Epistles To Mr. Pope. Epistle Ii. From Oxford Poem Rhyme Scheme

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Edward Young

Epistles To Mr. Pope. Epistle Ii. From Oxford Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis

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All write at London shall the rage abate	A
Here where it most should shine the muses' seat	B
Where mortal or immortal as they please	C
The learn'd may choose eternity or ease	C
Has not a royal patron wisely strove	D
To woo the muse in her Athenian grove	D
Added new strings to her harmonious shell	E
And given new tongues to those who spoke so well	E
Let these instruct with truth's illustrious ray	F
Awake the world and scare our owls away	F
Meanwhile O friend indulge me if I give	G
Some needful precepts how to write and live	H
Serious should be an author's final views	I
Who write for pure amusement ne'er amuse	I
An author 'tis a venerable name	J
How few deserve it and what numbers claim	J
Unblest with sense above their peers refin'd	K
Who shall stand up dictators to mankind	K
Nay who dare shine if not in virtue's cause	L
That sole proprietor of just applause	M
Ye restless men who pant for letter'd praise	N
With whom would you consult to gain the bays	N
With those great authors whose fam'd works you read	O
'Tis well go then consult the laurell'd shade	P
What answer will the laurell'd shade return	Q
Hear it and tremble he commands you burn	Q
The noblest works his envied genius writ	R
That boast of nought more excellent than wit	R
If this be true as 'tis a truth most dread	O
Woe to the page which has not that to plead	S
Fontaine and Chaucer dying wish'd unwrote	S
The sprightliest efforts of their wanton thought	S
Sidney and Waller brightest sons of fame	J
Condemn the charm of ages to the flame	J
And in one point is all true wisdom cast	S
To think that early we must think at last	S
Immortal wits ev'n dead break nature's laws	M
Injurious still to virtue's sacred cause	L
And their guilt growing as their bodies rot	S
Revers'd ambition pant to be forgot	S
Thus ends your courted fame does lucre then	T
The sacred thirst of gold betray your pen	T
In prose 'tis blameable in verse 'tis worse	U
Provokes the muse extorts Apollo's curse	U
His sacred influence never should be sold	S
'Tis arrant simony to sing for gold	S
'Tis immortality should fire your mind	S
Scorn a less paymaster than all mankind	S
If bribes you seek know this ye writing tribe	V
Who writes for virtue has the largest bribe	V
All's on the party of the virtuous man	W
The good will surely serve him if they can	W
The bad when interest or ambition guide	S
And 'tis at once their interest and their pride	S
But should both fail to take him to their care	X
He boasts a greater friend and both may spare	X
Letters to man uncommon light dispense	Y
And what is virtue but superior sense	Y
In parts and learning you who place your pride	S
Your faults are crimes your crimes are double dyed	S
What is a scandal of the first renown	Z
But letter'd knaves and atheists in a gown	Z
'Tis harder far to please than give offence	Y
The least misconduct damns the brightest sense	Y
Each shallow pate that cannot read your name	J
Can read your life and will be proud to blame	J
Flagitious manners make impressions deep	A2
On those that o'er a page of Milton sleep	A2
Nor in their dulness think to save your shame	J
True these are fools but wise men say the same	J
Wits are a despicable race of men	T
If they confine their talents to the pen	T
When the man shocks us while the writer shines	Y
Our scorn in life our envy in his lines	Y
Yet proud of parts with prudence some dispense	Y
And play the fool because they're men of sense	Y
What instances bleed recent in each thought	S
Of men to ruin by their genius brought	S
Against their wills what numbers ruin shun	B2
Purely through want of wit to be undone	B2
Nature has shown by making it so rare	X
That wit's a jewel which we need not wear	X
Of plain sound sense life's current coin is made	S
With that we drive the most substantial trade	S
Prudence protects and guides us wit betrays	Y
A splendid source of ill ten thousand ways	Y
A certain snare to miseries immense	Y
A gay prerogative from common sense	Y
Unless strong judgment that wild thing can tame	J
And break to paths of virtue and of fame	J
But grant your judgment equal to the best	S
Sense fills your head and genius fires your breast	S
Yet still forbear your wit consider well	E
'Tis great to show but greater to conceal	C2
As it is great to seize the golden prize	Y
Of place or power but greater to despise	Y
If still you languish for an author's name	J
Think private merit less than public fame	J
And fancy not to write is not to live	H
Deserve and take the great prerogative	G
But ponder what it is how dear 'twill cost	S
To write one page which you may justly boast	S
Sense may be good yet not deserve the press	Y
Who write an awful character profess	Y
The world as pupil of their wisdom claim	J
And for their stipend an immortal fame	J
Nothing but what is solid or refin'd	S
Should dare ask public audience of mankind	S
Severely weigh your learning and your wit	S
Keep down your pride by what is nobly writ	S
No writer fam'd in your own way pass o'er	D2
Much trust example but reflection more	E2
More had the ancients writ they more had taught	S
Which shows some work is left for modern thought	S
This weigh'd perfection know and known adore	E2
Toil burn for that but do not aim at more	E2
Above beneath it the just limits fix	Y
And zealously prefer four lines to six	Y
Write and re write blot out and write again	T
And for its swiftness ne'er applaud your pen	T
Leave to the jockeys that Newmarket praise	Y
