Alexander Pope

Alexander Pope’s witty and pointed poetic satire brought him infamy during his lifetime. It has also made critical evaluation of Pope in the years since his death more prone to interpretation based on the critic’s personal feelings about such satire than perhaps any other poet in history.

Pope was born the only child of Alexander and Edith Pope in 1688. The senior Pope, a linen-draper, had recently converted to Catholicism, and moved from London to Berkshire to avoid the anti-Catholic sentiment that ran rampant in London at the time.

His family’s Catholic faith kept young Alexander Pope from receiving a formal education, and thus Pope was mostly self-educated, teaching himself literature and languages, including Latin and Greek. Pope’s frail health also thwarted him; at twelve he both composed his earliest known work, “Ode to Solitude” and began suffering from a debilitating bone disease that stunted his growth, made him hunchbacked, and affected his health in general for the rest of his life.

In 1712, Pope published his most famous poem, “The Rape of the Lock,” which made him one of England’s most famous poets. Based on a true incident – a family feud that resulted from a stolen lock of hair – the poem’s hilarious satire won fans throughout the country.

Pope also turned his pen toward translation, beginning an epic translation of The Iliad that he wisely sold by subscription, enabling him income enough to support himself solely by writing.

Throughout his career, Pope’s satirical works, pointed toward other authors, critics, and the general public, often brought him both fame and notoriety, but never more so than upon the publication of Dunciad, a four-volume satire that mocked and lampooned critics and scholars, many well-known, of the day. Pope’s anonymous publication of the book did nothing to dissuade popular opinion that he was the author, and reaction was so hostile from both the targets of the satire and their friends that Pope would not leave home without his pistols.

Pope’s health began a further decline around 1738, and he began to write and publish less. One of his final finished projects was a revised Dunciad, no doubt to the delight of friends and enemies alike. He died at his home in Twickenham in 1744.

Pope’s critical reputation has been surrounded in controversy that did not die down with his death. Spurned by the Romantics during the Victorian period, embraced again in the 20th Century, Alexander Pope is a galvanizing poet whose work may be contentious, but is never less than fascinating – and clever.

Works by Alexander Pope:

From “The Rape of the Lock:”

Oft, when the world imagine women stray,
The Sylphs thro\' mystic mazes guide their way,
Thro\' all the giddy circle they pursue,
And old impertinence expel by new.
What tender maid but must a victim fall
To one man\'s treat, but for another\'s ball?
When Florio speaks what virgin could withstand,
If gentle Damon did not squeeze her hand?
With varying vanities, from ev\'ry part,
They shift the moving Toyshop of their heart;
Where wigs with wigs, with sword-knots sword-knots strive,
Beaux banish beaux, and coaches coaches drive.
This erring mortals Levity may call;
Oh blind to truth! the Sylphs contrive it all.

Of these am I, who thy protection claim,
A watchful sprite, and Ariel is my name.
Late, as I rang\'d the crystal wilds of air,
In the clear Mirror of thy ruling Star
I saw, alas! some dread event impend,
Ere to the main this morning sun descend,
But heav\'n reveals not what, or how, or where:
Warn\'d by the Sylph, oh pious maid, beware!
This to disclose is all thy guardian can:
Beware of all, but most beware of Man!\"

From The Dunciad

P. Shut, shut the door, good John! fatigu\'d, I said,
Tie up the knocker, say I\'m sick, I\'m dead.
The Dog-star rages! nay\'t is past a doubt,
All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out:
Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand,
They rave, recite, and madden round the land.

What walls can guard me, or what shade can hide?
They pierce my thickets, thro\' my Grot they glide;
By land, by water, they renew the charge;
They stop the chariot, and they board the barge.
No place is sacred, not the Church is free;
Ev\'n Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me;
Then from the Mint walks forth the Man of rhyme,
Happy to catch me just at Dinner-time.

Is there a Parson, much bemus\'d in beer,
A maudlin Poetess, a rhyming Peer,
A Clerk, foredoom\'d his father\'s soul to cross,
Who pens a Stanza, when he should engross?
Is there, who, lock\'d from ink and paper, scrawls
With desp\'rate charcoal round his darken\'d walls?
All fly to Twit’nam, and in humble strain
Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain.
Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the Laws,
Imputes to me and my damn\'d works the cause:
Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope,
And curses Wit, and Poetry, and Pope.

Friend to my Life! (which did not you prolong,
The world had wanted many an idle song)
What Drop or Nostrum can this plague remove?
Or which must end me, a Fool\'s wrath or love?
A dire dilemma! either way I\'m sped,
If foes, they write, if friends, they read me dead.
Seiz\'d and tied down to judge, how wretched I!
Who can\'t be silent, and who will not lie.
To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace,
And to be grave, exceeds all Pow\'r of face.
I sit with sad civility, I read
With honest anguish, and an aching head;
And drop at last, but in unwilling ears,
This saving counsel, \"Keep your piece nine years.\"

\"Nine years!\" cries he, who high in Drury-lane,
Lull\'d by soft Zephyrs thro\' the broken pane,
Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before Term ends,
Oblig\'d by hunger, and request of friends:
\"The piece, you think, is incorrect? why, take it,
I\'m all submission, what you\'d have it, make it.\"



Three things another\'s modest wishes bound,
My Friendship, and a Prologue, and ten pound.

Pitholeon sends to me: \"You know his Grace
I want a Patron; ask him for a Place.\"
\"Pitholeon libell\'d me,\"-\"but here\'s a letter
Informs you, Sir, \'t was when he knew no better.
Dare you refuse him? Curll invites to dine,\"
\"He\'ll write a Journal, or he\'ll turn Divine.\"

Bless me! a packet.-\"\'Tis a stranger sues,
A Virgin Tragedy, an Orphan Muse.\"
If I dislike it, \"Furies, death and rage!\"
If I approve, \"Commend it to the Stage.\"
There (thank my stars) my whole Commission ends,
The Play\'rs and I are, luckily, no friends,
Fir\'d that the house reject him, \"\'Sdeath I\'ll print it,
And shame the fools-Your Int\'rest, Sir, with Lintot!\"
Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much:
\"Not, Sir, if you revise it, and retouch.\"
All my demurs but double his Attacks;
At last he whispers, \"Do; and we go snacks.\"
Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door,
Sir, let me see your works and you no more.

\'Tis sung, when Midas\' Ears began to spring,
(Midas, a sacred person and a king)
His very Minister who spy\'d them first,
(Some say his Queen) was forc\'d to speak, or burst.
And is not mine, my friend, a sorer case,
When ev\'ry coxcomb perks them in my face?

A. Good friend, forbear! you deal in dang\'rous things.
I\'d never name Queens, Ministers, or Kings;
Keep close to Ears, and those let asses prick;
\'Tis nothing-
P. Nothing? if they bite and kick?
Out with it, Dunciad! let the secret pass,
That secret to each fool, that he\'s an Ass:
The truth once told (and wherefore should we lie?)
The Queen of Midas slept, and so may I.