Alexander Pope wrote this merciless little satire to the author of a poem titled “Successio,” here called Codrus. From the start, the speaker can barely contain himself—telling critics to back off because this man will keep writing no matter what. Pope’s mockery is built on deliberately absurd comparisons: a heavy muse is like a clock that runs faster when weighted with lead; the poet’s cradle, instead of being blessed by honeybees, was visited by a swarm of buzzing drones. When Codrus plays like Orpheus, even the trees ignore him; only “attentive blocks”—thick wooden posts—stand admiring. Wit passing through him changes like digested meat, and because he has no sense, he can never be robbed of it. Then the paradox: lead, shot from a cannon, flies swiftly; so might a dull poet, through sheer pigheaded momentum, rise to a ridiculous height. The mood is wickedly funny, bubbling with scorn but also delight in its own cleverness. The closing advice is the ultimate dig: stop trying to prove a “dull succession” exists, because your own existence is all the proof we need.
To the Author of a Poem Entitled Successio. — Summary
Begone, ye critics, and restrain your spite, Codrus writes on, and will for ever write. The heaviest Muse the swiftest course has gone, As clocks run fastest when most lead is on; What though no bees around your cradle flew, Nor on your lips distill'd the golden dew, Yet have we oft discover'd in their stead A swarm of drones that buzz'd about your head. When you, like Orpheus, strike the warbling lyre, Attentive blocks stand round you and admire. Wit pass'd through thee no longer is the same, As meat digested takes a different name, But sense must sure thy safest plunder be, Since no reprisals can be made on thee. Thus thou may'st rise, and in thy daring flight (Though ne'er so weighty) reach a wondrous height. So, forced from engines, lead itself can fly, And ponderous slugs move nimbly through the sky. Sure Bavius copied Maevius to the full, And Chaerilus taught Codrus to be dull; Therefore, dear friend, at my advice give o'er This needless labour; and contend no more To prove a dull succession to be true, Since 'tis enough we find it so in you.