26 February 1712
My Darling T—,
I hope everything is going well? Happy birthday to your daughter! I am sorry that I was not there to celebrate her 1st year with you. I am so happy for you and J—.
As you know, I am in London for these next few months. It has been a most exciting visit, even if it is for an unpleasant reason. Do not tell my father that I have no intention of finding a husband here in London. I have completely devoted my mind to Mr. P—, utterly and wholly. But I will not allow my personal dispute to ruin my first visit ever to London! In fact, for my birthday, I was allowed to choose which play we would see last week! And T —, it was a most wonderful play.
Taken from http://www.hberlioz.com/London/Drury3B.jpg
Taken from http://www.hberlioz.com/London/Drury3B.jpg

Thursday previous[1], my 18th birthday, we went to Drury Lane to see Love in a Tub, or so I’ve heard several ladies of quality call it. It is properly named The Comical Revenge and quite comical it is. There characters are many, but primarily it “has two couples, Beaufort and Graciana, Bruce and Aurelia, mistaking each other's feelings and becoming embroiled in intrigue, duels, sword play.”[2] It was truly the most entertaining play.
My aunt, as stiff as she can be, certainly enjoyed the play as well. I only hope she enjoys MacBeth[3] as much. I have read the text so often and I am thrilled to see it on the stage. I have heard it said that it was such production in December last and I amquite excited to see it. Even more so, it is being put on at the Queen’s Theatre! I could not very very well pass this opportunity up, even if I am supposed to meet my suitor there.
I do need your advice. How does one put off these suitors who are promised my hand by my father? I have no interest in any of them, so I fear I must tell father eventually. I am just loathe to leave London so soon, or under such a terrible gloom.
With all my love, A—

4 May 1712
My Darling T—,
I have no been in London for over 2 months and I have been so very busy. I’ve scarce had any time to read or write anything, even letters! I have taken to reading the London Gazette at every single moment I can. Just a few days ago, I read a newspaper[4] speaking on only affairs of military strategems. It is shameful that of an entire page of news, only a few lines were anything but military. In this advanced life we lead, we cannot help but be fascinated with control and causing pain to others. We are no worse than the primitive barbarians who attacked Rome for no apparent reason.
Far more interesting to me are the advertisements. They are simply fascinating. In that same newspaper from a few days ago, there was an advertisement about a horse that was “stoln or stray’d onto the Grounds of Mrs Allen’s.”[5] There is even a reward for the horse! It seems that Londoners put as much worth in their horses as we do at home.
But as shows by these advertisements of yesterday, Londoners, of quality at least, do enjoy their wine as well. There is apparently “100 holds of excellent Pontacq and Margaux Claret, deep, bright, strong, fresh, and of the right Flavour.”[6] I have never had Claret, that I know of. I have tried so many wines and cordials and other fanciful beverages at the many coffeehouses, parties, and gatherings that I know not what I’ve tried anymore. Would it be shameful for a ‘lady of quality’ to request a purchase for this claret? Perhaps I will purchase two bottles and claim they are a gift for you.
On a more serious note, in today’s newspaper advertisements, I read that several men deserted from a foot regiment.[7] One of those men was a William Botrite from Norwich. Is this the same William Botrite who asked to marry you those years ago?
With all my love, A—

30 May 1712
My Darling T—,
Enclosed with this letter is a copy of perhaps a new poem that has real potential. This poem is a self-called ‘heroi-comical’ and was printed under the name of Rape of the Locke.[8]
I was really unsure when I first read it. Within the first 5 lines, the poem reads “What mighty Quarrels rise from Trivial Things/…Slight is the Subject, but not so the Praise.” This poem is truly about the most trivial occurrence, seemingly. In it, the fair Belinda travels to a gathering of many Lords and Ladys where one Baron in particular covets Belinda so much that he makes it his personal mission to obtain a lock of her hair, with or without Belinda’s permission.
Trivial! Just as those lines say, the whole affair is absurd! I’m told this is actually a true story,[9] too! All of the details may be invented, possibly, especially the fact that the Baron has a shrine to Belinda’s curls, but the basis of the story is really true! Can you believe that a feud could be started between a family over a lock of hair? But on second thought, I can’t help but consider, ‘What if it happened to me?’ I am not particularly opposed to shorter hair lengths, but really, cutting off someone’s hair without permission, and with the thought to worship said hair, is assault.
I do believe the poem could be more satirical, and that more satire would make it better. A couple lines are already mocking, such as “Here Britain’s Statesmen oft the Fall foredoom/Of Foreign Tyrants, and of Nymphs at home.” I think the poet really needs to cover the fact the event is still assault, and satire would do that, especially satire about how trivial the entire lifestyle of the rich can be, not just the hair obssession.
With all my love, A—

