One thousand seven hundred and thirty eight. A dialogue something like Horace. By Mr. Pope

Table of contents

- [halftitle]

- [titlepage]

- BOOKS lately Printed for T. COOPER.

ONE THOUSAND SEVEN HUNDRED AND THIRTY EIGHT.

DIALOGUE.

A.

NOT twice a twelvemonth you appear in Print,

And when it comes, the Court see nothing in't.

You grow correct that once with Rapture writ,

And are, besides, too Moral for a Wit.

Decay of Parts, alas! we all must feel—

Why now, this moment, don't I see you steal?

'Tis all from Horace: did not Horace say

"Lord Fanny spun a thousand lines a day?

And long before you, in much better metre,

"Laugh at those Fools who put their trust in Peter?

But Horace, Sir, was delicate, was nice;

Bubo observes, he lash'd no sort of Vice:

Horace would say, Sir Billy serv'd the Crown,

Blunt could do Bus'ness, H—ggins knew the Town,

Sir George of some slight Gallantries suspect,

In rev'rend S—n note a small Neglect,

And own, the Spaniard did a waggish thing,

Who cropt our Ears, and sent them to the King.

His sly, polite, insinuating stile

Could please at Court, and made AUGUSTUS smile:

An artful Manager, that crept between

His Friends and Shame, and was a kind of Screen. [†]

But 'faith your very Friends will soon be sore;

Patriots there are, who wish you'd jest no more—

And where's the Glory? 'twill be only thought

The Great man never offer'd you a Groat.

Go see Sir ROBERT—

B.

See Sir ROBERT!—hum—

And never laugh—for all my life to come?

Seen him I have, but in his happier hour

Of Social Pleasure, ill-exchang'd for Pow'r.

Would he oblige me? let me only find,

He thinks one Poet of no venal kind.

Come, come, at all I laugh He laughs, no doubt,

The only diff'rence is, I dare laugh out.

A.

Why yes: with Scripture still you may be free;

A Horse-laugh, if you please, at Honesty;

A Joke on JEKYL, or some odd Old Whig,

Who never chang'd his Principle, or Wig:

A Patriot is a Fool in ev'ry age,

Whom all Lord Chamberlains allow the Stage:

These nothing hurts; they keep their Fashion still,

And wear their strange old Virtue as they will.

If any ask you, "Who's the Man, so near

"His Prince, that writes in Verse, and has his Ear?

Why answer LYTTELTON, and I'll engage

The worthy Youth shall ne'er be in a rage:

But were his Verses vile, his Whisper base,

You'd quickly find him in Lord Fanny's case.

Aegysthus, Verres, hurt not honest FLEURY,

But well may put some Statesmen in a fury.

Laugh then at any, but at Fools or Foes;

These you but anger, and you mend not those:

Laugh at your Friends, and if your Friends are sore,

So much the better, you may laugh the more.

To Vice and Folly to confine the jest,

Sets half the World, God knows, against the rest;

Did not the Sneer of more impartial men

At Sense and Virtue, balance all agen.

Judicious Wits spread wide the Ridicule,

And charitably comfort Knave and Fool.

B.

Dear Sir, forgive the Prejudice of Youth:

Adieu Distinction, Satire, Warmth, and Truth!

Come harmless Characters that no one hit,

Come Henley's Oratory, Osborn's Wit!

The Honey dropping from Ty—l's tongue,

The Flow'rs of Bub—ton, the Flow of Y—ng!

The gracious Dew of Pulpit Eloquence;

And all the well-whipt Cream of Courtly Sense,

That first was H—vy's, F—'s next, and then

The S—te's, and then H—vy's once agen.

O come, that easy Ciceronian stile,

So Latin, yet so English all the while,

As, tho' the Pride of Middleton and Bland,

All Boys may read, and Girls may understand!

Then might I sing without the least Offence,

And all I sung should be the Nation's Sense.

So—Satire is no more—I feel it die—

No Gazeteer more innocent than I!

And let, a God's-name, ev'ry Fool and Knave

Be grac'd thro' Life, and flatter'd in his Grave.

A.

Why so? if Satire know its Time and Place,

You still may lash the Greatest—in Disgrace:

For Merit will by turns forsake them all;

Would you know when? exactly when they fall.

But let all Satire in all Changes spare

Immortal S—k, and grave De—re!

Silent and soft, as Saints remove to Heav'n,

All Tyes dissolv'd, and ev'ry Sin forgiv'n,

These, may some gentle, ministerial Wing

Receive, and place for ever near a King!

There, where no Passion, Pride, or Shame transport,

Lull'd with the sweet Nepenthe of a Court;

There, where no Father's, Brother's, Friend's Disgrace

Once break their Rest, or stir them from their Place;

But past the Sense of human Miseries,

All Tears are wip'd for ever from all Eyes;

No Cheek is known to blush, no Heart to throb,

Save when they lose a Question, or a Job.

B.

Good Heav'n forbid, that I shou'd blast their Glory,

Who know how like Whig-Ministers to Tory,

And when three Sov'reigns dy'd, could scarce be vext,

Consid'ring what a Gracious Prince was next.

Have I in silent wonder seen such things

As Pride in Slaves, and Avarice in Kings,

And at a Peer, or Peeress shall I fret,

Who starves a Mother, or forswears a Debt?

