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Alexander pope essay on man epistle 3 summary
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There dramatic rise pace at which women marry and have children. How did they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe And swear not Addison himself was safe. Peace to all such!
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Who would not weep, if Atticus were he? What though my name stood rubric on the walls, Or plaistered posts, with claps, in capitals? I sought no homage from the race that write; I kept, like Asian monarchs, from their sight: Poems I heeded now be-rhymed so long No more than thou, great George! Proud as Apollo on his forked hill, Sat full-blown Bufo puffed by every quill; Fed with soft dedication all day long, Horace and he went hand in hand in song. His library where busts of poets dead And a true Pindar stood without a head Received of wits an undistinguished race, Who first his judgment asked, and then a place: Much they extolled his pictures, much his seat, And flattered every day, and some days eat: Till grown more frugal in his riper days, He paid some bards with port, and some with praise; To some a dry rehearsal was assigned, And others harder still he paid in kind.
Dryden alone what wonder? May some choice patron bless each grey goose quill! May every Bavius have his Bufo still! Blessed be the great! Oh let me live my own, and die so too! I was not born for courts or great affairs; I pay my debts, believe, and say my prayers; Can sleep without a poem in my head; Nor know, if Dennis be alive or dead. Why am I asked what next shall see the light? Has life no joys for me! Poor guiltless I! A lash like mine no honest man shall dread, But all such babbling blockheads in his stead. Let Sporus tremble— A. Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?
Whether in florid impotence he speaks And, as the prompter breathes, the puppet squeaks; Or at the ear of Eve, familiar toad, Half froth, half venom, spits himself abroad, In puns, or politics, or tales, or lies, Or spite, or smut, or rhymes, or blasphemies.
But why insult the poor, affront the great? Full ten years slandered, did he once reply? To please a mistress one aspersed his life; He lashed him not, but let her be his wife. Yet why? Unspotted names, and memorable long! If there be force in virtue, or in song. What fortune, pray?
Pope's Poems and Prose Summary and Analysis of An Essay on Man: Epistle II
Born to no pride, inheriting no strife, Nor marrying discord in a noble wife, Stranger to civil and religious rage, The good man walked innoxious through his age. Nor courts he saw, no suits would ever try, Nor dared an oath, nor hazarded a lie. By nature honest, by experience wise, Healthy by temperance, and by exercise; His life, though long, to sickness past unknown, His death was instant, and without a groan. O grant me thus to live, and thus to die! Who sprung from kings shall know less joy than I. O friend!
On cares like these if length of days attend, May Heaven, to bless those days, preserve my friend, Preserve him social, cheerful, and serene, And just as rich as when he served a queen. Whether that blessing be denied or given, Thus far was right, the rest belongs to Heaven. The occasion of publishing these Imitations was the clamour raised on some of my Epistles. An answer from Horace was both more full, and of more dignity, than any I could have made in my own person; and the example of much greater freedom in so eminent a divine as Dr.
Donne, seemed a proof with what indignation and contempt a Christian may treat vice or folly, in ever so low, or ever so high a station. Both these authors were acceptable to the princes and ministers under whom they lived. The Satires of Dr.
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Donne I versified, at the desire of the Earl of Oxford while he was Lord Treasurer, and of the Duke of Shrewsbury who had been Secretary of State, neither of whom looked upon a satire on vicious courts as any reflection on those they served in. And indeed there is not in the world a greater error, than that which fools are so apt to fall into, and knaves with good reason to encourage, the mistaking a satirist for a libeller; whereas to a true satirist nothing is so odious as a libeller, for the same reason as to a man truly virtuous nothing is so hateful as a hypocrite.
TO MR. There are I scarce can think it, but am told , There are, to whom my satire seems too bold: Scarce to wise Peter complaisant enough, And something said of Chartres much too rough. Not write? I nod in company, I wake at night, Fools rush into my head, and so I write. You could not do a worse thing for your life.
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Why, if the nights seem tedious—take a wife: Or rather truly, if your point be rest, Lettuce and cowslip wine: Probatum est. But talk with Celsus, Celsus will advise Hartshorn, or something that shall close your eyes. Even those you touch not, hate you. A hundred smart in Timon and in Balaam: The fewer still you name, you wound the more; Bond is but one, but Harpax is a score. Each mortal has his pleasure: none deny Scarsdale his bottle, Darty his ham-pie; Ridotta sips and dances, till she see The doubling lustres dance as fast as she; F—- loves the senate, Hockley-hole his brother, Like in all else, as one egg to another.
I love to pour out all myself, as plain As downright Shippen, or as old Montaigne: In them, as certain to be loved as seen, The soul stood forth, nor kept a thought within; In me what spots for spots I have appear, Will prove at least the medium must be clear. In this impartial glass, my muse intends Fair to expose myself, my foes, my friends; Publish the present age; but where my text Is vice too high, reserve it for the next: My foes shall wish my life a longer date, And every friend the less lament my fate.
My head and heart thus flowing through my quill, Verse-man or prose-man, term me which you will, Papist or Protestant, or both between, Like good Erasmus in an honest mean, In moderation placing all my glory, While Tories call me Whig, and Whigs a Tory. Save but our army! From furious Sappho scarce a milder fate, Plagued by her love, or libelled by her hate. Then, learned sir! Alas, young man! Plums and directors, Shylock and his wife, Will club their testers, now, to take your life! I will, or perish in the generous cause: Hear this, and tremble!
Yes, while I live, no rich or noble knave Shall walk the world, in credit, to his grave. To Virtue only and her friends a friend, The world beside may murmur, or commend. There, my retreat the best companions grace, Chiefs out of war, and statesmen out of place.
Alexander pope essay on man
There St. John mingles with my friendly bowl The feast of reason and the flow of soul: And he, whose lightning pierced the Iberian lines, Now forms my quincunx, and now ranks my vines Or tames the genius of the stubborn plain, Almost as quickly as he conquered Spain. Envy must own, I live among the great, No pimp of pleasure, and no spy of state. This is my plea, on this I rest my cause— What saith my counsel, learned in the laws? Your plea is good; but still I say, beware! Laws are explained by men—so have a care.
Consult the Statute: quart.