alexander pope /essay on man /paraphrase

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Alexander pope /essay on man /paraphrase scholarship essay tips and trends

Alexander pope /essay on man /paraphrase

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Ask of thy mother earth , why oaks are made Taller or stronger than the weeds they shade? Respecting man, whatever wrong we call, May, must be right, as relative to all. If to be perfect in a certain sphere, What matter, soon or late, or here or there? The blest today is as completely so, As who began a thousand years ago.

The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed today, Had he thy reason, would he skip and play? Oh blindness to the future! Hope humbly then; with trembling pinions soar; Wait the great teacher Death; and God adore! What future bliss, he gives not thee to know, But gives that hope to be thy blessing now.

Go, wiser thou! Pride still is aiming at the blest abodes, Men would be angels, angels would be gods. But errs not Nature from this gracious end, From burning suns when livid deaths descend, When earthquakes swallow, or when tempests sweep Towns to one grave, whole nations to the deep?

If the great end be human happiness, Then Nature deviates; and can man do less? In both, to reason right is to submit. But ALL subsists by elemental strife; And passions are the elements of life. What would this man? Why has not man a microscopic eye? For this plain reason, man is not a fly. Or quick effluvia darting through the brain, Die of a rose in aromatic pain? Who finds not Providence all good and wise, Alike in what it gives, and what denies?

Without this just gradation, could they be Subjected, these to those, or all to thee? As Locke did, Pope believed that words simply referred to our ideas, not to any hidden essence. The science of Human Nature is, like all other sciences, reduced to a few clear points : there are not many certain truths in this world. It is therefore in the Anatomy of the Mind as in that of the Body; more good will accrue to mankind by attending to the large, open and perceptible parts, than by studying too much such finer nerves and vessels, the conformations and uses of which will for ever escape our observation.

Structured in four epistles, the poem stretches to slightly more than 1, lines. Pope originally conceived it as an introduction to an extended work that would include the moral essays. In addition, he should not be considered imperfect, but suitable to his rank within the general order of things. All present happiness depends upon ignorance of the future. If any individual wished that to take place, it would be the result of pride and madness. Man must assume his proper place in Providence.

Pope opens the First Epistle by addressing Henry St. This traditional concept would be familiar to his readers, who shared the vision of man in the most crucial central position on a ladder of creation. Man represents a combination of beastly sensual instinct and spiritual intelligence.

He needs to resist the temptation of pride to rise above his natural place, and he must resist surrender to animal instinct. Hope humbly then; with trembling pinions soar; Wait the great teacher Death, and God adore! What future bliss, he gives not thee to know, But gives that Hope to be thy blessing now.

Expressing a typical 18th-century thought, Pope writes that habit and experience strengthen Reason and help restrain Self-love. All passion results from Self-love:. Reason may even help in overcoming madness. Finally, he discusses the various forms of government and their true ends.

As he describes monarchs, wits, and tyrants, he describes two types of discord. One is warlike and violent, the other benevolent and creating peace; neither is good on its own. The speaker notes that left to his instincts, man might allow his greed to lead to destruction and savagery, and that he can learn control by observing nature. Such statements draw from classical sources, in which efficient creatures were posed as examples for human society to imitate.

The speaker states that men never possessed any divine right and supplies various examples of the effect of fear on others. Pope returns to what at first seems to be a paradox, writing,. However, as Pope critics later explained, what he writes contains no true contradiction. The sharing of self-interest makes for proper government.

Happiness does not consist in external goods; is kept even by providence, through Hope and Fear; and the good man will have an advantage. We should not judge who is good, and external goods are often inconsistent with or destructive of virtue. Discussion with others regarding the location of bliss will evoke varied responses.

He then makes clear that those who are virtuous and just may die too soon, but their deaths are not caused by their virtue. Humility, Justice, Truth, and Public Spirit deserve to wear a Crown, and they will, but one must wait to receive the rewards of possessing such traits.

Pope assembles an honor code for all to follow, as he attempts to convince individuals not to feel jealousy toward others who seem to have more possessions, as these do not lead to bliss. Pope has managed, through various examples, to lead from his opening request for a definition of happiness to the conclusion that virtue equates to that state, and, because virtue is available to all, everyone can enjoy happiness.

As any worthy lesson does, this one bears repeating, and Pope closes with that emphasis:. The main gravamen of the Essay is thus an assault on pride, on the aspiration of mankind to get above its station, scan the mysteries of heaven, promote itself to the central place in the universe. But there is something disturbing about this assumption of authority. Similarly, Pope counsels concentration on the human scale in what is, nonetheless, his cosmological testament.

Milton aspires to be the poet of God, and so indeed does Pope; if the latter is seeking to stifle adventurous mental journeys, he can only do so by giving them a certain amount of weight and interest. Pope seeks a way out of this paradox by contrasting visions: human vision is limited to its own state, but can reason and infer other states from that position.

EM, I: 21—8. Again the proposition is that our limited vision cannot see only the limitations of our place in the chain, and not its active dynamism:. EM, I: 57— Our cosmological position is also limited temporally by our blindness to the future, and Pope reminds us of our superiority of knowledge over other creatures on earth, to indicate our own inferiority to creatures we cannot but again, do imagine I: 81—6. We might imagine, for example, a Heaven. EM, I: 87— Pope discovers this intellectual pride to operate at more or less every level of human experience, including the bodily senses.

God rules over the whole universe and has no special favorites, not man nor any other creature.

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Putting a resume online That gay Freethinker, a fine talker once, What turns him now a stupid silent dunce? Are you sure you want to remove bookConfirmation and any corresponding bookmarks? Such statements draw from classical sources, in which efficient creatures were posed as examples for human society to imitate. If to be perfect in a certain sphere, What matter, soon or late, or here or there? The four Epistles were published separately.

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Like following life through creatures you dissect, You lose it in the moment you detect. Yet more; the difference is as great between The optics seeing, as the object seen. All manners take a tincture from our own; Or come discoloured through our passions shown. As the last image of that troubled heap, When sense subsides, and fancy sports in sleep Though past the recollection of the thought , Becomes the stuff of which our dream is wrought: Something as dim to our internal view, Is thus, perhaps, the cause of most we do.

