THE
MAN
of
TASTE
.
Occasion'd
by
an
EPISTLE
Of
Mr.
POPE's
on
that
Subject
.
By
the
Same
.
WHoe'er
he
be
that
to
a
Taste
aspires
,
Let
him
read
this
,
and
be
what
he
desires
.
In
men
and
manners
vers'd
from
life
I
write
,
Not
what
was
once
,
but
what
is
now
polite
.
Those
who
of
courtly
France
have
made
the
tour
,
Can
scarce
our
English
aukwardness
endure
.
But
honest
men
who
never
were
abroad
,
Like
England
only
,
and
its
Taste
applaud
.
Strife
still
subsists
,
which
yields
the
better
goût
;
Books
or
the
world
,
the
many
or
the
few
.
True
Taste
to
me
is
by
this
touchstone
known
,
That's
always
best
that's
nearest
to
my
own
.
To
shew
that
my
pretensions
are
not
vain
,
My
father
was
a
play'r
in
Drury-lane
,
Pears
and
pistachio-nuts
my
mother
sold
,
He
a
dramatick
poet
,
she
a
scold
.
His
tragic
Muse
could
countesses
affright
,
His
wit
in
boxes
was
my
lord's
delight
.
No
mercenary
priest
e'er
join'd
their
hands
,
Uncramp'd
by
wedlock's
unpoetick
bands
.
Laws
my
Pindarick
parents
matter'd
not
,
So
I
was
tragi-comically
got
.
My
infant
tears
a
sort
of
measure
kept
,
I
squall'd
in
distichs
,
and
in
triplets
wept
.
No
youth
did
I
in
education
waste
,
Happy
in
an
hereditary
Taste
.
Writing
ne'er
cramp'd
the
sinews
of
my
thumb
,
Nor
barbarous
birch
e'er
brush'd
my
tender
bum
.
My
guts
ne'er
suffer'd
from
a
college
cook
,
My
name
ne'er
enter'd
in
a
buttery-book
.
Grammar
in
vain
the
sons
of
Priscian
teach
,
Good
parts
are
better
than
eight
parts
of
speech
:
Since
these
declin'd
,
those
undeclin'd
they
call
,
I
thank
my
stars
,
that
I
declin'd
them
all
.
To
Greek
or
Latin
tongues
without
pretence
,
I
trust
to
mother
wit
and
father
sense
.
Nature's
my
guide
,
all
sciences
I
scorn
,
Pains
I
abhor
,
I
was
a
poet
born
.
Yet
is
my
goût
for
criticism
such
,
I've
got
some
French
,
and
know
a
little
Dutch
.
Huge
commentators
grace
my
learned
shelves
,
Notes
upon
books
out-do
the
books
themselves
.
Criticks
indeed
are
valuable
men
,
But
hyper-criticks
are
as
good
agen
.
Tho'
Blackmore's
works
my
soul
with
raptures
fill
,
With
notes
by
Bentley
they'd
be
better
still
.
The
Boghouse-Miscellany's
well
design'd
.
To
ease
the
body
,
and
improve
the
mind
.
Swift's
whims
and
jokes
for
my
resentment
call
,
For
he
displeases
me
that
pleases
all
.
Verse
without
rhyme
I
never
could
endure
,
Uncouth
in
numbers
,
and
in
sense
obscure
.
To
him
as
nature
,
when
he
ceas'd
to
see
,
Milton's
an
universal
blank
to
me
.
Confirm'd
and
settled
by
the
nation's
voice
,
Rhyme
is
the
poet's
pride
,
and
people's
choice
.
Always
upheld
by
national
support
,
Of
market
,
university
,
and
court
:
Thomson
,
write
blank
;
but
know
that
for
that
reason
,
These
lines
shall
live
when
thine
are
out
of
season
.
Rhyme
binds
and
beautifies
the
poet's
lays
,
As
London
ladies
owe
their
shape
to
stays
.
Had
Cibber's
self
the
Careless
Husband
wrote
,
He
for
the
laurel
ne'er
had
had
my
vote
:
But
for
his
epilogues
and
other
plays
,
He
thoroughly
deserves
the
modern
bays
.
It
pleases
me
,
that
Pope
unlaurell'd
goes
,
While
Cibber
wears
the
bays
for
play-house
prose
:
So
Britain's
monarch
once
uncover'd
sate
,
While
Bradshaw
bully'd
in
a
broad-brimm'd
hat
.
Long
live
old
Curl
!
he
ne'er
to
publish
fears
The
speeches
,
verses
,
and
last
will
of
peers
.
How
oft
has
he
a
publick
spirit
shewn
,
And
pleas'd
our
ears
,
regardless
of
his
own
?
But
to
give
merit
due
,
though
Curl's
the
fame
,
Are
not
his
brother
book-sellers
the
same
?
