Pope and Lady Mary had once been friends. Apparently Lady Mary rejected Pope’s romantic advances, and after that their friendship deteriorated. Pope often attacked her as “Sappho,” the ancient Lesbian poet; she replied in 1733 with this devastating poem. It may have been cowritten with Lord Hervey, whom Pope attacks as “Sporus.” This is the text of the first edition; the notes are my own.
| In two large Columns, on thy motly° Page, | mixed up | |
| Where Roman Wit is strip’d° with English Rage; | bleeding | |
| Where Ribaldry° to Satire makes pretence, | obscenity | |
| And modern Scandal rolls with ancient Sense: | ||
| 5 | Whilst on one side we see how Horace thought, | |
| And on the other, how he never wrote: | ||
| Who can believe, who view the bad, the good, | ||
| That the dull Copist° better understood | copyist | |
| That Spirit, he pretends to imitate, | ||
| 10 | Than heretofore° that Greek he did translate? | earlier |
| Thine is just such an Image of his Pen, | ||
| As thou thy self art of the Sons of Men, | ||
| Where our own Species in Burlesque° we trace, | parody, bombast | |
| A Sign-Post Likeness of the noble Race,° | humanity | |
| 15 | That is at once Resemblance and Disgrace. | |
| Horace can laugh, is delicate, is clear, | ||
| You, only coarsely rail,° or darkly sneer; | attack crudely | |
| His Style is elegant, his Diction pure, | ||
| Whilst none thy crabbed Numbers° can endure; | awful poetic meter | |
| 20 | Hard as thy Heart, and as thy Birth obscure. | |
| If He has Thorns, they all on Roses grow; | ||
| Thine like Thistles, and mean Brambles show; | ||
| With this Exception, that, tho’ rank the Soil, | ||
| Weeds as they are, they seem produc’d by Toil. | ||
| 25 | Satire shoud, like a polish’d Razor keen, | |
| Wound with a Touch, that’s scarcely felt or seen. | ||
| Thine is an Oyster-Knife, that hacks and hews; | ||
| The Rage, but not the Talent of Abuse; | ||
| And is in Hate, what Love is in the Stews.° | whorehouses | |
| 30 | ’Tis the gross Lust of Hate, that still annoys, | |
| Without distinction, as gross Love enjoys: | ||
| Neither to Folly, nor to Vice confin’d, | ||
| The Object of thy Spleen° is Human Kind: | anger, bitterness | |
| It preys on all, who yield, or who resist: | ||
| 35 | To Thee ’tis Provocation to exist. | |
| But if thou see’st a great and gen’rous Heart, | ||
| Thy Bow is doubly bent to force a Dart.° | arrow | |
| Nor° Dignity nor Innocence is spar’d, | neither | |
| Nor Age, nor Sex, nor Thrones, nor Graves, rever’d. | ||
| 40 | Not only Justice vainly we demand, | |
| But even Benefits can’t rein° thy Hand: | hold back | |
| To this or that alike in vain we trust, | ||
| Nor find Thee less Ungrateful than Unjust. | ||
| Not even Youth and Beauty can controul | ||
| 45 | The universal Rancour° of thy Soul; | bitterness |
| Charms° that might soften Superstition’s Rage, | magic spells | |
| Might humble Pride, or thaw the Ice of Age. | ||
| But how should’st thou by Beauty’s Force be mov’d, | affected | |
| No more for loving made than to be lov’d? | ||
| 50 | It was the Equity° of righteous Heav’n, | justice |
| That such a Soul to such a Form° was giv’n; | physical body | |
| And shows the Uniformity of Fate, | ||
| That one so odious should be born to hate. | ||
| When God created Thee, one would believe, | ||
| 55 | He said the same as to the Snake of Eve; | |
| To human Race Antipathy declare, | ||
| ’Twixt° them and thee be everlasting War. | between | |
| But oh! the Sequel° of the Sentence dread, | what comes after | |
| And whilst you bruise their Heel, beware your head. | ||
| 60 | Nor think thy Weakness shall be thy Defence; | |
| The Female Scold’s Protection in Offence. | ||
| Sure ’tis as fair to beat who cannot fight, | ||
| As ’tis to libel those who cannot write. | ||
| And if thou draw’st thy Pen to aid the Law, | ||
| 65 | Others a Cudgel,° or a Rod, may draw. | club |
| If none with Vengeance yet thy Crimes pursue, | ||
| Or give thy manifold Affronts° their due; | many and various sins | |
| If Limbs unbroken, Skin without a Stain, | ||
| Unwhipt, unblanketed,° unkick’d, unslain, | not punished by being tossed in a blanket | |
| 70 | That wretched little Carcass you retain, | |
| The Reason is, not that the World wants° Eyes, | lacks | |
| But thou’rt so mean, they see, and they despise: | ||
| When fretful Porcupines, with rancorous° Will, | mean-spirited | |
| From mounted Backs shoot forth a harmless Quill, | ||
| 75 | Cool the Spectators stand; and all the while | |
| Upon the angry little Monster smile. | ||
| Thus ’tis with thee: — whilst impotently safe, | ||
| You strike unwounding, we unhurt can laugh. | ||
| Who but must laugh, this Bully when he sees, | ||
| 80 | A little Insect shiv’ring at a Breeze? | |
| One over-match’d by ev’ry Blast of Wind, | ||
| Insulting and provoking all Mankind. | ||
| Is this the Thing to keep Mankind in awe, | ||
| To make those tremble° who escape the Law? | shake with fear | |
| 85 | Is this the Ridicule to live so long, | |
| The deathless Satire, and immortal Song? | ||
| No: like thy self-blown Praise, thy Scandal flies; | ||
| And, as we’re told of Wasps, it stings and dies. | ||
| If none do yet return th’intended Blow; | ||
| 90 | You all your Safety, to your Dullness owe: | i.e., you’ve been protected by your stupidity |
| But whilst that Armour thy poor Corps° defends, | body | |
| ’Twill make thy Readers few, as are thy Friends: | ||
| Those, who thy Nature loath’d, yet lov’d thy Art, | ||
| Who lik’d thy Head, and yet abhorr’d thy Heart: | ||
| 95 | Chose thee to read, but never to converse, | |
| And scorn’d in Prose, him whom they priz’d in Verse. | ||
| Ev’n they shall now their partial Error see, | ||
| Shall shun thy Writings like thy Company; | ||
| And to thy Books shall ope their Eyes no more, | ||
| 100 | Than to thy Person they would do their Door. | |
| Nor thou the Justice of the World disown, | ||
| That leaves Thee thus an Out-cast, and alone; | ||
| For tho’ in Law, to murder be to kill, | ||
| In Equity° the Murder’s in the Will: | justice | |
| 105 | Then whilst with Coward Hand you stab a Name, | |
| And try at least t’ assassinate our Fame, | ||
| Like the first bold Assassin’s° be thy Lot,° | Cain killed his brother — fate | |
| Ne’er be thy Guilt forgiven, or forgot; | ||
| But, as thou hate’st be hated by Mankind | ||
| 110 | And with the Emblem of thy crooked Mind, | symbol |
| Mark’d on thy Back, like Cain, by God’s own Hand; | ||
| Wander like him, accursed through the Land. |