Analysis of The Dunciad: Book II.
Alexander Pope 1688 (London) – 1744 (Twickenham)
High on a gorgeous seat, that far out-shone
Henley's gilt tub, or Flecknoe's Irish throne,
Or that where on her Curlls the public pours,
All-bounteous, fragrant grains and golden showers,
Great Cibber sate: the proud Parnassian sneer,
The conscious simper, and the jealous leer,
Mix on his look: all eyes direct their rays
On him, and crowds turn coxcombs as they gaze.
His peers shine round him with reflected grace,
New edge their dulness, and new bronze their face.
So from the sun's broad beam, in shallow urns
Heaven's twinkling sparks draw light, and point their horns.
Not with more glee, by hands Pontific crown'd,
With scarlet hats wide-waving circled round,
Rome in her Capitol saw Querno sit,
Throned on seven hills, the Antichrist of wit.
And now the queen, to glad her sons, proclaims
By herald hawkers, high heroic games.
They summon all her race: an endless band
Pours forth, and leaves unpeopled half the land.
A motley mixture! in long wigs, in bags,
In silks, in crapes, in garters, and in rags,
From drawing-rooms, from colleges, from garrets,
On horse, on foot, in hacks, and gilded chariots:
All who true dunces in her cause appear'd,
And all who knew those dunces to reward.
Amid that area wide they took their stand,
Where the tall maypole once o'er-looked the Strand,
But now (so Anne and piety ordain)
A church collects the saints of Drury Lane.
With authors, stationers obey'd the call,
(The field of glory is a field for all).
Glory and gain the industrious tribe provoke;
And gentle Dulness ever loves a joke.
A poet's form she placed before their eyes,
And bade the nimblest racer seize the prize;
No meagre, muse-rid mope, adust and thin,
In a dun night-gown of his own loose skin;
But such a bulk as no twelve bards could raise,
Twelve starveling bards of these degenerate days.
All as a partridge plump, full-fed, and fair,
She form'd this image of well-bodied air;
With pert flat eyes she window'd well its head;
A brain of feathers, and a heart of lead;
And empty words she gave, and sounding strain,
But senseless, lifeless! idol void and vain!
Never was dash'd out, at one lucky hit,
A fool, so just a copy of a wit;
So like, that critics said, and courtiers swore,
A wit it was, and call'd the phantom More.
All gaze with ardour: some a poet's name,
Others a sword-knot and laced suit inflame.
But lofty Lintot in the circle rose:
'This prize is mine; who tempt it are my foes;
With me began this genius, and shall end.'
He spoke: and who with Lintot shall contend?
Fear held them mute. Alone, untaught to fear,
Stood dauntless Curll: 'Behold that rival here!
The race by vigour, not by vaunts is won;
So take the hindmost Hell.' He said, and run.
Swift as a bard the bailiff leaves behind,
He left huge Lintot, and out-stripp'd the wind.
As when a dab-chick waddles through the copse
On feet and wings, and flies, and wades, and hops:
So labouring on, with shoulders, hands, and head,
Wide as a wind-mill all his figure spread,
With arms expanded Bernard rows his state,
And left-legg'd Jacob seems to emulate.
Full in the middle way there stood a lake,
Which Curll's Corinna chanced that morn to make:
(Such was her wont, at early dawn to drop
Her evening cates before his neighbour's shop,)
Here fortuned Curll to slide; loud shout the band,
And Bernard! Bernard! rings through all the Strand.
Obscene with filth the miscreant lies bewray'd,
Fallen in the plash his wickedness had laid:
Then first (if poets aught of truth declare)
The caitiff vaticide conceived a prayer:
'Hear, Jove! whose name my bards and I adore,
As much at least as any god's, or more;
And him and his if more devotion warms,
Down with the Bible, up with the Pope's arms.'
A place there is, betwixt earth, air, and seas,
Where, from Ambrosia, Jove retires for ease.
There in his seat two spacious vents appear,
On this he sits, to that he leans his ear,
And hears the various vows of fond mankind;
Some beg an eastern, some a western wind:
All vain petitions, mounting to the sky,
With reams abundant this abode supply;
Amused he reads, and then returns the bills
Sign'd with that ichor which from gods distils.
In office here fair Cloacina stands,
And ministers to Jove with purest hands.
Forth from the heap she pick'd her votary's prayer,
And placed it next him, a distinction rare!
Oft had the goddess heard her servant's call,
From her black grottos near the Temple-wall,
Listening delighted to the jest unclean
Of link-boys vile, and watermen o
Scheme | AABXCCDDEEBX FFGG HHIIJJKKXX IILL MMNNOOPPDDQQRRLLGGSS TTUUVVCWXXYYBXRRZZ1 1 2 2 IIFXQQSSXX 3 3 CWYY4 4 XB 5 5 QQMMXX |
---|---|
Poetic Form | Tetractys (20%) |
Metre | 1101011111 101111101 1111010101 1110101010 1110111 0101000101 1111110111 110111111 1111110101 111101111 1101110101 101001110111 11111111 1101110101 100100111 111010111 0101110101 1101010101 1101011101 11011101 0101001101 0101010001 11011100110 111101010100 111100101 011111101 01110011111 1011110101 1111010001 0101011101 1101000101 0111010111 100100100101 010110101 0101110111 010110101 11111101 0011111111 1101111111 1111101001 1101011101 1111011101 1111110111 0111000111 0101110101 1101010101 1011111101 0111010101 11110101001 0111010101 111110101 1001101101 110100101 1111111111 1101110011 110111101 111101111 111011101 011111111 110111101 1101010101 111101101 110111101 1101010101 111110101 1101111101 1101001111 0110101110 1001011101 111011111 1101110111 010101111 111111101 0010111101 0111010011 10001110011 1111011101 0110101 1111110101 1111110111 0101110101 1101011011 0111011101 1101010111 1011110101 1111111111 01010011111 1111010101 1101010101 1101010101 0111010101 11111111 0101111 0100111101 110111011 0111100101 110101011 101110101 10001010101 111101001 |
Closest metre | Iambic pentameter |
Characters | 4,364 |
Words | 794 |
Sentences | 34 |
Stanzas | 8 |
Stanza Lengths | 12, 4, 10, 4, 20, 32, 10, 8 |
Lines Amount | 100 |
Letters per line (avg) | 35 |
Words per line (avg) | 8 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 432 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 99 |
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on March 05, 2023
- 4:05 min read
- 106 Views
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"The Dunciad: Book II." Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 1 Jun 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/502/the-dunciad%3A-book-ii.>.
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