An Essay on Man: Epistle 1
To
Henry
St.
John,
Lord
Bolingbroke
Awake,
my
St.
John!
leave
all
meaner
things
To
low
ambition,
and
the
pride
of
kings.
Let
us
(since
life
can
little
more
supply
Than
just
to
look
about
us
and
to
die)
Expatiate
free
o'er
all
this
scene
of
man;
A
mighty
maze!
but
not
without
a
plan;
A
wild,
where
weeds
and
flow'rs
promiscuous
shoot;
Or
garden,
tempting
with
forbidden
fruit.
Together
let
us
beat
this
ample
field,
Try
what
the
open,
what
the
covert
yield;
The
latent
tracts,
the
giddy
heights
explore
Of
all
who
blindly
creep,
or
sightless
soar;
Eye
Nature's
walks,
shoot
folly
as
it
flies,
And
catch
the
manners
living
as
they
rise;
Laugh
where
we
must,
be
candid
where
we
can;
But
vindicate
the
ways
of
God
to
man.
I.
Say
first,
of
God
above,
or
man
below,
What
can
we
reason,
but
from
what
we
know?
Of
man
what
see
we,
but
his
station
here,
From
which
to
reason,
or
to
which
refer?
Through
worlds
unnumber'd
though
the
God
be
known,
'Tis
ours
to
trace
him
only
in
our
own.
He,
who
through
vast
immensity
can
pierce,
See
worlds
on
worlds
compose
one
universe,
Observe
how
system
into
system
runs,
What
other
planets
circle
other
suns,
What
varied
being
peoples
ev'ry
star,
May
tell
why
Heav'n
has
made
us
as
we
are.
But
of
this
frame
the
bearings,
and
the
ties,
The
strong
connections,
nice
dependencies,
Gradations
just,
has
thy
pervading
soul
Look'd
through?
or
can
a
part
contain
the
whole?
Is
the
great
chain,
that
draws
all
to
agree,
And
drawn
supports,
upheld
by
God,
or
thee?
II.
Presumptuous
man!
the
reason
wouldst
thou
find,
Why
form'd
so
weak,
so
little,
and
so
blind?
First,
if
thou
canst,
the
harder
reason
guess,
Why
form'd
no
weaker,
blinder,
and
no
less?
Ask
of
thy
mother
earth,
why
oaks
are
made
Taller
or
stronger
than
the
weeds
they
shade?
Or
ask
of
yonder
argent
fields
above,
Why
Jove's
satellites
are
less
than
Jove?
Of
systems
possible,
if
'tis
confest
That
Wisdom
infinite
must
form
the
best,
Where
all
must
full
or
not
coherent
be,
And
all
that
rises,
rise
in
due
degree;
Then,
in
the
scale
of
reas'ning
life,
'tis
plain
There
must
be
somewhere,
such
a
rank
as
man:
And
all
the
question
(wrangle
e'er
so
long)
Is
only
this,
if
God
has
plac'd
him
wrong?
Respecting
man,
whatever
wrong
we
call,
May,
must
be
right,
as
relative
to
all.
In
human
works,
though
labour'd
on
with
pain,
A
thousand
movements
scarce
one
purpose
gain;
In
God's,
one
single
can
its
end
produce;
Yet
serves
to
second
too
some
other
use.
So
man,
who
here
seems
principal
alone,
Perhaps
acts
second
to
some
sphere
unknown,
Touches
some
wheel,
or
verges
to
some
goal;
'Tis
but
a
part
we
see,
and
not
a
whole.
When
the
proud
steed
shall
know
why
man
restrains
His
fiery
course,
or
drives
him
o'er
the
plains:
When
the
dull
ox,
why
now
he
breaks
the
clod,
Is
now
a
victim,
and
now
Egypt's
God:
Then
shall
man's
pride
and
dulness
comprehend
His
actions',
passions',
being's,
use
and
end;
Why
doing,
suff'ring,
check'd,
impell'd;
and
why
This
hour
a
slave,
the
next
a
deity.
Then
say
not
man's
imperfect,
Heav'n
in
fault;
Say
rather,
man's
as
perfect
as
he
ought:
His
knowledge
measur'd
to
his
state
and
place;
His
time
a
moment,
and
a
point
his
space.
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.
III.