20 May 1712
My Darling T—,
You will not believe who I met this week! I sent you a copy of his poem weeks ago, so I’m sure you’ve received it. You know I wasn’t too thrilled with the poem, initially, but after speaking with Mr Alexander Pope[10] himself, I may have to change my mind.
I walked into to a coffeehouse to escape the dreary weather, and who just happened to be at the table with the only open spot but him? I couldn’t help but start a conversation about his works with him.
Mr Pope has only published a few works, including a series of poems called Pastorals. I have not yet had the chance to read his previous works, but Mr Pope explained that none are like the Rape of the Lock except maybe, but only maybe, his Essay on Criticism.

Taken from http://www.gutenberg.org/files/28997/28997-h/images/img028.jpg
Taken from http://www.gutenberg.org/files/28997/28997-h/images/img028.jpg

Mr Pope is a very interesting man outside of his writing though. Apparently, despite, or even because of, his small stature, women seem quite comfortable with in. In fact, I met many ladies who stopped to visit with him while we chatted in the coffeehouse, including the particularly affable Teresa, and Martha, Blount. I think, from the way Mr Pope looked as Ms Teresa, he certainly liked her for more than her friendliness. Poor Mr Pope seemed so taken with her, but I fear his appearance will forever get in the way of any advances. I did a quick sketch of him so that you can see for yourself what I mean.
You’ve told me before that I can be too bold, but I spoke with Mr Pope in detail about what I thought of the Rape of the Lock. Apparently Mr Pope agrees with me! He says there are many possiblilites within the poem, and that they must be developed. He wants this poem to eventually have many facets of satire, from politics to love and war, to reputation and humour. I certainly cannot wait for the expanded version.
With all my love, A—

3 June 1712
My Darling T—,
After meeting Mr Pope, I had to find some past work of his to read. Most of his works thus far have been translations, or attempts at the style, of early Latin works. You know how dry I find Ovid and Virgil and all those kinds of writings.
Well, I finally found and read his Essay on Criticism.[11] It was quite a work to read, but so interesting. In the first lines, Mr Pope proposes that criticism, when bad, can be worse than even poor writing. Mr Pope certainly does not restrain himself in telling critics everything that they could possibly do wrong. One fault that I have seen quite often myself, and perhaps even committed, is disregarding a work for silly reasons. “In ev'ry Work regard the Writer's End,/Since none can compass more than they Intend;/And if the Means be just, the Conduct true,/Applause, in spite of trivial Faults, is due.”
This entire work has made me question whether I’m not too harsh on potential texts. I have always disregarded Latin works, but perhaps I should give them a chance? Mr Pope simply adores Aristotle and Virgil and all those types of ancient writers. He puts them all on a pedestal in this poem. Yet, for some reason I cannot seem to bring myself to read them. I’ll have to ruminate on it more. For now, I will enjoy Mr Pope’s Essay on Criticism and Rape of the Lock.
With all my love, A—

26 June 1712
My Darling T—,
It is near the end of my trip and I am so sad to leave here. I have met so many new people and I hope to stay in touch with each them, especially Mr Pope and the Blount sisters.
I do not really wish to leave London! The parties, the coffeehouses, the new a different experiences! But I do miss my home and my friends. I especially miss you and your dear child.
I have been looking for new books to read, especially since I will be making a long trip soon, and I found out that the second volume of A Voyage to the South Sea and Round the World has been published.[12] Of course I will just tell you about it. I wouldn’t dare try to force you to read a travel book again. Do you remember last time? You got so bored and annoyed that you nearly knocked me out with the book! I do miss you so much.
I will send you a note as soon as I get home. I plan to visit so that I can tell you in more detail about my adventures in London! And we have to try this Pontacq Claret that bought for you.
With all my love, A—

