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Pope, Alexander, 1688-1744: [from The Works (1736)]
VOL. II. Containing his EPISTLES and SATIRES.
Pope, Alexander, 1688-1744:
ETHIC EPISTLES, THE SECOND BOOK. [from The Works (1736)]

Pope, Alexander, 1688-1744:

EPISTLE I. TO Sir Richard Temple , Lord Viscount Cobham . [from The Works (1736)]

Pope, Alexander, 1688-1744: EPISTLE I. TO Sir Richard Temple, Lord Viscount Cobham. [from The Works (1736)]

1�� ^{[Footnote: 1Kb]}

Yes, you despise the Man to books confin'd,
2�� Who from his Study rails at human kind;
3�� Tho' what he learns he speaks, and may advance
4�� Some gen'ral maxims, or be right by chance.
5�� The coxcomb bird, so talkative and grave,
6�� That from his cage cries cuckold, whore, and knave,
7�� Tho' many a passenger he rightly call,
8�� You hold him no Philosopher at all.

9�� And yet the fate of all Extremes is such,
10�� ^{[Footnote: 1Kb]}

Men may be read, as well as books, too much,

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11�� To observations which ourselves we make,
12�� We grow more partial for th'Observer's sake;
13�� To written wisdom, as another's, less:
14�� Maxims are drawn from Notions, these from Guess.

15�� ^{[Footnote: 1Kb]}

There's some Peculiar in each Leaf and Grain;
16�� Some unmark'd fibre, or some varying vein:
17�� Shall only Man be taken in the gross?
18�� ^{[Footnote: 1Kb]}

Grant but as many sorts of mind, as Moss.

19�� ^{[Footnote: 1Kb]}

That each from other differs, first confess;
20�� Next, that he varies from himself no less:
21�� Add Nature's, Custom's, Reason's, Passion's strife,
22�� And all Opinion's colours cast on Life.

23�� Yet more; the diff'rence is as great between
24�� The Optics seeing, as the objects seen.
25�� All Manners take a tincture from our own,
26�� Or come discolour'd thro' our Passions shown,
27�� Or Fancy's beam inlarges, multiplies,
28�� Contracts, inverts, and gives ten thousand dyes.

29�� ^{[Footnote: 1Kb]}

Our Depths who fathoms, or our Shallows finds?
30�� Quick Whirls, and shifting Eddies, of our minds?

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31�� Life's stream for observation will not stay,
32�� It hurries all too fast to mark their way:
33�� In vain sedate reflections we would make,
34�� When half our knowledge we must snatch, not take.
35�� On human actions reason tho' you can,
36�� It may be Reason, but it is not Man;
37�� His Principle of action once explore,
38�� That instant, 'tis his principle no more;
39�� Like following life thro' Creatures you dissect,
40�� You lose it, in the moment you detect.

41�� ^{[Footnote: 1Kb]}

Oft, in the Passions wild rotation tost,
42�� Our Spring of action to ourselves is lost:
43�� Tir'd, not determin'd, to the last we yield,
44�� And what comes then is master of the field.
45�� As the last Image of that troubled heap
46�� When sense subsides, and Fancy sports in sleep,
47�� (Tho' past the recollection of the thought)
48�� Becomes the stuff of which our Dream is wrought;
49�� Something, as dim to our internal view,
50�� Is thus perhaps the cause of all we do.

51�� ^{[Footnote: 1Kb]}

In vain the grave, with retrospective eye,
52�� Would from th'apparent what conclude the why,
53�� Infer the Motive from the Deed, and show
54�� That what we chanc'd, was what we meant to do.

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55�� Behold! if Fortune, or a Mistress frowns,
56�� Some plunge in bus'ness, others shave their crowns:
57�� To ease the soul of one oppressive weight,
58�� This quits an Empire, that embroils a State:
59�� The same adust complexion has impell'd
60�� ^{[Footnote: 1Kb]}

Charles to the Convent, Philip to the Field.

61�� Not always Actions shew the Man: we find,
62�� Who does a kindness is not therefore kind;
63�� Perhaps Prospertity becalm'd his breast;
64�� Perhaps the Wind just shifted from the east.
65�� Not therefore humble he who seeks retreat,
66�� Pride guides his steps, and bids him shun the Great.
67�� Who combats bravely, is not therefore brave;
68�� He dreads a death-bed like the meanest slave.
69�� Who reasons wisely, is not therefore wise;
70�� His pride in reas'ning, not in acting lies.

71�� ^{[Footnote: 1Kb]}

But grant that Actions best discover man;
72�� Take the most strong, and sort them as you can:
73�� The few that glare, each Character must mark,
74�� You balance not the many in the dark.
75�� What will you do with such as disagree?
76�� Suppress them, or miscall them Policy?
77�� Must then at once (the character to save)
78�� A plain, rough Hero turn a crafty knave?

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79�� Alas! in truth the man but chang'd his mind,
80�� Perhaps was sick, in love, or had not din'd.

