AN EPISTLE To the Right Honourable RICHARD Earl of BURLINGTON. Alexander Pope Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
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Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T5700 P908 K023156.000 Pope, Alexander, 1688-1744. An epistle to the Right Honourable Richard Earl of Burlington: Occasion'd by his publishing Palladio's designs of the baths, arches, theatres, &c. of ancient Rome. By Mr. Pope. London printed for L. Gilliver 1731 pp. 5-14. 14,[2]p. ; 2⁰.

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AN EPISTLE To the Right Honourable RICHARD Earl of BURLINGTON . 'TIS strange , the Miser should his Cares imploy To gain those Riches he can ne'er enjoy : Is it less strange , the Prodigal should waste His Wealth to purchase what he ne'er can taste ? Not for himself he sees , or hears , or eats ; Artists must chuse his Pictures , Music , Meats : He buys for Topham Drawings and Designs , For Fountain Statues , and for Curio Coins , Rare Monkish Manuscripts for Hearne alone , And Books for Mead , and Rarities for Sloan . Think we all these are for himself ? no more Than his fine Wife ( my Lord ) or finer Whore . For what has Virro painted , built , and planted ? Only to shew how many Tastes he wanted . What brought Sir Shylock's ill-got Wealth to waste ? Some Daemon whisper'd , " Knights shou'd have a Taste . " Heav'n visits with a Taste the wealthy Fool , And needs no Rod , but S—d with a Rule . See sportive Fate , to punish aukward Pride , Bids Babo build , and sends him such a Guide : A standing Sermon ! at each Year's expence , That never Coxcomb reach'd Magnificence . Oft have have you hinted to your Brother Peer , A certain Truth , which many buy too dear : Something there is , more needful than Expence , And something previous ev'n to Taste — 'Tis Sense ; Good Sense , which only is the Gift of Heav'n , And tho' no Science , fairly worth the Seven . A Light , which in yourself you must perceive ; Inigo Jones . Jones and The famous Artist who design'd the best Gardens in France ; and plann'd Greenwich and St. James's Parks , &c. Le Nôtre have it not to give . To build , to plant , whatever you intend , To rear the Column , or the Arch to bend , To swell the Terras , or to sink the Grot ; In all , let Nature never be forgot . Consult the Genius of the Place in all , That tells the Waters or to rise , or fall , Or helps th' ambitious Hill the Heav'ns 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 , th' intending Lines ; Paints as you plant , and as you work , Designs . Begin with Sense , of ev'ry Art the Soul , Parts answ'ring Parts , shall slide into a Whole , Spontaneous Beauties all around advance , Start , ev'n from Difficulty , strike , from Chance ; Nature shall join you ; Time shall make it grow A Work to wonder at — perhaps a The Seat and Gardens of the Lord Viscount Cobham in Buckinghamshire . STOW . Without it , proud Versailles ! thy Glory falls , And Nero's Terrasses desert their Walls : The vast Parterres a thousand hands shall make , Lo ! Bridgman comes , and floats them with a Lake : Or cut wide Views thro' Mountains to the Plain , You'll wish your Hill , and shelter'd Seat , again . Behold Villario's ten-years Toil compleat , His Quincunx darkens , his Espaliers meet , The Wood supports the Plain ; the Parts unite , And strength of Shade contends with strength of Light ; His bloomy Beds a waving Glow display , Blushing in bright Diversities of Day , With silver-quiv'ring Rills maeander'd o'er — — Enjoy them , you ! Villario can no more , Tir'd of the Scene Parterres and Fountains yield , He finds at last he better likes a Field . Thro' his young Woods how pleas'd Sabinus stray'd , Or sate delighted in the thick'ning Shade , With annual Joy the red'ning Shoots to greet , And see the stretching Branches long to meet ! His Son's fine Taste an op'ner Vista loves , Foe to the Dryads of his Father's Groves , One boundless Green or flourish'd Carpet views , With all the mournful Family of Yews ; The thriving Plants ignoble Broomsticks made Now sweep those Allies they were born to shade . Yet hence the Poor are cloth'd , the Hungry fed ; Health to himself , and to his Infants Bread The Lab'rer bears ; What thy hard Heart denies , Thy charitable Vanity supplies . Another Age shall see the golden Ear Imbrown