When flattery glares, all hate it in a queen, While one there is who charms us with his spleen. But these plain characters we rarely find; Though strong the bent, yet quick the turns of mind: Or puzzling contraries confound the whole; Or affectations quite reverse the soul. See the same man, in vigour, in the gout; Alone, in company; in place, or out; Early at business, and at hazard late; Mad at a fox-chase, wise at a debate; Drunk at a borough, civil at a ball; Friendly at Hackney, faithless at Whitehall.

Catius is ever moral, ever grave, Thinks who endures a knave is next a knave, Save just at dinner—then prefers, no doubt, A rogue with venison to a saint without. He thanks you not, his pride is in piquet, Newmarket-fame, and judgment at a bet. What made say Montagne, or more sage Charron Otho a warrior, Cromwell a buffoon? A perjured prince a leaden saint revere, A godless regent tremble at a star? The throne a bigot keep, a genius quit, Faithless through piety, and duped through wit?

Europe a woman, child, or dotard rule, And just her wisest monarch made a fool? Know, God and Nature only are the same: In man, the judgment shoots at flying game, A bird of passage! In vain the sage, with retrospective eye, Would from the apparent what conclude the why, Infer the motive from the deed, and show, That what we chanced was what we meant to do.

Not always actions show the man: we find Who does a kindness, is not therefore kind; Perhaps prosperity becalmed his breast, Perhaps the wind just shifted from the east: Not therefore humble he who seeks retreat, Pride guides his steps, and bids him shun the great: Who combats bravely is not therefore brave, He dreads a death-bed like the meanest slave: Who reasons wisely is not therefore wise, His pride in reasoning, not in acting lies.

But grant that actions best discover man; Take the most strong, and sort them as you can. The few that glare each character must mark; You balance not the many in the dark. What will you do with such as disagree? Suppress them, or miscall them policy? Must then at once the character to save The plain rough hero turn a crafty knave? But, sage historians!

Though the same sun with all-diffusive rays Blush in the rose, and in the diamond blaze, We prize the stronger effort of his power, And justly set the gem above the flower. Boastful and rough, your first son is a squire; The next a tradesman, meek, and much a liar; Tom struts a soldier, open, bold, and brave; Will sneaks a scrivener, an exceeding knave: Is he a Churchman? That gay Freethinker, a fine talker once, What turns him now a stupid silent dunce?

Some god, or spirit he has lately found: Or chanced to meet a minister that frowned. Judge we by Nature? Manners with fortunes, humours turn with climes, Tenets with books, and principles with times. Search then the ruling passion: there, alone, The wild are constant, and the cunning known; The fool consistent, and the false sincere; Priests, princes, women, no dissemblers here.

This clue once found, unravels all the rest, The prospect clears, and Wharton stands confest. Shall parts so various aim at nothing new! Thus with each gift of nature and of art, And wanting nothing but an honest heart; Grown all to all, from no one vice exempt; And most contemptible, to shun contempt: His passion still, to covet general praise, His life, to forfeit it a thousand ways; A constant bounty which no friend has made; An angel tongue, which no man can persuade; A fool, with more of wit than half mankind, Too rash for thought, for action too refined: A tyrant to the wife his heart approves; A rebel to the very king he loves; He dies, sad outcast of each church and state, And, harder still!

Ask you why Wharton broke through every rule? Nature well known, no prodigies remain, Comets are regular, and Wharton plain. Yet, in this search, the wisest may mistake, If second qualities for first they take. Lucullus, when frugality could charm, Had roasted turnips in the Sabine farm. In this one passion man can strength enjoy, As fits give vigour, just when they destroy.

Time, that on all things lays his lenient hand, Yet tames not this; it sticks to our last sand. Consistent in our follies and our sins, Here honest Nature ends as she begins. Behold a reverend sire, whom want of grace Has made the father of a nameless race, Shoved from the wall perhaps, or rudely pressed By his own son, that passes by unblessed: Still to his haunt he crawls on knocking knees, And envies every sparrow that he sees.

Is there no hope! And you! How many pictures of one nymph we view, All how unlike each other, all how true! Here Fannia, leering on her own good man, And there, a naked Leda with a swan. Come then, the colours and the ground prepare! Dip in the rainbow, trick her off in air; Choose a firm cloud, before it fall, and in it Catch, ere she change, the Cynthia of this minute.

How soft is Silia! Sudden, she storms! You tip the wink, But spare your censure; Silia does not drink. All eyes may see from what the change arose, All eyes may see—a pimple on her nose. Why pique all mortals, yet affect a name? A fool to pleasure, yet a slave to fame: Now deep in Taylor and the Book of Martyrs, Now drinking citron with his grace and Chartres: Now Conscience chills her, and now Passion burns; And Atheism and Religion take their turns; A very heathen in the carnal part, Yet still a sad, good Christian at her heart.

What then? What has not fired her bosom or her brain? Say, what can cause such impotence of mind? A spark too fickle, or a spouse too kind. Wise wretch! Or her, whose life the Church and scandal share, For ever in a passion, or a prayer. Woman and fool are two hard things to hit; For true no-meaning puzzles more than wit. Scarce once herself, by turns all womankind! No thought advances, but her eddy brain Whisks it about, and down it goes again.

Full sixty years the world has been her trade, The wisest fool much time has ever made From loveless youth to unrespected age, No passion gratified except her rage. So much the fury still outran the wit, The pleasure missed her, and the scandal hit. Her every turn with violence pursued, Nor more a storm her hate than gratitude: To that each passion turns, or soon or late; Love, if it makes her yield, must make her hate: Superiors?

But an inferior not dependent? Atossa, cursed with every granted prayer, Childless with all her children, wants an heir. To heirs unknown descends the unguarded store, Or wanders, Heaven-directed, to the poor. Chameleons who can paint in white and black? She speaks, behaves, and acts just as she ought; But never, never, reached one generous thought. Virtue she finds too painful an endeavour, Content to dwell in decencies for ever.

So very reasonable, so unmoved, As never yet to love, or to be loved. She, while her lover pants upon her breast, Can mark the figures on an Indian chest; And when she sees her friend in deep despair, Observes how much a chintz exceeds mohair. Of all her dears she never slandered one, But cares not if a thousand are undone. She bids her footman put it in her head. Chloe is prudent—would you too be wise? Then never break your heart when Chloe dies. One certain portrait may I grant be seen, Which Heaven has varnished out, and made a Queen.

