 | Alexander Pope: Minor poems |  |
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CHARACTERS
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II. UMBRA.
Close to the best known Author, Umbra sits,
The constant Index to all Button's Wits.
Who's here? cries Umbra: “Only Johnson”—Oh!
Your Slave, and exit; but returns with Rowe,
Dear Rowe, lets sit and talk of Tragedies:
Not long, Pope enters, and to Pope he flies.
Then up comes Steele; he turns upon his Heel,
And in a Moment fastens upon Steele.
But cries as soon, Dear Dick, I must be gone,
For, if I know his Tread, here's Addison.
Says Addison to Steele, 'Tis Time to go.
Pope to the Closet steps aside with Rowe.
Poor Umbra, left in this abandon'd Pickle,
E'en sits him down, and writes to honest T---.
The constant Index to all Button's Wits.
Who's here? cries Umbra: “Only Johnson”—Oh!
Your Slave, and exit; but returns with Rowe,
Dear Rowe, lets sit and talk of Tragedies:
Not long, Pope enters, and to Pope he flies.
Then up comes Steele; he turns upon his Heel,
And in a Moment fastens upon Steele.
But cries as soon, Dear Dick, I must be gone,
For, if I know his Tread, here's Addison.
Says Addison to Steele, 'Tis Time to go.
Pope to the Closet steps aside with Rowe.
Poor Umbra, left in this abandon'd Pickle,
E'en sits him down, and writes to honest T---.
Fool! 'tis in vain from Wit to Wit to roam;
Know, Sense, like Charity, begins at Home.
Know, Sense, like Charity, begins at Home.
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III. ATTICUS.
Quod Te Roma legit, Rumpitur Invidia!
If meagre Gildon draws his venal quill,
I wish the Man a Dinner, and sit still;
If D---s rhymes, and raves in furious Fret,
I'll answer D---s, when I am in debt:
Hunger, not Malice, makes such Authors print,
And who'l wage War with Bedlam or the Mint?
But were there One whom better Stars conspire
To bless, whom Titan touch'd with purer Fire,
Who born with Talents, bred in Arts to please,
Was form'd to write, converse, and live, with ease:
Should such a man, too fond to rule alone,
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View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes,
And hate, for Arts that caus'd himself to rise;
Damn with faint praise, assent with civil Leer,
And without sneering, teach the rest to sneer;
Or pleas'd to wound, and yet afraid to strike,
Just hint a Fault, and hesitate Dislike;
Alike reserv'd to blame or to commend,
A tim'rous Foe and a suspitious Friend:
Fearing ev'n Fools, by Flatterers besieg'd;
And so obliging, that he ne'r oblig'd:
Who when two Wits on rival themes contest,
Approves them both, but likes the worst the best:
Like Cato, gives his little Senate Laws,
And sits attentive to his own Applause;
While Fops and Templars ev'ry Sentence raise,
And wonder with a foolish Face of Praise:
What pity, Heav'n! if such a Man there be?
Who would not weep, if A---n were He?
| Alexander Pope: Minor poems | |