Medulla Poetarum Romanorum Or, the Most Beautiful and Instructive Passages of the Roman Poets. Being a Collection, (Disposed under proper Heads,) Of such Descriptions, Allusions, Comparisons, Characters, and Sentiments, as may best serve to shew the Religion, Learning, Politicks, Arts, Customs, Opinions, Manners, and Circumstances of the Antients. With Translations of the same in English Verse. By Mr. Henry Baker |
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Beggar.
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 | Medulla Poetarum Romanorum |  |
Beggar.
Thirsty, at last, by long Fatigue,
she grows,
But meets no Spring; no Riv'let near her flows.
Then looking round, by Accident she spies,
A Cottage thatch'd with Straw, and thither hies.
The Goddess knocking at the little Door,
'Twas open'd by a Woman old and poor,
Who, when she begg'd for Water, gave her Ale,
Brew'd long, but well preserv'd from being stale.
The Goddess drank: a chuffy Lad was by,
Who saw the Liquor with a grutching Eye
And grinning cries,—She's greedy more than dry.—
But meets no Spring; no Riv'let near her flows.
Then looking round, by Accident she spies,
A Cottage thatch'd with Straw, and thither hies.
The Goddess knocking at the little Door,
'Twas open'd by a Woman old and poor,
Who, when she begg'd for Water, gave her Ale,
Brew'd long, but well preserv'd from being stale.
The Goddess drank: a chuffy Lad was by,
Who saw the Liquor with a grutching Eye
And grinning cries,—She's greedy more than dry.—
119
Water do You deny? Indeed, 'tis hard
From Nature's common Rights to be debar'd:
This, as the genial Sun, and vital Air,
Should flow alike to ev'ry Creature's Share.
Yet, still I ask, and as a Favour crave,
That, which a publick Bounty, Nature gave.
Now from my Throat the usual Moisture dries,
And ev'n my Voice in broken Accents dies:
One Draught, as dear as Life, I should esteem,
And Water, now I thirst, would Nectar seem.—
From Nature's common Rights to be debar'd:
This, as the genial Sun, and vital Air,
Should flow alike to ev'ry Creature's Share.
Yet, still I ask, and as a Favour crave,
That, which a publick Bounty, Nature gave.
Now from my Throat the usual Moisture dries,
And ev'n my Voice in broken Accents dies:
One Draught, as dear as Life, I should esteem,
And Water, now I thirst, would Nectar seem.—
My Mother's poor, my Farm's too mean to sell,
And yet not yields enough to keep me well;
My Neice a Portion wants, my Fortune's low:
He that says thus, crys out aloud, Bestow.—
And yet not yields enough to keep me well;
My Neice a Portion wants, my Fortune's low:
He that says thus, crys out aloud, Bestow.—
| Medulla Poetarum Romanorum | |