The same for ever! Poets heap virtues, painters gems at will, And show their zeal, and hide their want of skill. That robe of quality so struts and swells, None see what parts of nature it conceals: The exactest traits of body or of mind, We owe to models of an humble kind. In men, we various ruling passions find; In women, two almost divide the kind: Those, only fixed they first or last obey— The love of pleasure, and the love of sway.

That, Nature gives; and where the lesson taught Is but to please, can pleasure seem a fault? Men, some to business, some to pleasure take; But every woman is at heart a rake: Men, some to quiet, some to public strife; But every lady would be queen for life. Yet mark the fate of a whole sex of queens! Power all their end, but beauty all the means: In youth they conquer, with so wild a rage, As leaves them scarce a subject in their age: For foreign glory, foreign joy, they roam; No thought of peace or happiness at home.

Beauties, like tyrants, old and friendless grown, Yet hate repose, and dread to be alone, Worn out in public, weary every eye, Nor leave one sigh behind them when they die. See how the world its veterans rewards! A youth of frolics, an old age of cards; Fair to no purpose, artful to no end; Young without lovers, old without a friend; A fop their passion, but their prize a sot; Alive, ridiculous; and dead, forgot!

That it is known to few, most falling into one of the extremes, Avarice or Profusion, v. The point discussed, whether the invention of money has been more commodious or pernicious to Mankind, v. That Riches, either to the Avaricious or the Prodigal, cannot afford Happiness, scarcely Necessaries, v. That Avarice is an absolute Frenzy, without an end or purpose, v. Conjectures about the motives of Avaricious men, v.

That the conduct of men, with respect to Riches, can only be accounted for by the Order of Providence, which works the general good out of extremes, and brings all to its great End by perpetual Revolutions, v. How a Miser acts upon Principles which appear to him reasonable, v. How a Prodigal does the same, v. The due Medium and true use of Riches, v.

The Man of Ross, v. The fate of the Profuse and the Covetous, in two examples; both miserable in Life and in Death, v. The Story of Sir Balaam, v. Who shall decide, when doctors disagree, And soundest casuists doubt, like you and me? You hold the word, from Jove to Momus given, That man was made the standing jest of Heaven; And gold but sent to keep the fools in play, For some to heap, and some to throw away.

Like doctors thus, when much dispute has past, We find our tenets just the same at last. Trade it may help, society extend. But lures the pirate, and corrupts the friend. In vain may heroes fight, and patriots rave; If secret gold sap on from knave to knave. That lends corruption lighter wings to fly! Could France or Rome divert our brave designs, With all their brandies or with all their wines?

What could they more than knights and squires confound, Or water all the Quorum ten miles round? Astride his cheese Sir Morgan might we meet; And Worldly crying coals from street to street, Whom with a wig so wild, and mien so mazed, Pity mistakes for some poor tradesman crazed.

Or soft Adonis, so perfumed and fine, Drive to St. Since then, my lord, on such a world we fall, What say you? Why, take it, gold and all. What Riches give us let us then inquire: Meat, fire, and clothes. What more? Meat, clothes, and fire. Is this too little? What can they give? Perhaps you think the poor might have their part? Yet, to be just to these poor men of pelf, Each does but hate his neighbour as himself: Damned to the mines, an equal fate betides The slave that digs it, and the slave that hides.

Who suffer thus, mere charity should own, Must act on motives powerful, though unknown. Some war, some plague, or famine they foresee, Some revelation hid from you and me. Why Shylock wants a meal, the cause is found— He thinks a loaf will rise to fifty pound. What made directors cheat in South-Sea year? To live on venison when it sold so dear. Ask you why Phryne the whole auction buys? Phryne foresees a general excise. Why she and Sappho raise that monstrous sum? The crown of Poland, venal twice an age, To just three millions stinted modest Gage.

Congenial souls! Much injured Blunt! Riches, like insects, when concealed they lie, Wait but for wings, and in their season fly. Old Cotta shamed his fortune and his birth, Yet was not Cotta void of wit or worth: What though the use of barbarous spits forgot His kitchen vied in coolness with his grot? His court with nettles, moats with cresses stored, With soups unbought and salads blessed his board?

If Cotta lived on pulse, it was no more Than Brahmins, saints, and sages did before; To cram the rich was prodigal expense, And who would take the poor from Providence? Not so his son; he marked this oversight, And then mistook reverse of wrong for right. For what to shun will no great knowledge need; But what to follow is a task indeed. Yet sure, of qualities deserving praise, More go to ruin fortunes, than to raise. What slaughtered hecatombs, what floods of wine, Fill the capacious squire, and deep divine!

And shall not Britain now reward his toils, Britain, that pays her patriots with her spoils? In vain at Court the bankrupt pleads his cause, His thankless country leaves him to her laws. That secret rare, between the extremes to move Of mad good-nature, and of mean self-love. Wealth in the gross is death, but life diffused; As poison heals, in just proportion used: In heaps, like ambergrise, a stink it lies, But well dispersed, is incense to the skies. Who starves by nobles, or with nobles eats?

The wretch that trusts them, and the rogue that cheats. Is there a lord who knows a cheerful noon Without a fiddler, flatterer, or buffoon? There, English bounty yet awhile may stand, And Honour linger ere it leaves the land. But all our praises why should lords engross? Rise, honest Muse!

From the dry rock who bade the waters flow? Not to the skies in useless columns tost, Or in proud falls magnificently lost, But clear and artless, pouring through the plain Health to the sick, and solace to the swain. Whose causeway parts the vale with shady rows? Whose seats the weary traveller repose? Who taught that heaven-directed spire to rise?

The Man of Ross divides the weekly bread; He feeds yon almshouse, neat, but void of state, Where age and want sit smiling at the gate; Him portioned maids, apprenticed orphans blest, The young who labour, and the old who rest. Is any sick? Is there a variance? Despairing quacks with curses fled the place, And vile attorneys, now a useless race.

Thrice happy man! Oh say, what sums that generous hand supply? What mines, to swell that boundless charity? Of debts, and taxes, wife and children clear, This man possest—five hundred pounds a year. Blush, grandeur, blush! Ye little stars, hide your diminished rays! And what? His race, his form, his name almost unknown? Who builds a church to God, and not to Fame, Will never mark the marble with his name; Go, search it there, where to be born and die, Of rich and poor makes all the history; Enough, that virtue filled the space between; Proved, by the ends of being, to have been.