81�� Ask why from Britain, Cæsar made retreat?
82�� Cæsar perhaps had told you, he was beat.
83�� The mighty Czar what mov'd to wed a punk?
84�� The mighty Czar might answer, he was drunk.
85�� But sage Historians! 'tis your task to prove
86�� One action Conduct, one Heroic love.

87�� ^{[Footnote: 1Kb]}

'Tis from high Life high Characters are drawn;
88�� A Saint in crape, is twice a Saint in lawn;
89�� A Judge is just, a Chanc'lor juster still;
90�� A Gownman learn'd; a Bishop, what you will;
91�� Wise, if a Minister; but if a King,
92�� More wise, more learn'd, more just, more ev'ry thing.
93�� Court-virtues bear, like gems, the highest rate,
94�� Born where heav'n's influence scarce can penetrate.
95�� In life's low vale, (the soil the Virtues like)
96�� They please as beauties, here as wonders strike.
97�� Tho' the same Sun with all diffusive rays
98�� Blush in the rose, and in the diamond blaze,
99�� We prize the stronger effort of his pow'r,
100�� And always set the gem above the flow'r.

101�� ^{[Footnote: 1Kb]}

'Tis Education forms the vulgar mind:
102�� Just as the Twig is bent, the Tree's inclin'd.
103�� Boastful and rough, your first son is a Squire;
104�� The next a Tradesman, meek, and much a liar:

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105�� Tom struts a Soldier, open, bold, and brave;
106�� Will sneaks a Scriv'ner, an exceeding knave:
107�� Is he a Churchman? then he's fond of pow'r;
108�� A Quaker? sly; a Presbyterian? sour;
109�� A smart Free thinker? all things in an hour.

110�� ^{[Footnote: 1Kb]}

True, some are open and to all Men known;
111�� Others so very close, they're hid from none;
112�� (So darkness fills the Eye no less than Light)
113�� Thus gracious Chandos is belov'd at sight:
114�� And ev'ry child hates Shylock, tho' his Soul
115�� Still sits at squat, and peeps not from its hole.

116�� At half mankind when gen'rous Manly raves,
117�� All know 'tis Virtue, for he thinks them knaves.
118�� When universal homage Umbra pays,
119�� All see 'tis Vice, and itch of vulgar praise.
120�� Who but detests th'Endearments of Courtine?
121�� While One there is, who charms us with his Spleen.

122�� ^{[Footnote: 1Kb]}

But these plain Characters we rarely find,
123�� Tho' strong the bent, yet quick the turns of mind:
124�� Or puzzling Contraries confound the whole,
125�� Or Affectations quite reverse the Soul:
126�� The dull, flat Falsehood serves for policy,
127�� And in the cunning, Truth itself's a lye:
128�� Unthought of Frailties cheat us in the Wise;
129�� The Fool lies hid in Inconsistencies.

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130�� ^{[Footnote: 1Kb]}

See the same man, in vigour, in the gout;
131�� Alone, in company; in place, or out;
132�� Early at bus'ness, and at Hazard late;
133�� Mad at a fox-chase, wise at a debate;
134�� Drunk at a borough, civil at a ball;
135�� Friendly at Hackney, faithless at Whitehall.

136�� ^{[Footnote: 1Kb]}

Catius is ever moral, ever grave,
137�� Thinks who endures a knave, is next a knave;
138�� Save just at Dinner---then prefers no doubt,
139�� A rogue with Ven'son to a saint without.

140�� Who would not praise Patritio's high desert?
141�� His hand unstain'd, his uncorrupted heart,
142�� His comprehensive head; all Int'rests weigh'd,
143�� All Europe sav'd, yet Britain not betray'd.
144�� He thanks you not; his pride was in Piquette,
145�� Newmarket-fame, and judgment at a bett.

146�� Triumphant Leaders, at an Army's head,
147�� Hemm'd round with glories, pilfer cloth or bread,
148�� As meanly plunder, as they bravely fought,
149�� Now save a People, and now save a groat.

150�� What made (say Montagne, or more sage Charron!)
151�� Otho a Warrior, Cromwell a Buffoon?
152�� ^{[Footnote: 1Kb]}

A perjur'd Prince a leaden Saint revere?
153�� A god-less Regent tremble at a Star?

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154�� The throne a Bigot keep, a Genius quit,
155�� ^{[Footnote: 1Kb]}

Faithless thro' Piety, and dup'd thro' Wit?
156�� Europe, a Woman, child, or dotard rule;
157�� And just her ablest Monarch made a fool?

158�� ^{[Footnote: 1Kb]}

Know, God and Nature only are the same:
159�� In Man, the judgment shoots at flying game;
160�� A bird of passage! lost, as soon as found;
161�� Now in the Moon perhaps, now under ground!

162�� ^{[Footnote: 1Kb]}

Ask mens Opinions: Scoto now shall tell
163�� How trade increases, and the world goes well;
164�� Strike off his pension by the setting sun,
165�� And Britain, if not Europe, is undone.

166�� Manners with Fortunes, Humours change with Climes,
167�� Tenets with Books, and Principles with Times.

