Johann Wilmot Graf von Rochester, geboren 1648, gestorben 1680, ein junger Mann von sehr ausgezeichs neten Talenten, der aber aller Grundfäße der Religion und der Sittenlehre spottete, und durch die wildeste Unordnung sein Leben verkürzte. In allen seinen Gedichten herrscht eis ne gewisse frohe, muthvölle Laune, in der ér aber nur allzu oft sich und alle Rücksicht des Wohlstandes vergaß. Unter ihnen ist seine Satire auf den Menschen, die an Stärke und Feuer Boileau's berühmte achte Satire noch übertrifft; aber äußerst unbillig und menschenfeindlich ist doch auch ihr Ton in den meisten Stellen. Hier nur ihre zweite Hälfte :)
Be judge yourfelf, I'll bring it to the test,
Which is the bafeft creature, Man or Beast.
Birds feed on birds, beafts on each other prey;
But favage Man alone does Man betray.
Prefs'd by Neceffity, they kill for Food;
Man undoes Man, to do himself no Good.
With teeth and claws by nature arm'd, they hunt
Nature's allowance, to fupply their want:
But Man with smiles, embraces, friendship, praise
Inhumanly his fellow's life betrays;
With voluntary pains works his distress,
Not through Neceffity, but Wantonnefs.
For hunger, or for love, they bite or tear,
Whilft wretched Man is ftill in arms for Fear.
For Fear he arms, and is of arms afraid;
From fear to fear fucceffively betray'd.
Bafe Fear, the fource whence his beft paffionis came,
His boafted Honour, and his dear-bought Fame;
That Luft of Pow'r, to which he's fuch a Slave,
And for the which alone he dares be brave;
To which his various projects are defign'd,
Which makes him gen'rous, affable and kind;
For which he takes fuch pains, to be thought wife,
And ferews his actions in a forc'd disguise,
Look to the bottom of his vaft defign,
Wherein Man's Wifdom, Pow'r, and Glory join;
The Good he acts, the Ill he does endure,
'Tis all for Fear, to make himself fecure.
Merely for Safety after Fame we thirst;
For all Men would be Cowards, if they durft;
And Honefty's against all common Sense;
Men must be knaves, 'tis in their own defence.
Mankind's dishoneft, if you think it fair;
Amongst known cheats to play upon the Square
You'll be undone.
Nor can weak Truth your reputation save,
The Knaves will all agree to call you Knave.
Wrong'd fhall he live, infulted o'er, oppreft,
Who dares be lefs a Villain than the reft.
Thus, Sir, you fee what human Nature craves,
Moft men are Cowards, all men fhould be Knaves:
The diff'rence lies, as far as I can fee,
Not in the thing itself, but the degree;
And all the fubject matter of debate
Is only, who's a Knave of the first rate.
All this with indignation have I hurl'd
At the pretending Part of the proud World,
Who fwoln with felfifh Vanity, devise
Falle freedoms, holy cheats, and formal lies,
Over their fellow-flaves to tyrannize.
But it in court fo just a man there be,
(In court a juft Man!) yet unknown to me;
Who does his needfull flattery direct
Not to oppofe and ruin, but protect;
Since Flattery, which way foever laid,
Is ftill a Tax on that unhappy trade:
If fo upright a Statesman you can find,
Whofe Paffion bends to his unbiafs'd Mind,
Who does his arts and policies apply
To raife his country, not his family;
Nor, while his pride know'n avarice withstands;
Receives bafe bribes from friends corrupted hands.
Rochester. Is there a Churchman, who on God relies,
Whofe life his faith and doctrine justifies?
Not one, blown up with vain prelatick pride,
Who for reproof of fins does Man deride,
Whofe envious heart makes Preaching a pretence,
With his obftrep'rous fawcy eloquence,
To chide at Kings, and rail at Men of Sense;
Who from his pulpit vents more peevish lies,
More bitter railings, fcandals, calumnies,
Than at a Goffiping are thrown about,
When the good wives get drunk, and then fall out.
None of the fenfual Tribe, whofe talents lie
In avarice, pride, floth, and gluttony;
Who hunt good Livings, but abhor good Lives;
Whofe luft exalted to that height arrives,
They act adultery with their own wives;
And ere a Score of years compleated be,
Can from the lofty pulpit proudly fee
Half a large Parifh their own Progeny.