Behold what blessings wealth to life can lend! And see what comfort it affords our end. No wit to flatter left of all his store! No fool to laugh at, which he valued more. There, victor of his health, of fortune, friends, And fame, this lord of useless thousands ends. That I can do, when all I have is gone. Thy life more wretched, Cutler, was confessed, Arise, and tell me, was thy death more blessed? Cutler saw tenants break, and houses fall, For very want; he could not build a wall.

What even denied a cordial at his end, Banished the doctor, and expelled the friend? What but a want, which you perhaps think mad, Yet numbers feel the want of what he had! Or are they both in this their own reward? A knotty point!

The devil was piqued such saintship to behold, And longed to tempt him like good Job of old: But Satan now is wiser than of yore, And tempts by making rich, not making poor. Roused by the prince of Air, the whirlwinds sweep The surge, and plunge his father in the deep; Then full against his Cornish lands they roar, And two rich shipwrecks bless the lucky shore.

Asleep and naked as an Indian lay, An honest factor stole a gem away: He pledged it to the knight; the knight had wit, So kept the diamond, and the rogue was bit. There so the devil ordained one Christmas tide My good old lady catched a cold and died. Stephen gains.

My lady falls to play; so bad her chance, He must repair it; takes a bribe from France; The House impeach him; Coningsby harangues; The Court forsake him, and Sir Balaam hangs; Wife, son, and daughter, Satan! The Vanity of Expense in people of Wealth and Quality. The abuse of the word Taste, v. That the first Principle and foundation, in this as in everything else, is Good Sense, v. The chief Proof of it is to follow Nature even in works of mere Luxury and Elegance.

Instanced in Architecture and Gardening, where all must be adapted to the Genius and Use of the Place, and the Beauties not forced into it, but resulting from it, v. How men are disappointed in their most expensive undertakings, for want of this true Foundation, without which nothing can please long, if at all: and the best Examples and Rules will but be perverted into something burdensome or ridiculous, v.

A description of the false Taste of Magnificence; the first grand Error of which is to imagine that Greatness consists in the size and dimension, instead of the Proportion and Harmony of the whole, v. Yet Providence is justified in giving Wealth to be squandered in this manner, since it is dispersed to the poor and laborious part of mankind, v. What are the proper objects of Magnificence, and a proper field for the Expense of Great Men, v.

Not for himself he sees, or hears, or eats; Artists must choose his pictures, music, meats: He buys for Topham, drawings and designs, For Pembroke, statues, dirty gods, and coins; Rare monkish manuscripts for Hearne alone, And books for Mead, and butterflies for Sloane. Think we all these are for himself? For what has Virro painted, built, and planted?

Only to show, how many tastes he wanted. You show us, Rome was glorious, not profuse, And pompous buildings once were things of use. Good sense, which only is the gift of Heaven, And though no science, fairly worth the seven: A light, which in yourself you must perceive: Jones and Le Notre have it not to give.

To build, to plant, whatever you intend, To rear the column, or the arch to bend, To swell the terrace, or to sink the grot; In all, let Nature never be forgot. But treat the goddess like a modest fair, Nor over-dress, nor leave her wholly bare; Let not each beauty everywhere be spied, Where half the skill is decently to hide.

He gains all points, who pleasingly confounds, Surprises, varies, and conceals the bounds. Consult the genius of the place in all; That tells the waters or to rise or fall, Or helps the ambitious hill the heavens to scale, Or scoops in circling theatres the vale; Calls in the country, catches opening glades, Joins willing woods, and varies shades from shades; Now breaks, or now directs, the intending lines; Paints as you plant, and, as you work, designs.

Still follow sense, of every art the soul, Parts answering parts shall slide into a whole, Spontaneous beauties all around advance, Start even from difficulty, strike from chance; Nature shall join you; Time shall make it grow A work to wonder at—perhaps a Stowe. Even in an ornament its place remark, Nor in a hermitage set Dr. Villario can no more; Tired of the scene parterres and fountains yield, He finds at last he better likes a field.

Through his young woods how pleased Sabinus strayed, Or sat delighted in the thickening shade, With annual joy the reddening shoots to greet, Or see the stretching branches long to meet! Greatness, with Timon, dwells in such a draught As brings all Brobdingnag before your thought. To compass this, his building is a town, His pond an ocean, his parterre a down: Who but must laugh, the master when he sees, A puny insect, shivering at a breeze!

Lo, what huge heaps of littleness around! The whole, a laboured quarry above ground; Two Cupids squirt before; a lake behind Improves the keenness of the northern wind. His gardens next your admiration call, On every side you look, behold the wall! No pleasing intricacies intervene, No artful wildness to perplex the scene; Grove nods at grove, each alley has a brother, And half the platform just reflects the other. His study! In books, not authors, curious is my lord; To all their dated backs he turns you round: These Aldus printed, those Du Sueil has bound, Lo, some are vellum, and the rest as good For all his lordship knows, but they are wood.

On painted ceilings you devoutly stare, Where sprawl the saints of Verrio or Laguerre, On gilded clouds in fair expansion lie, And bring all Paradise before your eye. To rest, the cushion and soft Dean invite, Who never mentions hell to ears polite. But hark! Is this a dinner? A solemn sacrifice, performed in state, You drink by measure, and to minutes eat.

Between each act the trembling salvers ring, From soup to sweet-wine, and God bless the King. In plenty starving, tantalised in state, And complaisantly helped to all I hate, Treated, caressed, and tired, I take my leave, Sick of his civil pride from morn to eve; I curse such lavish cost and little skill, And swear no day was ever past so ill. Yet hence the poor are clothed, the hungry fed; Health to himself, and to his infants bread The labourer bears; what his hard heart denies His charitable vanity supplies.

Another age shall see the golden ear Embrown the slope, and nod on the parterre, Deep harvests bury all his pride has planned, And laughing Ceres re-assume the land. Who then shall grace, or who improve the soil? Who plants like Bathurst, or who builds like Boyle.

You too proceed! See the wild waste of all-devouring years! How Rome her own sad sepulchre appears, With nodding arches, broken temples spread! The very tombs now vanished like their dead! Imperial wonders raised on nations spoiled, Where mixed with slaves the groaning martyr toiled: Huge theatres, that now unpeopled woods, Now drained a distant country of her floods: Fanes, which admiring gods with pride survey, Statues of men, scarce less alive than they!

