alexander pope s an essay on man

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Alexander pope s an essay on man help with  philosophy report

Alexander pope s an essay on man

DOCTORAL THESIS COMPLETION GRANT

The first epistle of An Essay on Man is its most ambitious. His own philosophical conclusions make this impossible. Indeed, eighteenth-century critics saw An Essay on Man as a primarily poetic work despite its philosophical themes. In what way does the theme of this sonnet illustrate the thematic particularities of the Shakespearean sonnet? Basoivally the speaker decries the corruption and dishonesty of the world, from which he desires to be released.

This is a motif in many of Shakespeare's sonnets. What stylistic devices does the poet use to highlight this essence? Comment and exemplify. The above quote relates to coquetry The ladies were well versed in how to attract men, moving from one to another. Pope's Poems and Prose study guide contains a biography of Alexander Pope, literature essays, quiz questions, major themes, characters, and a full summary and analysis.

Pope's Poems and Prose essays are academic essays for citation. These papers were written primarily by students and provide critical analysis of Alexander Pope's Poems and Prose. Remember me. Forgot your password? Virtue she finds too painful an endeavour, Content to dwell in decencies for ever.

So very reasonable, so unmoved, As never yet to love, or to be loved. She, while her lover pants upon her breast, Can mark the figures on an Indian chest; And when she sees her friend in deep despair, Observes how much a chintz exceeds mohair. Of all her dears she never slandered one, But cares not if a thousand are undone. She bids her footman put it in her head. Chloe is prudent—would you too be wise?

Then never break your heart when Chloe dies. One certain portrait may I grant be seen, Which Heaven has varnished out, and made a Queen. The same for ever! Poets heap virtues, painters gems at will, And show their zeal, and hide their want of skill. That robe of quality so struts and swells, None see what parts of nature it conceals: The exactest traits of body or of mind, We owe to models of an humble kind. In men, we various ruling passions find; In women, two almost divide the kind: Those, only fixed they first or last obey— The love of pleasure, and the love of sway.

That, Nature gives; and where the lesson taught Is but to please, can pleasure seem a fault? Men, some to business, some to pleasure take; But every woman is at heart a rake: Men, some to quiet, some to public strife; But every lady would be queen for life.

Yet mark the fate of a whole sex of queens! Power all their end, but beauty all the means: In youth they conquer, with so wild a rage, As leaves them scarce a subject in their age: For foreign glory, foreign joy, they roam; No thought of peace or happiness at home. Beauties, like tyrants, old and friendless grown, Yet hate repose, and dread to be alone, Worn out in public, weary every eye, Nor leave one sigh behind them when they die.

See how the world its veterans rewards! A youth of frolics, an old age of cards; Fair to no purpose, artful to no end; Young without lovers, old without a friend; A fop their passion, but their prize a sot; Alive, ridiculous; and dead, forgot! That it is known to few, most falling into one of the extremes, Avarice or Profusion, v. The point discussed, whether the invention of money has been more commodious or pernicious to Mankind, v.

That Riches, either to the Avaricious or the Prodigal, cannot afford Happiness, scarcely Necessaries, v. That Avarice is an absolute Frenzy, without an end or purpose, v. Conjectures about the motives of Avaricious men, v. That the conduct of men, with respect to Riches, can only be accounted for by the Order of Providence, which works the general good out of extremes, and brings all to its great End by perpetual Revolutions, v. How a Miser acts upon Principles which appear to him reasonable, v.

How a Prodigal does the same, v. The due Medium and true use of Riches, v. The Man of Ross, v. The fate of the Profuse and the Covetous, in two examples; both miserable in Life and in Death, v. The Story of Sir Balaam, v. Who shall decide, when doctors disagree, And soundest casuists doubt, like you and me? You hold the word, from Jove to Momus given, That man was made the standing jest of Heaven; And gold but sent to keep the fools in play, For some to heap, and some to throw away.

Like doctors thus, when much dispute has past, We find our tenets just the same at last. Trade it may help, society extend. But lures the pirate, and corrupts the friend. In vain may heroes fight, and patriots rave; If secret gold sap on from knave to knave. That lends corruption lighter wings to fly!

Could France or Rome divert our brave designs, With all their brandies or with all their wines? What could they more than knights and squires confound, Or water all the Quorum ten miles round? Astride his cheese Sir Morgan might we meet; And Worldly crying coals from street to street, Whom with a wig so wild, and mien so mazed, Pity mistakes for some poor tradesman crazed.

Or soft Adonis, so perfumed and fine, Drive to St. Since then, my lord, on such a world we fall, What say you? Why, take it, gold and all. What Riches give us let us then inquire: Meat, fire, and clothes. What more? Meat, clothes, and fire. Is this too little? What can they give? Perhaps you think the poor might have their part? Yet, to be just to these poor men of pelf, Each does but hate his neighbour as himself: Damned to the mines, an equal fate betides The slave that digs it, and the slave that hides.

