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Leading a tedious life in Mifery,

Under laborious mean Hypocrify.

Look to the bottom of his vaft defign,

Wherein Man's Wifdom, Pow'r, and Glory joint
The Good he acts, the Ill he does endure,
'Tis all for Fear, to make himself fecure.
Merely for Safety after Fame we thirst;
For all Men would be Cowards, if they durft;
And Honesty's against all common Senfe;
Men must be knaves, 'tis in their own defence.
Mankind's dishoneft, if you think it fair;
Amongst known cheats to play upon the Square,
You'll be undone.

Nor can weak Truth your reputation fave,
The Knaves will all agree to call you Knave.
Wrong'd fhall he live, infulted o'er, oppreft,
Who dares be lefs a Villain than the rest.
Thus, Sir, you fee what human Nature craves,
Moft men are Cowards, all men fhould be Knaves.
The diff'rence lies, as far as I can fee,
Not in the thing itfelf, but the degree;
And all the fubject matter of debate
Is only, who's a Knave of the first rate.
All this with indignation have I hurl'd
At the pretending Part of the proud World,
Who fwoln with felfifh Vanity, devife
Falfe freedoms, holy cheats, and formal lies,
Over their fellow-flaves to tyrannize.

But it in court so just a man there be,
(In court a juft Man!) yet unknown to me,
Who does his needfull flattery direct
Not to oppofe and ruin, but protect;
Since Flattery, which way foever laid,
Is ftill a Tax on that unhappy trade:
If fo upright a Statesman you can find,
Whofe Paffion bends to his unbiafs'd Mind,
Who does his arts and policies apply
To raife his country, not his family;
Nor, while his pride know'n avarice withstands,
Receives bafe bribes from friends corrupted hands.

Rochester.

Rochester., Is there a Churchman, who on God relies,
Whofe life his faith and doctrine justifies?
Not one, blown up with vain prelatick pride,
Who for reproof of fins does Man deride,
Whofe envious heart makes Preaching a pretence,
With his obftrep'rous fawcy eloquence,

To chide at Kings, and rail at Men of Sense;
Who from his pulpit vents more peevish lies,
More bitter railings, fcandals, calumnies,
Than at a Goffiping are thrown about,

When the good wives get drunk, and then fall out.
None of the fenfual Tribe, whose talents lie
In avarice, pride, floth, and gluttony;

Who hunt good Livings, but abhor good Lives;
Whofe luft exalted to that height arrives,
They act adultery with their own wives;
And ere a Score of years compleated be,
Can from the lofty pulpit proudly fee
Half a large Parish their own Progeny.
Nor doating Bishop, who would be ador'd
For domineering at the Council Board;
A greater Fop in bufinefs at Fourscore,
Fonder of ferious toys, affected more,
Than the gay glitt'ring Fool at twenty proves,
With all his noife, his taudry cloaths and loves:
But a meek humble Man, of honeft fente,
Who, preaching peace, does practise continence;
Whofe pious life 's a proof, he does believe
Mysterious Truths, which no Man can conceive:
If upon earth there dwell fuch godlike Men,
I'll here recant my Paradox to them;
Adore thofe Shrines of Virtue, homage pay,
And with the Rabble World their laws obey;
If fuch there are, yet grant me this at least:
Man differs more from Mán, than Man from Beast.

Pope.

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(Seine schon gedachten Umarbeitungen von: Donne's drei Satiren, und seine überaus glücklichen Nachahmungen einiger Horazischer Satiren und Episteln, begleitete Pope mit einem meisterhaft geschriebenen Prolog und Epilog, die felbft zu den trefflichsten satirischen Gedichten gehdren. Der legtre besteht aus zwei Dialogen; und der Prolog aus einer poetischen Epistel an den Dr. Arbuthnot, deren Form zum Theil gleichfalls dialogisch ist. Unwille und Klage über die Zudringlichkeit schlechter Schriftsteller, und ftrenge, hię und da wohl freilich zu scharfe und zu persönliche Züchtigung der selben, machen den Inhalt dieser Satire aus, von der ich hier nur die lezte Hälfte mittheile. Warton kommentirt vortrefflich darüber in seinem Essay on Pope, Vol. II. Sect. XI. Vergl. Duschens Briefe zur Bildung des Geschmacks, altre Ausg. Th. VI. S. 120 ff.)