Appendix A
WHAT dire Offence from Am'rous Causes springs,
What mighty Quarrels rise from Trivial Things,
I sing—This verse to C—l, Muse! is due;
This, ev'n Belinda may vouchsafe to view:
Slight is the Subject, but not so the Praise,
If She inspire, and He approve my Lays.
Say what strange Motive, Goddess! cou’d compel
A well-bred Lord t' assault a gentle Belle?
O say what stranger Cause, yet unexplor'd,
Could make a gentle Belle reject a Lord?
And dwells such Rage in softest bosoms then,
And lodge such daring Souls in little Men?
Sol thro' white Curtains did his Beams display,
And ope’d those Eyes which brighter shone then they;
Shock just had giv’n himself the rousing Shake,
And Nymphs prepar’d their Chocolate to take;
Thrice the wrought Slipper knock’d against the Ground,
And striking Watches the tenth hour resound.
Belinda rose, and ‘midst attending Dames
Launch’d on the Bosom of the silver Thames:
A Train of well-drest Youths around her shone,
And eve‘ry Eye was fix’d on her alone;
On her white Breast a sparklling Cross she wore,
Which Jews might kiss, and Infidels adore.
Her lively Looks a sprightly Mind disclose,
Quick as her Eyes, and as unfixt 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, the shine on all alike.
Yet graceful Easy and Sweetness void of Pride,
Might hide her Faults, if Belles had Faults to hide:
If to her share some Female Errors fall,
Loon on her Face, and you’ll forgive ‘em all.
This Nymph, to the Destruction of Mankinf,
Nourish’d two Locks, which graceful hung behind
In equal Curls, and well conspir’d to deck
With shining Ringlets her smooth Iv’ry Neck.
Love in these Labyrinths his Slaves detains,
And mightHearts are held in slender Chains.
With hairy Sprindges we the Birds betray,
Slight Lines of Hair surprize the Finny Prey,
Fair Tresses Man’s Imperial Race insnare,
And Beauty draws us with a single Hair.
Th' advent'rous Baron the bright Locks admir'd;
He saw, he wish'd, and to the Prize aspir'd.
Resolv'd 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 attain'd his Ends.
For this, e’er Phœbus rose, he had implor'd
Propitious Heav'n, and ev'ry Pow'r ador'd,
But chiefly Love — to Love an Altar built,
Of twelve vast French Romances, neatly gilt.
There lay the Sword-knot Sylvia’s Hands had sown,
With Flavia’s Busk that oft had rapp’d his own:
A Fan, a Garter, half a Pair of Gloves;
And all the Trophies of his former Loves;
With tender Billet-doux he lights the Pyre,
And breathes three am'rous Sighs to raise the Fire.
Then prostrate falls, and begs with ardent Eyes
Soon to obtain, and long possess the Prize:
The Pow'rs gave Ear, and granted half his Pray'r,
The rest, the Winds dispers'd in empty air.
Close by those Meads for ever crown'd with Flow'rs,
Where Thames with Pride surveys his rising Tow'rs,
There stands a Structure of Majestic Frame,
Which from the neighb'ring Hampton takes its Name.
Here Britain's Statesmen oft the Fall foredoom
Of Foreign Tyrants, and of Nymphs at home;
Here thou, great Anna! whom three Realms obey.
Dost sometimes Counsel take — and sometimes Tea.
Hither our Nymphs and Heroes did resort,
To taste awhile the Pleasures of a Court;
In various Talk the chearful hours they past,
Of, who was Bitt, or who Copotted last.
This speaks the Glory of the British Queen,
And that describes a charming Indian Screen;
A third interprets Motions, Looks, and Eyes;
At ev'ry Word a Reputation dies.
Snuff, or the Fan, supply each Pause of Chatt,
With singing, laughing, ogling, and all that.
Now, when declining from the Noon of Day,
The Sun obliquely shoots his burning Ray;
When hungry Judges soon the Sentence sign,
And Wretches hang that Jury-men may Dine;
When Merchants from th' Exchange returns in Peace,
And the long Labours of the Toilette cease.
Sudden, the board with cups and spoons is crown’d.
The Berries crackle, and the Mill turns round;
On shining Altars of Japan they raise
The silver Lamp; the fiery Spirits blaze:
From silver Spouts the grateful Liquors glide,
While China's Earth receives the smoking Tyde:
At once they gratifie their Smell and Taste,
And frequent Cups prolong the rich Repast.
Coffee, (which makes the Politician wise,
And see thro' all things with his half-shut Eyes)
Sent up in Vapours to the Baron's Brain
New Stratagems, the radiant Locke to gain.
Ah cease rash Youth! desist e’er ‘tis too late,
Fear the just Gods, and think of Scylla's Fate!
Chang'd to a Bird, and sent to flit in Air,
She dearly pays for Nisus' injur'd Hair!
But when to Mischief Mortals bend their Mind,
How soon fit Instruments of Ill they find?
Just then, Clarissa drew with tempting Grace
A two-edg'd Weapon from her shining Case:
So Ladies in Romance assist their Knight,
Present the Spear, and arm him for the Fight.
He takes the Gift with rev'rence, and extends
The little Engine on his Fingers' Ends;
This just behind Belinda's neck he spread,
As o'er the fragrant Steams she bends her Head.
First he expands the glitt’ring Forfex wide
T’ inclose the Lock; then joins it to divide:
One fatal stroke the sacred Hair does sever,
From the fair Head, for ever, and for ever!
The living Fires come flashing from her Eyes,
And Screams of Horror rend th' affrighted Skies.
Not louder Shrieks by Dames to Heav’n are cast,
When husbands die, or Lap-dogs breathe their last;
Or when rich China Vessels fal'n from high,
In glitt'ring Dust and painted Fragments lie!
Let Wreaths of triumph now my Temples twine
(The victor cry'd) the glorious Prize is mine!
While Fish in Streams, or Birds delight in Air,
Or in a Coach and Six the British Fair,
As long as Atalantis shall be read,
Or the small Pillow grace a Lady's Bed,
While Visits shall be paid on solemn days,
When num'rous Wax-lights in bright Order blaze,
While nymphs take Treats, or Assignations give,
So long my Honour, Name, and Praise shall live!
What Time wou’d spare, from Steel receives its date,
And Monuments, like Men, submit to Fate!
Steel could the Labour of the Gods destroy,
And strike to Dust th' aspiring Tow'rs of Troy;
Steel cou’d the Works of mortal Pride confound,
And hew Triumphal Arches to the ground.
What Wonder then, fair Nymph! thy Hairs shou’d feel,
The conqu'ring Force of unresisted Steel?

