The Works of Horace In English Verse :: :: University of Virginia Library

You in Liburnian Barks, my Friend,
With Antony's tall Vessels will contend;
Boldly to hazard all prepar'd,
From every Danger Cæsar's Life to guard.
But how shall I the Hours amuse,
Or now what pleasing Entertainment chuse,
The tedious Minutes to beguile,
Which in Mæcenas' Presence always smile?
Shall I, by your Command, pursue
My Ease? but what is Ease unshar'd by you?

Or shall I all the Toils of War,
As suits the Brave, with dauntless Courage bear?
They shall be borne—O'er Alpine Snow,
With you, my Friend, I chearfully will go;
With you, wild Caucasus explore,
And view the Limits of the Western Shore.
What Aid, you'll ask, can you afford,
Weak, and unskill'd to wield the Warrior's Sword?
But then my Anguish will be less
With you; nor Fears my tortur'd Soul possess.
Thus the fond Dove, in Search of Food,
With greater Dread forsakes her callow Brood,
Lest in her Absence Snakes devour,
Whom, present, to protect she wants the Power.
Ardent your Friendship to maintain,
I'll serve with Pleasure this, and each Campaign:
But not, that, to my Traces bound,
A larger Team may labour in my Ground;
Or that my Flocks Calabria change,
In Summer o'er Lucanian Meads to range;
Or that such ample Lands be mine,
As might to Tusculum my Villa join.
Your Bounty has enlarg'd my Store
Beyond my utmost Wish; nor ask I more,

To hide, like Chremes in the Play,
Or, like a Spendthrift, squander it away.

ODE II. The Praises of a Country Life.

Blest as our Sires of old is he,
Who, from vexatious Business free,
Tills an hereditary Plain,
Unsully'd by the Love of Gain.
No Trumpet breaks his peaceful Sleep,
No Danger dreads he from the Deep.
Far from the Forum, and the Gate
Of the contemptuous Rich and Great,
Pleas'd round the Poplar's Height he twines
His clasping marriageable Vines;
Lops useless Boughs, and, on the Tree,
Ingrafts a hopeful Progeny;
Or, in a secret Vale, surveys
His Cattle lowing as they graze;
His Flocks, with Fleece o'erburden'd, shears,
Or lays his Honey up in Jars.

But o'er the Fields his graceful Head
When Autumn rears, with Fruit o'erspread,

With Joy the Pear, or Grape, whose Dye
Not ev'n the Crimson can outvye,
He plucks; Sylvanus! thy Rewards,
Or his, who still his Orchard guards.
Now in an Oak's embowering Shade,
Now on the Grass behold him laid!
While near him rolls a rapid Flood,
And Songsters warble in the Wood;
And, gurgling down the verdant Steep,
Cascades prolong his balmy Sleep.

But when stern Jove with wintry Storms
The Beauty of the Year deforms,
With Hounds on every Side beset,
He drives fierce Boars into his Net,
Or with nice Art slight Meshes lays,
And the voracious Thrush betrays;
Or (grateful Prizes!) in a Snare
Beguiles the foreign Crane, or Hare.

Who, thus employ'd, has Time to prove
The soft Anxieties of Love?
But if a chaste and chearful Wife,
To crown the Blessings of his Life,

Should o'er his cleanly House preside,
His Family and Children guide;
(Like Sabine Dames, though tann'd they were
With Summer Suns, and sultry Air)
And make the well-dry'd Billets burn
Against her Husband's wish'd Return;
In Folds his joyful Goats restrain,
And all their milky Treasure drain;
With Wine of this Year's Vintage greet,
And give him an unpurchas'd Treat;
No Lucrine Oysters would I wish
To taste; nor Turbot; nor the Fish,
Which from the Eastern Sea is tost
By Storms, on our Italian Coast:
Nor Heathpouts, nor the Libyan Bird,
So scarce, should ever be preferr'd
To my own Olives, luscious Fare!
From loaded Branches cull'd with Care;
Or to wild Mallows, wholesome Food!
Or Shards, which love the marshy Flood;
Or Lambkin slain on festal Day,
Or Kid, from Wolves just snatch'd away.

Pleas'd, at such Meals, shall I behold
My Sheep returning to the Fold;

My lowing Oxen, tir'd and slow,
With loosen'd Traces drag the Plough;
And all my Slaves, that swarm, like Bees,
Round my blithe Houshold Deities.

This to himself old Alfius said;
And, panting for the rural Shade,
In Haste call'd all his Money in;
Next Week he put it out again.

The Same ODE Imitated.

[Thrice happy, who free from Ambition and Pride]

By Another Hand.

Thrice happy, who free from Ambition and Pride,
In a rural Retreat has a quiet Fire-side;
I love my Fire-side: Thither let me repair,
And drink a delightful Oblivion of Care.
O when shall I 'scape, to be truly my own,
From the Noise, and the Smoak, and the Bustle of Town!
Then I live, then I triumph, whene'er I retire
From the Pomp and Parade that the Many admire.
Hail, ye Woods and ye Lawns, shady Vales, sunny Hills,
And the Warble of Birds, and the Murmur of Rills;

Ye Flowers of all Hues that embroider the Ground,
Flocks feeding, or frisking in Gambols around;
Scene of Joy to behold! Joy, that who would forego,
For the Wealth and the Power that a Court can bestow?
I have said it at home, I have said it abroad,
That the Town is Man's World, but that this is of God.
Here my Trees cannot flatter: Plants, nurs'd by my Care,
Pay with Fruit or with Fragance, and incense the Air:
Here contemplative Solitude raises the Mind,
(Least alone, when alone) to Ideas refin'd.
Methinks hid in Groves that no Sound can invade,
Save when Philomel strikes up her sweet Serenade,
I revolve on the Changes and Chances of Things,
And pity the Wretch that attends upon Kings.

Now I pass with old Authors an indolent Hour,
And reclining at Ease turn Demosthenes o'er.
Now, facetious and vacant, I urge the gay Flask
With a Set of old Friends, who have nothing to ask:
Thus happy, I reck not of France nor of Spain,
Nor the Balance of Power what Hand shall sustain.

The Balance of Power! Ha! till that is restor'd,
What solid Delight can Retirement afford?
Some must be content to be Drudges of State,
That the Sage may securely enjoy his Retreat.
In Weather serene, when the Ocean is calm,
It matters not much who presides at the Helm;
But soon as Clouds gather, and Tempests arise,
Then a Pilot there needs, a Man dauntless and wise.
If such can be found, sure he ought to come forth,
And lend to the Public his Talents and Worth.
Whate'er Inclination or Ease may suggest,
If the State wants his Aid, he has no Claim to Rest.
But who is the Man, a bad Game to redeem?
He whom Turin admires, who has Prussia's Esteem;
Whom the Spaniard has felt, and whose Iron, with Dread,
Haughty Lewis saw forging to fall on his Head.
Holland loves him; nor less in the North all the Powers
Court, honour, revere, and the Empress adores.
Hark! what was that Sound? for it seem'd more sublime
Than befits the low Genius of Pastoral Rhyme:

Was it Wisdom I heard? or can Fumes of the Brain
Cheat my Ears with a Dream? Ha! repeat me that Strain;
Yes, Wisdom, I hear thee; thou deign'st to declare
Me, me, the sole Atlas, to prop this whole Sphere:
Thy Voice says, or seems in sweet Accents to say;
“Haste, and save sinking Britain.”—Resign'd, I obey;
And, O! witness ye Powers, that Ambition and Pride
Have no Share in this Change—for I love my Fireside.

Thus the Shepherd; then throwing his Crook away, steals
Direct to St. James's, and takes up the Seals.

1746.

ODE III. To Mæcenas.

Should impious Sons in future Times
Their aged Parents slay, such Crimes
Let poisonous Garlic but requite,
More to be shunn'd than Aconite.
Ye Reapers, how can ye digest
This Venom, which torments my Breast?
Sure Viper's Blood deceiv'd my Taste,
Or vile Canidia cook'd the Feast!
Medea, Jason's Love to gain,
In Beauty far beyond his Train,
This, as a magic Ointment gave,
From the Fire-breathing Bulls to save.
With this she smear'd, on Mischief bent,
The Presents to her Rival sent:
Then in her Car away she flew;
Her Car, which winged Dragons drew.
Such Heat, as rages in my Veins,
Ne'er scorch'd the dry Apulian Plains,

Nor burnt Alcides' tortur'd Breast,
When round him clung th'envenom'd Vest.

My merry Friend, if e'er of this
Again you taste, no balmy Kiss
May Chloë grant, but from you fly,
Rejoicing by herself to lie!

ODE IV. To Menas, Pompey's Freed-man.

When Wolves no longer Lambs pursue,
Then I'll be reconcil'd to you.
Still on your Back and Legs remain
The Furrows of the Scourge and Chain.
Though Store of Wealth you now possess,
Condition changes not with Dress.
Behold, when on the Sacred Way
Your Gown, wide-trailing, you display,
How every free-born Passer-by
Turns from the Slave his scornful Eye!
“Shall he, who tir'd the Lictor's Hand,
“Scourg'd by the Magistrate's Command,
“With Corn a thousand Acres load,
“With Chariots wear the Appian Road,
“And, in Contempt of Otho, sit
“With the Knights' Order in the Pit?”
Why arm we then, our Coasts to guard,
And wherefore are our Ships prepar'd

From Slaves and Thieves the Trade to free,
While you, as Tribune, rule the Sea?

ODE V. Canidia.

By William Duncombe, Esq;

‘—But, by the Gods in Heaven, whose Sway
‘This World, and all Mankind, obey,
‘What can this Tumult mean? What Cause,
‘On Me those Looks of Terror draws?
‘Say by thy Children, if the Name
‘Of Mother grace thy nuptial Flame;
‘Say by this useless purple Vest;
‘By Jove, who must such Deeds detest;
‘O tell me, fierce Canidia, why
‘Thou view'st me thus with vengeful Eye;
‘Thus like a Step-dame dost appear,
‘Or Tygress snarling at a Spear!’

While thus the Boy for Mercy su'd,
Stripp'd of his Robes, he naked stood
In Bloom of Youth, with such a Form
As Thracians might to Pity warm!

Canidia, on whose hoary Head
Were Knots of little Serpents spread,
Unmov'd, these dire Commissions gave;
‘The rooted Fig-tree from the Grave,
‘And the funereal Cypress tear;
‘The nightly Screech-Owl's Plumes prepare;
‘And be her Eggs besmear'd with Blood
‘Of an envenom'd bloated Toad:
‘The Herbs that in Iölcos spring,
‘Or poison-fam'd Iberia bring:
‘Then from a famish'd Bitch a Bone
‘Be snatch'd, and in the Cauldron thrown.
‘Mix these Ingredients, and then raise,
‘By Colchian Art, the kindling Blaze!’

See! busy Sagana the Ground
With Stygian Waters sprinkles round,
And, like a Porcupine, uprears
Her hideous Length of bristled Hairs.
Unaw'd by Conscience, Veïa broke
The Glebe, and groan'd at every Stroke,
To dig a narrow Hole, wherein
The Boy might, buried to his Chin,
Sink down alive, as Swimmers brave
The Stream, with Head above the Wave;

Slowly to pine his Life away
For Food, chang'd twice or thrice a-day,
And only plac'd before his Sight,
To mock his eager Appetite;
That they, when thus his Life was spent
By Hunger, and by Languishment,
A Philter from his Liver dry'd,
And juiceless Marrow, might provide.

Parthenope, for Sloth renown'd,
Believes, with every Village round,
That Folia too of Rimini,
(Whose potent Voice can from the Sky
Call down the Moon, and every Star
That nightly decks the Hemisphere,
Who ev'n in monstrous Lusts delights)
Assisted in these hellish Rites.

Canidia here, with livid Jaws,
Her unpar'd Nails indignant gnaws:
What said she then, what left unsaid,
While to the Powers of Hell she pray'd;

‘O Hecaté, and silent Night!
‘Presiding o'er our mystic Rite,
‘Now, now, your Vengeance interpose
‘To blast the Triumph of my Foes!

‘While savage Beasts to Forests fly,
‘And there, dissolv'd in Slumbers, lie,
‘Let wakeful Dogs around him bark,
‘As, skulking yonder in the Dark,
‘Th'old Letcher to Suburra's Stews,
‘With falt'ring Steps, his Way pursues;
‘With Essences perfum'd all o'er!
‘I cull'd them from my richest Store!—
‘Whence can arise this strange Delay?
‘Will not the Powers of Night obey
‘My Spells? And are they weaker grown
‘Than those to fam'd Medéa known?
‘Medéa could the Royal Dame,
‘Creon's proud Daughter, wrap in Flame,
‘By a rich Robe she gave the Bride,
‘In life-consuming Poison dy'd;
‘She Jason's Prowess could defy,
‘And on the Wings of Dragons fly!
‘But though no Herb, nor Root that lies
‘Conceal'd in Earth, escapes my Eyes,
‘He sleeps in his fond Harlot's Bed,
‘With Oyl oblivious round it shed—
‘Alas! I now perceive the Cause,
‘Why he contemns and spurns my Laws;

‘Some Sorceress with her stronger Hand
‘Has loos'd him from my brittle Band:
‘But, Varus! know, full many a Tear
‘Shall wet thy Cheeks for what I bear.
‘I'll now a sovereign Beverage mix,
‘For ever Thee my Slave to fix;
‘By this when I my Lover gain,
‘E'en Marsian Charms would strive in vain
‘To rend him from my Arms again!
‘Sooner beneath the Sea the Skies
‘Shall sink, and Earth to Heaven arise,
‘Than he not burn with fierce Desire,
‘Like this Bitumen in the Fire!’—

With Prayers the Boy now try'd no more
To sooth their Fury as before;
But, doubtful long what first to speak,
From his pale Lips these Curses break:
‘Though magic Charms, on Earth, a-while
‘The Hand of Justice may beguile,
‘Yet never can their Power confound
‘Of Right and Wrong th'unvarying Bound;
‘And Heaven's eternal Laws ordain,
‘That all who give, shall suffer Pain!

‘In Bitterness of Soul preferr'd,
‘My Vows for Vengeance shall be heard;
‘No Victim e'er can wipe away
‘The Crimes of this infernal Day:
‘Soon as this tortur'd Body dies,
‘A dreadful Spectre will I rise,
‘And tear your Cheeks with crooked Nails,
‘(So far the Power of Ghosts prevails!)
‘Sit heavy on your Breast by Night,
‘And break your Sleep with wild Affright.
‘The hooting Vulgar shall pursue,
‘From Street to Street, your impious Crew
‘With Stones; and with your Blood the Ground
‘Shall stain, and dash your Brains around,
‘Then shall the Wolves and Tygers tear
‘Your Limbs, deny'd a Sepulchre:
‘My Parents (ah! surviving me)
‘This just Revenge with Joy shall see!’

ODE VI. To Cassius Severus.