Virtue, I grant you, is an empty boast;

But shall the Dignity of Vice be lost?

Ye Gods! shall Cibber's Son, without rebuke

Swear like a Lord? or Rich out-whore a Duke?

A Fav'rite's Porter with his Master vie,

Be brib'd as often, and as often lie?

Is it for W—rd or Peter (paltry Things!)

To pay their Debts or keep their Faith like Kings?

If[*] Blount destroy'd himself, he play'd the man,

And so may'st Thou, Illustrious Passeran!

But shall a Printer, weary of his life,

Learn from their Books to hang himself and Wife?

This, this, my friend, I cannot, will not bear;

Vice thus abus'd, demands a Nation's care;

This calls the Church to deprecate our Sin,

And hurls the Thunder of the Laws on Gin.

Let humble Foster, if he will, excell

Ten Metropolitans in preaching well;

A simple Quaker, or a Quaker's Wife,

Out-do L—d—ffe, in Doctrine—yea, in Life;

Let low-born ALLEN, with an aukward Shame,

Do good by stealth, and blush to find it Fame.

Virtue may chuse the high or low Degree,

'Tis just alike to Virtue, and to me;

Dwell in a Monk, or light upon a King,

She's still the same, belov'd, contented thing.

Vice is undone, if she forgets her Birth,

And stoops from Angels to the Dregs of Earth:

But 'tis the Fall degrades her to a Whore;

Let Greatness own her, and she's mean no more:

Her Birth, her Beauty, Crowds and Courts confess,

Chaste Matrons praise her, and grave Bishops bless:

In golden Chains the willing World she draws,

And hers the Gospel is, and hers the Laws:

Mounts the Tribunal, lifts her scarlet head,

And sees pale Virtue carted in her stead!

Lo! at the Wheels of her Triumphal Car,

Old England's Genius rough with many a Scar,

Dragg'd in the Dust! his Arms hang idly round,

His Flag inverted trails along the ground!

Our Youth, all liv'ry'd o'er with foreign Gold,

Before her dance; behind her crawl the Old!

See thronging Millions to the Pagod run,

And offer Country, Parent, Wife, or Son!

Hear her black Trumpet thro' the Land proclaim,

That "Not to be corrupted is the Shame."

In Soldier, Churchman, Patriot, Man in Pow'r,

'Tis Av'rice all, Ambition is no more!

See, all our Nobles begging to be Slaves!

See, all our Fools aspiring to be Knaves!

The Wit of Cheats, the Courage of a Whore,

Are what ten thousand envy and adore.

All, all look up, with reverential Awe,

On Crimes that scape, or triumph o'er the Law:

While Truth, Worth, Wisdom, daily we decry—

"Nothing is Sacred now but Villany."

Yet may this Verse (if such a Verse remain)

Show there was one who held it in disdain.

FINIS.

Notes

†

Omne vafer vitium ridenti Flaccus amico

Tangit, & admissus circum praecordia ludit.

↵

*
Author of a Book intitled, The Oracles of Re
•
on.

↵

ONE THOUSAND SEVEN HUNDRED AND THIRTY EIGHT.

ONE THOUSAND SEVEN HUNDRED AND THIRTY EIGHT.

A DIALOGUE Something like HORACE.

By Mr. POPE.

LONDON: Printed for T. COOPER at the Globe in Paternoster-row. (Price One Shilling.)

BOOKS lately Printed for T. COOPER.

1. The First Satire of the Second Book of Horace, In Dialogue between Alexander Pope of Twickenham in Com. Midd. Esq; on the one Part, and his Learned Council on the Other.

2. Sober Advice from Horace, as delivered in his second Sermon, Imitated in the manner of Mr. Pope. Textum Recensuit Ric. Bentleius, with Notes.

3. Horace his Epistle to AUGUSTUS, Imitated by Mr. Pope.

4. The First Epistle of the First Book of Horace imitated.

5. The Sixth Epistle of the First Book of Horace imitated.

6. The Works of Alexander Pope, Esq Vol. 2. containing his Epistles and Satires.

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One thousand seven hundred and thirty eight. A dialogue something like Horace. By Mr. Pope

Pope, Alexander, 1688-1744.

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http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/3693

ID [isbn10]

1106006925

ID [isbn13]

9781106006929

ID [TCP]

K023171.000

ID [BIBNO]

CW3311930261

ID [ECLL]

0143500600

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— One thousand seven hundred and thirty eight. A dialogue something like Horace. By Mr. Pope, Pope, Alexander, 1688-1744.. [4],10,[2]p. ; 2⁰. London :: printed for T. Cooper,. [1738]. [A reimpression of the impression with "(Price ONE SHILLING.)" on the titlepage; "(Price One Shilling)" on titlepage; sig. D under "her".] [With a half-title, and a final leaf of advertisements.] [Reproduction of original from the British Library.] [Foxon, P933] [Griffith, 485] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCT5720.] [Electronic data. Farmington Hills, Mich. : Thomson Gale, 2003. Page image (PNG). Digitized image of the microfilm version produced in Woodbridge, CT by Research Publications, 1982-2002 (later known as Primary Source Microfilm, an imprint of the Gale Group).]

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