A Poetical Translation of the works of Horace :: :: University of Virginia Library

A Poetical Translation of the works of Horace

With the Original Text, and Critical Notes collected from his best Latin and French Commentators. By the Revd Mr. Philip Francis...The third edition

Francis, Philip (1708?-1773)

[epigraph]

VOL. I.

II.

VOL. II.

THE SATIRES OF HORACE.

THE FIRST BOOK OF THE SATIRES of HORACE.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

THE SECOND BOOK OF THE SATIRES of HORACE.

THE EPISTLES OF HORACE.

HORACE's ART of POETRY.

Collapse All | Expand All expand section

THE FIRST BOOK OF THE SATIRES of HORACE.

Sat. I. To Mæcenas.

Whence is it, Sir, that none contented lives
With the fair Lot, which prudent Reason gives,
Or Chance presents, yet all with Envy view
The Schemes, that others variously pursue?

Broken with Toils, with ponderous Arms opprest,
The Soldier thinks the Merchant solely blest.
In opposite Extreme; when Tempests rise,
War is a better Choice, the Merchant cries;

The Battle joins, and in a Moment's Flight,
Death, or a joyful Conquest, ends the Fight.

When early Clients thunder at his Gate,
The Barrister applauds the Rustic's Fate.
While, by Subpœnas drag'd from home, the Clown
Thinks the supremely happy dwell in Town.

But every various Instance to repeat,
Would tire even Fabius, of incessant Prate.
Not to be tedious, mark the moral Aim
Of these Examples. Should some God proclaim,
“Your Prayers are heard; You, Soldier, to your Seas;
“You, Lawyer, take that envied Rustic's Ease:
“Each to his several Part. What! Ha! not move
“Even to the Bliss you wish'd! And shall not Jove,
With Cheeks enflam'd, and angry Brow, forswear
His weak Indulgence to their future Prayer?

But not to treat my Subject as in jest,
(Yet may not Truth in laughing Guise be drest,

As Masters fondly sooth their Boys to read
With Cakes and Sweetmeats?) let us now proceed:
With graver Air our serious Theme pursue,
And yet preserve our Moral full in view.

Who turns the Soil, and o'er the Plowshare bends:
He, who adulterates the Laws and vends;
The Soldier, and th' Adventurers of the Main,
Profess, their various Labours they sustain,
A decent Competence for Age to raise,
And then retire to Indolence and Ease.

Miser.
For thus the little Ant (to human Lore
No mean Example) forms her frugal Store,
Gather'd, with mighty Toils, on every side,
Nor ignorant, nor careless to provide
For future Want.

Horace.
Yet when the Stars appear,
That darkly sadden the declining Year,

No more she comes abroad, but wisely lives
On the fair Store, industrious Summer gives.
For thee, nor Summer's Heat, nor Winter's Cold,
Fire, Sea, nor Sword, stop thy Pursuit of Gold;
Nothing can break th' adventurous, bold Design,
So none possess a larger Sum than thine.
But, prithee, whence the Pleasure, thus by stealth,
Deep in the Earth to hide thy Weight of Wealth?

Miser.
One Farthing lessen'd, you the Mass reduce.

Horace.
And if not lessen'd, whence can rise its Use?
What though a thousand Acres yield thee Grain?
No more than mine, thy Stomach can contain.
The Slave, who bears the Load of Bread, shall eat
No more than he, who never felt the Weight.
Or say, what Difference, if we live confin'd
Within the Bounds by Nature's Laws assign'd,
Whether a thousand Acres of Demaine,
Or one poor hundred, yield sufficient Grain?

Miser.
Oh! but 'tis sweet to take from larger Hoards.

Horace.

Yet, if my little Heap as much affords,
Why shall your Granaries be valued more
Than my small Hampiers with their frugal store?

You want a Cask of Water, or would fill
An ample Goblet; whence the froward Will
To chuse a mighty River's rapid Course,
Before this little Fountain's lenient Source?
But mark his Fate, insatiate who desires
Deeper to drink, than Nature's Thirst requires;
With its torn Banks the Torrent bears away
Th' intemperate Wretch; while he, who would allay
With healthy Draughts his Thirst, shall drink secure,
Fearless of Death, and quaff his Water pure.

Some, self-deceiv'd, who think their Lust of Gold
Is but a Love of Fame, this Maxim hold,
No Fortune's large enough, since others rate
Our Worth proportion'd to a large Estate.
Say, for their Cure what Arts would you employ?
Let them be wretched, and their Choice enjoy.

At Athens liv'd a Wight, in Days of Yore,
Though miserably rich, yet fond of more,
But of intrepid Spirit to despise
Th' abusive Croud. Let them hiss on, he cries,
While, in my own Opinion fully blest,
I count my Money, and enjoy my Chest.

Burning with Thirst, when Tantalus would quaff
The flying Waters. . . . Wherefore do you laugh?
Change but the Name, of thee the Tale is told,
With open Mouth when dozing o'er your Gold;
On every Side the numerous Bags are pil'd,
Whose hallow'd Stores must never be defil'd
To human Use; while you transported gaze,
As if, like Pictures, they were form'd to please.

Would you the real Use of Riches know?
Bread, Herbs and Wine are all they can bestow.

Or add, what Nature's deepest Wants supplies;
These, and no more thy Mass of Money buys.
But, with continual Watching almost dead,
House-breaking Thieves, and midnight Fires to dread,
Or the suspected Slave's untimely Flight
With the dear Pelf. If this be thy Delight,
Be it my Fate, so Heaven in Bounty please,
Still to be poor of Blessings such as these.

Miser.
If, by a Cold some painful Illness bred,
Or other Chance, confine you to your Bed,
Your Wealth shall purchase some good-natur'd Friend
Your Cordials to prepare, your Couch attend,
And urge the Doctor to preserve your Life,
And give you to your Children and your Wife.

Horace.

Thy Wife and Children with Impatience wait
Thy dying Breath. With universal Hate
Thy Neighbours, Friends, Acquaintance, all pursue thee,
And untaught Infants even with Horrour view thee.
What wonder, that they justly prove unkind,
When all thy Passions are to Gold confin'd?

Nature, 'tis true, in each Relation gave
A Friend sincere; yet what you thus receive,
If you imagine, with an alien Heart,
And careless Manners to preserve; your Art
As well may teach an Ass to scour the Plain,
And bend obedient to the forming Rein.

Yet somewhere should your Views of Lucre cease,
Nor should your Fears of Poverty increase,
As does your Wealth; for since you now possess
Your utmost Wish, your Labour should be less.

Ummidius once (the Tale is quickly told)
So wondrous rich he measur'd out his Gold,
Yet never drest him better than a Slave,
Afraid of starving ere he reach'd his Grave:
But a bold Wench, of right Virago Strain,
Cleft with an Axe the wretched Wight in twain.

Miser.
By your Advice what Party shall I take?
Like Mænius live a Prodigal, and Rake
Like Nomentanus?

Horace.

Why will you pretend,
With such Extremes, your Vices to defend?
The sordid Miser when I justly blame,
I would not have you prodigal of Fame,
Scoundrel or Rake; for sure some Difference lies
Between the very Fool, and very Wise.
Some certain Mean in all things may be found,
To mark our Virtues, and our Vices bound.

But to return from whence we have digrest.
And is the Miser, then, alone unblest?

Does he alone applaud his Neighbour's Fate,
Or pine with Envy of his happier State?
To Crouds beneath him never turn his Eye,
Where in Distress the Sons of Virtue lie,
But, to outspeed the Wealthy, bend his Force,
As if they stop'd his own impetuous Course;

Thus, from the Goal when swift the Chariot flies,
The Charioteer the bending Lash applies,
To overtake the foremost on the Plain,
But looks on all behind him with Disdain.
From hence, how few, like sated Guests, depart
From Life's full Banquet, with a chearful Heart?

But let me stop lest you suspect I stole,
From blind Crispinus, this eternal Scrowl.

Sat. II. To Mæcenas.

The Tribes of Minstrels, stroling Priests and Players,
Perfumers, and Buffoons, are all in Tears,
For ah! Tigellius, sweetest Songster's dead,
And sure the Soul of Bounty with him fled.