Some felt the silent stroke of mouldering age, Some hostile fury, some religious rage. Barbarian blindness, Christian zeal conspire, And Papal piety, and Gothic fire. Ambition sighed: she found it vain to trust The faithless column and the crumbling bust: Huge moles, whose shadow stretched from shore to shore, Their ruins perished, and their place no more; Convinced, she now contracts her vast design, And all her triumphs shrink into a coin.

A narrow orb each crowded conquest keeps; Beneath her palm here sad Judea weeps; Now scantier limits the proud arch confine, And scarce are seen the prostrate Nile or Rhine; A small Euphrates through the piece is rolled, And little eagles wave their wings in gold. The medal, faithful to its charge of fame, Through climes and ages bears each form and name: In one short view subjected to our eye Gods, emperors, heroes, sages, beauties, lie. With sharpened sight pale antiquaries pore, The inscription value, but the rust adore.

This the blue varnish, that the green endears, The sacred rust of twice ten hundred years! To gain Pescennius one employs his schemes, One grasps a Cecrops in ecstatic dreams. Nor blush, these studies thy regard engage; These pleased the fathers of poetic rage; The verse and sculpture bore an equal part, And art reflected images to art.

Oh, when shall Britain, conscious of her claim, Stand emulous of Greek and Roman fame? In living medals see her wars enrolled, And vanquished realms supply recording gold? This Paper is a sort of bill of complaint, begun many years since, and drawn up by snatches, as the several occasions offered. Being divided between the necessity to say something of myself, and my own laziness to undertake so awkward a task, I thought it the shortest way to put the last hand to this Epistle.

If it have anything pleasing, it will be that by which I am most desirous to please, the truth and the sentiment; and if anything offensive, it will be only to those I am least sorry to offend, the vicious or the ungenerous. Many will know their own pictures in it, there being not a circumstance but what is true; but I have, for the most part, spared their names, and they may escape being laughed at if they please.

I would have some of them know, it was owing to the request of the learned and candid friend to whom it is inscribed, that I make not as free use of theirs as they have done of mine. However, I shall have this advantage and honour on my side, that whereas, by their proceeding, any abuse may be directed at any man, no injury can possibly be done by mine, since a nameless character can never be found out but by its truth and likeness.

Shut, shut the door, good John! The dog-star rages! What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide? They pierce my thickets, through 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; Even 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, who, locked from ink and paper, scrawls With desperate charcoal round his darkened walls?

All fly to Twitenham, 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 damned works the cause: Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope, And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope.

Friend to my life! A dire dilemma! Seized and tied down to judge, how wretched I! To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace, And to be grave, exceeds all power of face. Dare you refuse him? And is not mine, my friend, a sorer case, When every coxcomb perks them in my face? Good friend, forbear! Out with it, Dunciad! The Queen of Midas slept, and so may I. You think this cruel?

Let peals of laughter, Codrus! Who shames a scribbler? Whom have I hurt? His butchers Henley, his free-masons Moore? Does not one table Bavius still admit? Still to one bishop Philips seem a wit? Still Sappho— A. I too could write, and I am twice as tall; But foes like these— P.

Of all mad creatures, if the learned are right, It is the slaver kills, and not the bite. A fool quite angry is quite innocent: Alas! One dedicates in high heroic prose, And ridicules beyond a hundred foes: One from all Grubstreet will my fame defend, And more abusive, calls himself my friend.

Why did I write? As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, I lisped in numbers, for the numbers came. I left no calling for this idle trade, No duty broke, no father disobeyed. The Muse but served to ease some friend, not wife, To help me through this long disease, my life, To second, Arbuthnot! But why then publish? Happy my studies, when by these approved!

Happier their author, when by these beloved! From these the world will judge of men and books, Not from the Burnets, Oldmixons, and Cookes. Soft were my numbers; who could take offence, While pure description held the place of sense? Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill;— I wished the man a dinner, and sat still.

Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret; I never answered—I was not in debt. If want provoked, or madness made them print, I waged no war with Bedlam or the Mint. Did some more sober critic come abroad; If wrong, I smiled; if right, I kissed the rod. Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence, And all they want is spirit, taste, and sense.

The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare, But wonder how the devil they got there. Were others angry: I excused them too; Well might they rage, I gave them but their due. How did they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe And swear not Addison himself was safe.

Peace to all such! Who would not weep, if Atticus were he? What though my name stood rubric on the walls, Or plaistered posts, with claps, in capitals? I sought no homage from the race that write; I kept, like Asian monarchs, from their sight: Poems I heeded now be-rhymed so long No more than thou, great George!

His library where busts of poets dead And a true Pindar stood without a head Received of wits an undistinguished race, Who first his judgment asked, and then a place: Much they extolled his pictures, much his seat, And flattered every day, and some days eat: Till grown more frugal in his riper days, He paid some bards with port, and some with praise; To some a dry rehearsal was assigned, And others harder still he paid in kind.

Dryden alone what wonder? May some choice patron bless each grey goose quill! May every Bavius have his Bufo still! Blessed be the great! Oh let me live my own, and die so too! I was not born for courts or great affairs; I pay my debts, believe, and say my prayers; Can sleep without a poem in my head; Nor know, if Dennis be alive or dead. Why am I asked what next shall see the light? Has life no joys for me!

Poor guiltless I! A lash like mine no honest man shall dread, But all such babbling blockheads in his stead. Let Sporus tremble— A. Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel? Whether in florid impotence he speaks And, as the prompter breathes, the puppet squeaks; Or at the ear of Eve, familiar toad, Half froth, half venom, spits himself abroad, In puns, or politics, or tales, or lies, Or spite, or smut, or rhymes, or blasphemies.

But why insult the poor, affront the great? Full ten years slandered, did he once reply? To please a mistress one aspersed his life; He lashed him not, but let her be his wife. Yet why? Unspotted names, and memorable long! If there be force in virtue, or in song. What fortune, pray? Born to no pride, inheriting no strife, Nor marrying discord in a noble wife, Stranger to civil and religious rage, The good man walked innoxious through his age.

Nor courts he saw, no suits would ever try, Nor dared an oath, nor hazarded a lie. By nature honest, by experience wise, Healthy by temperance, and by exercise; His life, though long, to sickness past unknown, His death was instant, and without a groan.