Slow runs the Pegasus that wins the bays	Y
Much time for immortality to pay	F
Is just and wise for less is thrown away	F
Time only can mature the labouring brain	F2
Time is the father and the midwife pain	F2
The same good sense that makes a man excel	E
Still makes him doubt he ne'er has written well	E
Downright impossibilities they seek	G2
What man can be immortal in a week	G2
Excuse no fault though beautiful 'twill harm	H2
One fault shocks more than twenty beauties charm	H2
Our age demands correctness Addison	B2
And you this commendable hurt have done	B2
Now writers find as once Achilles found	S
The whole is mortal if a part's unsound	S
He that strikes out and strikes not out the best	S
Pours lustre in and dignifies the rest	S
Give e'er so little if what's right be there	X
We praise for what you burn and what you spare	X
The part you burn smells sweet before the shrine	I2
And is as incense to the part divine	I2
Nor frequent write though you can do it well	E
Men may too oft though not too much excel	E
A few good works gain fame more sink their price	Y
Mankind are fickle and hate paying twice	Y
They granted you writ well what can they more	E2
Unless you let them praise for giving o'er	D2
Do boldly what you do and let your page	J2
Smile if it smiles and if it rages rage	J2
So faintly Lucius censures and commends	Y
That Lucius has no foes except his friends	Y
Let satire less engage you than applause	Y
It shows a gen'rous mind to wink at flaws	Y
Is genius yours be yours a glorious end	S
Be your king's country's truth's religion's friend	S
The public glory by your own beget	S
Run nations run posterity in debt	S
And since the fam'd alone make others live	H
First have that glory you presume to give	G
If satire charms strike faults but spare the man	W
'Tis dull to be as witty as you can	W
Satire recoils whenever charg'd too high	K2
Round your own fame the fatal splinters fly	K2
As the soft plume gives swiftness to the dart	S
Good breeding sends the satire to the heart	S
Painters and surgeons may the structure scan	W
Genius and morals be with you the man	W
Defaults in those alone should give offence	Y
Who strikes the person pleads his innocence	Y
My narrow minded satire can't extend	S
To Codrus' form I'm not so much his friend	S
Himself should publish that the world agree	L2
Before his works or in the pillory	L2
Let him be black fair tall short thin or fat	S
Dirty or clean I find no theme in that	S
Is that call'd humour It has this pretence	Y
'Tis neither virtue breeding wit or sense	Y
Unless you boast the genius of a Swift	S
Beware of humour the dull rogue's last shift	S
Can others write like you Your task give o'er	D2
'Tis printing what was publish'd long before	E2
If nought peculiar through your labours run	B2
They're duplicates and twenty are but one	B2
Think frequently think close read nature turn	Q
Men's manners o'er and half your volumes burn	Q
To nurse with quick reflection be your strife	M2
Thoughts born from present objects warm from life	M2
When most unsought such inspirations rise	Y
Slighted by fools and cherish'd by the wise	Y
Expect peculiar fame from these alone	N2
These make an author these are all your own	N2
Life like their Bibles coolly men turn o'er	D2
Hence unexperienc'd children of threescore	D2
True all men think of course as all men dream	O2
And if they slightly think 'tis much the same	J
Letters admit not of a half renown	Z
They give you nothing or they give a crown	Z
No work e'er gain'd true fame or ever can	W
But what did honour to the name of man	W
Weighty the subject cogent the discourse	Y
Clear be the style the very sound of force	Y
Easy the conduct simple the design	I2
Striking the moral and the soul divine	I2
Let nature art and judgment wit exceed	S
O'er learning reason reign o'er that your creed	S
Thus virtue's seeds at once and laurel's grow	D2
Do thus and rise a Pope or a Despreau	D2
And when your genius exquisitely shines	Y
Live up to the full lustre of your lines	Y
Parts but expose those men who virtue quit	S
A fallen angel is a fallen wit	S
And they plead Lucifer's detested cause	Y
Who for bare talents challenge our applause	Y
Would you restore just honours to the pen	T
From able writers rise to worthy men	T
Who's this with nonsense nonsense would restrain	F2
Who's this they cry so vainly schools the vain	F2
Who damns our trash with so much trash replete	S
As three ells round huge Cheyne rails at meat	S
Shall I with Bavius then my voice exalt	S
And challenge all mankind to find one fault	S
With huge examens overwhelm my page	J2
And darken reason with dogmatic rage	J2
As if one tedious volume writ in rhyme	P2
In prose a duller could excuse the crime	P2
Sure next to writing the most idle thing	Q2
Is gravely to harangue on what we sing	Q2
At that tribunal stands the writing tribe	V
Which nothing can intimidate or bribe	V
Time is the judge time has nor friend nor foe	D2
False fame must wither and the true will grow	D2
Arm'd with this truth all critics I defy	K2
For if I fall by my own pen I die	K2
While snarlers strive with proud but fruitless pain	F2
To wound immortals or to slay the slain	F2
Sore prest with danger and in awful dread	S
Of twenty pamphlets levell'd at my head	S
Thus have I forg'd a buckler in my brain	F2
Of recent form to serve me this campaign	F2
And safely hope to quit the dreadful field	S
Delug'd with ink and sleep behind my shield	S
Unless dire Codrus rouses to the fray	D2
In all his might and damns me for a day	D2
As turns a flock of geese and on the green	R2
Poke out their foolish necks in awkward spleen	R2
Ridiculous in rage to hiss not bite	S
So war their quills when sons of dulness write	S