Behold a Wretch, in opposite Extreme,
So fearful of a Spendthrift's odious Name,
He dare not even a sordid Pittance give,
To raise a worthy Friend, and bid him live.
Or ask another, why, in thankless Feasts
The Wealth of all his frugal Sires he wastes;
Then the luxurious Treat profuse supplies
With borrow'd Sums; because I scorn, he cries,
To be a Wretch of narrow Spirit deem'd,
By some condemn'd, by others he's esteem'd.

Fufidius, rich in Lands, and large Increase
Of growing Usury, dreads the foul Disgrace

To be call'd Rake; and, ere the Money's lent,
He prudently deducts his Cent per Cent.
Then, as he finds the Borrower distrest,
Cruel demands a higher Interest,
But lends profusely to the lavish Heir,
Whose Guardians prove too frugally severe.
All-powerful Jove, th' indignant Reader cries,
“But his Expences, with his Income, rise.”
No. 'Tis amazing, that this Man of Pelf
Hath yet so little Friendship for himself,
That even the Self-Tormentor in the Play,
Cruel who drove his much-lov'd Son away,
Amidst the willing Tortures of Despair,
Could not with Wretchedness like his compare.

But say, at what this tedious Preface aims,
That Fools are ever vicious in Extremes.
The soft Malthinus trails a Length of Train:
See that short Robe, how filthily obscene!
Rufillus with Perfumes distracts your Head;
With his own Scents Gargonius strikes you dead.
That Youth, when wanton Wishes fires his Veins,
All but a flowing-ermin'd Dame disdains;
Others their safer, cheaper Pleasures chuse,
And take a willing Mistress from the Stews.

When awful Cato saw a noted Spark
From a Night-Cellar stealing in the dark,
“Well done, my Friend, if Love thy Breast inflame,
“Indulge it here, and spare the married Dame.”

Be mine the silken Veil, Cupiennius cries,
Such vulgar Praise and Pleasure I despise.

All ye, who wish some dire Mishap may wait
This horning Tribe, attend while I relate
What Dangers and Disasters they sustain,
How few their Pleasures, and how mix'd with Pain.

A desperate Leap one luckless Caitiff tries;
Torn by the flagrant Lash another dies;
Some are by Robbers plunder'd as they fly;
Others with Gold a wretched Safety buy.
Nor seldom do they feel, with keener Smart,
Their Cuckold's Vengeance on th' offending Part.
Such various Woes pursue these Sons of Lust,
And all, but Galba, own the Sentence just.

Far safer they, who venture their Estate,
And trade with Females of the second Rate.
“Yet Sallust rages here with wild Desires,
“As mad as those, which lawless Love inspires.”
But had he been with less profusion kind,
Had common Sense his lavish Hand confin'd,
He had not now been wholly lost to Shame,
In Fortune ruin'd, as undone in Fame.
But here's the Joy and Comfort of his Life;
To swear, he never touch'd his Neighbour's Wife.

Thus, to an Actress when with lavish Hand
Marsæus gave his Mansion-House and Land;
My Soul, thank Heaven, he cries, from Guilt is free;
The wedded Dames are vestal Maids for me.

Actress or not, the Crime is still the same,
Equal the Ruin of Estate and Fame;
Equal the Folly, whether in Pursuit
Of Wife, or Slave, or loose rob'd Prostitute;

Unless you mean, content to be undone,
To hate the Person, not the Vice to shun.

Of Sylla's wanton Daughter when possest,
Villius believ'd himself supremely blest:
To a Dictator thus to be ally'd,
Dazled his Senses, and indulg'd his Pride;
But sure, if Vanity were fairly rated,
Methinks, poor Villius was full hardly treated,
When buffeted and stab'd the Coxcomb dies,
While in the Wanton's Arms a Scoundrel lies.

Suppose, his secret Something had addrest
The luckless Youth with all these Woes opprest;
“Did I, when burning with my wildest Fire,”
“Did I a Maid of Quality require?”
What could he answer to the poor Forlorn?
“The jilting Quean, forsooth, was nobly born.”

But Nature, rich in her own proper Wealth,
In Youth and Beauty; Chearfulness and Health,
In her Pursuit of Happiness disclaims
The Pride of Titles and the Pomp of Names.
Be thine, her wise Oeconomy to learn,
And real, from affected Bliss, discern.
Then, lest Repentance punish such a Life,
Never, ah! never kiss your Neighbour's Wife.
For see, what thousand Mischiefs round you rise,
And, few the Pleasures, though you gain the Prize.

What though Cerinthus doats upon the Girl,
Who flames with Emerald green, or snowy Pearl,
Is she beyond a common Mistress blest
With Leg more taper, or a softer Breast?

Besides, the public Nymph no Varnish knows,
But all her venal Beauties frankly shows,

Nor boasts some happier Charm with conscious Pride,
Nor strives a vile Deformity to hide.

When skilful Jockeys would a Courser buy,
They strip him naked to the curious Eye;
For oft an eager Chapman is betray'd
To buy a founder'd or a spavin'd Jade,
While he admires a thin, lighted-shoulder'd Chest,
A little Head, broad back and rising Crest.

Th' Example's good; then keep it in thy Mind,
Nor to the Fair-one's Faults be over-blind,
Nor gaze with idle Rapture on her Charms,
“Oh! what a taper Leg! what snowy Arms!”
For she may hide, whate'er she vainly shows,
Low Hips, short Waist, splay Feet, and hideous Nose.
All but her Face the Matron's Robe conceals,
Catia alone th' Et-cætera reveals.

But if you still pursue this dangerous Game,
(Perhaps the Dangers your Desires inflame)
What military Works around her rise!
Maids, Chairmen, Footmen, Flatterers, guard the Prize.
The flowing Robe and closely muffled Veil
With envious Folds the precious Thing conceal;
But what from Nature's Commoners you buy,
Through the thin Robe stands naked to your Eye:
Or, if you will be cheated, pay the Fair,
With foolish Fondness, ere she shews her Ware.

As when a Sportsman through the snowy Waste
Pursues a Hare, which he disdains to taste,
So (sings the Rake) my Passion can despise
An easy Prey, but follows when it flies.

Yet can a Song or Simile remove
The Griefs and Tortures of unlawful Love?

Were it not better Wisdom to inquire
How Nature bounds each impotent Desire;
What she with Ease resigns, or wants with Pain,
And thus divide the Solid from the Vain?
Say, should your Jaws with Thirst severely burn,
Would you a cleanly, earthen Pitcher spurn?
Should Hunger on your gnawing Entrails seize,
Will Turbot only, or a Peacock please?
And will you, when a willing Girl's at hand,
With swelling Veins deliberating stand?
No—be the yielding, ready Venus mine;
To cooler Lovers I the Dame resign,
Who plays the Coy-one, with a cold “Anon,”
“A Guinea more;” or “when my Husband's gone.”

Give me the Nymph, who flies into my Arms,
And sets at easy Rate her willing Charms;
Let her be streight and fair; nor wish to have,
Or Height or Colour, Nature never gave:
Then, while with Joy I clasp the pleasing Fair,
What mortal Goddess can with mine compare?
No Terrours rise to interrupt my Joys,
No jealous Husband, nor the fearful Noise
Of bursting Doors, nor the loud, hideous Yelling
Of barking Dogs, that shakes the Matron's Dwelling,
When the pale Wanton leaps from off her Bed,
The conscious Chamber-maid screams out her Dread
Of horrid Tortures; loudly cries the Wife,
“My Jointure's lost,”—I tremble for my Life:
Unbutton'd, without Shoes, I speed away,
Lest I in Fame, or Purse, or Person pay.
To be surpris'd is, sure, a wretched Tale,
And for the Truth to Fabius I appeal.

Sat. III.