O grant me thus to live, and thus to die! Who sprung from kings shall know less joy than I. O friend! On cares like these if length of days attend, May Heaven, to bless those days, preserve my friend, Preserve him social, cheerful, and serene, And just as rich as when he served a queen.

Whether that blessing be denied or given, Thus far was right, the rest belongs to Heaven. The occasion of publishing these Imitations was the clamour raised on some of my Epistles. An answer from Horace was both more full, and of more dignity, than any I could have made in my own person; and the example of much greater freedom in so eminent a divine as Dr.

Donne, seemed a proof with what indignation and contempt a Christian may treat vice or folly, in ever so low, or ever so high a station. Both these authors were acceptable to the princes and ministers under whom they lived. The Satires of Dr. Donne I versified, at the desire of the Earl of Oxford while he was Lord Treasurer, and of the Duke of Shrewsbury who had been Secretary of State, neither of whom looked upon a satire on vicious courts as any reflection on those they served in.

And indeed there is not in the world a greater error, than that which fools are so apt to fall into, and knaves with good reason to encourage, the mistaking a satirist for a libeller; whereas to a true satirist nothing is so odious as a libeller, for the same reason as to a man truly virtuous nothing is so hateful as a hypocrite.

There are I scarce can think it, but am told , There are, to whom my satire seems too bold: Scarce to wise Peter complaisant enough, And something said of Chartres much too rough. Not write? I nod in company, I wake at night, Fools rush into my head, and so I write. You could not do a worse thing for your life. Why, if the nights seem tedious—take a wife: Or rather truly, if your point be rest, Lettuce and cowslip wine: Probatum est. But talk with Celsus, Celsus will advise Hartshorn, or something that shall close your eyes.

Even those you touch not, hate you. A hundred smart in Timon and in Balaam: The fewer still you name, you wound the more; Bond is but one, but Harpax is a score. Each mortal has his pleasure: none deny Scarsdale his bottle, Darty his ham-pie; Ridotta sips and dances, till she see The doubling lustres dance as fast as she; F loves the senate, Hockley-hole his brother, Like in all else, as one egg to another.

I love to pour out all myself, as plain As downright Shippen, or as old Montaigne: In them, as certain to be loved as seen, The soul stood forth, nor kept a thought within; In me what spots for spots I have appear, Will prove at least the medium must be clear. In this impartial glass, my muse intends Fair to expose myself, my foes, my friends; Publish the present age; but where my text Is vice too high, reserve it for the next: My foes shall wish my life a longer date, And every friend the less lament my fate.

My head and heart thus flowing through my quill, Verse-man or prose-man, term me which you will, Papist or Protestant, or both between, Like good Erasmus in an honest mean, In moderation placing all my glory, While Tories call me Whig, and Whigs a Tory.

Save but our army! From furious Sappho scarce a milder fate, Plagued by her love, or libelled by her hate. Then, learned sir! Alas, young man! Plums and directors, Shylock and his wife, Will club their testers, now, to take your life!

I will, or perish in the generous cause: Hear this, and tremble! Yes, while I live, no rich or noble knave Shall walk the world, in credit, to his grave. To Virtue only and her friends a friend, The world beside may murmur, or commend. There, my retreat the best companions grace, Chiefs out of war, and statesmen out of place. There St. John mingles with my friendly bowl The feast of reason and the flow of soul: And he, whose lightning pierced the Iberian lines, Now forms my quincunx, and now ranks my vines Or tames the genius of the stubborn plain, Almost as quickly as he conquered Spain.

Envy must own, I live among the great, No pimp of pleasure, and no spy of state. This is my plea, on this I rest my cause— What saith my counsel, learned in the laws? Your plea is good; but still I say, beware! Laws are explained by men—so have a care.

Consult the Statute: quart. I think it is, Edwardi sext. See libels, satires—here you have it—read. Libels and satires! But grave epistles, bringing vice to light, Such as a king might read, a bishop write; Such as Sir Robert would approve— F. Go work, hunt, exercise! Your wine locked up, your butler strolled abroad, Or fish denied the river yet unthawed , If then plain bread and milk will do the feat, The pleasure lies in you, and not the meat.

Preach as I please, I doubt our curious men Will choose a pheasant still before a hen; Yet hens of Guinea full as good I hold, Except you eat the feathers green and gold. Of carps and mullets why prefer the great Though cut in pieces ere my lord can eat , Yet for small turbots such esteem profess? Because God made these large, the other less. Oh, b it, south-winds! But on some lucky day as when they found A lost bank-bill, or heard their son was drowned At such a feast, old vinegar to spare, Is what two souls so generous cannot bear: Oil, though it stink, they drop by drop impart, But souse the cabbage with a bounteous heart.

How pale, each worshipful and reverend guest Rise from a clergy, or a city feast! What life in all that ample body, say? What heavenly particle inspires the clay? The soul subsides, and wickedly inclines To seem but mortal, even in sound divines. On morning wings how active springs the mind That leaves the load of yesterday behind! How easy every labour it pursues! How coming to the poet every muse! Not but we may exceed, some holy time, Or tired in search of truth, or search of rhyme; Ill health some just indulgence may engage, And more the sickness of long life, old age; For fainting age what cordial drop remains, If our intemperate youth the vessel drains?

Our fathers praised rank venison. You suppose, Perhaps, young men! Why had not I in those good times my birth, Ere coxcomb pies or coxcombs were on earth? When luxury has licked up all thy pelf, Cursed by thy neighbours, thy trustees, thyself, To friends, to fortune, to mankind a shame, Think how posterity will treat thy name; And buy a rope, that future times may tell, Thou hast at least bestowed one penny well.

Oh, impudence of wealth! Shall half the new-built churches round thee fall? Who thinks that Fortune cannot change her mind, Prepares a dreadful jest for all mankind. And who stands safest? Thus Bethel spoke, who always speaks his thought, And always thinks the very thing he ought: His equal mind I copy what I can, And, as I love, would imitate the man.

Content with little, I can pe here On broccoli and mutton, round the year; But ancient friends though poor, or out of play That touch my bell, I cannot turn away. Fortune not much of humbling me can boast; Though double taxed, how little have I lost? Let lands and houses have what lords they will, Let us be fixed, and our own masters still.

John, whose love indulged my labours past, Matures my present, and shall bound my last! Why will you break the Sabbath of my days? Now sick alike of envy and of praise. Public too long, ah let me hide my age!

