But where’s the man, who counsel can bestow,
  Still pleased to teach, and yet not proud to know? 
  Unbiassed, or by favour, or by spite;
  Not dully prepossessed, nor blindly right;
  Though learn’d, well-bred; and though well-bred, sincere,
  Modestly bold, and humanly severe: 
  Who to a friend his faults can freely show,
  And gladly praise the merit of a foe? 
  Blest with a taste exact, yet unconfined;
  A knowledge both of books and human kind: 
  Gen’rous converse; a soul exempt from pride;
  And love to praise, with reason on his side?

  THE RAPE OF THE LOCK

  AN HEROI-COMICAL POEM

  CANTO II

  Not with more glories, in th’ ethereal plain,
  The sun first rises o’er the purpled main,
  Than, issuing forth, the rival of his beams
  Launched on the bosom of the silver Thames. 
  Fair nymphs, and well-dressed youths around her shone,
  But every eye was fixed on her alone. 
  On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore,
  Which Jews might kiss, and infidels adore. 
  Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose,
  Quick as her eyes, and as unfixed as those;
  Favours to none, to all she smiles extends;
  Oft she rejects, but never once offends. 
  Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike,
  And, like the sun, they shine on all alike. 
  Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride,
  Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to hide;
  If to her share some female errors fall,
  Look on her face, and you’ll forget ’em all.

  This nymph, to the destruction of mankind,
  Nourished two locks, which graceful hung behind
  In equal curls, and well conspired to deck
  With shining ringlets the smooth ivory neck. 
  Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains,
  And mighty hearts are held in slender chains. 
  With hairy springes, we the birds betray,
  Slight lines of hair surprise the finny prey,
  Fair tresses man’s imperial race ensnare,
  And beauty draws us with a single hair.

  Th’ adventurous baron the bright locks admired;
  He saw, he wished, and to the prize aspired. 
  Resolved to win, he meditates the way,
  By force to ravish, or by fraud betray;
  For when success a lover’s toil attends,
  Few ask if fraud or force attained his ends.

  For this, ere Phoebus rose, he had implored
  Propitious Heaven, and every power adored,
  But chiefly Love; to Love an altar built,
  Of twelve vast French romances, neatly gilt. 
  There lay three garters, half a pair of gloves,
  And all the trophies of his former loves;
  With tender billets-doux he lights the pyre,
  And breathes three amorous sighs to raise the fire. 
  Then prostrate falls, and begs with ardent eyes
  Soon to obtain, and long possess the prize. 
  The powers gave ear, and granted half his prayer;
  The rest the winds dispersed in empty air.