[All Songsters have this Vice; they ne'er can bring]

All Songsters have this Vice; they ne'er can bring,
When they are ask'd, their froward Souls to sing;
Yet chaunt it forth, unask'd, from Morn to Night;
Such was Tigellius, most inconstant Wight!
Even Cæsar, who might well his Power have shewn,
If by his Father's Friendship and his own
He beg'd a Song, was sure to beg in vain,
Yet, when the Whim prevail'd, in endless Strain,
Through the whole Feast the jovial Catch he plies,
From Base to Treble o'er the Gamut flies.

Nothing was of a Piece in the whole Man;
Sometimes he like a frighted Coward ran,
Whose Foes are at his Heels; now soft and slow
He mov'd, like Folks, who in Procession go.
Now with two hundred Slaves he crouds his Train;
Now walks with ten. In high and haughty Strain
At Morn, of Kings and Governors he prates;
At Night—“A frugal Table, O ye Fates,

“A little Shell the sacred Salt to hold,
“And Clothes, though coarse, to keep me from the Cold.”
Yet give this Wight, thus frugally content,
A thousand Pound, 'tis every Penny spent
Within the Week: He drank the Night away
Till rising Dawn, then snor'd out all the Day.
Sure such a various Creature ne'er was known.
“But have you, Friend, no Vices of your own?”
That I have Vices, frankly I confess,
But of a different kind, and somewhat less.

Mænius on absent Novius vents his Spleen;
And do you think your Follies are unseen?
Another answers—No. I well perceive,
Quoth Mænius, but a kind Indulgence give
To my own Faults. This is a foolish Love,
And vicious, which our Censure should reprove:
For wherefore, while you carelessly pass by
Your own worst Vices with unheeding Eye,
Why so sharp-sighted in another's Fame,
Strong as an Eagle's Ken, or Dragon's Beam?
But know, that he with equal Spleen shall view,
With equal Rigour shall thy Faults pursue.

Your Friend is passionate; perhaps unfit
For the brisk Petulance of modern Wit;
His Hair ill-cut, his Robe, that aukward flows,
Or his large Shoes to Raillery expose

The Man you love; yet is he not possest
Of Virtues, with which very few are blest?
And underneath this rough, uncouth Disguise
A Genius of extensive Knowledge lies.

Search your own Breast and mark with honest Care
What Seeds of Folly Nature planted there,
Or Custom rais'd; for a neglected Field
Shall for the Fire its Thorns and Thistles yield.

And yet a shorter Method we may find,
As Lovers, to their Fair-one fondly blind,
Even on her Ugliness with Transport gaze;
For Hagne's Wen can good Balbinus please.
Oh! were our Weakness to our Friends the same,
And stamp'd by Virtue with some honest Name.

Let us, at least, in Friendship prove as mild,
As a fond Parent to his favourite Child.
If with distorted Eyes the Urchin glares,
“O the dear Boy, how prettily he stares!”
Is he of dwarfish and abortive Size?
“Sweet little Moppet,” the fond Father cries:
Or is th' unshapen Cub deform'd and lame?
He kindly lisps him o'er some tender Name.

Thus, if your Friend's too frugally severe,
Let him a wise Oeconomist appear.
Is he, perhaps, impertinent and vain?
“The pleasant Creature means to entertain.”

Is he too free to prate, or frankly rude?
“'Tis manly Plainness all, and Fortitude.”
Is he too warm? No. Spirited and bold.
Thus shall we gain new Friends, and keep the old.
But we distort their Virtue to a Crime,
And joy th' untainted Vessel to begrime.
Have we a modest Friend, and void of Art?
“He's a fat-headed Slave, and cold of Heart.”
While we converse with an ill-natur'd Age,
Where Calumny and Envy lawless rage,
Is there a Man by long Experience wise,
Still on his Guard, nor open to Surprize?
His cautious Wisdom and prudential Fear,
Shall Artifice and false Disguise appear.

If any one of simple, thoughtless Kind,
(Such as you oft your careless Poet find)
Who Life's politer Manners never knew,
If, while we read, or some fond Scheme pursue,
He teize us with his meer Impertinence,
We cry, the Creature wants even common Sense.
Alas! what Laws; of how severe a Strain,
Against ourselves we thoughtlessly ordain?
For we have all our Vices, and the best
Is he, who with the fewest is opprest.

A kinder Friend, who balances my good,
And bad together, as in Truth he should,
If haply my good Qualities prevail,
Inclines indulgent to the sinking Scale.
For like Indulgence let his Friendship plead,
His Merits be with equal Measure weigh'd;
For he, who hopes his Bile shall not offend,
Should over-look the Pimples of his Friend,
And even in Justice to his own Defects,
At least should grant the Pardon he expects.

But, since we never from the Breast of Fools
Can root their Passions, yet while Reason rules,
Let her hold forth her Scales with equal Hand,
Justly to punish, as the Crimes demand.

If a poor Slave, who takes away your Plate,
Lick the rich Sauce, the half-cold Fragments eat,
Yet should you crucify the Wretch, we swear
Not Labeo's Madness can with thine compare.
But is this Madness less than yours? A Friend
With some slight Folly may perhaps offend:
Forgive him, or with Justice you appear
Of harden'd Kind, inhumanly severe:
Yet you avoid him, and with Horrour shun,
As Debtors from the ruthless Ruso run,
Who damns the Wretches on th' appointed Day
His Interest or Principal to pay,

Or, like a Captive, stretch the listning Ear,
His tedious Tales of History to hear.

A Friend has foul'd my Couch; ah! deep Disgrace!
Or off the Table thrown some high-wrought Vase,
Or, hungry, snatch'd a Chicken off my Plat;
Shall I for this a good Companion hate?
What if he robb'd me, or his Trust betray'd,
Or broke the sacred Promise he had made?

Who hold all Crimes alike are deep distrest,
When we appeal to Truth's impartial Test.
Sense, Custom, social Good, from whence arise
All Forms of Right and Wrong, the Fact denies.

When the first Mortals crawling rose to Birth,
Speechless and wretched from their Mother-Earth,
For Caves and Acorns, then the Food of Life,
With Nails and Fists they held a bloodless Strife,
But soon improv'd, with Clubs they bolder fought,
And various Arms, which sad Experience wrought,
'Till Words, to fix the wandering Voice, were found,
And Names impress'd a Meaning upon Sound:
And now they cease from War; their Towns inclose
With formidable Walls, and Laws compose
To strike the Thief, and Highwayman with Dread,
And vindicate the sacred Marriage-Bed.

For Woman, long ere Helen's fatal Charms,
Destructive Woman! set the World in Arms:
But the first Heroes died unknown to Fame,
Like Beasts who ravish'd the uncertain Dame;
When, as the stoutest Bull commands the rest,
The weaker by the stronger was opprest.

Turn o'er the World's great Annals, and you find,
That Laws were first invented by Mankind
To stop Oppression's Rage; for though we learn,
By Nature, Good from Evil to discern:
What we should wise pursue, or cautious fly:
Yet can she never, with a constant Eye,
Of legal Justice mark each nice Extreme;
Nor can right Reason prove the Crime the same,
To rob a Garden, or, by Fear unaw'd,
To steal, by Night, the sacred Things of God.

Then let the Punishment be fairly weigh'd
Against the Crime; nor let the Wretch be flay'd,
Who scarce deserv'd the Lash.—I cannot fear,
That you shall prove too tenderly severe,
While you assert all Vices are the same;
And threaten, that were yours the Power supreme,
Robbers and Thieves your equal Rage should feel,
Uprooted by the same avenging Steel.

Is not the Wise a Shoemaker profest,
Handsome and rich; of Monarchy possest,
Why wish for what you have?

Stoic.
Yet hold, my Friend,
And better to the Stoic's Sense attend.
For though the Wise nor Shoes, nor Slippers made,
Yet is the wise a Shoemaker by Trade;
As, though Hermogenes may sing no more,
He knows the whole Extent of Music's Power;
Alfenus, turn'd a Lawyer in his Pride,
His Shop shut up, his Razors thrown aside,
Was still a Barber: So the Wise alone
Is of all Trades, though exercising none,
And reigns a Monarch, though without a Throne.