To lay this harvest up, and hoard with haste What every day will want, and most, the last. But ask not, to what doctors I apply? Sworn to no master, of no sect am I: As drives the storm, at any door I knock: And house with Montaigne now, or now with Locke. Sometimes a patriot, active in debate, Mix with the world, and battle for the State, Free as young Lyttelton, her cause pursue, Still true to virtue, and as warm as true: Sometimes with Aristippus, or St.

Paul, Indulge my candour, and grow all to all; Back to my native moderation slide, And win my way by yielding to the tide. Late as it is, I put myself to school, And feel some comfort, not to be a fool. Not to go back, is somewhat to advance, And men must walk at least before they dance. Say, does thy blood rebel, thy bosom move With wretched avarice, or as wretched love?

Be furious, envious, slothful, mad, or drunk, Slave to a wife, or vassal to a punk, A Switz, a High Dutch, or a Low Dutch bear; All that we ask is but a patient ear. But to the world no bugbear is so great, As want of figure, and a small estate. To either India see the merchant fly, Scared at the spectre of pale poverty! See him, with pains of body, pangs of soul, Burn through the Tropic, freeze beneath the pole!

Wilt thou do nothing for a nobler end, Nothing, to make philosophy thy friend? To stop thy foolish views, thy long desires, And ease thy heart of all that it admires? As gold to silver, virtue is to gold. And then let virtue follow, if she will.

Paul; From him whose quills stand quivered at his ear, To him who notches sticks at Westminster. And say, to which shall our applause belong, This new Court jargon, or the good old song? The modern language of corrupted peers, Or what was spoke at Cressy and Poitiers? Who counsels best? In dirt and darkness, hundreds stink content. Of all these ways, if each pursues his own, Satire be kind, and let the wretch alone: But show me one who has it in his power To act consistent with himself an hour.

That very night he longs to lie alone. The fool, whose wife elopes some thrice a quarter, For matrimonial solace dies a martyr. You laugh, half beau, half sloven if I stand, My wig all powder, and all snuff my band; You laugh, if coat and breeches strangely vary, White gloves, and linen worthy Lady Mary!

Careless how ill I with myself agree, Kind to my dress, my figure, not to me. Is this my guide, philosopher, and Friend? This, he who loves me, and who ought to mend? This vault of air, this congregated ball, Self-centred sun, and stars that rise and fall, There are, my friend! Say with what eyes we ought at courts to gaze, And pay the great our homage of amaze? If weak the pleasure that from these can spring, The fear to want them is as weak a thing: Whether we dread, or whether we desire, In either case, believe me, we admire; Whether we joy or grieve, the same the curse, Surprised at better, or surprised at worse.

If not so pleased, at council-board rejoice, To see their judgments hang upon thy voice; From morn to night, at senate, rolls, and hall, Plead much, read more, dine late, or not at all. But wherefore all this labour, all this strife?

For fame, for riches, for a noble wife? Shall one whom nature, learning, birth, conspired To form not to admire but be admired, Sigh, while his Chloe blind to wit and worth Weds the rich dulness of some son of earth? Graced as thou art, with all the power of words, So known, so honoured, at the House of Lords: Conspicuous scene!

Racked with sciatics, martyred with the stone, Will any mortal let himself alone? See Ward by battered beaux invited over, And desperate misery lays hold on Dover. Is wealth thy passion? A man of wealth is dubbed a man of worth, Venus shall give him form, and Antis birth. Believe me, many a German Prince is worse, Who proud of pedigree, is poor of purse. Now, in such exigencies not to need, Upon my word, you must be rich indeed; A noble superfluity it craves, Not for yourself, but for your fools and knaves: Something, which for your honour they may cheat, And which it much becomes you to forget.

If wealth alone then make and keep us blest, Still, still be getting, never, never rest. The Reflections of Horace, and the Judgments past in his Epistle to Augustus, seemed so seasonable to the present Times, that I could not help applying them to the use of my own Country. The Author thought them considerable enough to address them to his Prince; whom he paints with all the great and good qualities of a Monarch, upon whom the Romans depended for the Increase of an Absolute Empire.

But to make the Poem entirely English, I was willing to add one or two of those which contribute to the Happiness of a Free People, and are more consistent with the Welfare of our Neighbours. The other, that this Piece was only a general Discourse of Poetry; whereas it was an Apology for the Poets, in order to render Augustus more their Patron. Horace here pleads the Cause of his Contemporaries, first against the Taste of the Town, whose humour it was to magnify the Authors of the preceding Age; secondly against the Court and Nobility, who encouraged only the Writers for the Theatre; and lastly against the Emperor himself, who had conceived them of little Use to the Government.

He shows by a View of the Progress of Learning, and the Change of Taste among the Romans that the Introduction of the Polite Arts of Greece had given the Writers of his Time great advantages over their Predecessors; that their Morals were much improved, and the Licence of those ancient Poets restrained: that Satire and Comedy were become more just and useful; that, whatever extravagances were left on the Stage, were owing to the Ill Taste of the Nobility; that Poets, under due Regulations, were in many respects useful to the State, and concludes, that it was upon them the Emperor himself must depend for his Fame with Posterity.

We may farther learn from this Epistle, that Horace made his Court to this great Prince by writing with a decent Freedom toward him, with a just Contempt of his low Flatterers, and with a manly Regard to his own Character. While you, great patron of mankind! All human virtue, to its latest breath, Finds envy never conquered but by death.

The great Alcides, every labour past, Had still this monster to subdue at last. Sure fate of all, beneath whose rising ray Each star of meaner merit fades away! Oppressed we feel the beam directly beat, Those suns of glory please not till they set. To thee, the world its present homage pays, The harvest early, but mature the praise: Great friend of liberty!

Wonder of kings! Just in one instance be it yet confest Your people, sir, are partial in the rest: Foes to all living worth except your own, And advocates for folly dead and gone. Authors, like coins, grow dear as they grow old; It is the rust we value, not the gold. Though justly Greece her eldest sons admires, Why should not we be wiser than our sires?

In every public virtue we excel; We build, we paint, we sing, we dance as well, And learned Athens to our art must stoop, Could she behold us tumbling through a hoop. If time improve our wit as well as wine, Say at what age a poet grows divine? Shall we or shall we not account him so, Who died, perhaps, a hundred years ago? Shakespeare whom you and every play-house bill Style the divine, the matchless, what you will For gain, not glory, winged his roving flight, And grew immortal in his own despite.