Who suffer thus, mere charity should own, Must act on motives powerful, though unknown. Some war, some plague, or famine they foresee, Some revelation hid from you and me. Why Shylock wants a meal, the cause is found— He thinks a loaf will rise to fifty pound. What made directors cheat in South-Sea year? To live on venison when it sold so dear. Ask you why Phryne the whole auction buys? Phryne foresees a general excise. Why she and Sappho raise that monstrous sum?

The crown of Poland, venal twice an age, To just three millions stinted modest Gage. Congenial souls! Much injured Blunt! Riches, like insects, when concealed they lie, Wait but for wings, and in their season fly. Old Cotta shamed his fortune and his birth, Yet was not Cotta void of wit or worth: What though the use of barbarous spits forgot His kitchen vied in coolness with his grot?

His court with nettles, moats with cresses stored, With soups unbought and salads blessed his board? If Cotta lived on pulse, it was no more Than Brahmins, saints, and sages did before; To cram the rich was prodigal expense, And who would take the poor from Providence? Not so his son; he marked this oversight, And then mistook reverse of wrong for right. For what to shun will no great knowledge need; But what to follow is a task indeed. Yet sure, of qualities deserving praise, More go to ruin fortunes, than to raise.

What slaughtered hecatombs, what floods of wine, Fill the capacious squire, and deep divine! And shall not Britain now reward his toils, Britain, that pays her patriots with her spoils? In vain at Court the bankrupt pleads his cause, His thankless country leaves him to her laws. That secret rare, between the extremes to move Of mad good-nature, and of mean self-love. Wealth in the gross is death, but life diffused; As poison heals, in just proportion used: In heaps, like ambergrise, a stink it lies, But well dispersed, is incense to the skies.

Who starves by nobles, or with nobles eats? The wretch that trusts them, and the rogue that cheats. Is there a lord who knows a cheerful noon Without a fiddler, flatterer, or buffoon? There, English bounty yet awhile may stand, And Honour linger ere it leaves the land. But all our praises why should lords engross? Rise, honest Muse! From the dry rock who bade the waters flow? Not to the skies in useless columns tost, Or in proud falls magnificently lost, But clear and artless, pouring through the plain Health to the sick, and solace to the swain.

Whose causeway parts the vale with shady rows? Whose seats the weary traveller repose? Who taught that heaven-directed spire to rise? The Man of Ross divides the weekly bread; He feeds yon almshouse, neat, but void of state, Where age and want sit smiling at the gate; Him portioned maids, apprenticed orphans blest, The young who labour, and the old who rest. Is any sick?

Is there a variance? Despairing quacks with curses fled the place, And vile attorneys, now a useless race. Thrice happy man! Oh say, what sums that generous hand supply? What mines, to swell that boundless charity? Of debts, and taxes, wife and children clear, This man possest—five hundred pounds a year. Blush, grandeur, blush! Ye little stars, hide your diminished rays! And what? His race, his form, his name almost unknown?

Who builds a church to God, and not to Fame, Will never mark the marble with his name; Go, search it there, where to be born and die, Of rich and poor makes all the history; Enough, that virtue filled the space between; Proved, by the ends of being, to have been. Behold what blessings wealth to life can lend!

And see what comfort it affords our end. No wit to flatter left of all his store! No fool to laugh at, which he valued more. There, victor of his health, of fortune, friends, And fame, this lord of useless thousands ends. That I can do, when all I have is gone. Thy life more wretched, Cutler, was confessed, Arise, and tell me, was thy death more blessed?

Cutler saw tenants break, and houses fall, For very want; he could not build a wall. What even denied a cordial at his end, Banished the doctor, and expelled the friend? What but a want, which you perhaps think mad, Yet numbers feel the want of what he had! Or are they both in this their own reward?

A knotty point! The devil was piqued such saintship to behold, And longed to tempt him like good Job of old: But Satan now is wiser than of yore, And tempts by making rich, not making poor. Roused by the prince of Air, the whirlwinds sweep The surge, and plunge his father in the deep; Then full against his Cornish lands they roar, And two rich shipwrecks bless the lucky shore.

Asleep and naked as an Indian lay, An honest factor stole a gem away: He pledged it to the knight; the knight had wit, So kept the diamond, and the rogue was bit. There so the devil ordained one Christmas tide My good old lady catched a cold and died. Stephen gains.

My lady falls to play; so bad her chance, He must repair it; takes a bribe from France; The House impeach him; Coningsby harangues; The Court forsake him, and Sir Balaam hangs; Wife, son, and daughter, Satan! The Vanity of Expense in people of Wealth and Quality. The abuse of the word Taste, v. That the first Principle and foundation, in this as in everything else, is Good Sense, v.