Can
statutes
keep
the
British
press
in
awe
,
While
that
sells
best
,
that's
most
against
the
law
?
Lives
of
dead
play'rs
my
leisure
hours
beguile
,
And
Sessions-papers
tragedize
my
stile
.
'Tis
charming
reading
in
Ophelia's
life
,
So
oft
a
mother
,
and
not
once
a
wife
:
She
could
with
just
propriety
behave
,
Alive
with
peers
,
with
monarchs
in
her
grave
:
Her
lot
how
oft
have
envious
harlots
wept
,
By
prebends
bury'd
,
and
by
generals
kept
.
T'improve
in
morals
Mandevil
I
read
,
And
Tyndal's
scruples
are
my
settled
creed
.
I
travell'd
early
,
and
I
soon
saw
through
Religion
all
,
ere
I
was
twenty-two
,
Shame
,
pain
,
or
poverty
shall
I
endure
,
When
ropes
or
opium
can
my
ease
procure
?
When
money's
gone
,
and
I
no
debts
can
pay
,
Self-murder
is
an
honourable
way
.
As
Pasaran
directs
I'd
end
my
life
,
And
kill
myself
,
my
daughter
,
and
my
wife
.
Burn
but
that
Bible
which
the
parson
quotes
,
And
men
of
spirit
all
shall
cut
their
throats
.
But
not
to
writings
I
confine
my
pen
,
I
have
a
Taste
for
buildings
,
musick
,
men
.
Young
travell'd
coxcombs
mighty
knowledge
boast
,
With
superficial
smattering
at
most
.
Not
so
my
mind
,
unsatisfied
with
hints
,
Knows
more
than
Budgel
writes
,
or
Roberts
prints
.
I
know
the
town
,
all
houses
I
have
seen
,
From
High-Park
corner
down
to
Bednal-Green
.
Sure
wretched
Wren
was
taught
by
bungling
Jones
,
To
murder
mortar
,
and
disfigure
stones
!
Who
in
Whitehall
can
symmetry
discern
?
I
reckon
Covent-garden
church
a
barn
.
Nor
hate
I
less
thy
vile
catheral
,
Paul
!
The
choir's
too
big
,
the
cupola's
too
small
:
Substantial
walls
and
heavy
roofs
I
like
,
'Tis
Vanbrug's
structures
that
my
fancy
strike
:
Such
noble
ruins
ev'ry
pile
wou'd
make
,
I
wish
they'd
tumble
for
the
prospect
sake
.
To
lofty
Chelsea
,
or
to
Greenwich
dome
,
Soldiers
and
sailors
all
are
welcom'd
home
.
Her
poor
to
palaces
Britannia
brings
,
St.
James's
hospital
may
serve
for
kings
.
Buildings
so
happily
I
understand
,
That
for
one
house
I'd
mortgage
all
my
land
.
Dorick
,
Ionick
,
shall
not
there
be
found
,
But
it
shall
cast
me
threescore
thousand
pound
.
From
out
my
honest
workmen
,
I'll
select
A
Bricklay'r
,
and
proclaim
him
artichect
;
First
bid
him
build
me
a
stupendous
dome
,
Which
having
finish'd
,
we
set
out
for
Rome
;
Take
a
week's
view
of
Venice
and
the
Brent
,
Stare
round
,
see
nothing
,
and
come
home
content
.
I'll
have
my
Villa
too
,
a
sweet
abode
,
Its
situation
shall
be
London
road
:
Pots
o'er
the
door
I'll
place
like
Cits
balconies
,
Which
Bentley's
Milton
,
Book
9.
ver.
439.
Bentley
calls
the
Gardens
of
Adonis
.
I'll
have
my
gardens
in
the
fashion
too
,
For
what
is
beautiful
that
is
not
new
?
Fair
four-legg'd
temples
,
theatres
that
vye
With
all
the
angles
of
a
Christmas-pye
.
Does
it
not
merit
the
beholder's
praise
,
What's
high
to
sink
?
and
what
is
low
to
raise
?
Slopes
shall
ascend
where
once
a
green-house
stood
,
And
in
my
horse-pond
I
will
plant
a
wood
.
Let
misers
dread
the
hoarded
gold
to
waste
,
Expence
and
alteration
shews
a
Taste
.
In
curious
paintings
I'm
exceeding
nice
,
And
know
their
several
beauties
by
their
price
.
Auctions
and
sales
I
constantly
attend
,
But
chuse
my
pictures
by
a
skilful
friend
.
Originals
and
copies
much
the
same
.
The
picture's
value
is
the
painter's
name
.
My
Taste
in
sculpture
from
my
choice
is
seen
,
I
buy
no
statues
that
are
not
obscene
.
In
spite
of
Addison
and
ancient
Rome
,
Sir
Cloudesly
Shovel's
is
my
fav'rite
tomb
.