Horace.
Great King of Kings, unless you drive away
This pressing Croud, the Boys in wanton Play
Will pluck you by the Beard, while you shall growl,
Wretch as thou art, and burst in Spleen of Soul:
In short, while in Farthing-Bath you reign,
With only one poor Life-guard in your Train:
While the few Friends, with whom I joy to live,
Fool as I am, my Follies can forgive,
And I to them the same Indulgence shew,
No Bliss like mine thy Kingship can bestow.

Sat. IV.

[The comic Poets, in its earliest Age]

The comic Poets, in its earliest Age
Who form'd the Manners of the Grecian Stage,
Was there a Villain, who might justly claim
A better Right of being damn'd to Fame,
Rake, Cut-throat, Thief, whatever was his Crime,
They boldly stigmatiz'd the Wretch in Rhime.

From their Example whole Lucilius rose,
Though different Measures, different Verse he chose.
He railled with a gay and easy Air,
But rude his Numbers, and his Style severe.
He weakly fancied it a glorious Feat
His hundred Lines extempore to repeat,
And as his Verses like a Torrent roll,
The Stream is muddy, and his Waters foul.

He prattled Rhimes; but lazy and unfit
For writing well; for much, I own, he writ.

Crispinus thus my Littleness defies;
Here make the smallest Bett, the Boaster cries.

Crispinus.
“Pen, Ink, and Paper—name your Place and Time:
“Then try, Friend Flaccus, who can fastest rhime.”

Horace.

Thank Heaven, that form'd me of an humbler Kind;
No Wit, nor yet to pratling much inclin'd:
While thou shalt imitate the Winds, that blow
From Lungs of Leather, 'till the Metal flow.

Thrice happy Fannius, of his own free Grace,
Who in Apollo's Temple hangs his Face,
And gilds his Works to view; while I with Fear
Repeat my Verses to the public Ear;
Because by few such Works as mine are read,
Conscious of meriting the Lash they dread.

Take me a Man at venture from the Croud,
And he's ambitious, covetous, or proud.
One burns to Madness for the wedded Dame;
Unnatural Lusts another's Breast inflame.
O'er Gold's fair Lustre, one with Rapture sighs;
For bronze Antiques the stupid Albius dies.

The venturous Merchant, from the rising Day
To Regions warm'd beneath the setting Ray,
Like Dust, collected by a Whirlwind, flies
To save his Pelf, or bid the Mass arise.
All these dread Poets, and their Rhimes detest—
“Yonder he drives—avoid that furious Beast;
“If he may have his Jest, he never cares
“At whose Expence; nor Friend, nor Patron spares;
“And if he once th' ill-natur'd Paper stain,
“He joys to hear the Croud repeat the Strain.”

Now hear this short Defence. For my own Part,
I claim no Portion of the Poet's Art.
'Tis not enough to close the flowing Line,
And in ten Syllables your Sense confine,
Or write in meer prosaic Rhimes like me,
That can deserve the Name of Poetry.

Is there a Man, whom real Genius fires,
Whom the diviner Soul of Verse inspires;
Who talks true Greatness; let him boldly claim
The sacred Honours of a Poet's Name.

Some doubt, if Comedy be justly thought
A real Poem, since it may be wrought
In Style and Subject without Fire or Force,
And, bate the Numbers, is but meer Discourse.

For though we see the Father high enrag'd,
By a kept Mistress when his Son's engag'd,
Nor takes the portion'd Maid, but deep in Drink
Reels in fair Day-light (shameful) with his Link;
Yet could Pomponius from his Father hear,
Were he alive, a Lecture less severe?

'Tis not enough your Language to refine,
When, if you break the Measures of the Line,
In common Life an angry Father's Rage
Is but the same with Demea's on the Stage.

Take from Lucilius' Writings, or from mine,
The Cadences, and Measures of the Line,
Then change their Order, and the Words transpose,
No more the scatter'd Poet's Limbs it shows;
Not so—When hideous Discord bursts the Bars,
And iron Gates, to pour forth all her Wars.

Of this enough; hereafter we shall show,
Whether 'tis real Poetry, or no.
Let me now ask, if Satire should appear,
With Reason, such an Object of your Fear.
Sulcius, and Caprius, fiercest of their Trade,
Hoarse with the Virulence, with which they plead,
When through the Secrets they stalk with Libels arm'd;
Mark! how the Thieves, and Robbers are alarm'd;
But yet the Man of honest Hands and pure
May scorn them both, in Innocence secure:

Or though like Cælius you a Villain be,
I'm no Informer. Whence your Fears of me?
With Shops, and Stationers I never deal;
No rubric Pillar sets my Works to sale,
O'er which the Hands of vulgar Readers sweat,
Or whose soft Strains Tigellius can repeat.
Even by my Friends compel'd I read my Lays,
Nor every Place, nor every Audience please.

Full many Bards the public Forum chuse
Where to recite the Labours of their Muse;
Or vaulted Baths, that best preserve the Sound,
While sweetly floats the Voice in Echoes round.
The Coxcombs never think at whose Expence
They thus indulge the dear Impertinence.
“But you in Libels, mischievous, delight,
“And never, but in Spleen of Genius, write.”
Is there, with whom I live, who know my Heart,
Who taught you how to aim this venom'd Dart?

He, who malignant tears an absent Friend,
Or, when attack'd by others, don't defend;
Who trivial Bursts of Laughter strives to raise,
And courts of prating Petulance the Praise;
Of Things he never saw who tells his Tale,
And Friendship's Secrets knows not to conceal,
This Man is vile; here, Roman, fix your Mark;
His Soul is black, as his Complexion's dark.

We often see, among a Croud of Guests,
Who scatters round his cold, insipid Jests,

And only spares his Host, until the Bowl
With honest Freedom opes his inmost Soul;
Yet, though a cruel Joker you detest,
He seems a courteous, well-bred, easy Guest.
But if in idle Raillery I said,
Rufillus with Perfumes distracts my Head,
While foul Gargonius breathes a ranker Air,
You think me most envenom'd and severe.

If we, by Chance, that Thief Petillius name,
You, as your Custom is, defend his Fame.
“Petillius is my Friend; from early Youth
“Chearful we liv'd together, and in truth
“I have been much indebted to his Power,
“And I rejoice to find his Danger o'er.
“But, in the Name of Wonder be it said,
“At that same Trial how he sav'd his Head.”—
Such Rancour this, of such a poisonous Vein,
As never, never, shall my Paper stain:
Much less infect my Heart, if I may dare
For my own Heart, in any thing, to swear.

Yet some Indulgence I may justly claim,
If too familiar with another's Fame.
This from a Father's fond Indulgence flows,
Who mark'd the Folly, as to Life it rose
In strong Examples. If he bad me live
Content with what his Industry could give,

Or leave me at his Death: “Behold, my Son,
“Young Albius there, how wretchedly undone!
“Yet no mean Lesson is the Spendthrift's Fate
“To caution Youth from squandering their Estate.”
To fright me from the Harlot's vagrant Bed,
“Behold Scetanius, and his Ruin dread;”
That I might ne'er pursue the wedded Dame,
“An honest Venus will indulge your Flame.
“My Son, by poor Trebonius be advis'd;
“Sure 'tis no pleasant Tale to be surpris'd.”

“'Twixt right and wrong the Learned may decide,
“With wise Distinctions may your Conduct guide;
“Be mine the common Wisdom, that inspires
“The frugal Manners of our ancient Sires,
“And, while your Youth may yet a Tutor claim,
“To guard your Virtue, and preserve your Fame.
“But soon as Time confirms, with stronger Tone,
“Your Strength and Mind, your Conduct be your own.”

Thus did he form my Youth with lenient Hand;
When he for Virtue urg'd the soft Command,
Pointing some awful Senator to view,
“His grave Example constantly pursue.”
Would he dissuade me? “Can you doubt, he cries,
“That equal Ruin and Dishonour rise
“From such an Action, when that Scoundrel's Name
“Is branded with the flagrant Marks of Shame?”

For, as when neighbouring Funerals affright
The Patient, who indulg'd his Appetite
And bid him spare himself, we often find,
Another's Shame alarms a tender Mind.