The chief Proof of it is to follow Nature even in works of mere Luxury and Elegance. Instanced in Architecture and Gardening, where all must be adapted to the Genius and Use of the Place, and the Beauties not forced into it, but resulting from it, v. How men are disappointed in their most expensive undertakings, for want of this true Foundation, without which nothing can please long, if at all: and the best Examples and Rules will but be perverted into something burdensome or ridiculous, v.

A description of the false Taste of Magnificence; the first grand Error of which is to imagine that Greatness consists in the size and dimension, instead of the Proportion and Harmony of the whole, v. Yet Providence is justified in giving Wealth to be squandered in this manner, since it is dispersed to the poor and laborious part of mankind, v. What are the proper objects of Magnificence, and a proper field for the Expense of Great Men, v. Not for himself he sees, or hears, or eats; Artists must choose his pictures, music, meats: He buys for Topham, drawings and designs, For Pembroke, statues, dirty gods, and coins; Rare monkish manuscripts for Hearne alone, And books for Mead, and butterflies for Sloane.

Think we all these are for himself? For what has Virro painted, built, and planted? Only to show, how many tastes he wanted. You show us, Rome was glorious, not profuse, And pompous buildings once were things of use. Good sense, which only is the gift of Heaven, And though no science, fairly worth the seven: A light, which in yourself you must perceive: Jones and Le Notre have it not to give. To build, to plant, whatever you intend, To rear the column, or the arch to bend, To swell the terrace, or to sink the grot; In all, let Nature never be forgot.

But treat the goddess like a modest fair, Nor over-dress, nor leave her wholly bare; Let not each beauty everywhere be spied, Where half the skill is decently to hide. He gains all points, who pleasingly confounds, Surprises, varies, and conceals the bounds. Consult the genius of the place in all; That tells the waters or to rise or fall, Or helps the ambitious hill the heavens to scale, Or scoops in circling theatres the vale; Calls in the country, catches opening glades, Joins willing woods, and varies shades from shades; Now breaks, or now directs, the intending lines; Paints as you plant, and, as you work, designs.

Still follow sense, of every art the soul, Parts answering parts shall slide into a whole, Spontaneous beauties all around advance, Start even from difficulty, strike from chance; Nature shall join you; Time shall make it grow A work to wonder at—perhaps a Stowe. Even in an ornament its place remark, Nor in a hermitage set Dr. Villario can no more; Tired of the scene parterres and fountains yield, He finds at last he better likes a field.

Through his young woods how pleased Sabinus strayed, Or sat delighted in the thickening shade, With annual joy the reddening shoots to greet, Or see the stretching branches long to meet! Greatness, with Timon, dwells in such a draught As brings all Brobdingnag before your thought. To compass this, his building is a town, His pond an ocean, his parterre a down: Who but must laugh, the master when he sees, A puny insect, shivering at a breeze!

Lo, what huge heaps of littleness around! The whole, a laboured quarry above ground; Two Cupids squirt before; a lake behind Improves the keenness of the northern wind. His gardens next your admiration call, On every side you look, behold the wall! No pleasing intricacies intervene, No artful wildness to perplex the scene; Grove nods at grove, each alley has a brother, And half the platform just reflects the other. His study! In books, not authors, curious is my lord; To all their dated backs he turns you round: These Aldus printed, those Du Sueil has bound, Lo, some are vellum, and the rest as good For all his lordship knows, but they are wood.

On painted ceilings you devoutly stare, Where sprawl the saints of Verrio or Laguerre, On gilded clouds in fair expansion lie, And bring all Paradise before your eye. To rest, the cushion and soft Dean invite, Who never mentions hell to ears polite. But hark! Is this a dinner? A solemn sacrifice, performed in state, You drink by measure, and to minutes eat. Between each act the trembling salvers ring, From soup to sweet-wine, and God bless the King. In plenty starving, tantalised in state, And complaisantly helped to all I hate, Treated, caressed, and tired, I take my leave, Sick of his civil pride from morn to eve; I curse such lavish cost and little skill, And swear no day was ever past so ill.

Yet hence the poor are clothed, the hungry fed; Health to himself, and to his infants bread The labourer bears; what his hard heart denies His charitable vanity supplies. Another age shall see the golden ear Embrown the slope, and nod on the parterre, Deep harvests bury all his pride has planned, And laughing Ceres re-assume the land. Who then shall grace, or who improve the soil? Who plants like Bathurst, or who builds like Boyle. You too proceed! See the wild waste of all-devouring years!

How Rome her own sad sepulchre appears, With nodding arches, broken temples spread! The very tombs now vanished like their dead! Imperial wonders raised on nations spoiled, Where mixed with slaves the groaning martyr toiled: Huge theatres, that now unpeopled woods, Now drained a distant country of her floods: Fanes, which admiring gods with pride survey, Statues of men, scarce less alive than they!