Why bark'st thou at the harmless Guest?
The Wolf would prove thy Courage best.
On Me thy empty Threats bestow;
Here thou wilt find an equal Foe:
For, like a Mastiff, which attends
The Shepherd, and his Flock defends,

With Ears erect I well can chase,
Through Depths of Snow, the savage Race.
Though Forests with thy Voice have rung,
Thou, pleas'd, can'st snap the Morsel flung.
Beware; I always am prepar'd
To give the Wicked their Reward.
Keen as Archilochus am I,
Or Bupalus's Enemy:
For, injur'd, why should I contain
My Spleen, and, like a Boy, complain?

ODE VII. To the Roman People.

Say, ye vile Race, what Frenzy draws
Your daring Faulchions in Sedition's Cause?
Has not enough of Roman Blood
Been pour'd on every Land and every Flood?
Nor fight we now to quell the Powers
Of Carthage, and destroy her rival Towers,
Nor that the Briton, who remains
Unconquer'd, through the Sacred Way in Chains
Be led; but, to the Parthians Joy,
Against ourselves our frantic Arms employ.
Tygers more gently are inclin'd;
They prey on other Brutes, but spare their Kind.
Does Rage, or some avenging Star,
Or your own Crimes, provoke so dire a War?
Lo! mute they stand, and wildly gaze;
The downcast Eye the conscious Heart betrays!
'Tis so; the Gods with righteous Doom
For Remus' Death pursue unhappy Rome;

And on this Age avenge the Guilt
Of Blood, by Romulus unjustly spilt.

ODE IX. To Mæcenas.

When, in large Draughts of hoarded Wine,
At your high Palace shall we join,
Reserv'd for these distinguish'd Days,
And hear victorious Cæsar's Praise
Resounded by the tuneful Choir,
With Phrygian Pipe, and Doric Lyre?
When, happy Patron! thus fulfill
Almighty Jove's indulgent Will?
Such was the jovial Life we led,
When the Neptunian Hero fled,
(His Navy burnt) nor could retain
His boasted Empire of the Main,
Threat'ning to lead us in the Bands,
From which he freed the servile Hands.

A Roman (will our Sons believe
A Tale so shameful?) could receive
A Woman's Chain, and basely act
As wither'd Eunuchs would direct.

The Sun, 'midst Tents and Arms, survey'd
Th'Ægyptian Canopy display'd.
Two thousand Gauls, incens'd, beheld,
And with their Horses left the Field;
To Cæsar's Camp with Shouts they came,
Loudly resounding Cæsar's Name:
The hostile Galleys in the Haven
Lay ready, at a Signal given,
To put to Sea, and homeward steer,
And seek a promis'd Shelter there.
Hail! God of Triumph! hail! prepare
The Heifers white, and golden Car!
From Battles with Jugurtha fought
So great a Chief you never brought;
Nor ev'n from Africa, though Fame
Will ever Scipio's Worth proclaim,
And Carthage eternize his Name.
By Land and Sea subdu'd, the Foe
His Purple turns to Weeds of Woe;
And now for towering Crete his Sails
Are swell'd with inauspicious Gales,
Or seek the stormy Libyan Shore,
Or the wide Ocean wander o'er.

Boy, Cups of larger Size produce,
With Chian fill'd, or Lesbian Juice,
Though, nauseous Loathings to remove,
Cæcubian is the Wine I love.
Our Fears for Cæsar we'll resign,
And drown our Cares in generous Wine.

ODE X. On Mævius.

In an unlucky Hour, the Ship
Of filthy Mævius sails;
His Voyage may the South oppose
With inauspicious Gales!
Let the rough East his Cordage tear,
And splinter all his Oars;
And Boreas rage, as on the Hills
Through shatter'd Oaks he roars!
When sad Orion sets, let no
Propitious Star appear,
To guide his Vessel through the Night,
And the thick Darkness chear!
May such tempestuous Billows rise,
As those the Grecians knew,
When Pallas all her Rage from Troy
On impious Ajax threw!
Your Sailors sweat; and, yellow-pale,
To Jove averse you pray
With Female Clamours, while the Leaks
Admit the foaming Sea.

If your gross Carcass shall become
To Cormorants a Prize,
I to the Winds a lustful Goat
And Lamb will sacrifice.

ODE XI. To Pettius.

Ah! Pettius, I no more indite
My Lyric Numbers with Delight,
Nor think of aught but Love.
Since first I spurn'd Inachia's Chain
Thrice Winter has resum'd his Reign
O'er every leafless Grove.
I blush, reflecting how my Name
The Topic of Discourse became
Through all this spacious Town;
Where by a downcast Look, and Breast
That heav'd with Sighs, at every Feast
The Lover soon was known.
‘Merit, if poor, can nought avail,
‘When weigh'd with Riches in the Scale,’
Tears streaming from my Eyes,
I thus to you complain'd, when Bowls
Of generous Liquor from our Souls
Had banish'd all Disguise.

‘If, therefore, I enrag'd can strive,
‘For such Indignities, to drive
‘This Passion from my Mind,
‘I'll cease henceforward to contend
‘On such unequal Terms, and send
‘My Sorrows to the Wind.’
When me thus resolute you saw,
And warn'd me homeward to withdraw;
With heedless Steps I stray'd
To her ah! too unfriendly Door,
Near which, for sleepless Nights before,
My Limbs have oft been laid.
Now soft Lycisca I prefer,
Unchang'd by gross Affronts from her,
Or free Advice of Friends,
‘'Till Dotage on some other Fair,
Who ties in Knots her Length of Hair,
My present Passion ends.

ODE XIII. To a Friend.

See! gathering Clouds obscure the Sky,
The Air seems melting from on high
In fleecy Snow, or Showers of Rain!
What howling Tempests sweep the Main,
And shake the Woods! While in our Power,
My Friend, we'll seize the present Hour,
While Youth yet revels in our Veins,
And unimpair'd our Strength remains.
The Cares of Age to Age resign;
But hither bring the generous Wine,

Laid up in my Torquatus' Year,
When first I drew the vital Air.
No more of adverse Fate complain;
Perhaps the God may smile again:
Let Achæmenian Essence shed
Its spicy Odours round your Head,
And the Cyllenian Lyre compose,
With soft melodious Strains, your Woes.

Thus Chiron to his Pupil sung;
‘Great Hero! from a Goddess sprung,
‘Fame calls thee to the Trojan Plain,
‘To old Assaracus's Reign;
‘Where small Scamander slowly glides,
‘And Simoïs rolls his rapid Tides.
‘There must thou fall by Fate's Decree,
‘Nor shall thy Mother of the Sea
‘Her short-liv'd Son again receive;
‘Then every anxious Thought relieve
‘By Wine or Music's Charms, for they
‘Can best the Cares of Life allay.’

ODE XIV. To Mæcenas.

I grieve to hear you oft enquire
What thus has damp'd my youthful Fire,
And why my Soul, in every Sense,
Is lull'd asleep by Indolence,
As if, my ardent Thirst to slake,
I'd drank of silent Lethe's Lake.
But, O! a God, a God indeed,
Forbids your Poet to proceed
In finishing the Work, to you
So long ago, by Promise, due.

Such was the Fate Anacreon prov'd,
So fondly he Bathyllus lov'd,
Accustom'd his Complaints to suit
In easy Measures to the Lute.
You too are caught; and since the Dame
That kindled Ilium's fatal Flame
In Beauty ne'er could yours outshine,
Rejoice; while I for Phryne pine,
A haughty Jilt of mean Descent,
And not with one Gallant content.

ODE XV. To Neæra.

'Twas Night; and Cynthia with her starry Train
Serenely grac'd th'ætherial Plain,
When with fond Arms around my Neck you clung,
Close as on Oak is Ivy hung;
And, as I dictated, you falsely swore
By the dread Name of every Power,
‘That long as Wolves pursue the fearful Sheep,
‘Or fierce Orion swells the Deep,
‘Or Phœbus' Tresses wanton in the Wind,
‘You would to Me continue kind.’
But if my Breast the Sparks of Manhood warm,
Soon will I break Neæra's Charm;

Nor her disdainful Cruelty will bear,
But seek, incens'd, some faithful Fair.
And you, more favour'd Youth, whoe'er you be,
Who vainly triumph over Me,
Rich though you were in Herds and fertile Lands,
Lord of Pactolus' golden Sands;
Of Wisdom, like the twice-born Sage possest,
And with each Grace of Nireus blest,
Yet shall you mourn the fickle Fair's Disdain,
While I shall mock your fruitless Pain.

ODE XVI. To the Roman People.

A second Age in Wars we waste away,
And Rome must fall to Rome a Prey.
She, whom in vain the Marsian Foe engag'd,
With whom in vain Porsenna wag'd
The War; whom Capua's State could ne'er subdue,
Nor Spartacus's servile Crew;

Nor (courting new Allies, but to the Call
Of Honour deaf) the perjur'd Gaul;
Nor Germany, of blue-ey'd Sons the Nurse,
Nor Hannibal, the Parents' Curse,
Grieves, here at home, more cruel Foes to meet,
Where Beasts shall prowl in every Street.
Barbarian Coursers o'er the Dust shall bound,
While with their Hoofs the Stones resound.
Nor will they, Romulus! thy Ashes spare,
But rudely scatter in the Air.
But some, or all, perhaps, may wish to know,
How we must ward th'impending Blow.
My Counsel is—to go where prosperous Gales
Point out the Way, and court our Sails;
To curse, Phocæan-like, our old Abodes,
And leave to Beasts our Fields and Gods.
Give your Advice, or else to mine agree:
Then, with glad Omens, put to Sea.
But swear we never to return again,
'Till Rocks shall float upon the Main;
'Till Apennine is cover'd by the Waves,
And Po Matinus' Summit laves;
'Till different Kinds in Bands of Love are join'd,
Hawks, Doves; the Tyger, and the Hind;

'Till Sheep their Dread of Lions lay aside,
And Goats shall swim the briny Tide.
Thus, of each Hope of sweet Return bereft,
By all shall this curs'd Town be left;
At least the better Sort; but let the Base
Still cleave to this devoted Place.
But you, brave Friends! unmanly Tears give o'er,
And sail beyond the Tuscan Shore,
Where, in the spacious Bosom of the Main,
Rise happy Islands, crown'd with Grain,
Which every Year adorns th'uncultur'd Land;
Nor Vineyards ask the Pruner's Hand;
Where never-failing Shoots of Olive blow,
And Figs the Parent Trees bestow;
Where hollow Oaks drop Honey, and the Rills
In Murmurs trickle down the Hills.
Homeward the Goats with swelling Udders bend,
And, pleas'd, the Milker's Hand attend;
No prowling Bear growls round the nightly Fold,
Nor Snakes are in huge Volumes roll'd.
And, farther still our Wonder to command,
Nor Showers, too frequent, drown the Land,
Nor too much Drought burns up the thirsty Meads,
But kindly each to each succeeds.

Among the Herds no dire Contagions reign,
Nor Rots destroy the fleecy Train.
Hither the Colchian Sorceress never stray'd,
Nor Argo her bold Chiefs convey'd;
This Land the Tyrian Sailors never knew,
Nor sage Ulysses' toilsome Crew.
This, for the virtuous, Jove reserv'd of old,
Changing the Times to Brass from Gold;
To Iron now, whence, as the Gods inspire,
Your Bard thus warns you to retire.

ODE XVII. To Canidia.

At length thy powerful Arts I own,
But O! by gloomy Pluto's Throne,
By chaste Diana's dreadful Sway,
And Spells, which falling Stars obey,
Let me no more thy Vengeance feel,
But backward roll thy magic Wheel.
To Pity Telephus inclin'd,
By Prayers, ev'n stern Achilles' Mind,
Though Troops against him he had led,
And launch'd his Javelin at his Head:
And though the slaughtering Hector lay
Condemn'd to Dogs and Birds of Prey,
Yet with due Pomp the Trojan Dames
Beheld his Coarse in funeral Flames
Involv'd, when Priam, at the Fleet,
Had bath'd with Tears Achilles' Feet.
The wise Ulysses' bristly Train,
By Circe's Will, from Swine again

To Men were chang'd; resum'd the Grace
Of godlike Reason, Speech, and Face.
To Sailors and to Pedlars dear,
Ah! why, Canidia, thus severe
On Me? Behold, my youthful Boast
Is fled, and all my Colour lost.
Thy magic Oyl has on my Head
The Snow of Age untimely shed.
Day chases Night, and Night the Day,
But no Relief to Me convey:
For, lab'ring in the Pangs of Death,
I pant in vain, and heave for Breath.
Thy powerful Charms ('tis now confest)
Can tear the Head, and fire the Breast.
What would'st thou more? O Land and Sea!
Alcides never burnt like Me,
When smear'd with Nessus' putrid Gore;
Nor flaming Ætna rages more.
O thou fell Shop of Poisons dire,
Me wilt thou scorch with Colchian Fire,
'Till my dry Ashes round are cast,
The Sport of every baneful Blast?
Declare, what Ransom shall I pay?
Speak; and thy Slave will strait obey.

Shall then, to expiate my Guilt,
A hundred Heifers' Blood be spilt?
Or shall I thy unspotted Fame
Upon the lying Harp proclaim?
Chaste and untainted thou shalt rise
A golden Star, and deck the Skies.
Who injur'd Helen could asswage
By Force of Prayer her Brothers' Rage;
For when their Mercy he implor'd,
They to the Bard his Sight restor'd.
Thou too (whom nothing can controul)
Restore to Sense my frantic Soul!
No Offspring of th'adulterous Bed
Art thou; nor wont abroad to spread
The poor Man's Dust, deny'd a Tomb:
With timely Issue teems thy Womb;
Never did Blood thy Conscience stain;
Pure are thy Hands, thy Heart humane.

Canidia's Answer.

Why do thy Prayers thus stun my Ear?
Sooner th'obdurate Rocks shall hear,
When loud the wintry Billows roar,
And shipwreck'd Sailors seek the Shore.
Safely shalt thou Cotytto's Rites
Divulge, and lawless Love's Delights;
And, Pontiff-like, the City fill
With Secrets of th'Esquilian Hill?
Have I the Sisterhood in vain
Enrich'd, and brew'd the speedy Bane?—
By tardy Tortures thou shalt die,
And wear out Life in Misery.
With endless Thirst and Hunger prest,
The Sire of Pelops prays for Rest;
For Rest the Wretch pours forth his Prayers,
Whose Breast the clinging Vulture tears.
In vain the Stone's recoiling Weight
To settle on the Mountain's Height
Toils Sisyphus—for Jove has spoke,
Nor ever will the Doom revoke.

Headlong thou now shalt wish to leap
From some high Rock's tremendous Steep;
And now to perish by the Sword,
Or by the neck-encircling Cord;
Then shall the World in thy Distress
Canidia's dreaded Power confess—
Could I with Life the Dead inform,
Though burnt, with Life an Image warm,
Beheld by thy too curious Eyes;
Could I force Cynthia from the Skies,
And Philters mix to fire the Heart,
And shalt thou baffle all my Art?