Thus, pure from more pernicious Crimes I live:
Some venial Frailties you may well forgive,
For such I own I have; and yet even these,
A Length of Time, although by slow Degrees,
A Friend sincere, who can with Candour love,
Or my own Reason, shall perhaps remove;
For in my Bed, or in the Collonade
Sauntering, I call Reflexion to my Aid.
“This was well done. Here Happiness attends.
“This Conduct makes me pleasing to my Friends.
“Were that Man's Actions of a beauteous Kind?
“Oh! may I never be to such inclin'd.”

Thus, silently I talk my Conduct o'er,
Or trifle with the Muse an idle Hour;
For which, among my Frailties, I demand
Forgiveness, and shall call a powerful Band,
If you refuse, of Poets to my Aid
(Well fraught with Numbers is the rhiming Trade)
To force you, like the proselyting Jews,
To be, like us, a Brother of the Muse.

Sat. V.

[With Heliodorus, who by far possest]

With Heliodorus, who by far possest
More Learning, than the Tribe of Greeks profest,
Leaving imperial Rome I took my Way
To poor Aricia, where that Night I lay.
To Forum-Appii thence we steer, a Place
Stuff'd with rank Boatmen, and with Vintners base,
And laggard into two Days Journey broke
What were but one to less incumber'd Folk;
The Appian Road, however, yields most Pleasure
To those, who chuse to travel at their Leisure.
The Water here was of so foul a Stream
Against my Stomach I a War proclaim,
And wait, though not with much Good-humour wait,
While with keen Appetites my Comerades eat.

The Night o'er Earth now spread her dusky Shade,
And through the Heavens her starry Train display'd;
What Time, between the Slaves and Boatmen rise
Quarrels of clamorous Rout. The Boatman cries,
Step in, my Masters; when with open Throat,
“Enough, you Scoundrel; will you sink the Boat?”
Thus, while the Mule is harness'd and we pay
Our Freight, an Hour in Wrangling slips away.

The fenny Frogs with Croakings hoarse and deep,
And Gnats loud-buzzing, drive away our Sleep.
Drench'd in the Lees of Wine the watry Swain
And Passenger in loud alternate Strain
Chaunt forth the absent Fair, who warms his Breast,
'Till wearied Passenger retires to Rest.

Our clumsy Bargeman sends his Mule to graze,
And the tough Cable to a Rock belays,
Then snores supine; but when at rising Light
Our Boat stood still, up starts a hair-brain'd Wight;
With Sallow Cudgel breaks the Bargeman's Pate,
And bangs the Mule at a well-favour'd Rate.
Thence onward labouring with a World of Pain
At ten, Feronia, we thy Fountain gain;
There land and bathe; then after Dinner creep
Three tedious Miles, and climb the rocky Steep
Whence Anxur shines. Mæcenas was to meet
Cocceius here, to settle Things of Weight:
For they had oft in Embassy been join'd,
And reconcil'd the Masters of Mankind.
Here while I bath'd my Eyes with cooling Ointment
They both arriv'd according to Appointment;
Fonteius too, a Man of Worth approv'd,
Without a Rival by Antonius lov'd.

Laughing we leave an Entertainment rare,
The paultry Pomp of Fundi's foolish Mayor,
The Scrivener Luscus: now with Pride elate,
With Incense fum'd, and big with Robes of State.

From thence our wearied Troop at Formiæ rests,
Murena's Lodgers, and Fonteius' Guests.
Next rising Morn with double Joy we greet,
When we with Plotius, Varius, Virgil meet:
Pure Spirits these; the World no purer knows;
For none my Heart with such Affection glows.
How oft did we embrace! Our Joys how great!
For sure no Blessing in the Power of Fate
Can be compar'd, in Sanity of Mind,
To Friends of such companionable Kind.

Near the Campanian Bridge that Night we lay,
Where public Officers our Charges pay.
Early next Morn to Capua we came;
Mæcenas goes to Tennis; hurtful Game
To a weak Appetite, and tender Eyes,
So down to sleep with Virgil Horace lies.
Then by Cocceius we were nobly treated,
Whose House above the Caudian Tavern's seated.

And now, O Muse, in faithful Numbers tell
The memorable Squabble that befel,
When Messius and Sarmentus join'd in Fight,
And whence descended each illustrious Wight.
The high-born Messius—from vile Osci came,
His Mistress might her Slave Sarmentus claim.

From such fam'd Ancestry our Champions rise—
Hear me, thou horse-fac'd Rogue, Sarmentus cries;
We laugh; when Messius, throwing up his Head,
Accepts the Challenge. O, Sarmentus said,
If you can threaten now, what would you do,
Had not the Horn been rooted out that grew
Full in thy Front. A Gash, of foul Disgrace,
Had hurt the grisly Honours of his Face.
Then on his Country's infamous Diseases,
And his foul Visage, many a Joke he raises.
He bids him, like the one-ey'd Cyclops dance;
“He neither Mask, nor tragic Buskins wants.”
Messius reply'd in Virulence of Strain;
“Did you to Saturn consecrate your Chain?
“Though you were made a Scrivener since your Flight,
“Yet that shall never hurt your Lady's Right.
“But, prithee, wherefore did you run away?
“Methinks, a single Pound of Bread a day
“Might such a sleek thin-gutted Rogue content;”
And thus the jovial Length of Night we spent.

At our next Inn our Host was almost burn'd,
While some lean Thrushes at the Fire he turn'd.

Through his old Kitchen rolls the God of Fire,
And to the Roof the vagrant Flames aspire.
But Hunger all our Terrours overcame,
We fly to save our Meat and quench the Flame.

Appulia now my native Mountains shows,
Where the North-Wind with nipping Sharpness blows,
Nor could we well have climb'd the steepy Height
Did we not at a neighbouring Village bait,
Where from green Wood the smothering Flames arise,
And with a smoky Sorrow fill our Eyes.

In Coaches thence at a large Rate we came
Eight Leagues, and baited at a Town, whose Name
Cannot in Verse and Measures be exprest,
But may by Marks and Tokens well be guest.
Its Water, Nature's cheapest Element,
Is bought and sold; its Bread, most excellent;
Which wary Travellers provide with Care,
And on their Shoulders to Canusium bear,
Whose Bread is sandy, and its wealthiest Stream
Poor as the Town's of unpoetic Name.

Here Varius leaves us, and with Tears he goes:
With equal Tenderness our Sorrow flows.
Onward to Rubi wearily we toil'd,
The Journey long, the Road with Rain was spoil'd.

To Barium, fam'd for Fish, we reach'd next Day,
The Weather fairer, but much worse the Way.
Then water-curs'd Egnatia gave us Joke,
And Laughter great, to hear the moon-struck Folk
Assert, if Incense on their Altars lay,
Without the Help of Fire it melts away.
The Sons of Circumcision may receive
The wonderous Tale, which I shall ne'er believe;
For I have better learn'd, in blissful Ease
That the good Gods enjoy immortal Days,
Nor anxiously their native Skies forsake,
When Miracles the Laws of Nature break.

From thence our Travels to Brundusium bend,
Where our long Journey, and my Paper end.

Sat. VI. To Mæcenas.

Though, since the Lydians fill'd the Tuscan Coasts,
No richer Blood than yours Etruria boasts;
Though your great Ancestors could Armies lead,
You don't, as many do, with Scorn upbraid
The Man of Birth unknown, or turn the Nose
On me, who from a Race of Slaves arose:
While you regard not, from what low Degree
A Man's descended, if his Mind be free;
Convinc'd, that long before th' ignoble Reign
And Power of Tullius, from a servile Strain
Full many rose for Virtue high renown'd,
By Worth ennobled, and with Honours crown'd:
While he, who boasts that ancient Race his own,
Which drove the haughty Tarquin from the Throne,
Is vile and worthless in the People's Eyes:
The People, who, you know, bestow the Prize
To very Scoundrels, and like Slaves to Fame
With foolish Reverence hail a well-born Name,

And with a stupid Admiration gaze,
When the long Race its Images displays.