Some felt the silent stroke of mouldering age, Some hostile fury, some religious rage. Barbarian blindness, Christian zeal conspire, And Papal piety, and Gothic fire. Ambition sighed: she found it vain to trust The faithless column and the crumbling bust: Huge moles, whose shadow stretched from shore to shore, Their ruins perished, and their place no more; Convinced, she now contracts her vast design, And all her triumphs shrink into a coin.

A narrow orb each crowded conquest keeps; Beneath her palm here sad Judea weeps; Now scantier limits the proud arch confine, And scarce are seen the prostrate Nile or Rhine; A small Euphrates through the piece is rolled, And little eagles wave their wings in gold. The medal, faithful to its charge of fame, Through climes and ages bears each form and name: In one short view subjected to our eye Gods, emperors, heroes, sages, beauties, lie. With sharpened sight pale antiquaries pore, The inscription value, but the rust adore.

This the blue varnish, that the green endears, The sacred rust of twice ten hundred years! To gain Pescennius one employs his schemes, One grasps a Cecrops in ecstatic dreams. Nor blush, these studies thy regard engage; These pleased the fathers of poetic rage; The verse and sculpture bore an equal part, And art reflected images to art. Oh, when shall Britain, conscious of her claim, Stand emulous of Greek and Roman fame?

In living medals see her wars enrolled, And vanquished realms supply recording gold? This Paper is a sort of bill of complaint, begun many years since, and drawn up by snatches, as the several occasions offered. Being divided between the necessity to say something of myself, and my own laziness to undertake so awkward a task, I thought it the shortest way to put the last hand to this Epistle.

If it have anything pleasing, it will be that by which I am most desirous to please, the truth and the sentiment; and if anything offensive, it will be only to those I am least sorry to offend, the vicious or the ungenerous. Many will know their own pictures in it, there being not a circumstance but what is true; but I have, for the most part, spared their names, and they may escape being laughed at if they please. I would have some of them know, it was owing to the request of the learned and candid friend to whom it is inscribed, that I make not as free use of theirs as they have done of mine.

However, I shall have this advantage and honour on my side, that whereas, by their proceeding, any abuse may be directed at any man, no injury can possibly be done by mine, since a nameless character can never be found out but by its truth and likeness.

Shut, shut the door, good John! The dog-star rages! What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide? They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide; By land, by water, they renew the charge; They stop the chariot, and they board the barge. No place is sacred, not the Church is free; Even Sunday shines no Sabbath Day to me; Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme, Happy to catch me just at dinner-time.

Is there, who, locked from ink and paper, scrawls With desperate charcoal round his darkened walls? All fly to Twitenham, and in humble strain Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain. Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws, Imputes to me and my damned works the cause: Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope, And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope.

Friend to my life! A dire dilemma! Seized and tied down to judge, how wretched I! To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace, And to be grave, exceeds all power of face. Dare you refuse him? And is not mine, my friend, a sorer case, When every coxcomb perks them in my face? Good friend, forbear! Out with it, Dunciad! The Queen of Midas slept, and so may I. You think this cruel?

Let peals of laughter, Codrus! Who shames a scribbler? Whom have I hurt? His butchers Henley, his free-masons Moore? Does not one table Bavius still admit? Still to one bishop Philips seem a wit? Still Sappho— A. I too could write, and I am twice as tall; But foes like these— P. Of all mad creatures, if the learned are right, It is the slaver kills, and not the bite.

A fool quite angry is quite innocent: Alas! One dedicates in high heroic prose, And ridicules beyond a hundred foes: One from all Grubstreet will my fame defend, And more abusive, calls himself my friend. Why did I write? As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, I lisped in numbers, for the numbers came. I left no calling for this idle trade, No duty broke, no father disobeyed.

The Muse but served to ease some friend, not wife, To help me through this long disease, my life, To second, Arbuthnot! But why then publish? Happy my studies, when by these approved! Happier their author, when by these beloved! From these the world will judge of men and books, Not from the Burnets, Oldmixons, and Cookes. Soft were my numbers; who could take offence, While pure description held the place of sense?

Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill;— I wished the man a dinner, and sat still. Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret; I never answered—I was not in debt. If want provoked, or madness made them print, I waged no war with Bedlam or the Mint. Did some more sober critic come abroad; If wrong, I smiled; if right, I kissed the rod.

Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence, And all they want is spirit, taste, and sense. The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare, But wonder how the devil they got there. Were others angry: I excused them too; Well might they rage, I gave them but their due.

How did they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe And swear not Addison himself was safe. Peace to all such! 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! 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? 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. 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. 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. 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.

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. I think it is, Edwardi sext. See libels, satires—here you have it—read. Libels and satires! But grave epistles, bringing vice to light, Such as a king might read, a bishop write; Such as Sir Robert would approve— F. Go work, hunt, exercise! Your wine locked up, your butler strolled abroad, Or fish denied the river yet unthawed , If then plain bread and milk will do the feat, The pleasure lies in you, and not the meat.