Nor doating Bifhop, who would be ador'd
For domineering at the Council Board;
A greater Fop in business at Fourscore,
Fonder of ferious toys, affected more,
Than the gay glitt'ring Fool at twenty proves,
With all his noife, his taudry cloaths and loves:
But a meek humble Man, of honest senie,
Who, preaching peace, does practise continence;
Whofe pious life 's à proof, he does believe
Mysterious Truths, which no Man can conceive:
If upon earth there dwell fuch godlike Men,
I'll here recant my Paradox to them;
Adore thofe Shrines of Virtue, homage pay,
And with the Rabble World their laws obey;
If such there are, yet grant me this at least:
Man differs more from Man, than Man from Beast.
(Seine schon gedachten Umarbeitungen von Donne's drei Satiren, und seine überaus glücklichen Na hahmungen einiger Horazischer Satiren und Episteln, begleitete Pope mit einem meisterhaft geschriebenen Prolog und Epilog, die felbft zu den trefflichsten satirischen Gedichten gehören. Der leytre besteht aus zwei Dialogen; und der Prolog aus einer poetischen Epistel an den Dr. Arbuthnot, deren Form zum Theil gleichfalls dialogisch ist. Unwille und Klage über die Zudringlichkeit schlechter Schriftsteller, und strenge, hie und da wohl freilich zu scharfe und zu persönliche Züchtigung ders" selben, machen den Inhalt dieser Satire aus, von der ich hier nur die legte Hälfte mittheile. Warton kommentirt vortrefflich darüber in seinem Effay on Pope, Vol. II. Sect. XI. Vergl. Duschens Briefe zur Bildung des Geschmacks, altre Ausg. Th. VI. S. 120 ff.)
PROLOGUE TO THE SATIRES.
V. 261. ff.
Oh let me live my own, and die fo too! (To live and die is all I have to do)
Maintain a poet's dignity and ease,
And fee what friends, and read what books I plea
Above a patron, though I condefcend
Sometimes to call a Minister my friend.
I was not born for courts or great affairs;
I pay my debts, believe, and say my pray'rs;
Can fleep without a poem in my head,
Nor know if Dennis be alive or dead.
Why am I afk'd what next shall see the light?
Heav'ns! was I born for nothing but to write?
Has life no joys for me? or (to be grave)
Have I no friend to ferve, no foul to fave?
I found him clofe with Swift
(Cries prating Balbus),, fomething will come out." 'Tis all in vain, deny it as I will.
No, fuch a genius never can lie ftill."
And then for mine obligingly mistakes
The first lampoon, Sir Will, or Bubo makes.
Poor guiltless I and can I chufe but smile,
When ev'ry coxcomb knows me by my style?
Curs'd be the verfe, how well foe'er it flow,
That tends to make one worthy man my foe,
Give Virtue fcandal, Innocence a fear,
Or from the foft ey'd virgin fteal a tear!
But he who hurts a harmless neighbour's peace,
Infults fall'n worth, or beauty in diftrefs,
Who loves a lie, lame flander helps about,
Who writes a libel, or who copies out:
That fop, whofe pride affects a patron's name,
Yet abfent, wounds an author's honeft fame;
Who can your merit felfifhly approve.
And fhow the fenfe of it without the love;
Who has the vanity to call you friend,
Yet wants the honour, injur'd, to defend;
Who tells whate'er you think, whate'er you fay
And, if he lie not, must at least betray;
Who to the Dean and filver-bell can fwear,
And fees at Cannons what was never there;
Who reads, but with a luft to misapply,
Make fatire a lampoon, and fiction lie:
A lafh like mine no honeft man fhall dread,
But all fuch babling block-heads in his stead.
Let Sporus tremble. ARB. What? that thing of
filk.
Sporus, that mere white curd of afs's milk?
Satire or fenfe, alas! can Sporus feel?
Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?
POPE Yet let me flap this bug with gilded wings
This painted child of dirt, that stinks and ftings;
Whofe buzz the witty and the fair annoys.
Yet wit ne'er taites, and beauty ne'er enjoys:
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