But how shall we, who differ far and wide
From the meer Vulgar, this great Point decide?
For grant, the Croud some high-birth'd Scoundrel chuse,
And to the low-born Man of Worth refuse
(Because low-born) the Honours of the State,
Shall we from thence their Vice or Virtue rate?
Were I expell'd the Senate-House with Scorn,
Justly, perhaps, because thus meanly born
I fondly wander'd from my native Sphere;
Yet shall I with less real Worth appear?
Chain'd to her beamy Car Fame drags along
The Mean, the Great: an undistinguish'd Throng.

Poor Tillius, when compel'd in luckless Hour
To quit your purple Robe and Tribune's Power,
A larger Share of Envy was thy Fate,
Which had been lessen'd in a private State.
For in black Sandals when a Coxcomb's drest,
When floats the Robe impurple'd down his Breast,
Instant, “what Man is this,” he round him hears,
“And who his Father?” As when one appears
Sick of your Fever, Barrus, to desire
That all the World his Beauty should admire,
Curious the Ladies ask, “What Mien and Air,
“What Leg and Foot he has, what Teeth and Hair.”

So he, who promises to guard the State,
The Gods, the Temples and imperial Seat,
Makes every Mortal ask his Father's Name,
Or if his Mother was a slave-born Dame.

“And shall a Syrian Slave, like you, presume
“To hurl the freeborn Citizens of Rome
“From the Tarpeïan Rock's tremendous Height,
“Or to the Hangman Cadmus give their Fate?”

Tillius.
My Collegue sits below me one Degree,
For Novius, like my Father, was made free.

Horace.

Shall you for this a true Messala seem,
And rise a Paulus in your own Esteem?
But when two hundred Waggons croud the Street,
And three long Funerals in Procession meet,
Beyond the Fifes and Horns his Voice he raises,
And sure such Strength of Lungs a wonderous Praise is.

As for myself, a Free-man's Son confest,
A Freeman's Son, the public Scorn and Jest,
That now with you I joy the social Hour,
That once a Roman Legion own'd my Power;
But though they envy'd my Command in War
Justly perhaps, yet sure 'tis different far
To gain your Friendship, where no servile Art,
Where only Men of Merit claim a Part.

Nor yet to Chance this Happiness I owe;
Friendship like your's she had not to bestow.
My best-lov'd Virgil first, then Varius told
Among my Friends what Character I hold:
When introduc'd, in few and faultring Words
(Such as an infant Modesty affords)
I did not tell you my Descent was great,
Or that I wander'd round my Country Seat
On a proud Steed in richer Pastures bred:
But what I really was, I frankly said.

Short was your Answer, in your usual Strain;
I take my Leave, nor wait on you again,
Till, nine Months past, engag'd and bid to hold
A Place among your nearer Friends enroll'd.
An Honour this, methinks, of nobler Kind,
That innocent of Heart and pure of Mind,
Though with no titled Birth, I gain'd his Love,
Whose Judgement can discern, whose Choice approve.

If some few, trivial Faults deform my Soul
(Like a fair Face when spotted with a Mole)
If none with Avarice justly brand my Fame,
With Sordidness, or Deeds too vile to name:
If pure and innocent: if dear (forgive
These little Praises) to my Friends I live,
My Father was the Cause, who, though maintain'd
By a lean Farm but poorly, yet disdain'd

The Country-Schoolmaster, to whose low Care
The mighty Captain sent his high-born Heir
With Satchel, Copy-book, and Pelf to pay
The wretched Teacher on th' appointed Day.

To Rome by this bold Father was I brought
To learn those Arts, which well-born Youth are taught,
So drest and so attended, you would swear
I was some wealthy Lord's expensive Heir;
Himself my Guardian, of unblemish'd Truth,
Among my Tutors would attend my Youth,
And thus preserv'd my Chastity of Mind
(That prime of Virtue in its highest Kind)
Not only pure from Guilt, but even the Shame,
That might with vile Suspicion hurt my Fame;
Nor fear'd to be reproach'd, although my Fate
Should fix my Fortune in some meaner State,
From which some trivial Perquisites arise,
Or make me, like himself, Collector of Excise.

For this my Heart far from complaining pays
A larger Debt of Gratitude and Praise;
Nor, while my Senses hold, shall I repent
Of such a Father, nor with Pride resent,
As many do, th' involuntary Disgrace,
Not to be born of an illustrious Race.
But not with theirs my Sentiments agree,
Or Language; for if Nature should decree,
That we from any stated Point might live
Our former Years, and to our Choice should give
The Sires, to whom we wish'd to be allied,
Let others chuse to gratify their Pride:

While I, contented with my own, resign
The titled Honours of an ancient Line.
This may be Madness in the People's Eyes,
But in your Judgement not, perhaps, unwise;
That I refuse to bear a Pomp of State,
Unus'd and much unequal to the Weight.

Instant a larger Fortune must be made;
To purchase Votes my low Addresses paid;
Whether a Jaunt or Journey I propose
With me a Croud of new Companions goes,
While, anxious to compleat a Length of Train,
Domestics, Horses, Coaches I maintain.
But now as Chance or Pleasure is my Guide,
Upon my bob-tail'd Mule alone I ride.
Gall'd is his Crupper with my Wallet's Weight;
His Shoulder shews his Rider's aukward Seat.

Yet no penurious Vileness e'er shall stain
My Name, as when, great Prætor, with your Train
Of five poor Slaves, you carry where you dine
Your travelling Kitchen and your Flask of Wine.

Thus have I greater Blessings in my Power,
Than you, proud Senator, and thousands more.
Alone I wander, as by Fancy led,
I cheapen Herbs, or ask the Price of Bread;
I listen, while Diviners tell their Tale,
Then homeward hasten to my frugal Meal,
Herbs, Pulse, and Pancakes; each a separate Plate:
While three Domestics at my Supper wait.

A Bowl on a white Marble Table stands,
Two Goblets, and a Ewer to wash my Hands;
An hallow'd Cup of true Campanian Clay
My pure Libations to the Gods to pay.
I then retire to Rest, nor anxious fear
Before dread Marsyas early to appear,
Whose very Statue swears it cannot brook
The Meanness of a slave-born Judge's Look.
I sleep till ten; then take a Walk, or chuse
A Book, perhaps, or trifle with the Muse:
For chearful Exercise and manly Toil
Anoint my Body with the pliant Oil,
But not with such as Natta's, when he vamps
His filthy Limbs and robs the public Lamps.

But when the Sun pours down his fiercer Fire,
And bids me from the toilsome Sport retire,
I haste to bathe and decently regale
My craving Stomach with a frugal Meal;
Enough to nourish Nature for a Day,
Then trifle my Domestic Hours away.

Such is the Life from bad Ambition free;
Such Comfort has the Man low-born like me;
With which I feel myself more truly blest,
Than if my Sires the Quæstor's Power possest.

Sat. VII.

[How mungrel Persius in a vengeful Mood]

How mungrel Persius in a vengeful Mood
That out-law'd Wretch Rupilius King pursu'd
With poisonous Filth, and Venom all his own,
To Barbers and to blear-eyed Folk is known.

Persius had Wealth by foreign Traffick gain'd,
And a vexatious Suit with King maintain'd.
Presumptuous, vain, and obstinate the Wight,
Conquering even King in Virulence of Spite,
In Bitterness of Speech outstrip'd the Wind,
And left the swift-tongue'd Barrus far behind.

Now to the King returns our wandering Tale,
When all fair Means of Reconcilement fail
(For Men are obstinate when War's proclaim'd
As they with inward Courage are enflam'd;
When Hector and Achilles fierce engag'd
Dire was the Conflict and to Death they rag'd:

And why? because the gallant Thirst of Fame,
The Love of Glory was in Both extreme:
But if a Quarrel between Cowards rise,
Or between Chiefs of less heroic Size,
Glaucus to Diomed is forc'd to yield,
The Dastard buys his Peace and quits the Field)
What Time o'er Asia with Prætorial Sway
Great Brutus rul'd, began this dire Affray.
Persius and King, intrepid Pair, engage
(More equal Champions never mounted Stage)
And now they rush impetuous into Court,
Fine was the Sight, and delicate the Sport.
Persius begins; loud Bursts of Laughter rise;
He praises Brutus, Brutus, to the Skies.
“Brutus, like Sol, o'er Asia pours the Day;
“His Friends are Stars and healthful is their Ray,
“Except the King; he like the Dog-star reigns,
“That Dog of Heaven, detested by the Swains.”
Thus rush'd he onward like a Winter-Flood,
That tears it's Banks and sweeps away the Wood.