How
oft
have
I
with
admiration
stood
,
To
view
some
city-magistrate
in
wood
!
I
gaze
with
pleasure
on
a
lord-mayor's
head
,
Cast
with
propriety
in
gilded
lead
.
Oh
could
I
view
through
London
as
I
pass
,
Some
broad
Sir
Balaam
in
Corinthian
brass
:
High
on
a
pedestal
,
ye
freemen
,
place
His
magisterial
paunch
and
griping
face
;
Letter'd
and
gilt
,
let
him
adorn
Cheapside
,
And
grant
the
tradesman
,
what
a
king's
deny'd
.
Old
coins
and
medals
I
collect
,
'tis
true
,
Sir
Andrew
has
'em
,
and
I'll
have
'em
too
.
But
among
friends
if
I
the
truth
might
speak
,
I
like
the
modern
,
and
despise
th'
antique
.
Tho'
in
the
drawers
of
my
japan
bureau
,
To
lady
Gripeall
I
the
Caesars
shew
,
'Tis
equal
to
her
ladyship
or
me
,
A
copper
Otho
,
or
a
Scotch
baubeè
.
Without
Italian
,
or
without
an
ear
,
To
Bononcini's
musick
I
adhere
:
Musick
has
charms
to
sooth
a
savage
breast
,
And
therefore
proper
at
a
sheriff's
feast
.
My
soul
has
oft
a
secret
pleasure
found
,
In
the
harmonious
bagpipe's
lofty
sound
.
Bagpipes
for
men
,
shrill
German-flutes
for
boys
,
I'm
English
born
,
and
love
a
grumbling
noise
.
The
stage
should
yield
the
solemn
organ's
note
,
And
scripture
tremble
in
the
Eunuch's
throat
.
Let
Senesino
sing
,
what
David
writ
,
And
hallelujahs
charm
the
pious
pit
.
Eager
in
throngs
the
town
to
Hester
came
,
And
Oratorio
was
a
lucky
name
.
Thou
,
Heidegger
!
the
English
Taste
hast
found
,
And
rul'st
the
mob
of
quality
with
sound
.
In
Lent
,
if
masquerades
displease
the
town
,
Call
e'm
Ridotto's
,
and
they
still
go
down
.
Go
on
prince
Phiz
!
to
please
the
British
Nation
,
Call
thy
next
Masquerade
a
Convocation
.
Bears
,
lions
,
wolves
,
and
elephants
I
breed
,
And
Philosophical
Transactions
read
.
Next
lodge
I'll
be
Free-mason
,
nothing
less
,
Unless
I
happen
to
be
F.
R.
S.
I
have
a
palate
,
and
(
as
yet
)
two
ears
,
Fit
company
for
porters
or
for
peers
.
Of
ev'ry
useful
knowledge
I've
a
share
,
But
my
top
talent
is
a
bill
of
fare
.
Sir
loins
and
rumps
of
beef
offend
my
eyes
,
Pleas'd
with
frogs
fricasseed
,
and
coxcomb-pies
.
Dishes
I
chuse
though
little
,
yet
genteel
,
Snails
the
first
course
,
and
peepers
crown
the
meal
.
Pigs
heads
with
hair
on
,
much
my
fancy
please
,
I
love
young
colly-flow'rs
if
stew'd
in
cheese
,
And
give
ten
guineas
for
a
pint
of
peas
.
No
tattling
servants
to
my
table
come
,
My
grace
is
silence
,
and
my
waiter
dumb
,
Queer
country-puts
extol
queen
Bess's
reign
,
And
of
lost
hospitality
complain
.
Say
thou
that
dost
thy
father's
table
praise
,
Was
there
mahogena
in
former
days
?
Oh
!
could
a
British
barony
be
sold
!
I
would
bright
honour
buy
with
dazling
gold
.
Could
I
the
privilege
of
peer
procure
,
The
rich
I'd
bully
,
and
oppress
the
poor
.
To
give
is
wrong
,
but
it
is
wronger
still
,
On
any
terms
to
pay
a
tradesman's
bill
.
I'd
make
the
insolent
mechanicks
stay
,
And
keep
my
ready
money
all
for
play
.
I'd
try
if
any
pleasure
could
be
found
,
In
tossing
up
for
twenty-thousand
pound
.
Had
I
whole
counties
,
I
to
White's
would
go
,
And
set
land
,
woods
,
and
rivers
,
at
a
throw
.
But
should
I
meet
with
an
unlucky
run
,
And
at
a
throw
be
gloriously
undone
;
My
debts
of
honour
I'd
discharge
the
first
,
Let
all
my
lawful
creditors
be
curs'd
:
My
title
would
preserve
me
from
arrest
,
And
seizing
hired
horses
is
a
jest
.