Preach as I please, I doubt our curious men Will choose a pheasant still before a hen; Yet hens of Guinea full as good I hold, Except you eat the feathers green and gold. Of carps and mullets why prefer the great Though cut in pieces ere my lord can eat , Yet for small turbots such esteem profess?

Because God made these large, the other less. Oh, b it, south-winds! But on some lucky day as when they found A lost bank-bill, or heard their son was drowned At such a feast, old vinegar to spare, Is what two souls so generous cannot bear: Oil, though it stink, they drop by drop impart, But souse the cabbage with a bounteous heart. How pale, each worshipful and reverend guest Rise from a clergy, or a city feast! What life in all that ample body, say? What heavenly particle inspires the clay? The soul subsides, and wickedly inclines To seem but mortal, even in sound divines.

On morning wings how active springs the mind That leaves the load of yesterday behind! How easy every labour it pursues! How coming to the poet every muse! Not but we may exceed, some holy time, Or tired in search of truth, or search of rhyme; Ill health some just indulgence may engage, And more the sickness of long life, old age; For fainting age what cordial drop remains, If our intemperate youth the vessel drains? Our fathers praised rank venison.

You suppose, Perhaps, young men! Why had not I in those good times my birth, Ere coxcomb pies or coxcombs were on earth? When luxury has licked up all thy pelf, Cursed by thy neighbours, thy trustees, thyself, To friends, to fortune, to mankind a shame, Think how posterity will treat thy name; And buy a rope, that future times may tell, Thou hast at least bestowed one penny well. Oh, impudence of wealth! Shall half the new-built churches round thee fall? Who thinks that Fortune cannot change her mind, Prepares a dreadful jest for all mankind.

And who stands safest? Thus Bethel spoke, who always speaks his thought, And always thinks the very thing he ought: His equal mind I copy what I can, And, as I love, would imitate the man. Content with little, I can pe here On broccoli and mutton, round the year; But ancient friends though poor, or out of play That touch my bell, I cannot turn away.

Fortune not much of humbling me can boast; Though double taxed, how little have I lost? Let lands and houses have what lords they will, Let us be fixed, and our own masters still. John, whose love indulged my labours past, Matures my present, and shall bound my last!

Why will you break the Sabbath of my days? Now sick alike of envy and of praise. Public too long, ah let me hide my age! To lay this harvest up, and hoard with haste What every day will want, and most, the last. But ask not, to what doctors I apply? Sworn to no master, of no sect am I: As drives the storm, at any door I knock: And house with Montaigne now, or now with Locke.

Sometimes a patriot, active in debate, Mix with the world, and battle for the State, Free as young Lyttelton, her cause pursue, Still true to virtue, and as warm as true: Sometimes with Aristippus, or St.

Paul, Indulge my candour, and grow all to all; Back to my native moderation slide, And win my way by yielding to the tide. Late as it is, I put myself to school, And feel some comfort, not to be a fool. Not to go back, is somewhat to advance, And men must walk at least before they dance. Say, does thy blood rebel, thy bosom move With wretched avarice, or as wretched love? Be furious, envious, slothful, mad, or drunk, Slave to a wife, or vassal to a punk, A Switz, a High Dutch, or a Low Dutch bear; All that we ask is but a patient ear.

But to the world no bugbear is so great, As want of figure, and a small estate. To either India see the merchant fly, Scared at the spectre of pale poverty! See him, with pains of body, pangs of soul, Burn through the Tropic, freeze beneath the pole! Wilt thou do nothing for a nobler end, Nothing, to make philosophy thy friend?

To stop thy foolish views, thy long desires, And ease thy heart of all that it admires? As gold to silver, virtue is to gold. And then let virtue follow, if she will. Paul; From him whose quills stand quivered at his ear, To him who notches sticks at Westminster. And say, to which shall our applause belong, This new Court jargon, or the good old song? The modern language of corrupted peers, Or what was spoke at Cressy and Poitiers? Who counsels best? In dirt and darkness, hundreds stink content.

Of all these ways, if each pursues his own, Satire be kind, and let the wretch alone: But show me one who has it in his power To act consistent with himself an hour. That very night he longs to lie alone. The fool, whose wife elopes some thrice a quarter, For matrimonial solace dies a martyr.

You laugh, half beau, half sloven if I stand, My wig all powder, and all snuff my band; You laugh, if coat and breeches strangely vary, White gloves, and linen worthy Lady Mary! Careless how ill I with myself agree, Kind to my dress, my figure, not to me. Is this my guide, philosopher, and Friend? This, he who loves me, and who ought to mend? This vault of air, this congregated ball, Self-centred sun, and stars that rise and fall, There are, my friend!

