Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, AN EPISTLE TO HENRY CROMWELL, ESQ., by ALEXANDER POPE


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

AN EPISTLE TO HENRY CROMWELL, ESQ., by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Dear mr. Cromwell, / may it please ye!
Last Line: But which, I cannot tell you truly.


DEAR Mr. Cromwell,
May it please ye!
Sit still a Moment; pray be easy --
Faith 'tis not five; no Play's begun;
No Game at Ombre lost or won.
Read something of a diff'rent Nature,
Than Ev'ning Post, or Observator;
And pardon me a little Fooling,
-- Just while your Coffee stands a Cooling.

Since your Acquaintance with one Brocas,
Who needs will back the Muses Cock-horse,
I know you dread all those who write,
And both with Mouth and Hand recite;
Who slow, and leisurely rehearse,
As loath t' enrich you with their Verse;
Just as a Still, with Simples in it,
Betwixt each Drop stays half a Minute.
(That Simile is not my own,
But lawfully belongs to Donne)
(You see how well I can contrive a
Interpolatio Furtiva)
To Brocas's Lays no more you listen
Than to the wicked Works of Whiston;
In vain he strains to reach your Ear,
With what it wisely, will not hear:
You bless the Powers who made that Organ
Deaf to the Voice of such a Gorgon,
(For so one sure may call that Head,
Which does not Look, but Read Men dead.)

I hope, you think me none of those
Who shew their Parts as Pentlow does,
I but lug out to one or two
Such Friends, if such there are, as you,
Such, who read Heinsius and Masson,
And as you please their Doom to pass on,
(Who are to me both Smith and Johnson)
So seize them Flames, or take them Tonson.

But, Sir, from Brocas, Fouler, me,
In vain you think to 'scape Rhyme-free,
When was it known one Bard did follow
Whig Maxims, and abjure Apollo?
Sooner shall Major-General cease
To talk of War, and live in Peace;
Yourself for Goose reject Crow Quill,
And for plain Spanish quit Brasil;
Sooner shall Rowe lampoon the UNION
Tydcombe take Oaths on the Communion;
The Granvilles write their Name plain Greenfield,
Nay, Mr. Wycherley see Binfield.

I'm told, you think to take a Step some
Ten Miles from Town, t' a Place call'd Epsom,
To treat those Nymphs like yours of Drury,
With -- I protest, and I'll assure ye; --
But tho' from Flame to Flame you wander,
Beware; your Heart's no Salamander!
But burnt so long, may soon turn Tinder,
And so be fir'd by any Cinder-
(Wench, I'd have said did Rhyme not hinder)
Shou'd it so prove, yet who'd admire?
'Tis known, a Cook-maid roasted Prior,
Lardella fir'd a famous Author,
And for a Butcher's well-fed Daughter
Great D--s roar'd, like Ox at Slaughter.

(Now, if you're weary of my Style,
Take out your Box of right Brasil,
First lay this Paper under, then,
Snuff just three Times, and read again.)

I had to see you some Intent
But for a curst Impediment,
Which spoils full many a good Design,
That is to say, the Want of Coin.
For which, I had resolv'd almost,
To raise Tiberius Gracchus Ghost;
To get, by once more murd'ring Caius,
As much as did Septimuleius;
But who so dear will buy the Lead,
That lies within a Poet's Head,
As that which in the Hero's Pate
Deserv'd of Gold an equal Weight?

Sir, you're so stiff in your Opinion,
I wish you do not turn Socinian;
Or prove Reviver of a Schism,
By modern Wits call'd Quixotism.
What mov'd you, pray, without compelling,
Like Trojan true, to draw for Hellen:
Quarrel with Dryden for a Strumpet,
(For so she was, as e'er show'd Rump yet,
Tho' I confess, she had much Grace,
Especially about the Face.)
Virgil, when call'd Pasiphae Virgo
(You say) he'd more good Breeding; Ergo --
Well argu'd, Faith! Your Point you urge
As home, as ever did Panurge:
And one may say of Dryden too,
(As once you said of you know who)
He had some Fancy, and cou'd write;
Was very learn'd, but not polite --
However from my Soul I judge
He ne'er (good Man) bore Hellen Grudge,
But lov'd her full as well it may be,
As e'er he did his own dear Lady.
You have no Cause to take Offence, Sir,
Z--ds, you're as sour as Cato Censor!
Ten times more like him, I profess,
Than I'm like Aristophanes.

To end with News -- the best I know,
Is, I've been well a Week, or so.
The Season of green Pease is fled,
And Artichoaks reign in their Stead.
Th' Allies to bomb Toulon prepare;
G--d save the pretty Lady's there!
One of our Dogs is dead and gone,
And I, unhappy! left alone.
If you have any Consolation
T'administer on this Occasion,
Send it, I pray, by the next Post,
Before my Sorrow be quite lost.
The twelfth or thirteenth Day of July,
But which, I cannot tell you truly.





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