To this impetuous Bitterness of Tide
The King with equal Virulence replied.
A Vine-dresser he was of rustic Tone,
Whom oft the Traveller was forc'd to own

Invincible; with clamorous Voice opprest,
When Cuckow, Cuckow, was the standing Jest.

But with Italian Vinegar imbued,
The sour-tongu'd Mungrel the Dispute renew'd;
“Let me conjure you by the Powers divine,
“Since 'tis the Glory, Brutus, of your Line
“To slaughter Kings, be this thy glorious Deed,
“That this same King beneath thy Vengeance bleed.”

Sat. VIII.

[In Days of Yore our Godship stood]

In Days of Yore our Godship stood
A very worthless Log of Wood.
The Joiner doubting, or to shape Us
Into a Stool, or a Priapus,
At length resolv'd, for Reasons wise,
Into a God to bid me rise;
And now to Birds and Thieves I stand
A Terrour great. With ponderous Hand,
And something else as red as Scarlet,
I fright away each filching Varlet.
The Birds, that view with awful Dread
The Reeds, fast stuck into my Head,
Far from the Garden take their Flight,
Nor on the Trees presume to light.

In Coffins vile the Herd of Slaves
Were hither brought to croud their Graves;
And once in this detested Ground
A common Tomb the Vulgar found;
Buffoons and Spendthrifts, vile and base,
Together rotted here in Peace.

A thousand Feet the Front extends,
Three hundred deep in Rear it bends,
And yonder Column plainly shows
No more unto its Heirs it goes.
But now we breathe a purer Air
And walk the sunny Terrass fair,
Where once the Ground with Bones was white
With human Bones, a ghastly Sight!

But, oh! nor Thief, nor savage Beast,
That us'd these Gardens to infest,
E'er gave me half such Care and Pains
As they, who turn poor People's Brains
With venom'd Drugs and magic Lay—
These I can never fright away;
For when the beauteous Queen of Night
Up-lifts her Head adorn'd with Light,
Hither they come, pernicious Crones!
To gather poisonous Herbs and Bones.

Canidia with dishevel'd Hair
(Black was her Robe, her Feet were bare)
With Sagana, infernal Dame!
Her elder Sister, hither came.
With Yellings dire they fill'd the Place,
And hideous pale was either's Face.
Soon with their Nails they scrap'd the Ground,
And fill'd a magic Trench profound
With a black Lamb's thick-streaming Gore,
Whose Members with their Teeth they tore,
That they may charm the Sprights to tell
Some curious Anecdotes from Hell.

The Beldams then two Figures brought;
Of Wool and Wax the Forms were wrought;
The Woollen was erect and tall,
And scourg'd the waxen Image small,
Which in a suppliant, servile Mood
With dying Air just gasping stood.

On Hecate one Beldam calls;
The other to the Furies bawls,
While Serpents crawl along the Ground,
And Hell-born Bitches howl around.
The blushing Moon to shun the Sight
Behind a Tomb withdrew her Light.

Oh! if I lye, may Ravens shed
Their Ordure on my sacred Head;
May Thieves and Prostitutes and Rakes
Beneath my Nose erect a Jakes.

Not to be tedious, or repeat
How Flats and Sharps in Concert meet,
With which the Ghosts and Hags maintain
A Dialogue of passing Strain;
Or how, to hide the Tooth of Snake
And Beard of Wolf, the Ground they break;
Or how the Fire of Magic seiz'd
The waxen Form and how it blaz'd;
Mark! how my Vengeance I pursu'd
For all I heard, for all I view'd.

Loud as a Bladder bursts its Wind
Dreadful I thunder'd from behind.
To Town they scamper'd struck with Fear,
This lost her Teeth and that her Hair.
They drop'd the Bracelets from their Arms,
Their Incantations, Herbs and Charms;
Who-e'er had seen them in their Flight
Had burst with laughing at the Sight.

Sat. IX.

[Musing, as wont, on this and that]

Musing, as wont, on this and that,
Such Trifles, as I know not what,
When late the Street I saunter'd through,
A Wight, whose Name I hardly knew,

101

Approaching pertly makes me stand,
And thus accosts me, Hand in Hand.
“How do you do, my sweetest Man?”
Quoth I, as well as Mortal can,
And my best Wishes yours—When he
Would follow—What's your Will with me?
“That one of your profound discerning
“Should know me: I'm a Man of Learning.”—
Why then be sure upon that Score
You merit my Regard the more.
Impatient to discard the Fop,
One while I run, another stop,
And whisper, as he presses near,
Some nothing in my Servant's Ear.

But while at every Pore I sweated,
And thus in muttering Silence fretted—
“Bolanus, happy in a Skull
“Of Proof, impenetrably dull,
“O for a Portion of thy Brains”—
He on the Town and Streets and Lanes
His prating, praising Talent try'd,
And, when I answered not, he cry'd,
Ay, 'tis too plain; you can't deceive me,
You miserably wish to leave me.
But I shall never quit you so:
Command me—whither would you go?—
You do me Honour—but, in short,
There's not the least Occasion for't.
I visit one—to cut the Strife,
You never saw him in your Life;
Nor would I lead you such a Round—
He lives above a Mile of Ground

103

Beyond the Tyber—“Never talk
“Of Distance, for I love a Walk.
“I never have the least Enjoyment
“In Idleness: I want Employment.
“Come on; I must and will attend
“Your Person to your Journey's End.”

Like vicious Ass, that fretting bears
A wicked Load, I hang my Ears;
While he, renewing his Civilities,
“If well I know my own Abilities,
“Not Viscus, though your Friend of yore,
“Not Varius could engage you more;
“For who can write melodious Lays
“With greater Elegance or Ease?
“Who moves with smoother Grace his Limbs
“While through the mazy Dance he swims?
“Besides, I sing to that Degree
“Hermogenes might envy me.”

Have you no Mother, Sister, Friends,
Whose Welfare on your Health depends?—
“Not one; I saw them all by Turns
“Securely settled in their Urns.”
Thrice happy they, secure from Pain!
And I thy Victim now remain;
Dispatch me: for my Goody-Nurse
Early presag'd this heavy Curse.
She con'd it by the Sieve and Shears,
And now it falls upon my Ears—
Nor Poison fell, with Ruin stor'd,
Nor horrid Point of hostile Sword,
Nor Pleurisy, nor Asthma-Cough,
Nor Cripple-Gout shall cut him off:

105

A noisy Tongue and babbling Breath
Shall teize and talk my Child to Death.
But if he would avert his Fate,
When he arrives at Man's Estate
Let him avoid, as he would Hanging,
Your Folks long-winded in Haranging.

We came to Vesta's about Ten,
And he was bound in Person then
To stand a Suit, or by the Laws
He must have forfeited his Cause.
Sir, if you love me, step aside
A little into Court, he cry'd.
If I can stand it out, quoth I,
Or know the Practice, let me die:
Besides, I am oblig'd to go
Precisely to the Place you know.—
“I am divided what to do
“Whether to leave my Cause, or you.”—
Sir, I beseech you spare your Pains.
Your humble Servant—“By no Means.”
I follow, for he leads the Way;
'Tis Death; but Captives must obey.