The END of the Fifth Book.

THE SECULAR ODE.

By William Duncombe, Esq;

Choir of Youths and Virgins

Phœbus! and Cynthia o'er the Chace
Presiding; Heaven's eternal Grace!
Whom as past Times, the future shall adore,
Grant what, this sacred Season, we implore!

Now when the Sibyl's Lines command,
That Youths and Maids, a chosen Band!
Shall to the Gods, whom our seven Hills delight,
A choral Hymn alternately recite.

Choir of Youths.
Indulgent Sun! whose various Ray
Now spreads, and now withdraws the Day,
Another and the same; may Years to come
No Prospect yield thee more august than Rome!

Choir of Virgins.

Your Aid, mild Ilithyia, give
To Matrons, and their Pangs relieve;
Whether you chuse Lucina for your Name,
Or rather that of Genetyllis claim.

To pregnant Wives give large Increase;
The Laws that favour Wedlock bless,
Those Laws (ordain'd to multiply our Race)
Which Fathers with peculiar Honours grace.

Both Choirs.

Oft as th'allotted Term of Years
Returns, and a new Age appears,
May it restore such grateful Songs and Plays
Three shining Nights, and three distinguish'd Days

Ye Parcæ, whose resistless Will
Events infallibly fulfill;
Whose Word once spoke immutable shall last,
With future Blessings still improve the past.

Let Earth, with Corn and Flocks o'erspread,
Weave yellow Wreaths for Ceres' Head:
Let wholesome Streams, sweet Air, and grassy Food,
Cherish the Herds, the Flocks, and tender Brood.

Choir of Youths.
With Bow unstrung, and favouring Ear,
Kindly the suppliant Youths, Apollo! hear.

Choir of Virgins.
Horn'd Queen of Stars! the Maids attend,
Who to thy Throne, with humble Homage, bend.

Both Choirs.

If Rome was rear'd by your Command;
If Trojans sought th'Etruscan Land,
Enjoin'd by You to leave their native Shore,
And foreign Realms, with prosperous Course, explore;

Whom safely through devouring Flame,
The Chief, immortaliz'd by Fame,
Led to a fairer Soil, a happier Coast,
A nobler Empire than in Troy they lost:

Let Youth with Probity be blest!
To Age, ye Gods! give needful Rest;
And crown the Romans with a numerous Race,
With large Increase of Wealth, and every Grace!

Let Cæsar in his Vows succeed,
Who bids the milk-white Victims bleed;
Cæsar, who triumphs o'er his stubborn Foes,
But generous Mercy to the Suppliant shows.

The Mede now fears, by Sea and Land,
Th'Albanian Axe, and Cæsar's Hand:
Scythians, and Indians, late so haughty, wait
From Rome's rever'd Decrees to learn their Fate.

Now Honour, Truth, and ancient Shame,
And Peace, our savage Passions tame:
Virtue unveils her Face, secure from Scorn,
And Plenty scatters Fruits with plenteous Horn.

Choir of Youths.

The Prophet-God, with golden Bow,
Dear to the Nine, who well can show
The healing Power of every Herb and Plant,
And sprightly Health to languid Mortals grant;

If he survey with gracious Eye
His own high Towers, which pierce the Sky,
Will add fresh Glories to our envy'd Name,
And spread, from Age to Age, the Roman Fame!

Choir of Virgins.
Cynthia (ador'd on Aventine
And Algidus) with Looks benign
Regards these Rites; the priestly Vows receives,
And what we beg, with kind Indulgence gives.

Both Choirs.

EPILOGUE.

We, who have sung in sacred Lays
Apollo's and Diana's Praise,
Will home return with just Presage, that Jove
Allows our Prayers, and all the Powers above.

The END of the Secular Ode.

THE FIRST BOOK OF THE SATIRES OF HORACE.

Quatenus nobis denegatur diu vivere, relinquamus aliquid quo nos vixisse testemur. Αγαθη δ' ερις, quum invicem se mutuis exhortationibus amici ad amorem virtutis exacuunt. Plin. Epist. Lib. III. Epist. VII.

SATIRE I.

That all Men, and especially the Covetous, are discontented with their Lot.

Adapted to the Manners of the present Times. By I. P. SHARD, Esq;

Addressed to the Right Honourable The Earl of Corke and Orrery.

What is the Reason, none enjoy the State
In which they here are plac'd by Choice or Fate?
All their Condition, Orrery, bemoan,
And think another's happier than their own.
The Soldier, worn with Toil, with Years opprest,
Laments his Lot, and calls the Merchant blest.
When Billows roar, and stormy Winds arise,
The Soldier's Life is best, the Merchant cries;

He soon a speedy Death in Battle finds,
Or with fresh Laurels his glad Temples binds.
Wak'd by his Client ere the Dawn appears,
A Peasant's Life the Barrister prefers.
When by a Summons hurry'd up to Town,
Whate'er he sees delights the gaping Clown.
Fully to prove how all Mankind admire
Lots differing from their own, would Whitefield tire.
But to the Point, my Lord; you now shall hear,
From these Examples what I would infer.
Should some celestial Delegate be sent,
And say, I come to give you all Content;
‘Soldier, enjoy your Wish, no more repine;
‘Lawyer, the Peasant's envied Life be thine:
‘Let each assume the Lot, that best will please,
‘And quit his own: Retire—depart in Peace—
‘Why stand you thus? whence springs this strange Delay?
‘None will be blest, yet every Mortal may.’
Sure, Heaven, incens'd, no more will condescend,
To their next Suit, a gracious Ear to lend.
But to be grave, all jesting I decline,
Though Pleasantry with Truth one sure may join;

With Sweetmeats thus kind Parents strive to win
Children, when first their Hornbook they begin.
The subtle Lawyer, wrangling at the Bar,
Soldiers enur'd to the Fatigues of War,
The Hind, that ploughs the Land with so much Pain;
Sailors, who boldly venture o'er the Main;
All toil with this Pretence, to heap up Gold,
That from their Labour they may rest, when old;
All cite th'Example of the busy Ant,
Who lays up Stores against a Day of Want:
But she, more wise, when Clouds are big with Rain,
Ne'er stirs from home, but eats her hoarded Grain;
Whilst you defy the Cold, the scorching Sun,
Through Fire and Sword, through various Dangers run,
And sordid Lucre greedily pursue,
Lest any boast, they richer are than you.
What Joy can those vast Heaps of Gold afford,
Which under Ground, by stealth, you trembling hoard?
If touch'd, they soon will melt away, you fear;
But in an untouch'd Mass what Charms appear?
What if you thresh ten thousand Sacks of Grain,
Your Stomach will no more than mine contain.

Beneath his Basket though the Baker sweat,
He no more Bread, than you or I, can eat.
To those, whose Wants exceed not Nature's Bounds,
Ten are as good as twenty thousand Pounds.
You think it sweeter, though you take no more,
To take it from a great, than little Store.
Amply my little Barn my Wants supplies,
What can you more from your large Granaries?
You might as justly say, when you were dry,
And a transparent Fountain rose hard by,
From such a Spring I scorn my Thirst to slake,
No, let me quench it from yon spacious Lake.
Who eager more than what is needful craves,
If his Feet slip, is bury'd in the Waves;
Whilst the contented never fear the Flood,
But drink their Water pure, and free from Mud.
Led by false Notions, many we behold,
Who think their Merit's to be weigh'd by Gold.
What Answer shall we make to such as these?
Why let them be unhappy, if they please.
Thus the rich Miser, though the People hiss,
Applauds himself, and hugs his fancy'd Bliss;
Cries out, Laugh on; contented, I'm your Jest,
So I my Bags contemplate in my Chest,

When Tantalus, immers'd in Water, stood,
And with parch'd Lips catch'd at the flying Flood—
You smile, and stop me as I just began;
Change but the Name, you'll find yourself the Man:
Brooding you sit, and view with fond Delight
Your Bags, as Pictures only made for Sight;
But with religious Scruple you decline
To touch them, as you would a sacred Shrine.
No Worth intrinsic I in Gold perceive;
Value to Money Use alone can give:
With it plain Cloaths, and simple Food we buy,
And Nature's reasonable Wants supply.
For Dread of Fire, to lie whole Nights awake,
And, trembling, every Noise for Thieves to take;
With prying Jealousy to watch all Day,
Lest Servants plunder you, and run away;
If Riches Cares increase, in Mercy grant
That I such Blessings, Heaven, may ever want!
But, when attack'd by some severe Disease,
Gold will pay Watson's Bill and Wilmot's Fees;
All proper Means procure to save a Life,
Dear to my Friends, my Children, and my Wife.—

Nor Wife, nor Children, at your Death would grieve;
Not one, that knows you, wishes you to live:
When, to all other Things, you Gold prefer,
How can you think your Death deserves a Tear?
Without some kind Returns, we hope in vain
The Love of Friends and Kindred to retain;
This will our Skill and Pains as much surpass,
As, to the Bitt, to break the stubborn Ass.
Since you have treasur'd up so vast a Store,
Banish the Dread of e'er becoming poor.
Of Wealth superfluous quit the vain Pursuit,
Of your past Labours now enjoy the Fruit.
Short is the Story, which I here relate,
And learn to shun from thence Corbaccio's Fate.
Immensely rich, he went so meanly clad,
He wore no better Cloaths than Justice L---d;
What Nature call'd for, would himself deny,
And liv'd in Want, lest he for Want should die.

An Axe his Whore, a bold Virago, took,
And clove him to the Middle at one Stroke.
‘What! to turn Spendthrift then you me advise.’
Between the two Extremes a Medium lies;
And, though against the Miser I exclaim,
I likewise think the Prodigal to blame:
Strive not to blend Things, which by Nature clash,
E---s P---s differs from Beau Nash.
In every thing observe the golden Mean,
Virtue within fix'd Bounds is only seen.

Well, to resume the Thread of my Discourse,
Let none their Station think than others worse;
Just like the Miser, who, repining, views
The swelling Udders of his Neighbour's Ewes.
The greater Part, the poorer of the Train,
He overlooks, in his Pursuit of Gain;
But if he sees a richer Man before,
'Till he outstrips him, never will give o'er.
The Charioteer thus in the rapid Race
Lashes his Steeds to gain the foremost Place;

Presses on those before with eager Haste,
But disregards them, when he once is past.
This is the Reason, why so few are seen,
Who think their Station here has happy been;
Or, when the Feast of Life is o'er, retreat,
And quit, like a contented Guest, their Seat.

Enough for once; 'tis time I should desist,
Lest you suspect, that I'm turn'd Methodist.

SATIRE II. Omitted.

SATIRE III.
[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

That we ought to be indulgent to the Imperfections of our Friends, and not look on small Faults as Crimes.

All Songsters in this common Fault agree,
When ask'd to sing, they never will comply;
But, if unask'd, will sing from Morn till Night.
Such was Tigellius; for if Cæsar begg'd
A Song, by his own Friendship and his Sire's,
(Cæsar, who might command) he begg'd in vain.
But, when the Whim prevail'd, he then would chant,
All Supper-time, a Bacchanalian Song;
In Treble rise, or sink in solemn Base.
Never was Man so inconsistent: Now
Swift he would fly, as if a Foe pursu'd;

Then stalk majestic, like the Maids who bear
Great Juno's sacred Vessels to the Fane;
Oft had two hundred Slaves, and oft but ten.
Now big he talk'd of Tetrarchs and of Kings;
And now in humble Strain, ‘Grant me, ye Powers!
‘A three-legg'd Table and a Shell of Salt,
‘A Gown, though coarse, to guard me from the Cold.’
But give this frugal, this contented Man
Ten hundred thousand Sesterces; within
The Week, they will be spent. The jovial Night
He drinking past, and snor'd away the Day.
No Man was ever so unlike himself.
‘But have you then no Vices of your own?’
Yes, many; but, I hope, not quite so great.
When Mænius rail'd at Novius; hold! says one,
Do you not know yourself? or do you think
Your Character unknown to Us? I know,
Said he, but am indulgent to my Faults.
This blind Self-love deserves to be rebuk'd.
Why are you Eagle-ey'd, to spy the Faults
Your Friends commit, but over-look your own?

The Consequence is this; your Friends, in turn,
Will as minutely search, and censure yours.
‘He is a little peevish, and ill-bred,’
You say, ‘nor can converse with Men of Wit.
‘And who but smiles to see that awkward Dress,
‘His Beard ill shav'd, the Wideness of his Shoe,
‘Unsuited to his Foot.’ Suppose all this;
The Man is worthy; not a worthier lives;
A Friend to you; and, hid beneath that Case,
Rude as it is, a noble Genius lies.
Examine well yourself; see with what Faults
Nature or Habit has deprav'd your Mind;
For Fern, or Brambles, fit alone to feed
The Flames, will over-run th'uncultur'd Field.
The Lover's Eye his Fair-one's Blemishes
O'er-looks, or thinks those Blemishes a Grace:
Balbinus ev'n admires his Hagne's Wen.
O! could we thus in Friendship kindly err,
Virtue would, sure, adopt the generous Fault.
Let us, indulgent to our Friends Defects,
As gently treat them, as a Sire his Child.
What you would call a Squint, he calls a Leer;
Is he, like Sisyphus, a lumpish Elf,

He's then his Puppet, and his tiny Joy.
With Legs distorted should he walk, he limps.
Pursue this Rule in common with your Friends.
Call one, that's covetous, a thrifty Man.
Is he impertinent, and full of Words?
Say, he is free, and strives to entertain.
If haughty, say, he's open and sincere.
If passionate, he is, perhaps, too warm.
This, if I judge aright, will Friends procure,
And bind them to us in the Links of Love.
But we misconstrue ev'n their best Designs,
And brand their Virtues with the Name of Vice.
Suppose our Friend a modest, humble Man;
We call him dull, insensible and cold.
But is he always on his Guard, to shun
Each subtle Snare; as living in an Age,
Where Calumny and Envy keen prevail;
Whom we should deem discreet, we crafty style.
If one, unpolish'd in the Graces' School,
(Such as, with conscious Shame, I freely own,
Mæcenas, I am often found by you)
With idle Chat breaks in upon his Friend
Reading or thoughtful; with a Sneer we cry,

The Fellow's mad, and void of common Sense.
Alas! how rashly we condemn ourselves:
The Seeds of Vice spring up with every Man;
Happy! whose Faults are of the lightest kind.
A Friend well-natur'd (as is fit) should weigh,
In equal Scales, my Habits bad and good,
(If he himself desires to be belov'd)
And, if the last prevail, incline to those.
In the same Scales his Worth shall then be try'd.
Can you expect your Hump shall not offend
Your Friend, yet cavil at his freckled Face?
One, who needs Pardon, ought to give it too.
But now, since we can never wholly quell
Anger, and other Vices, in the Soul
Deep fix'd, her Beam let steady Reason hold,
And, in exact Proportion to th'Offence,
Award the Punishment. Suppose your Slave,
When bid to clear the Table, should devour
The broken Fish, and guzzle down the Soup,
If you command him to be crucify'd,
All sober Men will justly think you mad.
But wears not your Offence a deeper Dye,
And savours more of Madness? some slight Fault

