Alexander Pope: Minor poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Poize of Dulness to the heavy Skull,
Is like the Leaden Byass to the Bowl,
Which, as more pond'rous, makes its Aim more true,
And guides it surer to the Mark in view;
The more it seems to go about, to come
The nearer to its End, or Purpose, home.

(b) Of the Weights of a Clock.

So Clocks to Lead their nimble Motions owe,
The Springs above urg'd by the Weight below;
The pond'rous Ballance keeps its Poize the same,
Actuates, maintains, and rules the moving Frame.

II. SIMILITUDES.

Thus either Men in private useless Ease
Lose a dull Length of undeserving Days;
Or waste, for others Use, their restless Years
In busie Tumults, and in publick Cares,
And run precipitant, with Noise and Strife,
Into the vast Abyss of future Life;
Or others Ease and theirs alike destroy,
Their own Destruction by their Industry.
So Waters putrifie with Rest, and lose
At once their Motion, Sweetness, and their Use;
Or haste in headlong Torrents to the Main,
To lose themselves by what shou'd them maintain,
And in th'impetuous Course themselves the sooner drain:
Neglect their Native Channel, Neighb'ring Coast,
Abroad in foreign Service to be lost;
Or else their Streams, when hinder'd in their Course,
Quite o'er the Banks to their own Ruin force.

The Stream of Life shou'd more securely flow
In constant Motion, nor too swift nor slow,
And neither swell too high, nor sink too low;
Not always glide thro' gloomy Vales, and rove
('Midst Flocks and Shepherds) in the silent Grove;
But more diffusive in its wand'ring Race;
Serve peopled Towns, and stately Cities grace;
Around in sweet Meanders wildly range,
Kept fresh by Motion, and unchang'd by Change.

III. LINES

On Solitude and Retirement.

Honour and Wealth, the Joys we seek, deny
By their Encrease, and their Variety;
And more confound our Choice than satisfie:
Officious, bold Disturbances they grow,
That interrupt our Peace, and work our Woe:
Make Life a Scene of Pain, and constant Toil,
And all our Days in fresh Pursuits embroil.

But if to Solitude we turn our Eyes,
To View a thousand real Blessings rise;
Pleasures sincere, and unallay'd with Pain,
An easie Purchase, but an ample Gain!
There Censure, Envy, Malice, Scorn, or Hate,
Cannot affect Us in our tranquil State:
Those Cankers that on busie Honour prey,
And all their Spight on active Pomp display.

Alone, remov'd from Grandeur and from Strife,
And ev'ry Curse that loads a publick Life,
In Safety, Innocence, and full Repose,
Man the true Worth of his Creation knows.
Luxurious Nature's Wealth in Thought surveys,
And meditates her Charms, and sings her Praise.
To him, with humble Privacy content,
Life is, in Courts, and gawdy Pride, mis-spent.
To him, the Rural Cottage does afford
What he prefers to the Patrician Board:
Such wholsome Foods as Nature's Wants supply,
And ne'er reproach him with his Luxury.
He traverses the blooming verdant Mead,
Nor envies those that on rich Carpets tread.
Basks in the Sun, then to the Shades retires,
And takes a Shelter from his pointed Fires.
Wak'd by the Morning-Cock, unseals his Eyes,
And sees the Rusticks to their Labours rise;
And in the Ev'ning, when those Labours cease,
Beholds them cheary eat the Bread of Peace:
Sees no foul Discords at their Banquets bred,
Nor Emulations, nor Disgusts succeed:
But all is quiet, jocund, and serene,
A Type of Paradise, the Rural Scene!

IV. CONCLUSION of The Bill of Fare.

At length the Board, in loose disjointed Chat,
Descanted, some on this Thing, some on that;
Some, over each Orac'lous Glass, fore-doom
The Fate of Realms, and Conquests yet to come;
What Lawrels Marlbro' next shall reap, decree,
And swifter than His Arms, give Victory:
At the next Bottle, all their Schemes they cease,
Content at last to leave the World in Peace.
'Till having drown'd their Reason, they think fit
Railing at Men of Sense, to show their Wit;
Compare De Foe's Burlesque with Dryden's Satyr,
And Butler with the Lutrin's dull Translator,
Decry'd each past, to raise each present Writer,
Damn'd the Plain-dealer, and admir'd the Biter.

These Censures o'er, to different Subjects next,
'Till rallying all, the Feast became the Text;
So to mine Host, the greatest Jest, they past,
And the Fool Treater grew the Treat at last.
Thus having eaten, drunk, laught, at his Cost,
To the next Day's Repentance, as they boast,
They left their senseless, treating, drunken Host.

Soft be his Slumbers! But may this suffice
Our Friends the Wits and Poets to advise,
(Tho' Dinners oft they want and Suppers too)
Rather to starve, as they are us'd to do,
Than dine with Fools, that on their Guests will force
Mixt Wine, mixt Company, and mixt Discourse:
Since not much Wine, much Company, much Food,
Make Entertainments please us as they shou'd;
But 'tis of each, the Little, and the Good.