hough, John. Bishop Of Worcester; Stair, Marshal (1673-1747)


Fr. Tis all a Libel -- Paxton (Sir) will say.
P. Not yet, my Friend! to-morrow 'faith it may;
And for that very cause I print to day.
How shou'd I fret, to mangle ev'ry line,
In rev'rence to the Sins of Thirty-nine!
Vice with such Giant-strides comes on amain,
Invention strives to be before in vain;
Feign what I will, and paint it e'er so strong,
Some rising Genius sins up to my Song.
F. Yet none but you by Name the Guilty lash;
Ev'n Guthry saves half Newgate by a Dash.
Spare then the Person, and expose the Vice.
P. How Sir! not damn the Sharper, but the Dice?
Come on then Satire! gen'ral, unconfin'd,
Spread thy broad wing, and sowze on all the Kind.
Ye Statesmen, Priests, of one Religion all!
Ye Tradesmen vile, in Army, Court, or Hall!
Ye Rev'rend Atheists! -- F. Scandal! name them, Who?
P. Why that's the thing you bid me not to do.
Who starv'd a Sister, who forswore a Debt,
I never nam'd -- the Town's enquiring yet.
The pois'ning Dame -- Fr. You mean -- P. I don't. -- Fr. You do.
P. See! now I keep the Secret, and not you.
The bribing Statesman -- Fr. Hold! too high you go.
P. The brib'd Elector -- Fr. There you stoop too low.
P. I fain wou'd please you, if I knew with what:
Tell me, which Knave is lawful Game, which not?
Must great Offenders, once escap'd the Crown,
Like Royal Harts, be never more run down?
Admit your Law to spare the Knight requires;
As Beasts of Nature may we hunt the Squires?
Suppose I censure -- you know what I mean --
To save a Bishop, may I name a Dean?
Fr. A Dean, Sir? no: his Fortune is not made,
You hurt a man that's rising in the Trade.

P. If not the Tradesman who set up to day,
Much less the 'Prentice who to morrow may.
Down, down, proud Satire! tho' a Realm be spoil'd,
Arraign no mightier Thief than wretched Wild,
Or if a Court or Country's made a Job,
Go drench a Pick-pocket, and join the Mob.
But Sir, I beg you, for the Love of Vice!
The matter's weighty, pray consider twice:
Have you less Pity for the needy Cheat,
The poor and friendless Villain, than the Great?
Alas! the small Discredit of a Bribe
Scarce hurts the Lawyer, but undoes the Scribe.
Then better sure it Charity becomes
To tax Directors, who (thank God) have Plums;
Still better, Ministers; or if the thing
May pinch ev'n there -- why lay it on a King.
Fr. Stop! stop!
P. Must Satire, then, nor rise nor fall?
Speak out, and bid me blame no Rogues at all.
Fr. Yes, strike that Wild, I'll justify the blow.
P. Strike? why the man was hang'd ten years ago:
Who now that obsolete Example fears?
Ev'n Peter trembles only for his Ears.
Fr. What always Peter? Peter thinks you mad,
You make men desp'rate if they once are bad:
Else might he take to Virtue some years hence --
P. As S--k, if he lives, will love the PRINCE.
Fr. Strange spleen to S--k!
P. Do I wrong the Man?
God knows, I praise a Courtier where I can.
When I confess, there is who feels for Fame,
And melts to Goodness, need I SCARBROW name?

Pleas'd let me own, in Esher's peaceful Grove
(Where Kent and Nature vye for PELHAM's Love)
The Scene, the Master, opening to my view,
I sit and dream I see my CRAGS anew!
Ev'n in a Bishop I can spy Desert;
Secker is decent, Rundel has a Heart,
Manners with Candour are to Benson giv'n,
To Berkley, ev'ry Virtue under Heav'n.
But does the Court a worthy Man remove?
That instant, I declare, he has my Love:
I shun his Zenith, court his mild Decline;
Thus SOMMERS once, and HALIFAX were mine.
Oft in the clear, still Mirrour of Retreat,
I study'd SHREWSBURY, the wise and great:
CARLETON's calm Sense, and STANHOPE's noble Flame,
Compar'd, and knew their gen'rous End the same:
How pleasing ATTERBURY's softer hour!
How shin'd the Soul, unconquer'd in the Tow'r!