Heav'n
from
all
creatures
hides
the
book
of
fate,
All
but
the
page
prescrib'd,
their
present
state:
From
brutes
what
men,
from
men
what
spirits
know:
Or
who
could
suffer
being
here
below?
The
lamb
thy
riot
dooms
to
bleed
today,
Had
he
thy
reason,
would
he
skip
and
play?
Pleas'd
to
the
last,
he
crops
the
flow'ry
food,
And
licks
the
hand
just
rais'd
to
shed
his
blood.
Oh
blindness
to
the
future!
kindly
giv'n,
That
each
may
fill
the
circle
mark'd
by
Heav'n:
Who
sees
with
equal
eye,
as
God
of
all,
A
hero
perish,
or
a
sparrow
fall,
Atoms
or
systems
into
ruin
hurl'd,
And
now
a
bubble
burst,
and
now
a
world.
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.
Hope
springs
eternal
in
the
human
breast:
Man
never
is,
but
always
to
be
blest:
The
soul,
uneasy
and
confin'd
from
home,
Rests
and
expatiates
in
a
life
to
come.
Lo!
the
poor
Indian,
whose
untutor'd
mind
Sees
God
in
clouds,
or
hears
him
in
the
wind;
His
soul,
proud
science
never
taught
to
stray
Far
as
the
solar
walk,
or
milky
way;
Yet
simple
nature
to
his
hope
has
giv'n,
Behind
the
cloud
topp'd
hill,
an
humbler
heav'n;
Some
safer
world
in
depth
of
woods
embrac'd,
Some
happier
island
in
the
wat'ry
waste,
Where
slaves
once
more
their
native
land
behold,
No
fiends
torment,
no
Christians
thirst
for
gold.
To
be,
contents
his
natural
desire,
He
asks
no
angel's
wing,
no
seraph's
fire;
But
thinks,
admitted
to
that
equal
sky,
His
faithful
dog
shall
bear
him
company.
IV.
Go,
wiser
thou!
and,
in
thy
scale
of
sense
Weigh
thy
opinion
against
Providence;
Call
imperfection
what
thou
fanciest
such,
Say,
here
he
gives
too
little,
there
too
much:
Destroy
all
creatures
for
thy
sport
or
gust,
Yet
cry,
if
man's
unhappy,
God's
unjust;
If
man
alone
engross
not
Heav'n's
high
care,
Alone
made
perfect
here,
immortal
there:
Snatch
from
his
hand
the
balance
and
the
rod,
Rejudge
his
justice,
be
the
God
of
God.
In
pride,
in
reas'ning
pride,
our
error
lies;
All
quit
their
sphere,
and
rush
into
the
skies.
Pride
still
is
aiming
at
the
blest
abodes,
Men
would
be
angels,
angels
would
be
gods.
Aspiring
to
be
gods,
if
angels
fell,
Aspiring
to
be
angels,
men
rebel:
And
who
but
wishes
to
invert
the
laws
Of
order,
sins
against
th'
Eternal
Cause.
V.
Ask
for
what
end
the
heav'nly
bodies
shine,
Earth
for
whose
use?
Pride
answers,
"
'Tis
for
mine:
For
me
kind
Nature
wakes
her
genial
pow'r,
Suckles
each
herb,
and
spreads
out
ev'ry
flow'r;
Annual
for
me,
the
grape,
the
rose
renew,
The
juice
nectareous,
and
the
balmy
dew;
For
me,
the
mine
a
thousand
treasures
brings;
For
me,
health
gushes
from
a
thousand
springs;
Seas
roll
to
waft
me,
suns
to
light
me
rise;
My
foot-stool
earth,
my
canopy
the
skies."
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?
"No,
('tis
replied)
the
first
Almighty
Cause
Acts
not
by
partial,
but
by
gen'ral
laws;
Th'
exceptions
few;
some
change
since
all
began:
And
what
created
perfect?"—Why
then
man?
If
the
great
end
be
human
happiness,
Then
Nature
deviates;
and
can
man
do
less?
As
much
that
end
a
constant
course
requires
Of
show'rs
and
sunshine,
as
of
man's
desires;
As
much
eternal
springs
and
cloudless
skies,
As
men
for
ever
temp'rate,
calm,
and
wise.
If
plagues
or
earthquakes
break
not
Heav'n's
design,
Why
then
a
Borgia,
or
a
Catiline?