BUT anxious Cares the pensive Nymph opprest,
And secret Passions labour'd in her Breast.
Not youthful Kings in Battel seiz'd alive,
Not scornful Virgins who their Charms survive,
Not ardent Lovers robb'd of all their Bliss,
Not ancient Lady when refus'd a Kiss,
Not Tyrants fierce that unrepenting die,
Not Cynthia when her Manteau's pinn'd awry,
E'er felt such Rage, Resentment, and Despair,
As Thou, sad Virgin! for thy ravish'd Hair.
While her rack’d Soul Repose and Peace requires,
The firce Thalestris fans the rising Fires.
O wretched maid (she spread her hands, and cry'd,
And Hampton's Ecechoes, wretched Maid! reply'd)
Was it for this you took such constant Care
Combs, Bodkins, Leads, Pomatums, to prepare?
For this your Locks in Paper Durance bound,
For this with tort'ring Irons wreath'd around?
Oh has the youth but been content to seize
Hairs less in sight—or ny Hairs but these!
Gods! shall the Ravisher display this Hair,
While the Fops envy, and the Ladies stare!
Honour forbid! at whose unrival'd Shrine
Ease, Pleasure, Virtue, All, our Sex resign.
Methinks already I your Tears survey,
Already hear the horrid things they say,
Already see you a degraded Toast,
And all your Honour in a Whisper lost!
How shall I, then, your helpless Fame defend?
'T will then be Infamy to seem your Friend!
And shall this Prize, th' inestimable Prize,
Expos'd thro' Crystal to the gazing Eyes,
And heighten'd by the Diamond's circling Rays,
On that Rapacious Hand for ever blaze?
Sooner shall Grass in Hide-park Circus grow,
And Wits take Lodgings in the Sound of Bow;
Sooner let Earth, Air, Sea, to Chaos fall,
Men, Monkies, Lap-dogs, Parrots, perish all!"
She said; then raging to Sir Plume repairs,
And bids her Beau demand the precious Hairs;
(Sir Plume of Amber Snuff-box justly vain,
And the nice Conduct of a clouded Cane)
With earnest Eyes, and round unthinking Face,
He first the Snuff-box open'd, then the Case,
And thus broke out — "My Lord, why, what the devil?
"Z — ds! damn the Lock! 'fore Gad, you must be civil!
Plague on't! ‘tis past a Jest — nay prithee, Pox!
Give her the Hair" — he spoke, and rapp'd his Box.
It grieves me much (reply'd the Peer again)
"Who speaks so well should ever speak in vain.
But by this Locke, this sacred Locke I swear,
(Which never more shall join its parted Hair;
Which never more its Honours shall renew,
Clipp'd from the lovely Head where once it grew)
That while my Nostrils draw the vital Air,
This Hand, which won it, shall for ever wear."
He spoke, and speaking, in proud Triumph spread
The long-contended Honours of her Head.
But see! the Nymph in Sorrow’s Pomp appears,
Her Eyes half languishing, half drown'd in tears;
Now livid pale her Cheeks, now glowing red;
On her heav’d Bosom hung her drooping Head,
Which, with a Sigh, she rais’d; and thus she said.
For ever curs'd be this detested day,
Which snatch'd my best, my fav'rite Curl away!
Happy! ah ten times happy, had I been,
If Hampton-Court these Eyes had never seen!
Yet am not I the first mistaken Maid,
By Love of Courts to num'rous Ills betray'd.
Oh had I rather un-admir'd remain'd
In some lone Isle, or distant Northern Land;
Where the gilt Chariot never marks the way,
Where none learn Ombre, none e'er taste Bohea!
There kept my Charms conceal'd from mortal Eye,
Like Roses, that in Deserts bloom and die.
What mov'd my Mind with youthful Lords to roam?
Oh had I stay'd, and said my Pray'rs at home!
‘T’was this, the Morning Omens did fortel;
Thrice from my trembling hand the Patch-box fell;
The tott'ring China shook without a Wind.
Nay, Poll sat mute, and Shock was most unkind!
See the poor Remnants of this slighted Hair!
My hands shall rend what ev'n thy rapine spares:
This, in two sable Ringlets taught to break,
Once gave new Beauties to the snowy Neck.
The Sister-Locke now sits uncouth, alone,
And in its Fellow's Fate foresees its own;
Uncurl'd it hangs, the fatal Shears demands,
And tempts once more thy sacrilegious Hands.
She saidL the pitying Audience melt in Tears,
But Fate and Jove had stopp’d the Baron’s Ears.
In vain Thalestris with Reproach assails,
For who can more when fair Belinda fails?
Not half so fixt the Trojancou’d remain,
While Anna begg’d and Dido’ rag’d in vain.
To arms, to arms! the bold Thelestris cries,
And swift as Lightning to the Combat flies.
