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.