168�� Judge we by Nature? Habit can efface,
169�� Int'rest o'ercome, or Policy take place:
170�� By Actions? those Uncertainty divides:
171�� By Passions? these Dissimulation hides:
172�� Affections? they still take a wider range:
173�� Find, if you can, in what you cannot change?

174�� 'Tis in the ruling Passion: there alone,
175�� ^{[Footnote: 1Kb]}

The wild are constant, and the cunning known,

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176�� The fool consistent, and the false sincere;
177�� Priests, Princes, Women, no dissemblers here.
178�� This clue once found, unravels all the rest;
179�� The prospect clears, and Clodio stands confest.
180�� Clodio, the Scorn and Wonder of our days,
181�� Whose ruling passion was the Lust of Praise;
182�� Born with whate'er could win it from the wise,
183�� Women and fools must like him, or he dies.
184�� Tho' wond'ring Senates hung on all he spoke,
185�� The Club must hail him Master of the Joke.
186�� Shall parts so various aim at nothing new?
187�� He'll shine a Tully, and a Wilmot too:
188�� Then turns repentant, and his God adores
189�� With the same spirit that he drinks and whores:
190�� Enough, if all around him but admire,
191�� And now the Punk applaud, and now the Fry'r.
192�� Thus, with each gift of Nature and of Art,
193�� And wanting nothing but an honest heart;
194�� Grown all to all, from no one vice exempt,
195�� And most contemptible to shun contempt;
196�� His Passion still to covet gen'ral praise;
197�� His Life, to forfeit it a thousand ways;
198�� A constant Bounty, which no friend has made;
199�� An Angel Tongue which no man can persuade;
200�� A Fool, with more of Wit than half mankind;
201�� Too rash for Thought, for Action too refin'd;
202�� A Tyrant to the Wife his heart approves;
203�� A Rebel to the very King he loves;
204�� He dies, sad out-cast of each Church and State!
205�� And (harder still) flagitious, yet not great.

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206�� Ask you why Clodio broke thro' every rule?
207�� 'Twas all for fear, the Knaves should call him fool.

208�� Nature well known, no Miracles remain,
209�� Comets are regular, and Clodio plain.
210�� ^{[Footnote: 1Kb]}

Yet in the search, the wisest may mistake,
211�� If second Qualities for first they take.
212�� When Catiline by rapine swell'd his store,
213�� When Cæsar made a noble dame a whore,
214�� In this the Lust, in that the Avarice
215�� Were means, not ends; Ambition was the vice.
216�� That very Cæsar, born in Scipio's days,
217�� Had aim'd, like him, by Chastity at praise:
218�� Lucullus, when Frugality could charm,
219�� Had roasted turnips in the Sabin farm.
220�� In vain th'Observer eyes the builder's toil,
221�� But quite mistakes the Scaffold for the Pile.

222�� ^{[Footnote: 1Kb]}

In this one Passion man can strength enjoy,
223�� As Fits give vigour, just when they destroy.
224�� Time, that on all things lays his lenient hand,
225�� Yet tames not this: it sticks to our last sand.
226�� Consistent in our follies, and our sins,
227�� Here honest Nature ends as she begins.

228�� Behold a rev'rend Sire, whom want of grace
229�� Has made the father of a nameless race,

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230�� Crawl thro' the street, shov'd on, or rudely press'd
231�� By his own sons that pass him by unbless'd!
232�� Still to his Wench he creeps on knocking knees,
233�� And envies ev'ry Sparrow that he sees.

234�� A Salmon's belly, Helluo, was thy fate:
235�� The Doctor call'd declares all help too late.
236�� Mercy! cries Helluo, mercy on my soul!
237�� Is there no hope? alas?---then bring the Jowl.

238�� "Odious! in Woollen! 'twou'd a Saint provoke,
239�� (Were the last words that poor Narcissa spoke)
240�� "No, let a charming Chintz, and Brussels lace
241�� "Wrap my cold limbs, and shade my lifeless face:
242�� "One would not, sure, be frightful when one's dead---
243�� "And, Betty! gives this cheek a little red.

244�� Old Politicians chew on Wisdom past,
245�� And blunder on in bus'ness to the last;
246�� As weak as earnest; and as gravely out,
247�� ^{[Footnote: 1Kb]}

As sober Lanesb'row, dancing in the Gout.

248�� The Courtier smooth, who forty years had shin'd
249�� An humble servant to all human kind,

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250�� Just brought out this, when scarce his tongue could stir,
251�� "If---where I'm going---I could serve you, Sir."

252�� "I give and I devise (old Euclio said,
253�� And sigh'd) "my Lands and Tenements to Ned."
254�� Your Money, sir? "My Money, sir! what all?
255�� "Why---if I must---(then wept) I give it Paul."
256�� The Mannor, Sir? "The Mannor! hold, he cry'd,
257�� "Not that---I cannot part with that"---and dy'd.

258�� And you! brave Cobham, to the latest breath,
259�� Shall feel your ruling Passion strong in death:
260�� Such in those moments, as in all the past,
261�� "Oh save my Country, Heav'n!" shall be your last.