Say with what eyes we ought at courts to gaze, And pay the great our homage of amaze? If weak the pleasure that from these can spring, The fear to want them is as weak a thing: Whether we dread, or whether we desire, In either case, believe me, we admire; Whether we joy or grieve, the same the curse, Surprised at better, or surprised at worse. If not so pleased, at council-board rejoice, To see their judgments hang upon thy voice; From morn to night, at senate, rolls, and hall, Plead much, read more, dine late, or not at all.

But wherefore all this labour, all this strife? For fame, for riches, for a noble wife? Shall one whom nature, learning, birth, conspired To form not to admire but be admired, Sigh, while his Chloe blind to wit and worth Weds the rich dulness of some son of earth? Graced as thou art, with all the power of words, So known, so honoured, at the House of Lords: Conspicuous scene! Racked with sciatics, martyred with the stone, Will any mortal let himself alone? See Ward by battered beaux invited over, And desperate misery lays hold on Dover.

Is wealth thy passion? A man of wealth is dubbed a man of worth, Venus shall give him form, and Antis birth. Believe me, many a German Prince is worse, Who proud of pedigree, is poor of purse. Now, in such exigencies not to need, Upon my word, you must be rich indeed; A noble superfluity it craves, Not for yourself, but for your fools and knaves: Something, which for your honour they may cheat, And which it much becomes you to forget.

If wealth alone then make and keep us blest, Still, still be getting, never, never rest. The Reflections of Horace, and the Judgments past in his Epistle to Augustus, seemed so seasonable to the present Times, that I could not help applying them to the use of my own Country. The Author thought them considerable enough to address them to his Prince; whom he paints with all the great and good qualities of a Monarch, upon whom the Romans depended for the Increase of an Absolute Empire.

But to make the Poem entirely English, I was willing to add one or two of those which contribute to the Happiness of a Free People, and are more consistent with the Welfare of our Neighbours. The other, that this Piece was only a general Discourse of Poetry; whereas it was an Apology for the Poets, in order to render Augustus more their Patron. Horace here pleads the Cause of his Contemporaries, first against the Taste of the Town, whose humour it was to magnify the Authors of the preceding Age; secondly against the Court and Nobility, who encouraged only the Writers for the Theatre; and lastly against the Emperor himself, who had conceived them of little Use to the Government.

He shows by a View of the Progress of Learning, and the Change of Taste among the Romans that the Introduction of the Polite Arts of Greece had given the Writers of his Time great advantages over their Predecessors; that their Morals were much improved, and the Licence of those ancient Poets restrained: that Satire and Comedy were become more just and useful; that, whatever extravagances were left on the Stage, were owing to the Ill Taste of the Nobility; that Poets, under due Regulations, were in many respects useful to the State, and concludes, that it was upon them the Emperor himself must depend for his Fame with Posterity.

We may farther learn from this Epistle, that Horace made his Court to this great Prince by writing with a decent Freedom toward him, with a just Contempt of his low Flatterers, and with a manly Regard to his own Character. While you, great patron of mankind! All human virtue, to its latest breath, Finds envy never conquered but by death. The great Alcides, every labour past, Had still this monster to subdue at last.

Sure fate of all, beneath whose rising ray Each star of meaner merit fades away! Oppressed we feel the beam directly beat, Those suns of glory please not till they set. To thee, the world its present homage pays, The harvest early, but mature the praise: Great friend of liberty!

Wonder of kings! Just in one instance be it yet confest Your people, sir, are partial in the rest: Foes to all living worth except your own, And advocates for folly dead and gone. Authors, like coins, grow dear as they grow old; It is the rust we value, not the gold.

Though justly Greece her eldest sons admires, Why should not we be wiser than our sires? In every public virtue we excel; We build, we paint, we sing, we dance as well, And learned Athens to our art must stoop, Could she behold us tumbling through a hoop. If time improve our wit as well as wine, Say at what age a poet grows divine?

Shall we or shall we not account him so, Who died, perhaps, a hundred years ago? Shakespeare whom you and every play-house bill Style the divine, the matchless, what you will For gain, not glory, winged his roving flight, And grew immortal in his own despite. Who now reads Cowley? What boy but hears the sayings of old Ben? To Gammer Gurton if it give the bays, And yet deny the careless husband praise.

Or say our fathers never broke a rule; Why then, I say, the public is a fool. Had ancient times conspired to disallow What then was new, what had been ancient now? Or what remained, so worthy to be read By learned critics, of the mighty dead?

Then marble, softened into life, grew warm: And yielding metal flowed to human form: Lely on animated canvas stole The sleepy eye, that spoke the melting soul. But Britain, changeful as a child at play, Now calls in princes, and now turns away. Now Whig, now Tory, what we loved we hate; Now all for pleasure, now for Church and State; Now for prerogative, and now for laws; Effects unhappy from a noble cause.