Who
knows
but
he,
whose
hand
the
lightning
forms,
Who
heaves
old
ocean,
and
who
wings
the
storms;
Pours
fierce
ambition
in
a
Cæsar's
mind,
Or
turns
young
Ammon
loose
to
scourge
mankind?
From
pride,
from
pride,
our
very
reas'ning
springs;
Account
for
moral,
as
for
nat'ral
things:
Why
charge
we
Heav'n
in
those,
in
these
acquit?
In
both,
to
reason
right
is
to
submit.
Better
for
us,
perhaps,
it
might
appear,
Were
there
all
harmony,
all
virtue
here;
That
never
air
or
ocean
felt
the
wind;
That
never
passion
discompos'd
the
mind.
But
ALL
subsists
by
elemental
strife;
And
passions
are
the
elements
of
life.
The
gen'ral
order,
since
the
whole
began,
Is
kept
in
nature,
and
is
kept
in
man.
VI.
What
would
this
man?
Now
upward
will
he
soar,
And
little
less
than
angel,
would
be
more;
Now
looking
downwards,
just
as
griev'd
appears
To
want
the
strength
of
bulls,
the
fur
of
bears.
Made
for
his
use
all
creatures
if
he
call,
Say
what
their
use,
had
he
the
pow'rs
of
all?
Nature
to
these,
without
profusion,
kind,
The
proper
organs,
proper
pow'rs
assign'd;
Each
seeming
want
compensated
of
course,
Here
with
degrees
of
swiftness,
there
of
force;
All
in
exact
proportion
to
the
state;
Nothing
to
add,
and
nothing
to
abate.
Each
beast,
each
insect,
happy
in
its
own:
Is
Heav'n
unkind
to
man,
and
man
alone?
Shall
he
alone,
whom
rational
we
call,
Be
pleas'd
with
nothing,
if
not
bless'd
with
all?
The
bliss
of
man
(could
pride
that
blessing
find)
Is
not
to
act
or
think
beyond
mankind;
No
pow'rs
of
body
or
of
soul
to
share,
But
what
his
nature
and
his
state
can
bear.
Why
has
not
man
a
microscopic
eye?
For
this
plain
reason,
man
is
not
a
fly.
Say
what
the
use,
were
finer
optics
giv'n,
T'
inspect
a
mite,
not
comprehend
the
heav'n?
Or
touch,
if
tremblingly
alive
all
o'er,
To
smart
and
agonize
at
ev'ry
pore?
Or
quick
effluvia
darting
through
the
brain,
Die
of
a
rose
in
aromatic
pain?
If
nature
thunder'd
in
his
op'ning
ears,
And
stunn'd
him
with
the
music
of
the
spheres,
How
would
he
wish
that
Heav'n
had
left
him
still
The
whisp'ring
zephyr,
and
the
purling
rill?
Who
finds
not
Providence
all
good
and
wise,
Alike
in
what
it
gives,
and
what
denies?
VII.
Far
as
creation's
ample
range
extends,
The
scale
of
sensual,
mental
pow'rs
ascends:
Mark
how
it
mounts,
to
man's
imperial
race,
From
the
green
myriads
in
the
peopled
grass:
What
modes
of
sight
betwixt
each
wide
extreme,
The
mole's
dim
curtain,
and
the
lynx's
beam:
Of
smell,
the
headlong
lioness
between,
And
hound
sagacious
on
the
tainted
green:
Of
hearing,
from
the
life
that
fills
the
flood,
To
that
which
warbles
through
the
vernal
wood:
The
spider's
touch,
how
exquisitely
fine!
Feels
at
each
thread,
and
lives
along
the
line:
In
the
nice
bee,
what
sense
so
subtly
true
From
pois'nous
herbs
extracts
the
healing
dew?
How
instinct
varies
in
the
grov'lling
swine,
Compar'd,
half-reas'ning
elephant,
with
thine!
'Twixt
that,
and
reason,
what
a
nice
barrier;
For
ever
sep'rate,
yet
for
ever
near!
Remembrance
and
reflection
how
allied;
What
thin
partitions
sense
from
thought
divide:
And
middle
natures,
how
they
long
to
join,
Yet
never
pass
th'
insuperable
line!
Without
this
just
gradation,
could
they
be
Subjected,
these
to
those,
or
all
to
thee?
The
pow'rs
of
all
subdu'd
by
thee
alone,
Is
not
thy
reason
all
these
pow'rs
in
one?
VIII.
