Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, IMITATIONS OF HORACE: EPISTLE 1.7, SELECTION, by ALEXANDER POPE


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IMITATIONS OF HORACE: EPISTLE 1.7, SELECTION, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Tis true, my lord, I gave my word
Last Line: But you may read it, I stop short.


IMITATED IN THE MANNER OF DR. SWIFT

'Tis true, my Lord, I gave my word,
I would be with you, June the third;
Chang'd it to August, and (in short)
Have kept it -- as you do at Court.
You humour me when I am sick,
Why not when I am splenatick?
In town, what Objects could I meet?
The shops shut up in every street,
And Fun'rals black'ning all the Doors,
And yet more melancholy Whores:
And what a dust in ev'ry place!
And a thin Court that wants your Face,
And Fevers raging up and down,
And P--x and P both in town!
'The Dog-days are no more the case.'
'Tis true, but Winter comes apace:
Then southward let your Bard retire,
Hold out some months 'twixt Sun and Fire,
And you shall see, the first warm Weather,
Me and the Butterflies together.
My lord, your Favours well I know;
'Tis with Distinction you bestow;
And not to every one that comes,
Just as a Scotsman does his Plumbs.
'Pray take them, Sir, -- Enough's a Feast:
Eat some, and pocket up the rest --'
What rob your Boys? those pretty rogues! --
'No Sir, you'll leave them to the Hogs.'
Thus Fools with Compliments besiege ye,
Contriving never to oblige ye.
Scatter your Favours on a Fop,
Ingratitude's the certain crop;
And 'tis but just, I'll tell you wherefore,
You give the things you never care for.
A wise man always is or should
Be mighty ready to do good;
But makes a diff'rence in his thought
Betwixt a Guinea and a Groat.
Now this I'll say, you'll find in me
A safe Companion, and a free;
But if you'd have me always near --
A word, pray, in your Honour's ear.
I hope it is your Resolution
To give me back my Constitution!
The sprightly Wit, the lively Eye,
Th' engaging Smile, the Gaiety,
That laugh'd down many a Summer's Sun,
And kept you up so oft till one;
And all that voluntary Vein,
As when Belinda rais'd my Strain.
A Weasel once made shift to slink
In at a Corn-loft thro' a Chink;
But having amply stuff'd his skin,
Cou'd not get out as he got in:
Which one belonging to the House
('Twas not a Man, it was a Mouse)
Observing, cry'd, 'You scape not so,
Lean as you came, Sir, you must go.'
Sir, you may spare your Application
I'm no such Beast, nor his Relation;
Nor one that Temperance advance,
Cramm'd to the throat with Ortolans:
Extremely ready to resign
All that may make me none of mine.
South-sea Subscriptions take who please,
Leave me but Liberty and Ease.
'Twas what I said to Craggs and Child,
Who prais'd my Modesty, and smil'd.
Give me, I cry'd (enough for me)
My Bread, and Independency!
So bought an Annual Rent or two.
And liv'd -- just as you see I do;
Near fifty, and without a Wife,
I trust that sinking Fund, my Life.
Can I retrench? Yes, mighty well,
Shrink back to my Paternal Cell,
A little House, with Trees a-row,
And like its Master, very low,
There dy'd my Father, no man's Debtor,
And there I'll die, nor worse nor better.
To set this matter full before you,
Our old Friend Swift will tell his Story.
'Harley, the Nation's great Support,' --
But you may read it, I stop short.





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