Is charg'd upon your Friend; should he not meet
With your Indulgence, well may you be deem'd
Unkind and cruel; but, instead of That,
You hate and shun him, as from Ruso flies
His wretched Debtor, who, unless he pays
The Loan, or Interest, at th'appointed Hour,
Seiz'd at the harpy Plaintiff's Suit, must hear
The tedious Scroll, and hie away to Jail.
Perhaps my Friend in Liquor stain'd my Couch,
Or from the Table threw an antique Vase,
Wrought by Evander's Hands; or from my Plate,
Hungry, a Chicken snatch'd; does this deserve
Resentment? What if he had robb'd me, broke
His Word, nor would th'entrusted Pledge restore?
They who maintain all Vices are alike
Faulter, when try'd at Truth's impartial Bar.
Against this Doctrine, Sense and Law reclaim,
And public Good, the Source of Just and Right.
When every living Thing first crept from Earth,
Mankind, a dumb and wretched Herd, with Nails

And Fists for Caverns and for Acorns fought,
Their common Food; and afterwards with Clubs;
And then with Arms, which Use at length had forg'd.
Thus Discord reign'd, till Names to Things they gave,
And Words invented, to express their Thoughts.
Then Rapine ceas'd, and Cities then they built,
And fortify'd with Walls; and Laws ordain'd
From Dread of Injuries, or to prevent,
Or punish Robbers, Thieves, Adulterers.
For long ere Helen liv'd, debasing Lust
Has been the Cause of War; but all have died
Unknown, who fell by stronger Brutes. The Bull,
By Force alone, thus lords it o'er the Kine.
If you consult the Annals of the World,
Fear of Injustice, you must needs allow,
Gave Rise to Laws; for Nature cannot Right
From Wrong discern, though, taught by her, we know
To shun things hurtful, and pursue the good.
Reason can never prove, that one who robs
The sacred Temples of the Gods by Night,
Is guilty of no greater Crime, than he
Who steals a Cabbage from his Neighbour's Grounds.

Then let the Law adapt to every Crime
Its proper Pain; nor one with Scourges flay,
Whose slighter Fault deserves the Switch alone;
For that you'll err upon the milder Side,
Cannot, I think, be fear'd; since you maintain
Theft is as great a Crime as Sacrilege;
And threaten, if you were a King, to lop
Both great and smaller Faults with equal Hook.
If your wise Man is rich, and knows all Arts;
If he alone is handsome, and a King;
Why wish you then for what you now possess?
Stoic.
You understand not what Chrysippus says;
Though the wise Man nor Shoe nor Sandal frame,
Yet still he is a skilful Shoemaker.

Horace.
Inform me how.

Stoic.
Just as Hermogenes
Is said in Song and Music to excell,
Though he nor plays, nor sings: This, sure, you'll own;
And though Alfenus' Shop be shut, and all
His Razors sold, he is a Barber still.

So the wise Man is skill'd in every Trade,
As soon as wise; the best Artificer:
And thus he is a King.

Horace.

Beware! beware!
For should you teach, O mighty King of Kings!
This Doctrine in the Streets, the hooting Boys
Will gather round, and pluck you by the Beard;
In vain you'll snarl, and burst yourself with Spleen,
Unless you drive 'em from you with your Staff.

But to conclude; while You, my Royal Sir,
Bathe for a Groat; and in your Equipage
No other Guard than vain Crispinus boast,
My Friends indulgent will excuse my Faults,
And I will pardon theirs—Thus shall I live
A happier private Man, than You a King.

SATIRE IV.

He excuses the Liberty taken by Writers of Satire, and especially that which he takes himself.

The comic Poets of the Grecian Stage,
Who form'd the rising Manners of the Age,
Dar'd Murder, Theft, Adultery, to blame,
Nor fear'd notorious Criminals to name.
The same free Spirit in Lucilius reigns,
The Metre chang'd; but careless are his Strains,
And rough his Diction. 'Twas his chief Delight
Two hundred Verses in an Hour to write.
Through Indolence he never could sustain
The Toil of writing; writing well I mean:
For writing much can claim no Share of Praise.
But see! Crispinus dares me. ‘Take, he says,
‘Pen, Ink, and Paper, and the Task be thine,
‘Both Time, and Place, and Keepers to assign;

‘Then see which of us two can write the most.’
Horace.

I, Thanks to Heaven, an humble Spirit boast;
Little I speak, and seldom. You may blow
Your swelling Bellows, 'till the Metals grow
Plyant and soft. Fannius in Phœbus' Shrine
Can place his Bust and Poems: None read mine;
And public Repetition much I fear,
Because so few can honest Satire bear.

Take whom you please, his Mind some Passion sways,
And Avarice or Ambition he obeys.
One doats on Boys, and Matrons one admires:
This likes a Silver Vase, while That desires
Corinthian Brass; from Climes where dawns the Day
To Regions warm'd beneath the setting Ray,
This wafts his Wares, and through all Dangers flies,
Like Clouds of Dust when rapid Whirlwinds rise,
To add more Wealth to his abundant Store:
All these hate Verses much, the Poet more.
‘Fly, fly betimes; avoid th'unmuzzled Bear!
‘Fly, or he'll rend you. Never does he spare

‘A Friend, to vent his Jest; and then all Eyes,
‘Old Women, Boys, must read him, or he dies.’

Briefly my Answer hear. A Poet's Name
First be assur'd I never dar'd to claim;
That Name must justly be to those deny'd,
Whose Verse, like mine, to Prose is near ally'd.
His be that Name alone, whose lofty Line
Breathes lofty Thoughts, and boasts a Flame divine.

Hence some refuse a Poem's Name to grant
To Comedy, since that must surely want,
Both in the Words and Theme, the vivid Force
To Poetry essential; from Discourse
By Verse alone distinguish'd. 'Tis reply'd,
In swelling Terms an angry Sire may chide
His spendthrift Son, who madly will refuse
A Wife well-portion'd, and a Mistress chuse,
Or from the Tavern reel in open Day,
By Torch-light through the Streets. To this I say,
Would not Pomponius from his Father hear,
Were he alive, Reproaches as severe?

'Tis not enough that we a Verse compose
Of Words correct, in which, reduc'd to Prose,

100

A Father might in Converse vent his Rage
No less than angry Demea on the Stage.

If from the Verses which I now indite,
Or those which old Lucilius us'd to write,
The Feet and stated Measure you should take,
And of the Words the first the last should make,
Changing the Order, you would seek in vain
The Poet's scatter'd Limbs. But in this Strain,
‘When Discord fell the Bolts and brazen Gates
‘Of War had burst,’ invert it as you will,
The Soul of Poetry informs it still.

Enough of this. Some future Work shall show
If Comedies are Poems. I would know
Why my satiric Lays your Heart appall?
When Caprius hoarse and Sulcius through the Hall
With their long Libels walk, though conscious Fear
Betrays the Thief, yet he, whose Hands are clear
And innocent of Theft, may both defy.
Though had you, Byrrhus-like, to Robbery
Been long addicted; an Informer's Trade
I never follow'd; why are you afraid?
No Book of mine on Shops or Pillars stands
To Sale, nor is it soil'd by vulgar Hands,

101

Or by Tigellius read. I but repeat
To Friends, who force me; not to all I meet.
Some in the crowded Forum read their Verse;
Some in the sweetly-echoing Bath rehearse,
Careless of Time and Place. ‘But what you write
‘Pale Envy prompts; in Slander you delight.’
Will those support this Charge who know me well?
Will those condemn me, amongst whom I dwell?

Whoe'er can slyly scoff an absent Friend,
Or, when he's slander'd, dares not to defend;
Who, pleas'd with lawless Laughter, for the Name
Of Droll, can trifle with his Neighbour's Fame,
What he ne'er saw invent, nor hide things seen,
Of him beware! for Baseness lurks within.

Oft is a Table crown'd with many a Guest,
Where one with Freedom jokes on all the rest,
Except his Host; nor even him he spares,
The Heart when Truth-revealing Bacchus bares.
Though Foe to Vice, yet at his Mirth you smile,
While if my Muse this Man, in humorous Style,
A Goat, and that a Civet-Cat should call,
In Me 'tis Envy, and Detraction all.

If Mention of Petillius' Theft is made,
While you are by, you strait, as usual, plead

102

His Cause. ‘I with his Friendship have been blest,
‘Ev'n from his Childhood; and, at my Request,
‘He did me many a Favour. I rejoice
‘To see him safe, but wonder how the Voice
‘Of Justice could acquit him.’ Envy's Weed
Thus shoots unseen, and choaks fair Friendship's Seed.
But for myself to answer, I declare,
With solemn Truth, no Sentence so severe
As this, my Mind, much less my Paper, stains.
But you'll not wonder if in freer Strains
I rally Vice: Since thus my Sire his Son
Instructed by Example, how to shun
The Shelves, on which the Dissolute were lost:
When he advis'd me how to make the most
Of all that he could leave me, he would cry,
‘Mark Albius' Son! see Barus' Misery!
‘Shun their Profusion, if their Fate you dread.’
To warn me from the Harlot's dangerous Bed,
He only would repeat Sectanus' Name:
And that I should not court the wedded Dame,
When I with lawful Pleasures might be blest,
‘Trebonius's Detection was no Jest.

103

‘The Grounds of Good and Evil, when you grow
‘To riper Years, Philosophers will show;
‘Enough for me, Youth's Ardour to restrain
‘By our wise Fathers' Precepts; and maintain
‘Your Life unsully'd, and your Fame secure,
‘While you a Tutor need; when once mature
‘In Age you grow, you'll safely walk alone.’
Such tender Care was by my Father shown!
And that his Words due Influence might receive,
‘Like such a Man, he cry'd, respected live!’
Then to deter me, ‘Can you hope to claim,
‘By Deeds like these, a good and virtuous Name?
‘If so, that Convict place before your Eyes,
‘Whom all that know, abandon and despise.’

As when a Glutton's Funeral passes near,
Abstemious grows the Patient, chill'd with Fear;
So from the Shame, which Knavery pursues,
The tender Mind such Crimes with Horror views.
Thus uninfected by great Faults, I own
My Guilt in those of lesser Kind alone;
And some of these, as I by Years improve,
A Friend, or my own Reason, may remove:
For thus I love to commune with my Heart,
Reposing on my Couch; or when, apart

104

From Company, I rove; ‘Yes, That is right;
‘This must endear me, and my Friends delight.
‘How base was that Man's Conduct! Flaccus, fly
‘From Crimes like these, replete with Infamy.’
Thus with close Lips; but when a vacant Hour
Tempts me to steal into the Muses' Bower,
To Paper I commit my idle Thoughts.
This may be rank'd among my lesser Faults;
But should they for your Pardon plead in vain,
I strait will summon to my Aid a Train
Of Bards, a numerous Race; and, like the Jews,
To draw you to our Sect, we Force will use.

J. D.

107

SATIRE V.

A humorous Description of the Author's Journey from Rome to Brundusium.

By William Cowper, Esq;

'Twas a long Journey lay before us,
When I and honest Heliodorus,
(Who far in Point of Rhetoric
Surpasses every living Greek),
Each leaving our respective Home,
Together sally'd forth from Rome.

First at Aricia we alight,
And there refresh, and pass the Night.
Our Entertainment? rather coarse
Than sumptuous, but I've met with worse.

Thence o'er the Causeway, soft and fair,
To Appii-forum we repair.
But as this Road is well supply'd
(Temptation strong!) on either Side

108

With Inns commodious, snug and warm,
We split the Journey, and perform
In two Days time, what's often done
By brisker Travellers in one.

Here rather chusing not to sup
Than with bad Water mix my Cup,
After a warm Debate, in spite
Of a provoking Appetite,
I sturdily resolve at last
To balk it, and pronounce a Fast;
And, in a moody Humour, wait
While my less dainty Comrades bait.

Now o'er the spangled Hemisphere
Diffus'd, the starry Train appear,
When there arose a desperate Brawl;
The Slaves and Bargemen, one and all,
Rending their Throats (have Mercy on us!)
As if they were resolv'd to stun us.
‘Steer the Barge this Way to the Shore!
‘I tell you, we'll admit no more—
‘Plague! will you never be content!’
Thus a whole Hour at least is spent,
While they receive the several Fares,
And kick the Mule into his Gears.

109

Happy! these Difficulties past,
Could we have fall'n asleep at last;
But, what with humming, croaking, biting,
Gnats, Frogs, and all their Plagues uniting,
These tuneful Natives of the Lake
Conspir'd to keep us broad awake.
Besides, to make the Concert full,
Two maudlin Wights, exceeding dull,
The Bargeman and a Passenger,
Each in his Turn essay'd an Air
In Honour of his absent Fair.
At length, the Passenger, opprest
With Wine, left off, and snor'd the rest.
The weary Bargeman too gave o'er,
And, hearing his Companion snore,
Seiz'd the Occasion, fix'd the Barge,
Turn'd out his Mule to graze at large,
And slept, forgetful of his Charge.

And now the Sun, o'er Eastern Hill,
Discover'd that our Barge stood still;
When one, whose Anger vex'd him sore,
With Malice fraught, leaps quick on Shore;
Plucks up a Stake; with many a Thwack
Assails the Mule and Driver's Back.

110

Then, slowly moving on, with Pain,
At ten, Feronia's Stream we gain,
And in her pure and glassy Wave
Our Hands and Faces gladly lave.
Climbing three Miles, fair Anxur's Height
We reach, with stony Quarries white.

While here, as was agreed, we wait,
'Till, charg'd with Business of the State,
Mæcenas and Cocceius come,
(The Messengers of Peace) from Rome;
My Eyes, by watry Humours blear
And sore, I with black Balsam smear.
At length they join us, and with them
Our worthy Friend Fonteius came;
A Man of such complete Desert,
Antony lov'd him at his Heart.

At Fundi we refus'd to bait,
And laugh'd at vain Aufidius' State;
A Prætor now (a Scribe before)
The purple-border'd Robe he wore;
His Slave the smoking Censer bore.

Tir'd, at Muræna's we repose
At Formia; sup at Capito's.

111

With Smiles the rising Morn we greet;
At Sinuessa pleas'd to meet
With Plotius, Varius, and the Bard,
Whom Mantua first with Wonder heard.
The World no purer Spirits knows,
For none my Heart more warmly glows.
O what Embraces we bestow'd,
And with what Joy our Breasts o'erflow'd!
Sure, while my Sense is sound and clear,
Long as I live, I shall prefer
A gay, good-natur'd, easy Friend
To every Blessing Heaven can send!

