In a copy of verses (not too decent) written in 1715, as a "Farewell to London," he gives us to understand that he has been hearing the chimes at midnight, and knows where the bona-robas dwell.

He is forced to leave his jovial friends and his worrying publishers "for Homer (damn him!) calls." He is, so he assures us, Still idle, with a busy air Deep whimsies to contrive; The gayest valetudinaire, Most thinking rake alive.
And he takes a sad leave of London pleasures.
Luxurious lobster nights, farewell, For sober, studious days! And Burlington's delicious meal For salads, tarts, and pease.
Writing from Bath a little earlier, to Teresa and Martha Blount, he employs the same jaunty strain.

"Every one," he says, "values Mr.Pope, but every one for a different reason.

One for his adherence to the Catholic faith, another for his neglect of Popish superstition; one for his good behaviour, another for his whimsicalities; Mr.Titcomb for his pretty atheistical jests; Mr.Caryll for his moral and Christian sentences; Mrs.Teresa for his reflections on Mrs.Patty; Mrs.Patty for his reflections on Mrs.Teresa." He is an "agreeable rattle;" the accomplished rake, drinking with the wits, though above boozing with the squire, and capable of alleging his drunkenness as an excuse for writing very questionable letters to ladies.
Pope was too sickly and too serious to indulge long in such youthful fopperies.

He had no fund of high spirits to draw upon, and his playfulness was too near deadly earnest for the comedy of common life.
He had too much intellect to be a mere fribble, and had not the strong animal passions of the thorough debauchee.