How can I PULT'NEY, CHESTERFIELD forget,
While Roman Spirit charms, and Attic Wit:
ARGYLE, the State's whole Thunder born to wield,
And shake alike the Senate and the Field:
Or WYNDHAM, just to Freedom and the Throne,
The Master of our Passions, and his own.
Names, which I long have lov'd, nor lov'd in vain,
Rank'd with their Friends, not number'd with their Train;
And if yet higher the proud List should end,
Still let me say! No Follower, but a Friend.

Yet think not Friendship only prompts my Lays;
I follow Virtue, where she shines, I praise,
Point she to Priest or Elder, Whig or Tory,
Or round a Quaker's Beaver cast a Glory.
I never (to my sorrow I declare)
Din'd with the MAN of ROSS, or my LORD MAY'R.
Some, in their choice of Friends (nay, look not grave)
Have still a secret Byass to a Knave:
To find an honest man, I beat about,
And love him, court him, praise him, in or out.
Fr. Then why so few commended?
P. Not so fierce;
Find you the Virtue, and I'll find the Verse.
But random Praise -- the Task can ne'er be done,
Each Mother asks it for her Booby Son,
Each Widow asks it for the Best of Men,
For him she weeps, and him she weds agen.

Praise cannot stoop, like Satire, to the Ground;
The Number may be hang'd, but not be crown'd.
Enough for half the Greatest of these days
To 'scape my Censure, not expect my Praise:
Are they not rich? what more can they pretend?
Dare they to hope a Poet for their Friend?
What RICHELIEU wanted, LOUIS scarce could gain,
And what young AMMON wish'd, but wish'd in vain.
No Pow'r the Muse's Friendship can command;
No Pow'r, when Virtue claims it, can withstand:
To Cato, Virgil pay'd one honest line;
O let my Country's Friends illumin mine!
-- What are you thinking? Fr. Faith, the thought's no Sin,
I think your Friends are out, and would be in.
P. If merely to come in, Sir, they go out,
The way they take is strangely round about.
Fr. They too may be corrupted, you'll allow?
P. I only call those Knaves who are so now.
Is that too little? Come then, I'll comply --
Spirit of Arnall! aid me while I lye.
COBHAM's a Coward, POLWARTH is a Slave,
And LYTTLETON a dark, designing Knave,
St. JOHN has ever been a wealthy Fool --
But let me add, Sir ROBERT's mighty dull,
Has never made a Friend in private life,
And was, besides, a Tyrant to his Wife.
But pray, when others praise him, do I blame?
Call Verres, Wolsey, any odious name?
Why rail they then, if but a Wreath of mine
Oh All-accomplish'd St. JOHN! deck thy Shrine?
What? shall each spur-gall'd Hackney of the Day,
When Paxton gives him double Pots and Pay,
Or each new-pension'd Sycophant, pretend
To break my Windows, if I treat a Friend;
Then wisely plead, to me they meant no hurt,
But 'twas my Guest at whom they threw the dirt?
Sure, if I spare the Minister, no rules
Of Honour bind me, not to maul his Tools;
Sure, if they cannot cut, it may be said
His Saws are toothless, and his Hatchets Lead.
It anger'd TURENNE, once upon a day.
To see a Footman kick'd that took his pay:
But when he heard th' Affront the Fellow gave,
Knew one a Man of Honour, one a Knave;
The prudent Gen'ral turn'd it to a jest,
And begg'd, he'd take the pains to kick the rest.
Which not at present having time to do --
Fr. Hold Sir! for God's-sake, where's th' Affront to you?
Against your worship when had S--k writ?
Or P--ge pour'd forth the Torrent of his Wit?
Or grant, the Bard whose Distich all commend,
[In Pow'r a Servant, out of Pow'r a Friend.]
To W--le guilty of some venial Sin,
What's that to you, who ne'er was out nor in?
The Priest whose Flattery be-dropt the Crown,
How hurt he you? he only stain'd the Gown.
And how did, pray, the Florid Youth offend.
Whose Speech you took, and gave it to a Friend?
P. Faith it imports not much from whom it came
Whoever borrow'd, could not be to blame,
Since the whole House did afterwards the same:
Let Courtly Wits to Wits afford supply,
As Hog to Hog in Huts of Westphaly;
If one, thro' Nature's Bounty or his Lord's,
Has what the frugal, dirty soil affords,
From him the next receives it, thick or thin,
As pure a Mess almost as it came in;
The blessed Benefit, not there confin'd,
Drops to the third who nuzzles close behind;
From tail to mouth, they feed, and they carouse;
The last, full fairly gives it to the House.
Fr. This filthy Simile, this beastly Line,
Quite turns my Stomach -- P. So does Flatt'ry mine;
And all your Courtly Civet-Cats can vent,
Perfume to you, to me is Excrement.
But hear me further. -- Gaphet, 'tis agreed,
Writ not, and Chartres scarce could write or read,
In all the Courts of Pindus guiltless quite;
But Pens can forge, my Friend, that cannot write.
And must no Egg in aphet's Face be thrown,
Because the Deed he fog'd was not my own?
Must never Patriot then declaim at Gin,
Unless, good man! he has been fairly in?
No zealous Pastor blame a failing Spouse,
Without a staring Reason on his Brows?
And each Blasphemer quite escape the Rod,
Because the insult's not on Man, but God?
Ask you what Provocation I have had?
The strong Antipathy of Good to Bad.
When Truth or Virtue an Affront endures,
Th' Affront is mine, my Friend, and should be yours.
Mine, as a Foe profess'd to false Pretence,
Who think a Coxcomb's Honour like his Sense;
Mine, as a Friend to ev'ry worthy mind;
And mine as Man, who feel for all mankind.
Fr. You're strangely proud.
P. So proud, I am no Slave:
So impudent, I own myself no Knave:
So odd, my Country's Ruin makes me grave.
Yes, I am proud; I must be proud to see
Men not afraid of God, afraid of me:

Safe from the Bar, the Pulpit, and the Throne,
Yet touch'd and sham'd by Ridicule alone.
O sacred Weapon! left for Truth's defence,
Sole Dread of Folly, Vice, and Insolence!
To all but Heav'n-directed hands deny'd,
The Muse may give thee, but the Gods must guide.
Rev'rent I touch thee! but with honest zeal;
To rowze the Watchmen of the Publick Weal,
To Virtue's Work provoke the tardy Hall,
And goad the Prelate slumb'ring in his Stall.
Ye tinsel Insects! whom a Court maintains,
That counts your Beauties only by your Stains,
Spin all your Cobwebs o'er the Eye of Day!
The Muse's wing shall brush you all away:
All his Grace preaches, all his Lordship sings,
All that makes Saints of Queens, and Gods of Kings,
All, all but Truth, drops dead-born from the Press,
Like the last Gazette, or the last Address.
When black Ambition stains a Publick Cause,
A Monarch's sword when mad Vain-glory draws,
Not Waller's Wreath can hide the Nation's Scar,
Nor Boileau turn the Feather to a Star.
Not so, when diadem'd, with Rays divine,
Touch'd with the Flame that breaks from Virtue's Shrine,
Her Priestless Muse forbids the Good to dye,
And ope's the Temple of Eternity;
There other Trophies deck the truly Brave,
Than such as Anstis casts into the Grave;
Far other Stars * than ** and wear,
And may descend to Mordington from Stair:
Such as on HOUGH'S unsully'd Mitre shine,
Or beam, good DIGBY! from a Heart like thine.
Let Envy howl while Heav'n's whole Chorus sings,
And bark at Honour not confer'd by Kings;
Let Flatt'ry sickening see the Incense rise,
Sweet to the World, and grateful to the Skies:
Truth guards the Poet, sanctifies the line,
And makes Immortal, Verse as mean as mine.
Yes, the last Pen for Freedom let me draw,
When Truth stands trembling on the edge of Law:
Here, Last of Britons! let your Names be read;
Are none, none living? let me praise the Dead,
And for that Cause which made your Fathers shine,
Fall, by the Votes of their degen'rate Line!
Fr. Alas! alas! pray end what you began,
And write next winter more Essays on Man.





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