All side in Parties, and begin th' Attack;
Fans clap, Silks rustle, and tough Whalebones crack;
Heroes and Heroins Shouts confus'dly rise,
And bass, and treble Voices strike the Skies.
No common Weapons in their Hands are found,
Like Gods they fight, nor dread a mortal Wound.
So when bold Homer makes the Gods engage,
And heav'nly Breasts with human Passions rage;
'Gainst Pallas, Mars; Latona, Hermes Arms;
And all Olympus rings with loud Alarms:
Jove's Thunder roars, Heav'n trembles all around,
Blue Neptune storms, the bellowing Deeps resound:
Earth shakes her nodding Tow'rs, the Ground gives way.
And the pale Ghosts start at the Flash of Day!
While thro' the Press enrag'd Thalestris flies,
And scatters Death around from both her Eyes,
A Beau and Witling perish'd in the Throng,
One dy’d in Metaphor, and one in Song.
O cruel nymph! a living Death I bear,
Cry'd Dapperwit, and sunk beside his Chair.
A mournful Glance Sir Fopling upwards cast,
Those eyes are made so killing — was his last.
Thus on Mæander's flow'ry Margin lies
Th' expiring Swan, and as he sings he dies.
As bold Sir Plume had drawn Clarissa down,
Chloe stepp'd in, and kill'd him with a Frown;
She smil'd to see the doughty Hero slain,
But, at her Smile, the Beau reviv'd again.
Now Jove suspends his golden Scales in Air,
Weighs the Men's Wits against the Lady's Hair;
The doubtful Beam long nods from side to side;
At length the Wits mount up, the Hairs subside.
See fierce Belinda on the Baron flies,
With more than usual Lightning in her Eyes:
Nor fear'd the Chief th' unequal Fight to try,
Who sought no more than on his Foe to die.
But this bold Lord, with manly Strength endu'd,
She with one Finger and a Thumb subdu'd:
Just where the Breath of Life his Nostrils drew,
A Charge of Snuff the wily Virgin threw;
Sudden, with starting Tears each Eye o'erflows,
And the high Dome re-echoes to his Nose.
Now meet thy Fate, th’ incens'd Virago cry'd,
And drew a deadly Bodkin from her Side.
Boast not my Fall (he said) insulting Foe!
Thou by some other shalt be laid as low,
Nor think, to die dejects my lofty Mind;
All that I dread is leaving you behind!
Rather than so, ah let me still survive,
And still burn on, in Cupid’s Flames, Alive.
Restore the Locke! she cries; and all around
Restore the Locke! the vaulted Roofs rebound.
Not fierce Othello in so loud a Strain
Roar'd for the Handkerchief that caus'd his Pain.
But see! how oft Ambitious Aims are cross'd,
And Chiefs contend 'till all the Prize is lost!
The Locke, obtain'd with Guilt, and kept with Pain,
In ev'ry place is sought, but sought in vain:
With such a Prize no Mortal must be blest,
So Heav'n decrees! with Heav'n who can contest?
Some thought, it mounted to the Lunar sphere,
Since all that Man e’er lost, treasur'd there.
There Hero's Wits are kept in pondrous Vases,
And Beau's in Snuff-boxes and Tweezer-cases.
There broken Vows and Death-bed Alms are found,
And Lovers' Hearts with Ends of Riband bound,
The Courtier's Promises, and Sick Man's Pray'rs,
The Smiles of Harlots, and the Tears of Heirs,
Cages for Gnats, and Chains to Yoke a Flea,
Dry'd Butterflies, and Tomes of Casuistry.
But trust the Muse — she saw it upward rise,
Tho' mark'd by none but quick, Poetic Eyes:
(So Rome's great Founder to the Heav'ns withdrew,
To Proculus alone confess'd in view)
A sudden Star, it shot thro' liquid Air,
And drew behind a radiant Trail of Hair.
Not Berenice's Locks first rose so bright,
The Skies bespangling with dishevel'd Light.
This the Beau-monde shall from the Mall survey,
As thr’ the Moon-light shade they mightly stray,
And hail with Musick its propitious Ray.
This Partridge soon shall view in cloudless Skies,
When next he looks thro' Galileo's Eyes;
And hence th' Egregious Wizard shall foredoom
The Fate of Louis, and the Fall of Rome.
Then cease, bright Nymph! to mourn thy ravish'd Hair,
Which adds new Glory to the shining Sphere!
Not all the Tresses that fair Head can boast,
Shall draw such Envy as the Locke you lost.
For, after all the Murders of your Eye,
When, after Millions slain, yourself shall die:
When those fair Suns shall set, as set they must,
And all those Tresses shall be laid in Dust,
This Lock, the Muse shall consecrate to Fame,
And 'midst the Stars inscribe Belinda's Name.