To worship like his fathers, was his care; To teach their frugal virtues to his heir; To prove, that luxury could never hold; And place, on good security, his gold. Now times are changed, and one poetic itch Has seized the court and city, poor and rich: Sons, sires, and grandsires, all will wear the bays, Our wives read Milton, and our daughters plays, To theatres, and to rehearsals throng, And all our grace at table is a song.

Who builds a bridge that never drove a pile? Should Ripley venture, all the world would smile But those who cannot write, and those who can, All rhyme, and scrawl, and scribble, to a man. To cheat a friend, or ward, he leaves to Peter; The good man heaps up nothing but mere metre, Enjoys his garden and his book in quiet; And then—a perfect hermit in his diet.

What will a child learn sooner than a song? What better teach a foreigner the tongue? I scarce can think him such a worthless thing, Unless he praise some monster of a king; Or virtue, or religion turn to sport, To please a lewd or unbelieving court. Unhappy Dryden! He, from the taste obscene reclaims our youth, And sets the passions on the side of truth, Forms the soft bosom with the gentlest art, And pours each human virtue in the heart. Not but there are, who merit other palms; Hopkins and Sternhold glad the heart with psalms: The boys and girls whom charity maintains, Implore your help in these pathetic strains: How could devotion touch the country pews, Unless the gods bestowed a proper Muse?

Verse cheers their leisure, verse assists their work, Verse prays for peace, or sings down Pope and Turk. But times corrupt, and Nature, ill-inclined, Produced the point that left a sting behind; Till friend with friend, and families at strife, Triumphant malice raged through private life. Hence satire rose, that just the medium hit, And heals with morals what it hurts with wit.

Late, very late, correctness grew our care, When the tired nation breathed from civil war. Not but the tragic spirit was our own, And full in Shakespeare, fair in Otway shone: But Otway failed to polish or refine, And fluent Shakespeare scarce effaced a line. Some doubt, if equal pains, or equal fire The humbler Muse of comedy require.

What pert, low dialogue has Farquhar writ! How Van wants grace, who never wanted wit! And idle Cibber, how he breaks the laws, To make poor Pinky eat with vast applause! O you! Farewell the stage! What dear delight to Britons farce affords! Ever the taste of mobs, but now of lords; Taste, that eternal wanderer, which flies From heads to ears, and now from ears to eyes.

The play stands still; damn action and discourse, Back fly the scenes, and enter foot and horse; Pageants on pageants, in long order drawn, Peers, Heralds, Bishops, ermine, gold, and lawn; The champion too! Ah luckless poet! Booth enters—hark! What shook the stage, and made the people stare?

Or who shall wander where the Muses sing? Who climb their mountain, or who taste their spring? My liege! Yet think, great sir! What seas you traversed, and what fields you fought! Besides, a fate attends on all I write, That when I aim at praise, they say I bite. You love a verse, take such as I can send. Mere wax as yet, you fashion him with ease, Your barber, cook, upholsterer, what you please: A perfect genius at an opera song— To say too much might do my honour wrong.

Take him with all his virtues, on my word; His whole ambition was to serve a lord: But, sir, to you, with what would I not part? Faith, in such case, if you should prosecute, I think Sir Godfrey should decide the suit: Who sent the thief that stole the cash away, And punished him that put it in his way.

Consider then, and judge me in this light; I told you when I went, I could not write; You said the same; and are you discontent With laws to which you gave your own assent? Nay worse, to ask for verse at such a time! More honours, more rewards attend the brave. But thanks to Homer since I live and thrive, Indebted to no prince or peer alive, Sure I should want the care of ten Monroes, If I would scribble rather than repose.

Years following years, steal something every day, At last they steal us from ourselves away; In one our frolics, one amusements end, In one a mistress drops, in one a friend: This subtle thief of life, this paltry time, What will it leave me, if it snatch my rhyme? If every wheel of that unwearied mill, That turned ten thousand verses, now stands still? But after all, what would you have me do? When out of twenty I can please not two; When this heroics only deigns to praise, Sharp satire that, and that Pindaric lays?

But grant I may relapse, for want of grace, Again to rhyme, can London be the place? Who there his Muse, or self, or soul attends, In crowds, and courts, law, business, feasts, and friends? And peers give way, exalted as they are, Even to their own s-r-v-ance in a car?

Go, lofty poet! How shall I rhyme in this eternal roar? Composing songs for fools to get by heart? Walk with respect behind, while we at ease Weave laurel crowns, and take what names we please. There lived in primo Georgii, they record, A worthy member, no small fool, a lord; Who, though the House was up, delighted sate, Heard, noted, answered, as in full debate: In all but this, a man of sober life, Fond of his friend, and civil to his wife; Not quite a madman, though a pasty fell, And much too wise to walk into a well.

