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Alexander Pope (1688–1744). Complete Poetical Works. 1903.


Satires, Epistles, and Odes of Horace Imitated. The Sixth Satire of the Second Book of Horace

  • The First Part Imitated in the Year 1714 by Dr. Swift; the Latter Part Added Afterwards
  • Of the following Imitations of Horace the first two are rather imitations of Swift, Horace merely supplying the text for the travesty. For (as previous editors have not failed to point out) no styles could be found less like one another than the bland and polite style of Horace and the downright, and often cynically plain, manner of Swift. With Pope the attempt to write in Swift’s style was a mere tour de force, which he could indeed carry out with success through a few lines, but not further, without relapsing into his own more elaborate manner. Swift’s marvellous precision and netteté of expression are something very different from Pope’s pointed and rhetorical elegance. The Ode to Venus, which was first published in 1737, more nearly approaches the character of a translation.(Ward.)

  • I ’VE often wish’d that I had clear

    For life six hundred pounds a year,

    A handsome house to lodge a friend,

    A river at my garden’s end,

    A terrace walk, and half a rood

    Of land set out to plant a wood.

    Well, now I have all this, and more,

    I ask not to increase my store;

    But here a grievance seems to lie,

    All this is mine but till I die;

    I can’t but think ’t would sound more clever,

    To me and to my heirs for ever.

    If I ne’er got or lost a groat

    By any trick or any fault;

    And if I pray by Reason’s rules,

    And not like forty other fools,

    As thus: ‘Vouchsafe, O gracious Maker!

    To grant me this and t’ other acre;

    Or, if it be thy will and pleasure,

    Direct my plough to find a treasure;

    But only what my station fits,

    And to be kept in my right wits,

    Preserve, almighty Providence!

    Just what you gave me, Competence;

    And let me in these shades compose

    Something in verse as true as prose,

    Remov’d from all th’ ambitious scene,

    Nor puff’d by Pride, nor sunk by Spleen.’

    In short, I ’m perfectly content,

    Let me but live on this side Trent,

    Nor cross the channel twice a year,

    To spend six months with statesmen here.

    I must by all means come to town,

    T is for the service of the Crown;

    ‘Lewis, the Dean will be of use;

    Send for him up; take no excuse.’

    The toil, the danger of the seas,

    Great ministers ne’er think of these;

    Or, let it cost five hundred pound,

    No matter where the money ’s found;

    It is but so much more in debt,

    And that they ne’er consider’d yet.

    ‘Good Mr. Dean, go change your gown,

    Let my Lord know you ’re come to town.’

    I hurry me in haste away,

    Not thinking it is Levee day,

    And find His Honour in a pound,

    Hemm’d by a triple circle round,

    Chequer’d with ribbons blue and green:

    How should I thrust myself between?

    Some wag observes me thus perplex’d,

    And smiling, whispers to the next,

    ‘I thought the Dean had been too proud

    To jostle here among a crowd.’

    Another, in a surly fit,

    Tells me I have more zeal than wit;

    ‘So eager to express your love,

    You ne’er consider whom you shove,

    But rudely press before a Duke.’

    I own I ’m pleas’d with this rebuke,

    And take it kindly meant, to show

    What I desire the world should know.

    I get a whisper, and withdraw;

    When twenty fools I never saw

    Come with petitions fairly penn’d,

    Desiring I would stand their friend.

    This humbly offers me his Case—

    That begs my int’rest for a Place—

    A hundred other men’s affairs,

    Like bees, are humming in my ears;

    ‘To-morrow my appeal comes on,

    Without your help the cause is gone.’

    ‘The Duke expects my Lord and you

    About some great affair at two.’

    ‘Put my Lord Bolingbroke in mind

    To get my warrant quickly sign’d:

    Consider, ’t is my first request.’—

    ‘Be satisfied, I ’ll do my best:’—

    Then presently he falls to tease,

    ‘You may be certain, if you please;

    I doubt not, if his Lordship knew—

    And, Mr. Dean, one word from you.’—

    ’T is (let me see) three years and more

    (October next it will be four)

    Since Harley bid me first attend,

    And chose me for an humble friend:

    Would take me in his coach to chat,

    And question me of this and that;

    As, ‘What ’s o’clock?’ and, ‘How ’s the wind?’

    ‘Whose chariot ’s that we left behind?’

    Or gravely try to read the lines

    Writ underneath the country signs;

    Or, ‘Have you nothing new to-day

    From Pope, from Parnell, or from Gay?’

    Such tattle often entertains

    My Lord and me as far as Staines,

    As once a week we travel down

    To Windsor, and again to town,

    Where all that passes inter nos

    Might be proclaim’d at Charing-cross.

    Yet some I know with envy swell

    Because they see me used so well.