End Notes
[1] All information on for “The Comical Revenge,” not otherwise cited, can be found in The London Stage, page 270. (Ben Ross Schneider, Jr. Index to the London Stage, 1660-1800. Ed. Emmett L Avery. Vols. 1700-1729: 2. Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 1979. 2 vols.)
[2] (Lewcock, Dawn. The Comical Revenge, or Love in a Tub. 18 September 2007. 7 December 2013. <http://www.litencyc.com/php/sworks.php?rec=true&UID=1225>.)
[3] All information on the entry for “MacBeth,” not otherwise cited, can be found in The London Stage, page 271. (Ben Ross Schneider, Jr. Index to the London Stage, 1660-1800. Ed. Emmett L Avery. Vols. 1700-1729: 2. Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 1979. 2 vols.)
[4] (News. "London Gazette." London, April 29-May 1, 1712.)
[5] (Classifieds. "London Gazette." London, April 29-May 1, 1712.)
[6] (Classifieds. "London Gazette." London, May 1-3, 1712.)
[7] (Classifieds. "London Gazette." London, May 3-6, 1712.)
[8] The original text of Rape of the Lock, found in Appendix A, was recreated using Edward G Fletcher’s exploration of the changes between various editions of the poem. All quotes not otherwise cited are taken from said recreation. (Fletcher, Edward G and A Pope. "The Rape of the Lock." Studies in English 1944: 109-173.)
[9] (Constantine, S. "The Story Behind the Poem." 18 February 1997. Rape of the Lock Home Page. 5 November 2013. <http://people.umass.edu/sconstan/ombre.html>.)
[10] All information on Alexander Pope and his works not otherwise cited, can be found in the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography. (Erskine-Hill, Howard. "Pope, Alexander (1688-1744), poet." January 2008. Oxford Dictionary of National Biography. 7 November 2013. <http://www.oxforddnb.com.proxy-um.researchport.umd.edu/view/article/22526?docPos=1>.)
[11] All quotes not otherwise cited are taken from An Essay on Criticism. (Pope, Alexander. "An Essay on Criticism." 1711.)
[12] (Classifieds. "London Gazette." London, June 24-26, 1712.)

Created by Aidan Boyd--ENGL 416--Fall 2013