At a small Village, the next Night,
Near the Vulturnus we alight;
Where, as employ'd on State Affairs,
We were supply'd by the Purvey'rs
Frankly at once, and without Hire,
With Food for Man and Horse, and Fire.

Capua, next Day, betimes we reach,
Where Virgil and myself, who each

112

Labour'd with different Maladies,
His such a Stomach, mine such Eyes,
As would not bear strong Exercise,
In drowsy Mood to Sleep resort;
Mæcenas to the Tennis-court.

Next at Cocceius' Farm we're treated,
Above the Caudian Tavern seated;
His kind and hospitable Board
With Choice of wholesome Fare was stor'd.

Now, O ye Nine, inspire my Lays;
To nobler Themes my Fancy raise!
Two Combatants, who scorn to yield
The noisy Tongue-disputed Field,
Sarmentus and Cicirrus, claim
A Poet's Tribute to their Fame.
Cicirrus, of true Oscian Breed;
Sarmentus, who was never freed,
But ran away; we don't defame him;
His Lady lives, and still may claim him.
Thus dignify'd, in hardy Fray
These Champions their keen Wit display;
And first Sarmentus led the Way:

113

‘Thy Locks, quoth he, so rough and coarse,
‘Look like the Mane of some wild Horse.’
We laugh.—Cicirrus, undismay'd,
‘Have at you,’ cries; and shakes his Head.—
‘'Tis well, Sarmentus says, you've lost
‘That Horn, your Forehead once could boast,
‘Since, maim'd and mangled as you are,
‘You seem to butt.’—A hideous Scar
Improv'd, 'tis true, with double Grace
The native Horrors of his Face.
Well, after much jocosely said
Of his grim Front, so fiery red,
For Carbuncles had blotch'd it o'er,
As usual on Campania's Shore;
‘Give us, he cry'd, since you're so big,
‘A Sample of the Cyclops' Jig;
‘Your Shanks, methinks, no Buskins ask,
‘Nor does your Phyz require a Mask.’
To this Cicirrus: ‘In return,
‘Of you, Sir, now I fain would learn
‘When 'twas (no longer deem'd a Slave)
‘Your Chains you to the Lares gave?
‘For though a Scrivener's Right you claim,
‘Your Lady's Title is the same.

114

‘But what could make you run away,
‘Since, Pygmy as you are, each Day
‘A single Pound of Bread would quite
‘O'erpower your puny Appetite.’

Thus jok'd the Champions, while we laugh'd,
And many a chearful Bumper quaff'd.

To Beneventum next we steer,
Where our good Host, by over-care
In roasting Thrushes, lean as Mice,
Had almost fall'n a Sacrifice.
The Kitchen soon was all on Fire,
And to the Roof the Flames aspire.
There might you see each Man and Master
Striving, amidst this sad Disaster,
To save the Supper—then they came
With Speed enough to quench the Flame.

From hence we first at Distance see
Th'Apulian Hills, well known to Me,
Parch'd by the sultry Western Blast,
And which we never should have past,
Had not Trivicus, by the Way,
Receiv'd us at the Close of Day:

115

But each was forc'd, at entering here,
To pay the Tribute of a Tear;
For more of Smoke than Fire was seen,
The Hearth was pil'd with Logs so green.

From hence in Chaises we were carry'd
Miles twenty-four, and gladly tarry'd
At a small Town, whose Name my Verse
(So barbarous is it!) can't rehearse.
Know it you may by many a Sign;
Water is dearer far than Wine;
Their Bread is deem'd such dainty Fare,
That every prudent Traveller
His Wallet loads with many a Crust;
For, at Canusium, you might just
As well attempt to gnaw a Stone,
As think to get one Morsel down.
That too with scanty Streams is fed:
Its Founder was brave Diomed.
Good Varius (ah! that Friends must part!)
Here left us all with aching Heart.

At Rubi we arriv'd that Day,
Well jaded by the Length of Way;

116

And sure poor Mortals ne'er were wetter.
Next Day, no Weather could be better,
No Roads so bad; we scarce could crawl
Along to fishy Barium's Wall.

Th'Egnatians next, who, by the Rules
Of Common-sense, are Knaves or Fools,
Made all our Sides with Laughter heave;
Since we with them must needs believe
That Incense in their Temples burns,
And, without Fire, to Ashes turns.
To Circumcision's Bigots tell
Such Tales. For Me, I know full well
That in high Heaven, unmov'd by Care,
The Gods eternal Quiet share;
Nor can I deem their Spleen the Cause
Why fickle Nature breaks her Laws.

Brundusium last we reach, and there
Stop short the Muse and Traveller.

124

SATIRE VI. To Mæcenas. The Qualities of true Nobility.

Inscribed to the Earl of CORKE.

What tho' no Lydian, on Etruria's Coasts,
A nobler Birth than you, Mæcenas, boasts;
What though to Chiefs, who Legions us'd to guide,
Each of your generous Parents was ally'd,
Yet you ne'er scoff, like most of high Degree,
Those meanly born, or Freed-men's Sons, like Me;
Since you're convinc'd, no matter how obscure
Our Parents, if our Morals are but pure;
Persuaded, that ere Tullius reign'd, there liv'd
Many, who, though from Vulgar Stem deriv'd,
Were yet as high in Honours as in Worth;
While to Lævinus (though he trac'd his Birth
From fam'd Valerius' Race, who from the Throne
Expell'd proud Tarquin) no Regard is shown

125

By the rude Multitude, who yet, you know,
Oft, on the Worthless, Honours will bestow,
Led by false Notions; and with wondering Eyes
High-sounding Titles and old Statues prize.
How should those act, who from the vulgar Train
Notions so widely different entertain?
Yet grant they rather would Lævinus chuse,
And Decius, of ignoble Birth, refuse,
And grant that Appius would reject my Plea,
Since from a Father sprung, who was not free;
(And justly since I chose not to remain
In my own Sphere) yet Glory in her Chain
Drags both the noble and the vulgar Crew
Behind her shining Chariot—What to You,
Tillius, avail'd it, that again you wore
Your Robe, and Tribunitial Honours bore?
Hence Envy rose, which in a private State
Was less—When one is chosen to the Weight
Of Senatorial Duty, all enquire
‘Who is this Senator, and what his Sire?’
For as the Fop, who studies to compare
With beauteous Barrus, and be thought as fair,
Will hear the Girls enquire, in every Place,
What are his Teeth, his Hair, his Legs, his Face.

126

So if you swear to guard, with watchful Eye,
The Roman People, City, Italy,
And Temples of the Gods, all seek to know
Your Birth if You to vulgar Parents owe.
Shall a Slave's Son from the Tarpeian Hill
Presume to throw, or bid the Lictor kill
A free-born Roman? But you say, ‘To Me
‘Novius, my Collegue, yields by one Degree:
‘He and my Sire are just as mean by Birth.’
This then, you think, will give you equal Worth
With noblest Senators—But in the Street
Should Cars two hundred, and three Funerals meet,
Novius, you know, would raise his Voice more loud
Than Trumpets, Horns, and all the jarring Crowd.
This to the Populace gives great Content,
And is esteem'd a vast Accomplishment.

To my own Story now again attend,
Whom all, because Mæcenas is my Friend,
Now view with Looks of Envy, as before,
Because a Roman Tribune's Charge I bore.
Far different this. My Station might, indeed,
With specious Plea the Flame of Envy feed;
Not so your Friendship. You with that, 'tis known,
(Such is your Care) the worthless never crown,

127

And scorn Intruders—No one can pretend,
That Fortune's Favour gave me such a Friend.

Virgil long since, then Varius too declar'd
My Character—And when I first appear'd
Before you, short and faultering was my Speech,
(For Modesty an Infant's Part will teach)
I never said, that round my Fields I rode
On ambling Steed, and no great Lineage show'd;
But told you who I was. You little said,
As usual—I departed—But obey'd,
In nine Months time, your Summons to attend,
From thence distinguish'd by the Name of Friend.
Proud that discerning Judgment to delight,
Which nicely marks the Bounds of Wrong and Right,
Not by a noble Birth, but worthy Mind.

If, save some lesser Faults, you in me find
No grand Defects (as, in the fairest Face,
Some Moles, some Pimples, we perchance may trace);
If I with Justice can the Charge deny
Of sordid Manners, Lust, Debauchery;
And if, (to praise myself) by many a Friend
I live belov'd, nor knowingly offend,

128

Thanks to the Prudence of my Sire I owe:
Though small his Farm, he chose not I should go
To Flavius' School, where great Centurions sent
Their Sons, who with their Slates and Pencils went,
And Satchel cramm'd with Books, and could account
How high would Interest every Month amount.

To Rome itself he boldly brought his Boy,
Such Studies to pursue, as might employ
The Sons of Knights or Senators; and those,
Who saw my Dress and Servants, might suppose
That from an ancient family Estate,
I drew Supplies for an Expence so great.
Himself, the best of Tutors, kept his Eye
O'er all my Teachers, and was ever nigh.
Hence Modesty I learnt, the very Grace
Of Virtue: Hence, I learnt, of all that's base
To be in Thought no less than Action clear.
Nor did he from the World Reproaches fear,
Because he taught his Son no gainful Trade,
Nor, like himself, a Tax-Collector made.

Hence from my Tongue (Complaints apart) must flow
The grateful Praises I so justly owe;

129

Nor shall I, while my Mind is sound, lament
My Birth, though mean, or of my Sire repent,
Or urge in my Behalf that vulgar Plea,
That though my Parents were not rich, or free,
'Twas not my Fault—Opinions I retain
Quite the reverse: For could past Years again
Return, and might we other Parents chuse,
Contented with my own, I would refuse
Those whom the Consulship and Ivory Seat
Adorn; sure from each vulgar Tongue to meet
Reproach; but not from yours, that I a State
So high decline, unequal to the Weight.
Far greater Riches I should then require,
Must make more Friends, and more Attendants hire;
Never must move without a servile Train;
Chariots must purchase, Slaves and Steeds maintain.

Now to Tarentum, when I please I ride
On a cropt Mule; my Spurs indent her Side,
My Wallet galls her Back; yet I disclaim
Avarice, like that, which all in Tillius blame,
When he, though Prætor, on the Road five Boys
To bear his Wine and Utensils employs.

Hence, noble Senator, I taste more Ease
Than You and thousands more—Where'er I please

130

Alone I walk; the Price of Barley know,
Or Herbs; to the deceitful Circus go
At Evening Hours, or through the Forum roam,
And hear the Augurs; then returning home,
Sup on Leek-Broth, and with delicious Beet
Regale; three Boys attend me while I eat.
My Marble Slab a Beaker and a Brace
Of Glasses holds: Next stands a vulgar Vase,
A Bason and a Cup, Campanian Ware.
I then to Bed retire, devoid of Care,
Since in the Morn I need not early rise
To visit Marsyas, whose disdainful Eyes
Scarce bear the younger Novius in their Sight.
'Till ten I lie. When drest, walk forth, or write,
Or with a Book my leisure Hours beguile.
Then for the Games anoint; not with that Oyl
Of which the Lamps vile Natta us'd to cheat—
The Martian Field, or Tennis, forc'd by Heat,
Glad I forsake, and to the Bath retreat.
I with a slight Repaste my Stomach stay,
Trifling at home the Afternoon away.

Such are the idle Comforts that I share;
But, free from all the Weight of public Care,

131

More happy am I in this humble State,
Than if my Sire had fill'd the Quæstor's Seat.

J. D.

THE SATIRES AND EPISTLES By Several Hands.

Quatenus nobis denegatur diu vivere, relinquamus aliquid quo nos vixisse testemur. Α, quum invicem se mutuis exhortationibus amici ad amorem virtutis exacuunt. Plin. Epist. Lib. III. Epist. VII

136

SATIRE VII.

An Account of a wrangling Quarrel between Persius and Rupilius King.

How Persius on Rupilius King,
Proscrib'd by Cæsar, dar'd to fling
His own rank Venom, I suppose
Each paltry Quack and Barber knows.

Persius had long to Clazomene
Profusely dealt; as long had been
In wrangling Suits with King engag'd;
Was bold and arrogant; and rag'd
So loud, that not to such a Pitch
Could Barrus or Sisenna reach.

In vain had many Attempts been try'd
To make their choleric Blood subside.
At length on Asia's wealthy Shore
When Brutus held Prætorian Power,

137

Our Champions met; so match'd, as brought
Bacchius and Bithus to our Thought.
When Warriors fight of equal Fame,
Death only can decide their Claim.
For, spite of Reason, each Pretence
Is justify'd by Insolence.
Hector and Peleus' Son contended,
And but with Life their Contest ended.
But when two, struck with Coward Dread,
Or (Glaucus-like with Diomed)
When Chiefs of Strength unequal meet,
The weakest buys a safe Retreat.

Into the Hall with lowering Mien
They rush'd; such Objects ne'er were seen.

Persius unfolds the Cause; much Sport
Ensues; with Laughter rings the Court.
He loads with many an Eulogy
Brutus, and all his Army: He
Is Asia's Sun; his Chiefs, he says,
Are Stars of most propitious Rays:
Save King; he, Terror to the Swain,
Like the fierce Dog-Star burns the Plain.
Swift roll'd his Speech; as, through a Wood,
Resistless rolls a wintry Flood.

138

Th'Italian then with equal Glee
Reply'd, in foul-mouth'd Ribaldry;
Such as in Vineyards reigns among
The Gatherers, whose opprobrious Tongue
Is sure to hoot each Passer-by,
With Cuckow, Cuckow, as they fly.
Language so coarse at length inflames
Persius' Resentment—He exclaims,
‘O Brutus, by each Power above
‘I beg, that, for thy Country's Love,
‘Thou, to whose Sires such Glory springs
‘From rooting out the Race of Kings,
‘Wilt now, like them, deliver Rome,
‘And let a Rope be this King's Doom.’

J. D.

141

SATIRE VIII.

Priapus's Complaint against the Witches, who infested the Hill of Esquiliæ.

Of old, a Fig-tree (useless Wood!)
Was I; when long the Joiner stood
Debating, if to make of Me
A Joint-stool, or a Deity:
At length the latter he preferr'd;
Hence (Terror to each Thief and Bird)
Priapus' threatening Form I wear;
The Club that in my Hand I bear,
And my red Stake the Robbers dread;
While the Reed, waving on my Head,
From Birds this new-made Garden frees,
Though Fruits hang tempting on the Trees.

Of old, the Carcasses of Knaves,
Buffoons and Rakes, their Fellow-Slaves

142

Bore hither in a paltry Chest;
Each in a narrow Cell to rest.
That Stone a Witness has remain'd
The Field one thousand Feet contain'd
In Front; three hundred in the Rear;
Sequester'd from the lawful Heir.

Now we may range th'Esquilian Grove,
And o'er the Hill enraptur'd rove,
Where, with Concern, we lately view'd
The Ground with Bones unseemly strew'd.