PROLOGUE TO THE SATIRES.
V. 261. ff.

Oh let me live my own, and die so too! (To live and die is all I have to do)

Maintain a poet's dignity and ease,

And see what friends, and read what books I plea fe:

Above a patron, though I condefcend

Sometimes to call a Minifter my friend.

I was not born for courts or great affairs;

I

pay my debts, believe, and fay my pray'rs;

Can fleep without a poem in my head,

Nor know if Dennis be alive or dead.

Why am I afk'd what next fhall fee the light?
Heav'ns! was I born for nothing but to write?
Has life no joys for me? or (to be grave)
Have I no friend to ferve, no foul to fave?

Pope.

I found him close with Swift - Indeed? no

doubt

(Cries prating Balbus), fomething will come out." 'Tis all in vain, deny it as I will.

29.

No, fuch a genius never can lie ftill."
And then for mine obligingly mistakes
The first lampoon, Sir Will, or Bubo makes.
Poor guiltless I and can I chufe but smile,
When ev'ry coxcomb knows me by my style?
Curs'd be the verfe, how well foe'er it flow,
That tends to make one worthy man my foe,
Give Virtue fcandal, Innocence a fear,
Or from the foft ey'd virgin steal a tear!
But he who hurts a harmless neighbour's peace,
Infults fall'n worth, or beauty in diftress,
Who loves a lie, lame flander helps about,
Who writes a libel, or who copies out:
That fop, whofe pride affects a patron's name,
Yet abfent, wounds an author's honeft fame;
Who can your merit felfifhly approve.
And fhow the fenfe of it without the love;
Who has the vanity to call you friend,
Yet wants the honour, injur'd, to defend;
Who tells whate'er you think, whate'er you fay
And, if he lie not, muft at least betray;
Who to the Dean and filver-bell can (wear,
And fees at Cannons what was never there;
Who reads, but with a luft to misapply,
Make fatire a lampoon, and fiction lie:
A lafh like mine no honeft man fhall dread,
But all fuch babling block-heads in his stead.
Let Sporus tremble. - Arb. What? that thing of
filk.

Sporus, that mere white curd of afs's milk?
Satire or fenfe, alas! can Sporus feel?
Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?
POPE Yet let me flap this bug with gilded wings
This painted child of dirt, that stinks and stings;
Whole buzz the witty and the fair annoys.
Yet wit ne'er taites, and beauty ne'er enjoys:

So well-bred fpaniels civilly delight

In mumbling of the game they dare not bite.
Eternal fmiles his emptinefs betray,

As fhallow ftreams run dimpling all the way;
Whether in florid impotence he speaks;

And, as the prompter breathes, the puppet fqueaks;
Or at the car of Eve, familiar toad,

Half froth, half venom, fpits himself abroad,

In puns, or polities, or tales, or lies,

Or fpite, or imut,, or rhymes, or blasphemies.
His wit all fee-faw, between that and this,
Now high, now low, now mafter up, now mifs,
And he himself one vile antithefis.

Amphibious thing! that acting either part,
The triffling head, or the corrupted heart,
Fop at the toilet, flatt'rer at the board
Now trips a lady, and now ftruts a lord,
Eve's tempter thus the Rabbins have expreft,
A cherub's face, a reptile all the reft.

Beauty that shocks you, parts that none will truft
Wit that can creep, and pride that licks the duft.

Not Fortune's worshipper, nor Fashion's fool
Not Eucre's madman, nor Ambition's tool,
Not proud, nor fervile; be one poet's praise
That if he pleas'd, he pleas'd by manly ways:
That flatt'ry ev'n to kings, he held afhame,
And thought a lie in verfe or profe the fame:
That not in Fancy's maze he wander'd long
But floop'd to truth, and moraliz'd his fong:
That not for Fame, but Virtue's better end,
He stood the furious foe, the timid friend,
The damning critic, half-approving wit,
The coxcomb hit, or fearing to be hit;
Laugh'd at the lofs of friends he never had;
The dull, the proud, the wicked, and the mad;
The diftant threats of vengeance on his head,
The blow unfelt, the tear he never shed:
The tale reviv'd, the lie fo oft o'erthrown,
Th' imputed trafh, and dulnefs not his own;

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Pope.

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