I'd
walk
the
morning
with
an
oaken
stick
,
With
gloves
and
hat
,
like
my
own
footman
,
Dick
.
A
footman
I
wou'd
be
,
in
outward
show
,
In
sense
,
and
education
,
truly
so
.
As
for
my
head
it
should
ambiguous
wear
At
once
a
perriwig
and
its
own
hair
.
My
hair
I'd
powder
in
the
women's
way
,
And
dress
and
talk
of
dressing
more
than
they
.
I'll
please
the
maids
of
honour
,
if
I
can
;
Without
black
velvet
breeches
,
what
is
man
?
I
will
my
skill
in
button-holes
display
,
And
brag
how
oft
I
shift
me
every
day
.
Shall
I
wear
cloaths
in
aukward
England
made
?
And
sweat
in
cloth
,
to
help
the
woollen
trade
?
In
French
embroid'ry
and
in
Flanders
lace
I'll
spend
the
income
of
a
treasurer's
place
.
Deard's
bill
for
baubles
shall
to
thousands
mount
,
And
I'd
out-di'mond
even
the
di'mond
count
.
I
would
convince
the
world
by
tawdry
cloaths
That
belles
are
less
effeminate
than
beaux
,
And
doctor
Lamb
should
pare
my
lordship's
toes
.
To
boon
companions
I
my
time
would
give
,
With
players
,
pimps
,
and
parasites
I'd
live
.
I
would
with
jockeys
from
Newmarket
dine
,
And
to
rough-riders
give
my
choicest
wine
;
I
would
caress
some
stableman
of
note
,
And
imitate
his
language
and
his
coat
.
My
ev'nings
all
I
would
with
sharpers
spend
,
And
make
the
thief-catcher
my
bosom
friend
.
In
Fig
the
prize-fighter
by
day
delight
,
And
sup
with
Colley
Cibber
ev'ry
night
.
Should
I
perchance
be
fashionably
ill
,
I'll
send
for
Misaubin
,
and
take
his
pill
.
I
should
abhor
,
though
in
the
utmost
need
,
Arbuthnot
,
Hollins
,
Wigan
,
Lee
,
or
Mead
;
But
if
I
found
that
I
grew
worse
and
worse
,
I'd
turn
off
Misaubin
and
take
a
nurse
,
How
oft
when
eminent
physicians
fail
,
Do
good
old
women's
remedies
prevail
?
When
beauty's
gone
,
and
Chloe's
struck
with
years
,
Eyes
she
can
touch
,
or
she
can
syringe
ears
.
Of
graduates
I
dislike
the
learned
rout
,
And
chuse
a
female
doctor
for
the
gout
.
Thus
would
I
live
,
with
no
dull
pedants
curs'd
,
Sure
,
of
all
blockheads
,
scholars
are
the
worst
.
Back
to
your
universities
,
ye
fools
,
And
dangle
arguments
on
strings
in
schools
:
Those
schools
which
Universities
they
call
,
'Twere
well
for
England
were
there
none
at
all
.
With
ease
that
loss
the
nation
might
sustain
,
Supply'd
by
Goodman's
fields
and
Drury-lane
.
Oxford
and
Cambridge
are
not
worth
one
farthing
,
Compar'd
to
Haymarket
and
Covent-garden
:
Quit
those
,
ye
British
youth
,
and
follow
these
,
Turn
players
all
,
and
take
your
'squires
degrees
.
Boast
not
your
incomes
now
,
as
heretofore
,
Ye
book-learn'd
seats
!
the
theatres
have
more
:
Ye
stiff-rump'd
heads
of
colleges
be
dumb
;
A
single
Eunuch
gets
a
larger
sum
.
Have
some
of
you
three
hundred
by
the
year
;
Booth
,
Rich
,
and
Cibber
,
twice
three
thousand
clear
.
Should
Oxford
to
her
sister
Cambridge
join
A
year's
rack-rent
,
and
arbitrary
fine
:
Thence
not
one
winter's
charge
would
be
defray'd
,
For
play-house
,
opera
,
ball
,
and
masquerade
.
Glad
I
congratulate
the
judging
age
,
The
players
are
the
world
,
the
world
the
stage
.
I
am
a
politician
too
,
and
hate
Of
any
party
,
ministers
of
state
:
I'm
for
an
Act
,
that
he
,
who
sev'n
whole
years
Has
serv'd
his
king
and
country
,
lose
his
ears
.
Thus
from
my
birth
I'm
qualified
you
find
,
To
give
the
laws
of
Taste
to
human
kind
.
Mine
are
the
gallant
schemes
of
politesse
,
For
books
,
and
buildings
,
politicks
,
and
dress
.
This
is
true
Taste
,
and
whoso
likes
it
not
,
Is
blockhead
,
coxcomb
,
puppy
,
fool
,
and
sot
.