thy Slope , and nod on thy Parterre , Deep Harvests bury all thy Pride has plann'd , And laughing Ceres re-assume the Land . At Timon's Villa let us pass a Day , Where all cry out , " What Sums are thrown away ! So proud , so grand , of that stupendous Air , Soft and Agreeable come never there . Greatness , with Timon , dwells in such a Draught As brings all Brobdignag 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 , shiv'ring at a Breeze ! Lo ! what huge Heaps of Littleness around ! The Whole , a labour'd Quarry above ground ! Two Cupids squirt before : A Lake behind Improves the keenness of the Northern Wind . His Gardens next your Admiration call , On ev'ry side you look , behold the Wall ! No pleasing Intricacies intervene , No artful Wildeness to perplex the Scene : Grove nods at Grove , each Ally has a Brother , And half the Platform just reflects the other . The suff'ring Eye inverted Nature sees , Trees cut to Statues , Statues thick as Trees , With here a Fountain , never to be play'd , And there a Summer-house , that knows no Shade . Here Amphitrite sails thro' Myrtle bow'rs ; Then The two famous Statues of the Gladiator pugnans , & Gladiator moriens . Gladiators fight , or die , in flow'rs ; Un-water'd see the drooping Sea-horse mourn , And Swallows roost in Nilus' dusty Urn . Behold ! my Lord advances o'er the Green , Smit with the mighty pleasure , to be seen : But soft — by regular approach — not yet — First thro' the length of yon hot Terras sweat , And when up ten steep Slopes you've dragg'd your thighs , Just at his Study-door he'll bless your Eyes . His Study ? with what Authors is it stor'd ? In Books , not Authors , curious is my Lord ; To all their dated Backs he turns you round , These Aldus printed , those Du Suëil has bound . Lo some are Vellom , and the rest as good For all his Lordship knows , but they are Wood . For Lock or Milton 'tis in vain to look , These Shelves admit not any Modern book . And now the Chappel's silver bell you hear , That summons you to all the Pride of Pray'r : Light Quirks of Musick , broken and uneven , Make the Soul dance upon a Jig to Heaven . On painted Cielings 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 ! the chiming Clocks to Dinner call ; A hundred Footsteps scrape the marble Hall : The rich Buffet well-colour'd Serpents grace , And gaping Tritons spew to wash your Face . Is this a Dinner ? this a Genial Room ? No , 'tis a Temple , and a Hecatomb ; A solemn Sacrifice , perform'd in State , You drink by Measure , and to Minutes eat . So quick retires each flying Course , you'd swear Sancho's dread Doctor and his Wand were there : Between each Act the trembling Salvers ring , From Soup to Sweetwine , and God bless the King . In Plenty starving , tantaliz'd in State , And complaisantly help'd to all I hate , Treated , caress'd , and tir'd , 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 . In you , my Lord , Taste sanctifies Expence , For Splendor borrows all her Rays from Sense . You show us , Rome was glorious , not profuse , And pompous Buildings once were things of use . Just as they are , yet shall your noble Rules Fill half the Land with Imitating Fools , Who random Drawings from your Sheets shall take , And of one Beauty many Blunders make ; Load some vain Church with old Theatric State ; Turn Arcs of Triumph to a Garden-gate ; Reverse your Ornaments , and hang them all On some patch'd Doghole ek'd with Ends of Wall , Then clap four slices of Pilaster on't , And lac'd with bits of Rustic , 'tis a Front : Shall call the Winds thro' long Arcades to roar , Proud to catch cold at a Venetian door ; Conscious they act a true Palladian part , And if they starve , they starve by Rules of Art . Yet thou proceed ; be fallen Arts thy care , Erect new Wonders , and the Old repair , Jones and Palladio to themselves restore , And be whate'er Vitruvius was before : Till Kings call forth th' Idea's of thy Mind , Proud to accomplish what such hands design'd , Bid Harbors open , publick Ways extend , And Temples , worthier of the God , ascend ; Bid the broad Arch the dang'rous Flood contain , The Mole projected break the roaring Main ; Back to his bounds their subject Sea command , And roll obedient Rivers thro' the Land : These Honours , Peace to happy Britain brings , These are Imperial Works , and worthy Kings . FINIS .