See,
through
this
air,
this
ocean,
and
this
earth,
All
matter
quick,
and
bursting
into
birth.
Above,
how
high,
progressive
life
may
go!
Around,
how
wide!
how
deep
extend
below!
Vast
chain
of
being,
which
from
God
began,
Natures
ethereal,
human,
angel,
man,
Beast,
bird,
fish,
insect!
what
no
eye
can
see,
No
glass
can
reach!
from
infinite
to
thee,
From
thee
to
nothing!—On
superior
pow'rs
Were
we
to
press,
inferior
might
on
ours:
Or
in
the
full
creation
leave
a
void,
Where,
one
step
broken,
the
great
scale's
destroy'd:
From
nature's
chain
whatever
link
you
strike,
Tenth
or
ten
thousandth,
breaks
the
chain
alike.
And,
if
each
system
in
gradation
roll
Alike
essential
to
th'
amazing
whole,
The
least
confusion
but
in
one,
not
all
That
system
only,
but
the
whole
must
fall.
Let
earth
unbalanc'd
from
her
orbit
fly,
Planets
and
suns
run
lawless
through
the
sky;
Let
ruling
angels
from
their
spheres
be
hurl'd,
Being
on
being
wreck'd,
and
world
on
world;
Heav'n's
whole
foundations
to
their
centre
nod,
And
nature
trembles
to
the
throne
of
God.
All
this
dread
order
break—for
whom?
for
thee?
Vile
worm!—Oh
madness,
pride,
impiety!
IX.
What
if
the
foot
ordain'd
the
dust
to
tread,
Or
hand,
to
toil,
aspir'd
to
be
the
head?
What
if
the
head,
the
eye,
or
ear
repin'd
To
serve
mere
engines
to
the
ruling
mind?
Just
as
absurd
for
any
part
to
claim
To
be
another,
in
this
gen'ral
frame:
Just
as
absurd,
to
mourn
the
tasks
or
pains,
The
great
directing
Mind
of
All
ordains.
All
are
but
parts
of
one
stupendous
whole,
Whose
body
Nature
is,
and
God
the
soul;
That,
chang'd
through
all,
and
yet
in
all
the
same,
Great
in
the
earth,
as
in
th'
ethereal
frame,
Warms
in
the
sun,
refreshes
in
the
breeze,
Glows
in
the
stars,
and
blossoms
in
the
trees,
Lives
through
all
life,
extends
through
all
extent,
Spreads
undivided,
operates
unspent,
Breathes
in
our
soul,
informs
our
mortal
part,
As
full,
as
perfect,
in
a
hair
as
heart;
As
full,
as
perfect,
in
vile
man
that
mourns,
As
the
rapt
seraph
that
adores
and
burns;
To
him
no
high,
no
low,
no
great,
no
small;
He
fills,
he
bounds,
connects,
and
equals
all.
X.
Cease
then,
nor
order
imperfection
name:
Our
proper
bliss
depends
on
what
we
blame.
Know
thy
own
point:
This
kind,
this
due
degree
Of
blindness,
weakness,
Heav'n
bestows
on
thee.
Submit.—In
this,
or
any
other
sphere,
Secure
to
be
as
blest
as
thou
canst
bear:
Safe
in
the
hand
of
one
disposing
pow'r,
Or
in
the
natal,
or
the
mortal
hour.
All
nature
is
but
art,
unknown
to
thee;
All
chance,
direction,
which
thou
canst
not
see;
All
discord,
harmony,
not
understood;
All
partial
evil,
universal
good:
And,
spite
of
pride,
in
erring
reason's
spite,
One
truth
is
clear,
Whatever
is,
is
right.
Alexander Pope
Alexander Pope, (born May 21, 1688, London, England—died May 30, 1744, Twickenham, near London), poet and satirist of the English Augustan period, best known for his poems An Essay on Criticism (1711), The Rape of the Lock (1712–14), The Dunciad (1728), and An Essay on Man (1733–34). He is one of the most epigrammatic of all English authors. Pope’s command of diction is no less happily adapted to his theme and to the type of poem, and the range of his imagery is remarkably wide. He has been thought defective in imaginative power, but this opinion cannot be sustained in view of the invention and organizing ability shown notably in The Rape of the Lock and The Dunciad. He was the first English poet to enjoy contemporary fame in France and Italy and throughout the European continent and to see translations of his poems into modern as well as ancient languages.