But neither Thieves nor Beasts of Prey,
Which here of old in Ambush lay,
Such Tumults in my Breast excite,
As those vile Hags, who here delight
Distraction in the Mind to raise
By venom'd Drugs and magic Lays.

Nor can I these destroy or chase,
But, when at Night her comely Face
Bright Cynthia rears, with Shrieks and Groans
They gather baleful Herbs and Bones.

These Eyes Canidia's Form have seen,
Stalking, with pale terrific Mien,

143

In sable Robe upgirt; her Hair,
Dishevell'd, flow'd; her Feet were bare;
Her Sister Sagana was there:
Their Screams re-echo'd all around,
While with their Nails they scoop'd the Ground,
And, with their Teeth, in Pieces tore
A sable Lamb; the reeking Gore
Distill'd into the Trench; a Spell,
To call the shadowy Ghosts from Hell,
And faithful Answers to compell!

Thither they brought two Images,
Of Wool was one; the other less,
Of Wax; the Woollen, large and tall,
Severely scourg'd the Waxen small;
Which, dreading Death by horrid Pain,
Suppliant for Pity pray'd in vain.

This Beldam calls on Hecatè,
And That on dire Tisiphonè.
Snakes too and Hell-hounds might be seen;
To shun which Sight, with modest Mien,
The Moon, retiring, made a Gloom,
Skulking behind a spacious Tomb.

May Ravens mute upon my Head,
And Julius, and such Scoundrels, spread

144

Their Ordure round me, if I lye!
But Time would fail me should I try
Each Prank to tell, how, shrill or hoarse,
The Hags and Spectres held Discourse;
Or how the Fangs of speckled Snake,
And a Wolf's Beard, by Stealth they take,
And bury; how a magic Blaze
On the small waxen Image preys;
Or how, to their eternal Dread,
I wreak'd my Vengeance on their Head.

Loud as a Bladder bursts asunder,
I rattled my posterior Thunder.
Strait to the Town they fled away;
What Mirth must rise at such Dismay!
Her borrow'd Teeth Canidia lost,
And Sagana no more could boast
Her Tower of Hair; from off their Arms
Th'enchanted Bracelets dropt; the Charms
And Spells lay fruitless on the Ground;
Their Herbs were scatter'd all around.

J. D.

147

SATIRE IX.

The Description of an Impertinent. Adapted to the present Times.

By W. C. Esq;

Saunt'ring along the Street, one Day,
On Trifles musing by the Way,
Up steps a free familiar Wight,
(I scarcely knew the Man by Sight)
‘Carlos (he cry'd) your Hand, my Dear—
‘Gad! I rejoice to meet you here;
‘Pray Heaven I see you well!’—So, so,
E'en well enough, as Times now go;
The same good Wishes, Sir, to you.
Finding he still pursu'd me close—
Sir, you have Business, I suppose:—
‘My Business, Sir, is quickly done,
‘'Tis but to make my Merit known;—
‘Sir, I have read’—O learned Sir!
You, and your Reading, I revere—

148

Then, sweating with Anxiety,
And sadly longing to get free,
Gods! how I scamper'd, scuffled for't,
Ran, halted, ran again—stopp'd short—
Beckon'd my Boy, and pull'd him near,
And whisper'd—nothing in his Ear.

Teaz'd with his loose unjointed Chat—
‘What Street is this? Whose House is that?’
O Harlow! how I envy'd thee
Thy unabash'd Effrontery,
Who dar'st a Foe with Freedom blame,
And call a Coxcomb by his Name.

When I return'd him Answer none,
Obligingly the Fool ran on—
‘I see you're dismally distress'd,
‘Would give the World to be releas'd,
‘But, by your Leave, Sir! I shall still
‘Stick to your Skirts, do what you will—
‘Pray which Way does your Journey tend?’
O! 'tis a tedious Way, my Friend—
Across the Thames, the Lord knows where,
I would not trouble you so far.
‘Well, I'm at Leisure to attend you’—
Are you? (thought I) the De'el befriend you!—

149

No Ass with double Panniers rack'd,
Oppress'd, o'erladen, broken-back'd,
E'er look'd a thousandth Part so dull
As I, nor half so like a Fool.
‘Sir, I know little of myself,
(Proceeds the pert conceited Elf)
‘If Gray or Mason you will deem
‘Than Me, more worthy your Esteem.
‘Poems I write by Folios,
‘As fast as other Men write Prose.
‘Then I can sing so loud, so clear!
‘That Beard cannot with Me compare;
‘In Dancing too I all surpass,
‘Not Cooke can move with such a Grace—

Here I made shift, with much ado,
To interpose a Word or two—
Have you no Parents, Sir? no Friends,
Whose Welfare on your own depends?—
‘Parents, Relations, say you?—No—
‘They're all dispos'd of, long ago’—

‘Happy! to be no more perplex'd—
My Fate too threatens; I go next.
Dispatch me, Sir! 'tis now too late,
Alas! to struggle with my Fate:

150

Well! I'm convinc'd my Time is come;
When young, a Gipsy told my Doom;
The Beldam shook her palsy'd Head,
As she perus'd my Palm, and said—
‘Of Poisons, Pestilence, or War,
‘Gout, Stone, Defluxion, or Catarrh,
‘You have no Reason to beware.
‘Beware the Coxcomb's idle Prate,
‘Chiefly, my Son, beware of that;
‘Be sure, when you behold him, fly
‘Out of all Ear-shot, or you die.’

To Rufus' Hall we now drew near,
Where he was summon'd to appear,
Refute the Charge the Plaintiff brought,
Or suffer Judgment by Default.
‘For Heaven's sake, if you love me, wait
‘One Moment, I'll attend you strait’—

Glad of a plausible Pretence—
Sir! I must beg you to dispense
With my Attendance in the Court;
My Legs will surely suffer for't—

‘Nay, pr'ythee Carlos, stop awhile’—
Faith, Sir, in Law I have no Skill;

151

Besides, I have no Time to spare,
I must be going you know where—
‘Well, I protest, I'm doubtful now,
‘Whether to leave my Suit, or you’—
Me, without Scruple—I reply—
Me, by all means, Sir!—‘No! not I—
‘Allons, Monsieur!’—'Twere vain, you know,
To strive with a victorious Foe;
So I reluctantly obey,
And follow where he leads the Way.

‘You and N---tle are so close,
‘Still Hand and Glove, Sir, I suppose’—
N---tle, let me tell you, Sir,
Has not his Equal every-where—
‘Well! there indeed your Fortune's made;
‘Faith, Sir, you understand your Trade.
‘Would you but give me your good Word,
‘Just introduce me to my Lord—
‘I should serve charmingly, by way
‘Of second Fiddle, as they say—
‘What think you, Sir?—'twere a good Jest;
‘'Slife! we should quickly scout the rest.’
‘Sir, you mistake the Matter far—
We have no second Fiddles there—

152

Richer than I, some Folks may be;
More learned; but it hurts not Me;
Friends though he has of different kind,
Each has his proper Place assign'd—

‘Strange Matters these alledg'd by you!’
Strange they may be, but they are true.
‘Well! then I vow 'tis mighty clever;
‘Now I long ten times more than ever
‘To be advanc'd extremely near
‘One of his shining Character.’
Have but the Will, there wants no more;
'Tis plain enough you have the Power.
His easy Temper (that's the worst)
He knows, and so is shy at first:
But such a Cavalier as you!
Lord, Sir! you'll quickly bring him to—

‘Well—if I fail in my Design,
‘Sir, it shall be no Fault of mine;
‘If by the saucy servile Tribe
‘Deny'd, what think you of a Bribe?
‘Shut out To-day, not die with Sorrow,
‘But try my Luck again To-morrow—
‘Never attempt to visit him,
‘But at the most convenient Time;

153

‘Attend him on each Levée Day,
‘And there my humble Duty pay.
‘Labour, like this, our Want supplies;
‘And they must stoop, who mean to rise.’

While thus he wittily harrangu'd,
(For which you'll guess I wish'd him hang'd)
Campley, a Friend of mine, came by,
Who knew his Humour more than I—
We stop, salute:—‘And, why so fast,
‘Friend Carlos?—whither all this Haste?’
Fir'd at the Thoughts of a Reprieve,
I pinch him, pull him, twitch his Sleeve,
Nod, beckon, bite my Lips, wink, pout,
Do every thing, but speak plain out—
While he, sad Dog! from the Beginning
Determin'd to mistake my Meaning,
Instead of pitying my Curse,
By jeering made it ten times worse—

‘Campley, what Secret, pray, was that,
‘You wanted to communicate?’—
‘I recollect, but 'tis no matter;
‘Carlos! we'll talk of that herea'ter—
‘E'en let the Secret rest; 'twill tell
‘Another Time, Sir, just as well.’—

154

Was ever such a dismal Day!
Unlucky Cur! he steals away,
And leaves me, half bereft of Life,
At Mercy of the Butcher's Knife—

When, sudden, shouting from afar
See his Antagonist appear!
The Bailiff seiz'd him, quick as Thought,
‘Ho! Mr. Scoundrel, are you caught!
‘Sir! you are Witness to th'Arrest.’—
‘Aye! marry, Sir, I'll do my best.’—
The Mob huzzas—away they trudge,
Culprit and all, before the Judge;
Mean-while I, luckily enough,
(Thanks to Apollo) got clear off.

156

SATIRE X.

He justifies the Opinion he had given of Lucilius, and lays down some excellent Rules for writing Satire.

Inscribed to John Hawkesworth, LL.D.

I said, 'tis true, Lucilius' Lines were rough,
And what Admirer has he weak enough
To contradict it? But with genuine Wit
His Satires, as I freely own'd, were writ.
Yet though I grant him a due Share of Praise,
I never thought Perfection crown'd his Lays.
As well might I, as beauteous Works, pretend
Your Pantomimes, Laberius, to commend.

'Tis not enough that we your Poems read
With Laughter, though some Merit this may plead;
For Brevity and Smoothness we require;
Words harsh, or useless, soon our Ears will tire.
Be serious now, and now jocose your Strain,
The Bard and Orator by Turns sustain,
Or, like a Courtier, with the subtlest Skill
Of Words be sparing, and your Strength conceal.

157

Well-season'd Irony will oft prevail,
When stern Rebukes and strongest Reasonings fail.

The Writers of the ancient Comic Lay
In this excell, and point us out the Way.
Though fair Hermogenes has never read
Their Works, nor that mishapen Bard, whose Head
Is fill'd with Calvus' and Catullus' Lines.
‘But Praise Lucilius merits, since he joins
‘Greek Words with Latin.’ Do ye think that hard,
Pedantic Fools! which by the Rhodian Bard
Was practis'd? ‘But, you cry, more sweetly flows
‘That vary'd Metre which both Tongues compose,
‘Like rough Falernian in a Chian Cask.’
Well, since you Verses write, I fain would ask
Were you (hard Task!) to plead Petillius' Cause,
Would you in foreign Phrase enforce the Laws;
Though born at Rome, the Roman Tongue refuse,
And rather the Canusian Jargon use,
While Pedius and Corvinus ably strove,
Your Plea in purest Language to disprove?

When I in Grecian Numbers thought to write,
I, born in Latium; at the Dead of Night,
When Dreams are reäl, Romulus disclos'd
To View, my rash Intention thus oppos'd:

158

‘Who to the Wood sends Timber is less mad
‘Than he, who to the Grecian Bards would add.’

Hence, while the chrystal Current of the Rhine
Alpinus stains with many a turgid Line,
And stabs his Memnon, I such sportive Verse
At Leisure write, as I would ne'er rehearse
Where Tarpa judges; nor, the People's Ears
To charm, repeat in crowded Theatres.

Fundanius, you alone of all the Tribe
Of Moderns, can in Comic Scenes describe
A crafty Slave or Harlot. Pollio sings,
In bold Iämbic Lays, the Deeds of Kings.
Who can like Varius soar to Epic Heights?
The Muse, which in the Sylvan Scene delights,
Gives Ease and Elegance to Virgil's Strain.
Satire remain'd, by Varro try'd in vain,
And many more, whom though I could outvye,
I to th'Inventor yield; nor would I try
To tear the Ivy Garland from his Head,
Worn with such just Applauses. But I said,
That rough and turbid was Lucilius' Lay,
And oft chuse less than I should throw away.
Say, does great Homer always merit Praise?
Did not Lucilius alter Attius' Plays?

159

Has he not various Faults in Ennius found,
Yet grants as great in his own Lines abound?
And may not we with equal Reason ask,
Whether the Hardness of the Poet's Task,
Or Want of Care, produc'd such rugged Strains?
Who thinks that Verse is finish'd, which contains
Six Feet, may write two hundred Lines, before
He dines, and afterwards as many more:
Like Tuscan Cassius, whose Invention flows
Swift as a Flood; of whom the Story goes,
That his own Writings form'd his funeral Pile.
Grant then Lucilius witty, grant his Style
Much more correct, than his the Way who led
Through Paths, where Grecians never dar'd to tread,
Or than our ancient Bards, yet I'll engage
That had his Life been lengthen'd to this Age,
Superfluous Lines he would have prun'd away,
Nor spar'd one useless, ornamental Lay,
But oft, while, lost in Thought, he Verses writ,
His Head he would have scratch'd, his Nails have bit.

Employ a Spunge, and write with Care again
What merits to be read, nor wish your Strain
Should charm all Readers; be content with few.
Would you expose your Verses to the View

160

Of paltry Schools? Not so would I—My Care
Is only to delight th'Equestrian Ear.
Thus prais'd by few, though by the Vulgar scorn'd,
Their Scoffs Arbuscula with Scoffs return'd.

Shall low Pantilius' Sneers my Spleen provoke,
Or, absent, shall I dread Demetrius' Joke,
With Slander fraught; or let Tigellius' Guest,
Dull Fannius, with his Scandal break my Rest?

Let Plotius, Varius, Virgil, Valgius praise,
And good Octavius but approve my Lays,
Mæcenas and the Visci let me name,
With Fuscus; and without caballing claim
Thy Friendship, Pollio; candid Furnius, thine;
To these the two Messalas let me join,
With Servius, Bibulus; nor need I dwell
On many more, who equally excell
In Friendship and in Learning; Men like these,
I wish my Strains, such as they are, may please,
And grieve whene'er my Wishes are o'erthrown.
Their Lines to female Ears, in whining Tone,
Demetrius and Tigellius may recite.

Go, Boy, and in my Book these Verses write.

J. D.

165

The END of the First Book.

167

THE SECOND BOOK OF THE SATIRES OF HORACE.

Inscribed to the Right Reverend Thomas Lord Bishop of Kildare.

169

SATIRE I. Horace and Trebatius.

He asks the Opinion of Trebatius, an eminent Lawyer, whether he ought to forbear writing Satire.

Horace.
There are, who think my Verses are too bold,
And more severe, than Satire's Laws allow;
But others say, whatever I compose
Is without Nerves; and that a thousand Lines,
Such as I write, might in a Day be spun.
Advise me, now, Trebatius, what to do.

