Of Mr. POPE's on that Subject.
Hoe'er he be that to a Taste afspires,
Let him read this, and be what he defires.
In men and manners vers'd from life I write,
Not what was once, but what is now polite.
Those who of courtly France have made the tour,
Can scarce our English aukwardness endure.
But honeft men who never were abroad,
Like England only, and its Taste applaud.
Strife ftill fubfifts, which yields the better goût;
Books or the world, the many or the few.
True Taste to me is by this touchstone known,
That's always best that's nearest to my own.
To fhew that my pretenfions are not vain,
My father was a play'r in Drury-lane.
Pears and pistachio-nuts my mother fold,
He a dramatic poet, fhe a fcold.
His tragic Mufe could counteffes affright,
His wit in boxes was my lord's delight.
No mercenary priest e'er join'd their hands,
Uncramp'd by wedlock's unpoetic bands.
Laws my Pindaric parents matter'd not,
So I was tragi-comically got.
My infant tears a fort of measure kept,
I fquall'd in diftichs, and in triplets wept.
No youth did I in education waste,
Happy in an hereditary Taste.
Writing ne'er cramp'd the finews of my thumb,
Nor barbarous birch e'er brush'd my tender bum.
My guts ne'er fuffer'd from a college cook,
My name ne'er enter'd in a buttery-book.
Grammar in vain the fons of Prifcian teach,
Good parts are better than eight parts of speech:
Since these declin'd, thofe undeclin'd they call,
I thank my stars, that I declin'd them all.
To Greek or Latin tongues without pretence,
I trust to mother wit and father sense.
Nature's my guide, all fciences I fcorn,
Pains I abhor, I was a poet born.
Yet is my goût for criticism such,
fome French, and know a little Dutch.
Huge commentators grace my learned fhelves,
Notes upon books out-do the books themselves.
Critics indeed are valuable men,
But hyper-critics are as good agen.
Though Blackmore's works my foul with raptures fill,
With notes by Bentley they'd be better ftill
The Boghouse-Miscellany's well defign'd,
To ease the body, and improve the mind.
Swift's whims and jokes for my refentment call,
For he displeases me that pleases all.
Verse without rhyme I never could endure,
Uncouth in numbers, and in sense obscure.
To him as nature, when he ceas'd to fee,
Milton's an univerfal blank to me.
Confirm'd and fettled by the nation's voice,
Rhyme is the poet's pride, and people's choice.
Always upheld by national fupport,
Of market, university, and court:
Thomson, write blank; but know that for that reason,
These lines fhall live when thine are out of season.
Rhyme binds and beautifies the poet's lays,
As London ladies owe their fhape to stays.
Had Cibber's felf the Careless Husband wrote,
He for the laurel ne'er had had my vote:
But for his epilogues and other plays,
He thoroughly deferves the modern bays.
It pleases me, that Pope unlaurell❜d
goes,
While Cibber wears the bays for play-house profe :
So Britain's monarch once uncover'd fate,
While Bradshaw bully'd in a broad-brimm'd hat.
Long live old Curl! he ne'er to publish fears
The fpeeches, verfes, and laft wills of peers.
How oft has he a public fpirit fhewn,
And pleas'd our ears, regardless of his own!
But to give merit due, though Curl's the fame,
Are not his brother book-fellers the fame?
Can statutes keep the British press in awe,
While that fells beft, that's most against the law?
Lives of dead players my leisure hours beguile,
And Seffions-papers tragedize my stile.
'Tis charming reading in Ophelia's life,
So oft a mother, and not once a wife:
She could with just propriety behave,
Alive with peers, with monarchs in her grave:
Her lot how oft have envious harlots wept,
By prebends bury'd, and by generals kept.
T'improve in morals Mandevil I read,
And Tyndal's fcruples are my fettled creed.
I travell❜d early, and I foon faw through
Religion all, ere I was twenty-two.
Shame, pain, or poverty fhall I endure,
When ropes or opium can my ease procure?
When money's gone, and I no debts can pay,
Self-murder is an honourable way.
As Pafaran directs I'd end my life,
And kill myself, my daughter, and my wife.
Burn but that Bible which the parfon quotes,
And men of spirit all fhall cut their throats.
But not to writings I confine my pen,
I have a Taste for buildings, mufic, men.
Young travell❜d coxcombs mighty knowledge boast,
With fuperficial fmattering at most.
Not fo my mind, unfatisfied with hints,
Knows more than Budgel writes, or Roberts prints.
|