Then he renews his plaguy Strain, as
“How stands your Friendship with Mæcenas?—
“For Friendships, he contracts but few,
“And shews in that his Judgement true.—
“Commend me to you, Brother-Bard,
“No Man has play'd a surer Card.
“But you should have a Man of Art:
“One, who might act an under-part.
“If you were pleas'd to recommend,
“The Man I mention, to your Friend,

107

“Sir, may I never see the Light
“But you shall rout your Rivals quite.”—

We live not there, as you suppose,
On such precarious Terms as those:
No Family was ever purer:
From such Infections none securer.
It never hurts me in the least,
That one excels in Wealth, or Taste;
Each Person there of course inherits
A Place proportion'd to his Merits—
“'Tis wonderful, and to be brief,
“A Thing almost beyond Belief.”—
But, whether you believe, or no,
The Matter is exactly so.
“This adds but Fewel to the Fire,
“The more you kindle my Desire
“To kiss his Hand, and pay my Court.”—
Assail, and you shall take the Fort.
Such is the Vigour of your Wit,
And he is one, who can submit;
The first Attack is therefore nice
The Matter is to break the Ice.
“I shan't be wanting there, he cry'd,
“I'll bribe his Servants to my Side;
“To-Day shut out still onward press,
“And watch the Seasons of Access;
“In private haunt, in public meet,
“Salute, escort him through the Street.
“There's nothing gotten in this Life,
“Without a World of Toil and Strife!”

While thus he racks my tortur'd Ears,
A much-lov'd Friend of mine appears,

109

Aristius Fuscus, one who knew
My sweet Companion through and through.
We stop, exchanging “So and so:”
“Whence come, and whither do you go?”

I then began in woful wise
To nod my Head, distort my Eyes,
And pull his Renegado Sleeve,
That he would grant me a Reprieve;
But he was absent all the while,
Malicious with a leering Smile.

Provok'd at his Dissimulation
I burst with Spleen and Indignation.
“I know not what you had to tell
“In private.”—I remember well:
But shall a Day of Business chuse,
This is the Sabbath of the Jews;
You would not thus offend the leathern-
curtail'd Assemblies of the Brethren.—
“I have no Scruples, by your Leave,
“On that account.”—But, Sir, I have:
I am a little superstitious,
Like many of the Croud capricious:
Forgive me, if it be a Crime,
And I shall talk another Time.—

Oh! that so black a Sun should rise!
Away the cruel Creature flies,
And leaves me panting for my Life
Aghast beneath the Butcher's Knife.

At last, by special Act of Grace
The Plaintiff meets him Face to Face,
And bawls as loud as he could bellow:
“Ha! whither now, thou vilest Fellow?

111

“Sir, will you witness for my Capture?”
I signified, I would with Rapture;
And then to magnify the Sport
He drags my Pratler into Court;
And thus, amidst the Noise and Rabble,
Apollo sav'd me in the Squabble.

Sat. X.

[Yes, I did say, that his rough Verses roll'd]

Yes, I did say, that his rough Verses roll'd
In ruder Style præcipitately bold;
Who reads Lucilius with so fond an Eye,
Foolishly fond, who can this Charge deny?
But, that with Wit he lash'd a vicious Age,
He's frankly prais'd in the same equal Page.
Should I grant more, I may as well admit
Laberius' Farces elegantly writ.

113

'Tis not enough a bursting Laugh to raise,
And yet even this may well deserve its Praise;
Close be your Language; let your Sense be clear,
Nor with a Weight of Words fatigue the Ear.
From grave to jovial you must change with Art,
Now play the Critic's, now the Poet's Part;
In Raillery assume a gayer Air,
Discreetly hide your Strength, your Vigour spare,
For Ridicule shall frequently prevail,
And cut the Knot, when graver Reasons fail.

The ancient Writers of the comic Stage
Our Imitation here may well engage,
Though read not by Tigellius, smooth of Face,
Or yonder Ape, of horrible Grimace.
Calvus, Catullus better suit their Vein,
Whose wanton Songs they chaunt in tuneful Strain.

But yet a mighty Feat it must be thought—
“His motley Page with Greek and Latin's wrought!”
Blockheads! who think it wonderful or hard,
So oft perform'd by yonder Rhodian Bard.

“But Languages each other may refine
“(As Chian softens the Falernian Wine)

115

“At least in Verse.” But say, my rhiming Friend,
Were you that Thief Petillius to defend,
While other Lawyers sweated in the Cause,
And urg'd in pure Latinity the Laws:
While wondering Crouds upon their Language hung,
Would you forgetful of your native Tongue,
In foreign Words and broken Phrases speak,
The half-bred Jargon of a mungrel Greek?

Italian born, I once propos'd to write
Some Grecian Versicles, in deep of Night
(When Dreams, they say, are true) Rome's Founder rose
And awful spake, “You may as well propose
“To carry Timber to a Wood, as throng
“The crouded Writers of the Grecian Song.”

Let swelling Furius on th' affrighted Stage
Murder poor Memnon, or in muddy Rage
Deform the Head of Rhine: in idle Vein
I write, what never shall presume to gain
The Prize, where Metius high in Judgement sits
To hear the Labours of contending Wits;
Or where the People with applauding Hands
The well-wrought Scene repeatedly demands.

Of all Mankind, in light and chearful Strain
Fundanius best can paint the comic Scene,

117

The wily Harlot, and the Slave, who join
To wipe the Miser of his darling Coin.
Pollio in pure, Iambic Numbers sings
The tragic Deeds of Heroes and of Kings;
And Varius in sublime and ardent Vein
Supports the Grandeur of the Epic Strain.
On Virgil all the rural Muses smile,
Smooth flow his Lines, and elegant his Style.
Satire alone remain'd, no easy Strain,
Which Varro, and some others, try'd in vain,
Where I, perhaps, some slight Success may claim,
Though far inferior to th' Inventor's Fame:
Nor from his Head shall I presume to tear
That sacred Wreath, he well deserves to wear.

I said, his Verse in muddy Rapture flows,
And more his Errours, than his Beauties shows;
But, prithee, You that boast a Critic's Name
Don't you sometimes the mighty Homer blame?
Does not Lucilius, though of gentle Strain,
Correct even Accius and reform his Scene?
And in his Pleasantry old Ennius rate,
When his dull Lines want Dignity and Weight?
Yet when he speaks of his own Right to Fame
Confesses frankly their superior Claim.

What then forbids our equal Right to know
Why his own Verses inharmonious flow?
Or whether in his Subject lies the Fault,
Or in himself, that they're not higher wrought,
Than if the Art of Verse were to confine
In ten low Feet a cold, dull Length of Line,

119

Content his rhiming Talents to display
In twice an hundred Verses twice a Day.
Such, Cassius, thy Rapidity of Song,
Which like a foaming River pour'd along,
Whose volum'd Works (if Fame be not a Liar)
Kindled around thy Corps the funeral Fire.

Lucilius raillies with politer Ease
Than all the rhiming Tribe of ancient Days,
Nay more correct than him (I frankly own)
Who form'd this Kind of Verse to Greece unknown;
Yet, were he fated to the present Age,
He sure had blotted the redundant Page;
Prun'd all luxuriant Excellence away,
And while he labour'd o'er th' instructive Lay
Would often scratch his Head in dull Despair
And to the Quick his Nails bemusing tear.

Would you a Reader's just Esteem engage?
Frequent correct with Care the blotted Page;
Nor strive the Wonder of the Croud to raise,
But the few better Judges learn to please.
Be thine, fond Madman, some vile School to chuse,
Where to repeat the Labours of your Muse,
While I, like hiss'd Arbuscula unaw'd,
Despise the Vulgar, since the Knights applaud.

Say, shall that Bug Pantilius move my Spleen?
Shall I be tortur'd when a Wretch obscene,
Or foolish Fannius, for a sordid Treat
With sweet Tigellius, shall my Verses rate?
Let Plotius, Varius, and Mæcenas deign
With Virgil, Valgius, to approve my Strain;
Let good Octavius even endure my Lays;
Let Fuscus read, and either Viscus praise;

121

Let me, with no mean Arts to purchase Fame,
Pollio, Messala, and his Brother name:
Let Bibulus and Servius be my own,
And Furnius for a Critic's Candour known;
Among my learned Friends are many more,
Whose Names I pass in modest Silence o'er;
These I can wish to smile; enjoy their Praise;
Hope to delight, and grieve if I can please.
Be gone, Demetrius, to thy lovesome Train
Of minstrel Scholars, and in sighing Strain
With soft Hermogenes these Rhimes deplore—
Haste, Boy, transcribe me this one Satire more.

End of the First Book.