Trebatius.
Be silent.

170

Horace.
What! mean you by this, that I
Should write no more?

Trebatius.
I do.

Horace.
By all the Gods,
Your Counsel's right: But then I cannot sleep.

Trebatius.
Let those, who court Sleep's balmy Power in vain,
Anointed, thrice across the Tyber swim,
Or drown, at Night, their busy Thoughts in Wine.
But, if you needs must write, dare then to sing
Victorious Cæsar's Deeds; assur'd to meet
A due Reward.

Horace.
Though warm with Zeal, I own
My Strength is far unequal to the Task.
It is not every-one, who knows to paint
Our valiant Troops drawn up in dread Array,
The Gauls, transfix'd with Spears, whose Staves are broke;
The wounded Parthian falling from his Horse!

171

Trebatius.
Paint then the milder Glories of his Reign;
Describe him temperate, just, and merciful,
As wise Lucilius virtuous Scipio drew.

Horace.
When fit Occasion offers, to myself
I never will be wanting; Cæsar's Ear
Must be approach'd with nice Address, when he
Is disengag'd from Business of the State:
Each rash Intruder will be spurn'd with Scorn.

Trebatius.
How much more prudent this, than in rough Verse
Buffoons and Spendthrifts to attack by Name;
For those you spare, fear for themselves, and hate you.

Horace.
How would you have me act? for every one
The Bent of his own Genius will pursue.
Millonius dances, when he's warm with Wine,
And double Lustres swim before his Eyes.
Castor delights in Horses; while his Brother,
Sprung from the self-same Egg, the Whirl-bat loves.

172

A thousand Men, a thousand different Tastes.
Satire amuses Me; for which I plead
Th'Example of Lucilius so rever'd.
Whatever happen'd to him, good or bad,
The old Man's tattling Muse disclos'd to all;
And his whole Life is in his Satires seen,
As in a votive Picture fairly drawn.
Him I attempt to trace; but whether I
Apulian or Lucanian should be deem'd,
Is to the Critics left; for my Venusium
Borders on both. Thither a Colony
(As ancient Fame reports) was sent from Rome,
After the Samnites were expell'd, to keep
Lucania's and Apulia's Sons in Awe,
Lest through the vacant Realm the Foe should rush
Furious; and meditate a March to Rome.
But, unprovok'd, my Pen no Mortal wounds;
'Tis like a Sword, which in the Scabbard lies
Merely for Self-defence. Why should I draw it,
Unless beset by Thieves, or Highwaymen?
O Jove, dread King and Father, grant my Prayer;
And rather let it be consum'd with Rust
Than I provok'd to use it, who abhor
Discord and Strife; but if I once am rouz'd,

173

The Man, who hurts me, shall his Folly rue;
Through the whole City laugh'd at by the Crowd.
Cervius to those who dare provoke him, threatens
The Penalties of Law, and fatal Urn:
Canidia, Poison: And your Cause is lost,
If Turius is your Foe, and sits as Judge.
That each will use his proper Arms, you may
By Premises like these with me conclude;
Wolves with their Teeth contend, and Bulls with Horns;
By Instinct, in the School of Nature, taught.
His long-liv'd Mother trust to Scæva's Care—

Trebatius.
Hush, hush!—
With impious Hand he will not stab her.

Horace.

Allow'd: The Ox ne'er bites; the Wolf ne'er gores;
But Hemlock in a Cake will serve as well.

To sum up all: If peaceful Age expects me;
Or Death should hover round with sable Wing;
If rich or poor; at Rome, in Banishment;
Whatever be my Lot, I still must write.

174

Trebatius.
Alas! my Son, I pity thee; and fear
Thy Days will be but few. Some great Man's Slave
Will shortly give thee a composing Draught.

Horace.
What! when Lucilius with like Boldness wrote,
And from each Villain dar'd to pluck the Mask,
Fair to the Sight, but rotten at the Heart,
Was Lælius e'er provok'd to Wrath, or he,
Who from demolish'd Carthage took his Name?
Did they complain? or to themselves apply
His scourging Lines on Lupus and Metellus?
The base Patrician and base Commoner,
From Tribe to Tribe, he ventur'd to pursue;
To Virtue only, and her Friends, a Friend.
Yet when, from Crowds and public Scenes retir'd,
Lælius the Wise, and virtuous Scipio,
Tasted the Pleasures of a calm Retreat,
Without Reserve they lov'd with him to sport,
And trifle, 'till their frugal Meal was drest.
Whate'er I am; and though confess'd in Rank

175

And Wit inferior to Lucilius, yet
Spite of herself, must Envy own, that I
Live happy in the Friendship of the Great:
And, should this Viper nibble at my Name,
She'll break her Teeth—Now you have heard my Plea,
Say, learn'd Trebatius, what have you t'object?

Trebatius.
Nothing of Weight. Yet be upon your Guard,
Lest, unacquainted with our sacred Laws,
You Penalties incur. The Statute's clear
Against all those, who publish wicked Verse.

Horace.
True; wicked Verse. But what if it be good;
And such as Cæsar will himself approve?

Trebatius.
Indeed!—The Case is alter'd; if, of Crimes
Guiltless yourself, you rally Knaves, the Judge
Will smile; dismiss the Bill; and set you free.

178

SATIRE II. Of Frugality.

What, and how great, the Benefits, that flow
From Temperance, here learn, my Friends, with Me;
(For 'tis not I, but good Ofellus speaks,
Taught by pure Nature, wise without the Schools)
But come not to his Lecture, gorg'd with Food,
From splendid Tables and luxurious Feasts,
Where foolish Pomp corrupts the Judgment's Eye;
But fasting come: Why fasting, you will say?
You strait shall hear. Can any Judge, when brib'd,
Sift out the Truth, and follow Reason's Lore?
‘Go hunt,’ he cry'd, ‘or rein th'unbroken Steed,
‘Or Roman Arms, in mimic Warfare, wield;
‘But if, soft-train'd to Grecian Revelries,
‘You think this manly Exercise too hard,
‘At Tennis play, or hurl the massy Bar;
‘The pleasing Sport will lessen all your Toil.

179

‘When thus you have remov'd your sickly Qualms,
‘When hungry and a-thirst, scorn simple Fare;
‘Nor drink the harsh Falernian Wine, unless
‘With Attic Honey mellow'd to the Taste.
‘The Butler is abroad; the wintry Sea,
‘Black'ning with Storms, defends its Tenant-Fish;
‘Yet now with Bread and Salt you can allay
‘Your craving Appetite: What is the Cause?
‘'Tis plain the Relish from yourself proceeds,
‘And not from Meats high-flavour'd: But do You
‘Cook Dainties for Yourself by Sweat and Toil.
‘The Man, with late Debauch so puff'd and pale,
‘Nor foreign Ortolans, nor Turbots please.’

But, spite of all I say, I doubt, if now
A Peacock and a Pullet came before ye,
You would regale on that, and this reject,
Misled by Show. For the rare Bird is bought
At a high Price, and with its painted Tail
Delights. What to the Purpose this? In Taste
It is no better than a common Fowl.
You cannot eat the Feathers you admire,
Nor does it boast these Honours in the Dish.

180

Say, by what wond'rous Instinct you discern,
Whether this Pike was in the River caught,
Or in the Sea; and if between the Bridges,
Or near the Fountain of the Tuscan Stream?

You fondly praise a Mullet of three Pounds,
Though cut in Pieces, ere it can be stew'd.
The outward Form of Things deceives the Mind.
You hate small Mullets, Pikes when large; because
Nature has made these large, and smaller those.

‘Give me,’ the harpy-throated Glutton cries,
‘A mighty Turbot in a mighty Dish!’—
O haste, propitious South-winds, haste, and taint
His Food! But why should I invoke your Aid?
His own Excess will pall his Appetite,
And make the Boar and Turbot, freshly caught,
Rank to his Taste; and soon he must repair
To acid Herbs and Radish for Relief.

Yet some Remains of our old simple Fare
Are seen at royal Banquets; there cheap Eggs
And sable Olives still maintain a Place.
Not many Years ago, of Luxury
Gallonius was convicted, on his Board
Because a Sturgeon smok'd. But did not then

181

The Sea as many Turbots feed, as now?
But safely in their watry Bed they slept;
And safely in her Nest the Stork repos'd;
'Till longing to be Prætor, Rufus first
Instructed you to eat this dainty Food.
And even now, if any one will vouch,
That roasted Cormorants are excellent,
Our Youth, soon warp'd to Ill, will follow him,
And Cormorant will be the reigning Dish.

Wide is the Difference, Ofellus thinks,
Between a lavish and a frugal Meal:
Then with Discretion in the Middle steer,
Careful to shun th'Extremes on either Hand;
Frugal, not mean; and free without Excess.

Avidiënus, who was styl'd the Dog,
And merited the Name, was wont to eat
Olives of five Years old, and Cornels wild;
Nor other Wine would for Libations grant
Than what was eager; and, when rob'd in white,
He kept his natal, or his wedding Day,
He from a Cruet, which contain'd a Quart,
Distill'd upon the Coleworts Oyl so rank,
His Guests were almost poison'd with the Stench;
But plenteous pour'd the mothery Vinegar.

182

What sort of Life should now the wise Man chuse?
Here stands Extravagance; there Penury;
Frugality points out the middle Road;
Bids him be neat, and yet Profusion shun.
He will not be severe, like old Albutius,
Who to each Slave assign'd his proper Post,
When Guests he summon'd; and, without Remorse,
Punish'd the least Mistake: Nor yet, like Nævius,
So slovenly, to give them greasy Water.
This a wide Error on the other side.

Now learn the various Blessings that will flow
From Temperance: Of these, the first is Health.
Reflect how sprightly were the Days of Youth,
When on one Dish you could contented dine.
But since, at once, Meat boil'd and roast you mix,
Shell-fish and Fowls; the sweet and acid jar,
And wretched Tumults in your Bowels raise;
Cold Phlegm, and Bile adust, fermenting there.

How pale, from Treats luxurious, rise the Guests!
Nay more; the Body, heavy with the Load
Of Yester-night's Debauch, chains down to Earth
That Particle of Breath divine, the Soul!

The temperate Man snatches a frugal Meal,
Resigns his weary Limbs to sweet Repose,

183

And rises active to his daily Toil.
Yet he can sometimes take a chearful Glass,
When circling Years bring round a festal Day,
Or to invigorate his feeble Form,
Or when weak Age a milder Treatment claims.
If now, while young and strong, you waste your Days
In Blandishments, what Solace can you hope,
Oppress'd with languid Health, or listless Years?

Our Fathers prais'd a tainted Boar; and yet
They had a Nose. Their Meaning, as I guess,
Was this: They kept it 'till their Friends should come,
And share the Feast; nor would, Curmudgeon-like,
Devour it by themselves entire and sweet.
O that the vigorous Earth had brought me forth
Among the Heroes of that Golden Age!

Regard'st thou Fame, which ought to sooth the Ear
Beyond the sweetest Verse? or know'st thou not,
That costly Treats will hurt thy Character
No less than thy Estate? Nay, add to this,
That, by thy Children, Friends, and Self, accurs'd,
Thou wilt not have a single Penny left,

184

To buy a Cord, and end thy wretched Life!
‘Why aye, 'tis right,’ the wealthy Trasius cries,
‘Thus to rebuke the Man, whose small Estate
‘Will not support the Table that he keeps.
‘But what is this to Me, who am possess'd
‘Of Wealth enough to dignify a King?’
Indeed! why therefore dost thou not employ
That Wealth superfluous to a nobler End?
Why does a worthy Man repine in Want,
Whilst thou art rich? Wherefore in Ruins lie
The ancient Temples of the Gods? O say,
Wretch as thou art, why dost thou not bestow
Some Portion of thy Pelf to serve thy Country?

What! will kind Fortune smile on thee alone,
And never, never change? Hereafter, thou,
Scorn'd by thy Foes, shalt dearly rue thy Folly.
Say, which is most secure, should Fortune shift,
The Man, who gratifies each Appetite,
Pamper'd each Day in Body and in Mind;
Or he, who, blest with little, fears the worst,
And prudently in Peace provides for War?
But, by an Instance to confirm my Words,
Ofellus I remember when a Boy,
Who with the same Frugality then liv'd

185

In Affluence, as now he lives reduc'd.
You still may see this sturdy Hind, who ploughs
Those Fields for Hire, of which he once was Lord;
And, as he works, he thus accosts his Sons:

‘On common Days I was content to dine
‘On a smok'd Flitch, with savoury Coleworts join'd.
‘But when a Friend, long absent, came from far,
‘Or a kind Neighbour on a rainy Day,
‘And by foul Weather we were kept at home,
‘I feasted them with home-bred Kid and Fowl,
‘And not with Fish from Rome. Grapes long preserv'd,
‘Walnuts and Figs, adorn'd our second Course.
‘The Dinner o'er, with grateful Hearts we paid
‘To Ceres due Libations; and implor'd
‘Her Influence, to bless the springing Corn;
‘Then chearly circled round the generous Bowl,
‘And smooth'd our wrinkled Brows with Bacchus' Gift:
‘Yet was each Guest from all Compulsion free,
‘And Temperance reign'd sole Mistress of the Feast.

‘Let Fortune frown, and farther Tumults raise,
‘From Me how little can she take? Have I,
‘My Boys, liv'd worse, or are your Looks less sleek,

186

‘Since this new Tenant came, and seiz'd our Land?
‘I call him Tenant, whom you deem your Lord;
‘That Farm, which by Ofellus' Name once past,
‘Is now Umbrenus's; the Use alone,
‘Not Property; which can to none belong:
‘For neither him, nor me, nor any one,
‘Hath Nature truly form'd Proprietor
‘Of what he holds. This Man ejected me;
‘Him, or his own Debaucheries, or Quirks
‘Of wicked Law unknown, may soon eject;
‘Or on his Heir it must at last devolve.

‘Live then, my Sons, contented with your Lot,
‘And meet each adverse Chance with steady Mind!’

191

SATIRE III. Damasippus. Horace.
[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

In this Dialogue Damasippus explains at large, and illustrates by Examples the Doctrine of the Stoics, That every wicked Man is a Fool or Lunatic, as he himself had learned it in a Lecture from the Stoic Philosopher Stertinius.

Damasippus. Horace.
Damasippus.
If you so rarely write, that, through the Year,
You scarce four times your Pens and Scrolls demand,
Retouching all you have already writ;
And nought produce, that merits public Praise,
Though conscious you indulge in Wine and Sleep,
If this must be allow'd, what can you plead?
Hither from Saturn's Revellers you fled,
More sober, sure: Then now, retir'd, perform
Your mighty Promises. Begin. What—Nothing?—
Nay, 'tis in vain to blame your Pens, and curse
The harmless Wall, in evil Hour uprear'd.