Who now reads Cowley? What boy but hears the sayings of old Ben? To Gammer Gurton if it give the bays, And yet deny the careless husband praise. Or say our fathers never broke a rule; Why then, I say, the public is a fool. Had ancient times conspired to disallow What then was new, what had been ancient now? Or what remained, so worthy to be read By learned critics, of the mighty dead? Then marble, softened into life, grew warm: And yielding metal flowed to human form: Lely on animated canvas stole The sleepy eye, that spoke the melting soul.

But Britain, changeful as a child at play, Now calls in princes, and now turns away. Now Whig, now Tory, what we loved we hate; Now all for pleasure, now for Church and State; Now for prerogative, and now for laws; Effects unhappy from a noble cause.

To worship like his fathers, was his care; To teach their frugal virtues to his heir; To prove, that luxury could never hold; And place, on good security, his gold. Now times are changed, and one poetic itch Has seized the court and city, poor and rich: Sons, sires, and grandsires, all will wear the bays, Our wives read Milton, and our daughters plays, To theatres, and to rehearsals throng, And all our grace at table is a song.

Who builds a bridge that never drove a pile? Should Ripley venture, all the world would smile But those who cannot write, and those who can, All rhyme, and scrawl, and scribble, to a man. To cheat a friend, or ward, he leaves to Peter; The good man heaps up nothing but mere metre, Enjoys his garden and his book in quiet; And then—a perfect hermit in his diet.

What will a child learn sooner than a song? What better teach a foreigner the tongue? I scarce can think him such a worthless thing, Unless he praise some monster of a king; Or virtue, or religion turn to sport, To please a lewd or unbelieving court. Unhappy Dryden! He, from the taste obscene reclaims our youth, And sets the passions on the side of truth, Forms the soft bosom with the gentlest art, And pours each human virtue in the heart.

Not but there are, who merit other palms; Hopkins and Sternhold glad the heart with psalms: The boys and girls whom charity maintains, Implore your help in these pathetic strains: How could devotion touch the country pews, Unless the gods bestowed a proper Muse? Verse cheers their leisure, verse assists their work, Verse prays for peace, or sings down Pope and Turk.

But times corrupt, and Nature, ill-inclined, Produced the point that left a sting behind; Till friend with friend, and families at strife, Triumphant malice raged through private life. Hence satire rose, that just the medium hit, And heals with morals what it hurts with wit.

Late, very late, correctness grew our care, When the tired nation breathed from civil war. Not but the tragic spirit was our own, And full in Shakespeare, fair in Otway shone: But Otway failed to polish or refine, And fluent Shakespeare scarce effaced a line. Some doubt, if equal pains, or equal fire The humbler Muse of comedy require. What pert, low dialogue has Farquhar writ!

How Van wants grace, who never wanted wit! And idle Cibber, how he breaks the laws, To make poor Pinky eat with vast applause! O you! Farewell the stage! What dear delight to Britons farce affords! Ever the taste of mobs, but now of lords; Taste, that eternal wanderer, which flies From heads to ears, and now from ears to eyes.

The play stands still; damn action and discourse, Back fly the scenes, and enter foot and horse; Pageants on pageants, in long order drawn, Peers, Heralds, Bishops, ermine, gold, and lawn; The champion too! Ah luckless poet! Booth enters—hark! What shook the stage, and made the people stare?

Or who shall wander where the Muses sing? Pope believes reason to trump all, which of course is the one function specific to Man. Reason thus allows man to synthesize the means to function in ways that are unnatural to himself. In section 8 Pope emphasizes the depths to which the universe extends in all aspects of life. This includes the literal depths of the ocean and the reversed extent of the sky, as well as the vastness that lies between God and Man and Man and the simpler creatures of the earth.

Pope stresses the maintenance of order so as to prevent the breaking down of the universe. In the ninth stanza, Pope once again puts the pride and greed of man into perspective. This image drives home the point that all things are specifically designed to ensure that the universe functions properly. Pope ends this stanza with the Augustan belief that Nature permeates all things, and thus constitutes the body of the world, where God characterizes the soul.

In the tenth stanza, Pope secures the end of Epistle 1 by advising the reader on how to secure as many blessings as possible, whether that be on earth or in the after life. Pope exemplifies this acceptance of weakness in the last lines of Epistle 1 in which he considers the incomprehensible, whether seemingly miraculous or disastrous, to at least be correct, if nothing else.

Epistle II is broken up into six smaller sections, each of which has a specific focus. The first section explains that man must not look to God for answers to the great questions of life, for he will never find the answers. Pope emphasizes the complexity of man in an effort to show that understanding of anything greater than that would simply be too much for any person to fully comprehend.

We are the most intellectual creatures on Earth, and while we have control over most things, we are still set up to die in some way by the end. We are a great gift of God to the Earth with enormous capabilities, yet in the end we really amount to nothing. The first section of Epistle II closes by saying that man is to go out and study what is around him. He is to study science to understand all that he can about his existence and the universe in which he lives, but to fully achieve this knowledge he must rid himself of all vices that may slow down this process.

The second section of Epistle II tells of the two principles of human nature and how they are to perfectly balance each other out in order for man to achieve all that he is capable of achieving. These two principles are self-love and reason. He explains that all good things can be attributed to the proper use of these two principles and that all bad things stem from their improper use. Pope further discusses the two principles by claiming that self-love is what causes man to do what he desires, but reason is what allows him to know how to stay in line.

The rest of section two continues to talk about the relationship between self-love and reason and closes with a strong argument. Humans all seek pleasure, but only with a good sense of reason can they restrain themselves from becoming greedy. It starts out talking about passions and how they are inherently selfish, but if the means to which these passions are sought out are fair, then there has been a proper balance of self-love and reason.

There is a ratio of good to bad that man must reach to have a well balanced mind. While our goal as humans is to seek our pleasure and follow certain desires, there is always one overall passion that lives deep within us that guides us throughout life. The main points to take away from Section III of this Epistle is that there are many aspects to the life of man, and these aspects, both positive and negative, need to coexist harmoniously to achieve that balance for which man should strive.

The fourth section of Epistle II is very short. It starts off by asking what allows us to determine the difference between good and bad. The next line answers this question by saying that it is the God within our minds that allows us to make such judgements. This section finishes up by discussing virtue and vice.