    ‘How think you of our friend the Dean?

    I wonder what some people mean;

    My lord and he are grown so great,

    Always together tête-à-tête.

    What! they admire him for his jokes—

    See but the fortune of some folks!’

    There flies about a strange report

    Of some express arrived at Court;

    I ’m stopp’d by all the fools I meet,

    And catechised in every street.

    ‘You, Mr. Dean, frequent the Great:

    Inform us, will the Emp’ror treat?

    Or do the prints and papers lie?’

    ‘Faith, Sir, you know as much as I.’

    ‘Ah, Doctor, how you love to jest!

    ’T is now no secret.’—‘I protest

    ’T is one to me.’—‘Then tell us, pray,

    When are the troops to have their pay?’

    And tho’ I solemnly declare

    I know no more than my Lord Mayor,

    They stand amazed, and think me grown

    The closest mortal ever known.

    Thus in a sea of folly tost,

    My choicest hours of life are lost;

    Yet always wishing to retreat:

    O, could I see my country-seat!

    There leaning near a gentle brook,

    Sleep, or peruse some ancient book,

    And there, in sweet oblivion drown

    Those cares that haunt the Court and town.

    O charming Noons! and Nights divine!

    Or when I sup, or when I dine,

    My friends above, my folks below,

    Chatting and laughing all-a-row,

    The beans and bacon set before ’em,

    The grace-cup served with all decorum;

    Each willing to be pleas’d, and please,

    And ev’n the very dogs at ease!

    Here no man prates of idle things,

    How this or that Italian sings,

    A Neighbour’s madness, or his Spouse’s,

    Or what ’s in either of the Houses;

    But something much more our concern,

    And quite a scandal not to learn;

    Which is the happier or the wiser,

    A man of merit, or a miser?

    Whether we ought to choose our friends

    For their own worth or our own ends?

    What good, or better, we may call,

    And what the very best of all?

    Our friend Dan Prior told (you know)

    A tale extremely à-propos:

    Name a town life, and in a trice

    He had a story of two mice.

    Once on a time (so runs the Fable)

    A Country Mouse right hospitable,

    Received a Town Mouse at his board,

    Just as a farmer might a Lord.

    A frugal mouse, upon the whole,

    Yet lov’d his friend, and had a soul;

    Knew what was handsome, and would do ’t,

    On just occasion, coûte qui coûte.

    He brought him bacon (nothing lean),

    Pudding that might have pleas’d a Dean;

    Cheese, such as men in Suffolk make,

    But wish’d it Stilton for his sake;

    Yet, to his guest tho’ no way sparing,

    He ate himself the rind and paring.

    Our Courtier scarce could touch a bit,

    But show’d his breeding and his wit;

    He did his best to seem to eat,

    And cried, ‘I vow you ’re mighty neat:

    But lord, my friend, this savage scene!

    For God’s sake come and live with men;

    Consider, mice, like men, must die,

    Both small and great, both you and I;

    Then spend your life in joy and sport,

    (This doctrine, friend, I learn’d at court).’

    The veriest hermit in the nation

    May yield, God knows, to strong temptation.

    Away they came, thro’ thick and thin,

    To a tall house near Lincoln’s-Inn

    (’T was on the night of a debate,

    When all their Lordships had sat late).

    Behold the place where if a poet

    Shined in description he might show it;

    Tell how the moonbeam trembling falls,

    And tips with silver all the walls;

    Palladian walls, Venetian doors,

    Grotesco roofs, and stucco floors:

    But let it (in a word) be said,

    The moon was up, and men a-bed,

    The napkins white, the carpet red:

    The guests withdrawn had left the treat,

    And down the Mice sat tête-à-tête.

    Our Courtier walks from dish to dish,

    Tastes for his friend of fowl and fish;

    Tells all their names, lays down the law,

    ‘Que ça est bon! Ah, goutez ça!

    That Jelly ’s rich, this Malmsey healing,

    Pray, dip your whiskers and your tail in.’

    Was ever such a happy swain!

    He stuffs and swills, and stuffs again.

    ‘I ’m quite ashamed—’t is mighty rude

    To eat so much—but all ’s so good—

    I have a thousand thanks to give—

    My Lord alone knows how to live.’

    No sooner said, but from the hall

    Rush chaplain, butler, dogs, and all:

    ‘A rat, a rat! clap to the door’—

    The cat comes bouncing on the floor.

    O for the art of Homer’s mice,

    Or gods to save them in a trice!

    (It was by Providence, they think,

    For your damn’d stucco has no chink!)

    ‘An ’t please Your Honour,’ quoth the peasant,

    ‘This same dessert is not so pleasant:

    Give me again my hollow tree,

    A crust of bread and Liberty!’