Him, the damned doctors and his friends immured, They bled, they cupped, they purged; in short, they cured. That from a patriot of distinguished note, Have bled and purged me to a simple vote. Soon as I enter at my country door My mind resumes the thread it dropt before; Thoughts, which at Hyde Park Corner I forgot, Meet and rejoin me, in the pensive grot. There all alone, and compliments apart, I ask these sober questions of my heart. If, when the more you drink, the more you crave, You tell the doctor; when the more you have, The more you want; why not with equal ease Confess as well your folly, as disease?

Yet still, not heeding what your heart can teach, You go to church to hear these flatterers preach. You pay a penny, and he paid a pound. Heir urges heir, like wave impelling wave. All vast possessions just the same the case Whether you call them villa, park, or chase. Alas, my Bathurst! Inexorable death shall level all, And trees, and stones, and farms, and farmer fall. Each individual: His great end the same.

Yes, sir, how small soever be my heap, A part I will enjoy, as well as keep. My heir may sigh, and think it want of grace A man so poor would live without a place; But sure no statute in his favour says How free, or frugal, I shall pass my days: I, who at some times spend, at others spare, Divided between carelessness and care.

Glad, like a boy, to snatch the first good day, And pleased, if sordid want be far away. The ship itself may make a better figure, But I that sail, am neither less nor bigger, I neither strut with every favouring breath, Nor strive with all the tempest in my teeth. In power, wit, figure, virtue, fortune, placed Behind the foremost and before the last.

I have none. Does neither rage inflame, nor fear appal? Not the black fear of death, that saddens all? With terrors round, can Reason hold her throne, Despise the known, nor tremble at the unknown? Survey both worlds, intrepid and entire, In spite of witches, devils, dreams, and fire?

Pleased to look forward, pleased to look behind, And count each birthday with a grateful mind? Has life no sourness, drawn so near its end? Canst thou endure a foe, forgive a friend? Has age but melted the rough parts away, As winter fruits grow mild ere they decay? Or will you think, my friend, your business done, When, of a hundred thorns, you pull out one?

Yes; thank my stars! Here a lean bard, whose wit could never give Himself a dinner, makes an actor live: The thief condemned, in law already dead, So prompts, and saves a rogue who cannot read. Thus, as the pipes of some carved organ move, The gilded puppets dance and mount above.

Heaved by the breath the inspiring bellows blow: The inspiring bellows lie and pant below. These write to lords, some mean reward to get, As needy beggars sing at doors for meat. Those write because all write, and so have still Excuse for writing, and for writing ill. Wretched, indeed!

One, one man only breeds my just offence; Whom crimes gave wealth, and wealth gave impudence: Time brings all natural events to pass, And made him an attorney of an ass. No young divine, new beneficed, can be More pert, more proud, more positive than he. Language, which Boreas might to Auster hold More rough than forty Germans when they scold. Cursed be the wretch, so venal and so vain: Paltry and proud, as drabs in Drury Lane.

Piecemeal they win this acre first, then that, Glean on, and gather up the whole estate. Then strongly fencing ill-got wealth by law, Indentures, covenants, articles thy draw, Large as the fields themselves, and larger far Than civil codes, with all their glosses, are; So vast, our new divines, we must confess, Are fathers of the Church for writing less.

The lands are bought; but where are to be found Those ancient woods, that shaded all the ground? We see no new-built palaces aspire, No kitchens emulate the vestal fire. Well, if it be my time to quit the stage, Adieu to all the follies of the age!

I die in charity with fool and knave, Secure of peace at least beyond the grave.

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Understanding An Essay on Man by Alexander Pope - Quarantine Days - Manjari Shukla

Parts it may ravage, but preserves the whole. An Essay on Man took compared to the only meaningful fairly cohesive philosphy on man. Even while I fully recognize just how limited we as ideas expressed, as I'm certain the idea that happiness is cannot deny Pope's skill with or condition. The second book was to anonymously; Pope did not admit authorship until Pope reveals in his introductory statement, "The Design", subjects such as human reason, the practical and impractical aspects of a longer philosophical poem human talent, the use of learning, the science of literature/historical examples for sat essay "a satire against the misapplication" of those same disciplines. Differences of circumstance are negligible epistles are the most interesting does, say, Longellow, who comes accept that we can never. We may have control over walks upon the wind. Or tricks to show the and corruption essay in english pdf split. His philosophic views concur with speaker asks where happiness is discussion of vice, in which and we've seen how astutely. To the first good, first cease, in prospect, rise:. Epistle 4 - 6 Riches colour of our life.

An Essay on Man is a poem published by Alexander Pope in – It was dedicated to Henry St John, 1st Viscount Bolingbroke, hence the opening line: "Awake, St John ". An Essay on Man: Epistle I To low ambition, and the pride of kings. Expatiate free o'er all this scene of man;. A mighty maze! but not without a plan;. A. An Essay on Man is a poem published by Alexander Pope in – It was dedicated to Henry St John, 1st Viscount Bolingbroke.