Alexander Pope Poems

Once how I doated on this Jilting Town,

Thinking no Heaven was out of London known;

Till I her Beauties artificial found,

Her Pleasure's but a short and giddy round

Like one who has his Phillis long enjoy'd,

Grown with the fulsom Repetition cfoy'd

Love's Mists, then vanish from before his Eyes,

And all the Ladies Frailties he descries:

Quite surfeited with Joy, I now retreat

To the fresh Air, a homely Country Seat;

Good Hours, Books, harmless Sports, & wholsom Meat.

And now at last I Ve chose my proper Sphere,

Where Men are plain and rustick, but sincere.

I never was for Lies nor Fawning made,

But call a Wafer Bread, and Spade a Spade:

I tell what Merits got Lord [....] his Place,

And laugh at marry'd M[...]ve to his Face.

I cannot keep with every Change of State;

Nor flatter Villans, tho' at Court they're great:

Nor will I prostitute my Pen for Hire,

Praise Cromwell damn him, write the Spanish Fryar.

A Papist now, if next the Turk should reign,

Then piously transverse the Alcoran.

Methinks I hear one of the Nation cry,

Be-Crist, this is a Whiggish Calumny,

All Vertues are compriz'd in Loyalty,

Might I dispute with him, I'd change his Note,

I'd silence him, that is, he'd cut my Throat.

This powerful way of reasoning never mist,

None are so positive, but then desist

As I will, e'er it come to that extreme;

Our Eolly, not our Misery, is our Theme.

Well may we wonder what strange Charm, what Spell,

What mighty Pleasures in this London dwell,

That Men renounce their Ease, Estates and Fame,

And drudge it here to get a Fopling's Name.

That one of seeming Sense advanc'd in Years,

Like a Sir Courtly Nice in Town appears:

Others exchange their Land for tawdry Clothes

And will in spite of Nature pass for Beaus.

Indulgent Heaven, who ne'er made ought in Vain

Each Man for sommething proper did ordain

Yet most againft their Genius blindly run

The wrong they chuse,and what they're made for shun.

Thus Ar[...]n thinks for State-Affairs he's fit;

Hewit for Ogling, Chomly for Wit:

But 'tis vain, so wife, these Men to teach,

Besides the King's learn'd Priests should only preach.

To catch some flutt'ring gawdy Butterfly.

Thus Gray pursues the Lady with a Face,

Like forty more, and with the same Success,

Whose Jilting Conduct in her Beauty's spite

Loses her Fame, and gets no Pleasure by't.

The secret Joys of an Intrigue she flights,

And in an Equipage of Fools delights:

So some vain Heroes for a vain Command,

Forfeit their Conscience, Liberty and Land.

But see high Mass is done, in Crowds they go?

What, all these Irish and Moll Howard too?

'Tis very late, to Lockets let's away,

The Lady Frances comes, I will not flay.

Expecting Dinner, to discourse they fall?

Without Respect of Morals, censuring all:

The Nymph they lov'd, the Friend they hug'd before

He's a vain Coxcomb, shes a common Whore:

No Obligation can their Jests prevent;

Wit, like unruly Wind in Bowels pent,

Torments the Bearer till he gives it vent

Tho' this offends the Ear, as that the Nose,

No matter, 'tis for Ease, and out it goes.

But what they talk ( too naufeous to rehearse )

I leave for the late Ballad-writers Verse.

After a dear-bought Meal, they haste away.

To a Desart of Ogling at the Play.

What's here which in the Box's Front I see!

Deform'd old Age, Diseases, Infamy!

Warwick, North, Paget, Hinton, Martin, Willis,

And that Eqitome of Lewdness, Ellys:

I'll not turn that way, but obferve the Play

Pox, 'tis a tragick Farce of Banks to Day:

Besides, some Irish Wits the Pit invade

With a worse Din than Cat-call Serenade.

I must be gone, let's to Hide-Park repair,

If not good Company, we'll find good Air.

Here with affected Bow and Side-Glass look,

The self-conceited Fool is eas'ly took.

There comes a Spark with fix inTarsels drest,

Charming the Ladies Hearts with dint of Beast

Like Scullers on the Themes with frequent Bow,

They labour, tug, and in their Coaches row;

To meet some fair one, still they wheel about, Till he retires, and then they hurry out.

But next we'll visit where the Beaus in order come,

(Tis yet too early for the drawing-room)

Here Nowels and Olivio's abound;

But one plain Manly is not to be found:

Flatt'ring the present, the absent they abuse,

And vent their Spleen and Lies, pretending News:

Why, such a Lady's pale and wou'd not Dance

This to the Country gone, and that to France

Who's marry'd, flipp'd away, or mist at Court;

Others Misfortunes thus afford them sport.

A new Song is produced, the Author guest,

The Verses and the Poet made a Jest.

Live Laureat E[...]er, in whom we see

The English can excel Antiquity.

Dryden writes Epick, Woosly Odes in vain

Virgil and Horace still the cheif maintain:

He with his mathless Poems has alone, Bavins and Mivius in their way out-done.

But new for Cards and Play they all propofe,

While I who never in good breeding lose

Who cannot civilly sit still and see

The Ladies pick the Purse, and laugh at me,

Pretending earnest Business, drive to Court,

Where those who can do nothing esle retort

The Fuglish must not seek Preferment there

For Mack's and O's all Places destin'd are

No more we'll fend our Youth to Paris now,

French Principles and Breeding one wou'd do

They for Improvement must to Ireland fail

The Irish Wit and Language now prevail.

But soft my Pen, with care this Subjeft touch

Stop where you are, you soon may write too much

Quite weary with the Hurry of the Day:

I to my peaceful Home direct my way;

While some in Hack, and Habit of Fatigue,

May have (but oft pretend) a close Intrigue

Others more open to the Tavern scow'r,

Calling for Wine, and every Man his Whore,

As safe as those with Quality perhaps,

For N[...]rgh says great Ladies can give Claps:

Some where they're kept, and many where they keep,

Most see an easy Mistrefs e'er they sleep,

Thus Sparks may dress, dance, play, write, fight, get drunk,

But all the mighty Pother ends in Punk.