Volume I Part 25 (2/2)
At home he was pursued with noise; Abroad was pester'd by the boys: Within, his wife would break his bones: Without, they pelted him with stones; The 'prentices procured a riding,[2]
To act his patience and her chiding.
False patience and mistaken pride!
There are ten thousand d.i.c.ks beside; Slaves to their quiet and good name, Are used like d.i.c.k, and bear the blame.
[Footnote 1: See _post_, p. 200, ”A beautiful young nymph.”]
[Footnote 2: A performance got up by the rustics in some counties to ridicule and shame a man who has been guilty of beating his wife (or in this case, who has been beaten by her), by having a cart drawn through the village, having in it two persons dressed to resemble the woman and her master, and a supposed representation of the beating is inflicted, enacted before the offender's door. ”Notes and Queries,” 1st S., ix, 370, 578.--_W. E. B._]
ADVICE TO THE GRUB-STREET VERSE-WRITERS 1726
Ye poets ragged and forlorn, Down from your garrets haste; Ye rhymers, dead as soon as born, Not yet consign'd to paste;
I know a trick to make you thrive; O, 'tis a quaint device: Your still-born poems shall revive, And scorn to wrap up spice.
Get all your verses printed fair, Then let them well be dried; And Curll[1] must have a special care To leave the margin wide.
Lend these to paper-sparing[2] Pope; And when he sets to write, No letter with an envelope Could give him more delight.
When Pope has fill'd the margins round, Why then recall your loan; Sell them to Curll for fifty pound, And swear they are your own.
[Footnote 1: The infamous piratical bookseller. See Pope's Works, _pa.s.sim.--W. E. B_.]
[Footnote 2: The original copy of Pope's celebrated translation of Homer (preserved in the British Museum) is almost entirely written on the covers of letters, and sometimes between the lines of the letters themselves.]
A PASTORAL DIALOGUE
WRITTEN JUNE, 1727, JUST AFTER THE NEWS OF THE DEATH OF GEORGE I, WHO DIED THE 12TH OF THAT MONTH IN GERMANY [1]
This poem was written when George II succeeded his father, and bore the following explanatory introduction:
Richmond Lodge is a house with a small park belonging to the crown. It was usually granted by the crown for a lease of years. The Duke of Ormond was the last who had it. After his exile, it was given to the Prince of Wales by the king. The prince and princess usually pa.s.sed their summer there. It is within a mile of Richmond.
”Marble Hill is a house built by Mrs. Howard, then of the bedchamber, now Countess of Suffolk, and groom of the stole to the queen. It is on the Middles.e.x side, near Twickenham, where Pope lives, and about two miles from Richmond Lodge. Pope was the contriver of the gardens, Lord Herbert the architect, the Dean of St. Patrick's chief butler, and keeper of the ice-house. Upon King George's death, these two houses met, and had the above dialogue.”--_Dublin Edition_, 1734.
In spight of Pope, in spight of Gay, And all that he or they can say; Sing on I must, and sing I will, Of Richmond Lodge and Marble Hill.
Last Friday night, as neighbours use, This couple met to talk of news: For, by old proverbs, it appears, That walls have tongues, and hedges ears.
MARBLE HILL
Quoth Marble Hill, right well I ween, Your mistress now is grown a queen; You'll find it soon by woful proof, She'll come no more beneath your roof.
RICHMOND LODGE
The kingly prophet well evinces, That we should put no trust in princes: My royal master promised me To raise me to a high degree: But now he's grown a king, G.o.d wot, I fear I shall be soon forgot.
You see, when folks have got their ends, How quickly they neglect their friends; Yet I may say, 'twixt me and you, Pray G.o.d, they now may find as true!
MARBLE HILL
My house was built but for a show, My lady's empty pockets know; And now she will not have a s.h.i.+lling, To raise the stairs, or build the ceiling; For all the courtly madams round Now pay four s.h.i.+llings in the pound; 'Tis come to what I always thought: My dame is hardly worth a groat.[2]
Had you and I been courtiers born, We should not thus have lain forlorn; For those we dext'rous courtiers call, Can rise upon their masters' fall: But we, unlucky and unwise, Must fall because our masters rise.
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