192

And yet you seem'd to threaten glorious Things,
Soon as you reach'd your Villa, snug and warm.
Why bring you hither your Menander, Plato,
Archilochus, and Eupolis? Why such
Illustrious Company?—Think you to blunt
The Shafts of Envy, by forsaking Virtue?
Wretch as you are, Contempt shall be your Lot.
You must avoid that wicked Siren, Sloth;
Or be content to give up all th'Applause
The Studies of your better Life have won.

Horace.
May, Damasippus, for thy sage Advice,
The Gods and Goddesses a Barber give thee!
But whence hast thou acquir'd this Knowledge of me?

Damasippus.
Since at th'Exchange I lost my whole Estate
By unsuccessful Barter, I attend
Th'Affairs of other Men, driv'n from my own.
I dealt before in Statues, Pictures, Coins;
Knew to distinguish modern from antique;
And lov'd to purchase Cauldrons rare, in which
The subtle Sisyphus had lav'd his Feet;

193

A perfect Connoisseur, with nicest Taste
Discern'd the Hand of each Artificer,
Who cast each Vase, and who each Busto wrought;
And for one Statue gave six hundred Pounds;
For I was shrewd, and knew it cheaply purchas'd.
Gardens, and stately Houses too, I bought;
And sold again with Profit: Hence the Crowd
Were pleas'd to style me Hermes' Favourite.

Horace.
This I have heard; but wonder by what Means
You were restor'd to Sanity of Mind.

Damasippus.
A new Distemper oft expells the old:
Thus Pleuresies and Head-achs shift their Seat,
And, flying to the Bowels, there assume
Another Shape: Thus the lethargic Man,
Rouz'd from his Slumber, his Physician beats.

Horace.
This Frenzy spare, and act what Part you please.

Damasippus.

Be not deceiv'd, my Friend; nor think that I
Am mad alone; for you, and every Fool,
Are mad no less than I; if true the Lore

194

Stertinius boasts; from whom I docile learnt
These wondrous Precepts, when, oppress'd with Grief,
On the Fabrician Bridge, with muffled Head
I stood, prepar'd to plunge into the Stream.
He taught me first to wear this reverend Beard,
Compos'd my Mind, when frantic with my Loss,
And made me thence return sedate and calm;
For, luckily, he then was by—‘Beware,
‘(He cry'd) how you commit so rash a Deed.
‘Idle your Shame: Why should you fear alone
‘To be thought mad, among a Crowd of Madmen?
‘First, let us seek the Meaning of the Word;
‘And if it should agree with you alone,
‘Fulfill your Purpose; nor will I oppose it.

‘The Man, by restless Passions blindly led,
‘Or Ignorance of Truth; this Man, I say,
‘Chrysippus and his School condemn as mad.
‘The Charge, you see, is general; and includes
‘Both High and Low, the Subject and the King;
‘All but the Wise—Attend, and you shall hear,
‘How those, who call you mad, are mad themselves.

195

‘As in a Forest, Crowds, by Error led,
‘Mistake their Way; this, on the right, proceeds;
‘That, on the left; yet both are in the wrong;
‘Though eagerly they different Paths pursue;
‘Just such is Life! Then think yourself indeed
‘(As you are call'd) a Fool; and yet the Man,
‘Who laughs at you, trails his own dangling Tail.

‘One sort of Frenzy makes Men stand aghast,
‘And tremble at imaginary Ills.
‘When walking on the level Ground, they cry,
‘That Trees, and Rocks, and Rivers bar their Way.

‘Another kind, not less extravagant,
‘Through Flames, or boisterous Floods, will headlong rush.
‘To Him his Mother, Sister, Friends and Wife
‘Cry out in vain, Lo! here a Precipice;
‘And there a mighty Rock obstructs your Passage,
‘He hears no more than Fusius, when of old,
‘Ilioné he play'd, suppos'd to sleep;
‘But, in a drunken Fit, he slept so sound,
‘That Catiënus and two thousand Mouths
‘Bellow'd in vain; “Sister! awake, and help me.”

196

‘I now proceed to show, that all Mankind
‘Are with some epidemic Frenzy seiz'd.
‘You, Damasippus, act a frantic Part
‘In purchasing Antiques. But frankly say,
‘Is not your Creditor as mad as you?

‘Let us now fully canvas this Affair:
‘Should I accost you thus, “Here take this Gold;
“Employ it for your Use without Account,”
‘Would you be deem'd a Fool to take the Gift;
‘Or would you not be mad, if you refus'd?
‘But now methinks I hear the Creditor
‘Reply; He gives his Bond for all I lend him.
‘'Tis well: Consult Cicuta too, who knows
‘To tie the strongest Knots of Law; and yet
‘This wicked Proteus will elude your Skill;
‘And, when arraign'd, will laugh at your Expence;
‘Transform himself into a Tree, or Rock;
‘Be now a Bird, and now a bristly Boar.
‘If bad Oeconomy from Folly springs;
‘Wisdom's the Source of good Oeconomy.
‘Then is Perillius' Head less sane than yours,
‘Who takes a Bond, You never can discharge.

‘Ho! to my Lecture haste, whatever Wretch

197

‘Is pale with wild Ambition, or the Love
‘Of Wealth: Compose your Robes, and silent hear.
‘Let such, as gloomy Superstition haunts,
‘And those, that glow with Riot, sensual Joys,
‘Or other baneful Malady of Mind,
‘In order come; and listen, while I prove,
‘That each of these must rank with Lunatics.

‘The Miser justly claims the largest Share
‘Of Hellebore: I know not, if good Sense
‘Will not allot him all Anticyra.
‘Staberius order'd his Executors
‘To grave upon his Tomb-stone what he left 'em.
‘Which if they should neglect, they were to feast
‘The Citizens, as Arrius should direct;
‘To give an hundred Pair of Gladiators,
‘And as much Corn, as Afric's Harvests yield.
‘If this be right or wrong, says the Testator,
‘Is not your Care. I will it: That's enough.
‘Staberius, as I guess, might argue thus’—

Damasippus.
Argue?—Could he have Cause t'enjoin his Heirs
To carve, upon his Tomb, the Sums he left 'em?

198

Stertinius.

Long as he liv'd, he reckon'd Poverty
The greatest Vice; and nothing so much fear'd,
As to have died in lower Circumstance.
His Conscience would have check'd him, as more wicked
By how much less he left—For every Grace,
Or Human or Divine; Courage and Honour,
Beauty and Fame, fair Wealth! are giv'n by Thee
And he, who piles up Gold, will strait become
Renown'd, brave, just and wise; and ev'n a King;
Or whatsoe'er he please—By this he thought
To merit the Applause of future Times,
As Riches are the strongest Test of Wisdom.

But how unlike to him was Aristippus?
For as he travell'd o'er the Libyan Plains,
He bid his Slaves, retarded by the Gold,
To throw it all away. Which of these two
Should be rank'd first among the Class of Madmen?

Damasippus.
Examples but perplex, not solve the Question.

199

Stertinius.

Suppose we now a Man to purchase Lutes,
And them, so purchas'd, in a Store-house keep,
Unskill'd to play, and tasteless of each Muse;
Or to provide himself with Paring-knives
And Lasts, though he had never made a Shoe;
Or Sails and Tackling for a Ship; unvers'd
In Sea Affairs, to Commerce never bred;
Would not the Crowd with Justice say, that he
Was in a State of Lunacy, or Dotage?
But is his Head more sound, who Sums immense
Of Gold and Silver hides; and ever dreads,
As if 'twere Sacrilege, to spend a Doit?
What if the Owner, with his out-stretch'd Staff,
Watches his Stores of Corn both Day and Night;
Nor dares, though hungry, touch a single Grain;
His meager Body feeds with bitter Herbs;
And, though his Vaults a thousand Casks contain
Of Chian, or of old Falernian Wine,
Drinks nought but what is sour as Vinegar;
Tho' in his eightieth Year, should sleep on Flocks,
While Moths and Worms his Quilts and Down devour,
Which, rotting in his Chests, are hoarded up.

200

If such a Man is thought insane by few,
The Reason is, because the same Disease
Infects so great a Part of Human-kind.

Dotard! ungrateful to the bounteous Gods,
Who dost defraud thyself for fear of Want,
That thy wild Son, or manumitted Slave,
May squander all thy Wealth on vagrant Lust.
How little would, each Day, thy Treasures sink,
Should'st thou sweet Oyl upon thy Lettuce pour,
Go neatly drest, and feed on wholesome Fare?
How few are frugal Nature's just Demands?
Why then forswear thyself, pilfer and steal,
To heap up useless Wealth? Is not this Madness?
Should'st thou with Stones pursue the gaping Crowd,
And ev'n the Slaves which thy own Pelf has bought,
The Boys and Girls would hoot thee through the Street.
And is not he of Mind insane, who strangles
His portion'd Wife, or kills by baneful Drugs
His jointur'd Mother—True; the Fact, indeed,
Was not at Argos done; nor, with thy Sword,
Did'st thou, like mad Orestes, stab the Dame.

201

What! dost thou think, his Brain was only touch'd
After the Murder? No; th'infernal Hags
Haunted his Soul, before his vengeful Hand
Plung'd in his Mother's Breast the pointed Steel.
For, from the Time that he was deem'd insane,
Nothing he wrought, that could be justly tax'd.
He did not with his Sword Electra strike,
Nor Pylades; but only call'd her, Fury,
And branded him, as splendid Choler prompted.

Opimius, in the midst of Plenty poor,
And brooding o'er his Heaps of Gold and Silver,
On Festivals would drink prick'd Veian Wine
In Earthen Vases; and, on common Days,
Such as was flat and vapid: Heretofore
So deep a Lethargy had seiz'd his Senses,
That his glad Heir was rifling all his Chests.
When, to his Aid, his faithful Doctor flew,
Who diligently watch'd the happy Crisis,
And by this Stratagem awak'd the Wretch;
‘Close to his Bed (he cry'd) a Table place,
‘And Bags of Money jingling on it throw;
‘Then various Hands employ to count it o'er.’
He halloo'd in his Ears, while this was doing,
‘Awake! arise! or your rapacious Heir

202

‘Will plunder all.’ ‘What! while I live?’ said he.
‘Then rouze yourself, and to my Words attend;
‘Your Appetite will quite be pall'd, unless
‘Buoy'd up with wholesome Broths; your Veins are empty.
‘Here! here! be quick! pour down this Soup of Rice.’
‘What is the Cost?’—‘A Trifle.’ ‘What?’—‘But Eightpence.’
‘Ah! what avails it that I Thieves escape,
‘If I by Doctors' Fees and Slops must die?’

Damasippus.
Who then is sane?

Stertinius.
The Man, who is no Fool.

Damasippus.
The Miser, what?

Stertinius.
A Madman and a Fool.

Damasippus.
But is the Man unstain'd with Avarice
To be accounted sane?

203

Stertinius.
By no means so.

Damasippus.
Your Reasons, Stoic?

Stertinius.

Thus in order take them.
‘This Patient's Appetite,’ says Craterus,
‘Is not amiss.’ But should you thence infer,
That he is well, and from his Bed may rise,
The Doctor thus would check you; ‘It is true,
‘A bad Digestion is not his Complaint;
‘But he's afflicted with the Gout, or Stone.’
You are not perjur'd, nor a Slave to Gold.
'Tis well: Then pay your Lares with a Pig.
But if, ambitious, your Estate you waste
In rash Pursuits; hie to Anticyra!
For is he wiser, who consumes his Wealth
On Scoundrels, than the Man who will not use it?

Servius Oppidius, who was rich, and own'd
Two ancient Farms, that near Canusium lay,
Tradition says, on his two Sons bestow'd 'em,
And, calling to his Bed, address'd them thus:
‘When I have seen thee, Aulus, in thy Vest

204

‘Thy Ivory Balls and Marbles careless bear,
‘And to thy Play-mates give, or twirl away;
‘And thee, Tiberius, count thy Toys with Care;
‘Then anxious hide them in some secret Place;
‘I seem'd to read your Characters and Fates,
‘And that a various Frenzy would infect you;
‘That one of you would prove a Nomentanus;
‘The other, like Cicuta, scrape and save.
‘Wherefore I, by our Houshold Gods, adjure ye,
‘That thou, my Aulus, wilt preserve entire
‘What I shall leave; nor thou, Tiberius, seek
‘T'increase that little, which I think enough;
‘But keep within the Bounds by Nature set.
‘And, lest Ambition should your Fancies cheat,
‘Let each of you engage himself by Oath,
‘Not to aspire at Honours in the State.
‘Whoever breaks it, let him be accurs'd,
‘Debarr'd from all the Rights of Citizens.’
What! would'st thou, Madman! waste thy Wealth, to bribe
The Crowd by Largesses of Beans and Vetches,
To have thy Statue in the Forum plac'd,
And be in Pomp along the Circus borne;
Stript of paternal Goods, paternal Lands,

205

‘Think'st thou to share Agrippa's Praise? The Fox
‘Affected thus the lordly Lion's Gait.’—

O Son of Atreus, why dost thou deny
Ajax a Grave?

Agamemnon.
Because I am a King.

Stertinius.
I, a Plebeian born, will ask no more.

Agamemnon.
What I ordain is just: If any Man
Judge otherwise, he is allow'd by Me
To speak his Thoughts with Freedom, unreprov'd.

Stertinius.
Greatest of Kings! may your triumphant Fleet
Return from conquer'd Troy with prosperous Gales!
May I then Questions ask, and make Replies?

Agamemnon.
Proceed.

Stertinius.
Why does the Hero Ajax rot,
Whose Arm renown'd so often sav'd the Greeks,
Second to none in Valour but Achilles?
Say, is the Man, by whom so many Youths
Of Troy unbury'd lie, himself deny'd

206

The Rites of Sepulture, to glut the Eyes
Of joyful Priam, and the Trojan Foe?

Agamemnon.
He, frantic, slew a thousand Sheep; and cry'd,
‘There, both the Sons of Atreus fell; and, here,
‘Their vaunted Orator Ulysses lies.’

Stertinius.
But when at Aulis Agamemnon led
His blooming Iphigenia to the Altar,
Like some devoted Heifer to be slain,
And scatter'd on her Head the salted Meal;
Wretch that he was! did he enjoy his Senses?

Agamemnon.
Why not?

Stertinius.
And what were then the Deeds of Ajax,
That so much merited the Name of Frenzy?
True, with his Sword he slaughter'd many Sheep,
But to his Wife, or Son, no Outrage offer'd.
He pour'd forth horrid Oaths against th'Atridæ,
But neither injur'd Teucer, or Ulysses.

207

Agamemnon.
Our lingering Fleet from Aulis to release,
I wisely chose to sooth the Gods with Blood.

Stertinius.
What, Madman, with thy own?

Agamemnon,
Yes, with my own;
And yet not mad.

Stertinius.

The Man, by Passion sway'd,
Who blends the Forms distinct of Right and Wrong,
Deserves a Place among the frantic Tribe:
And if he err through Folly, or through Passion,
'Tis all alike: Th'Effect is still the same.

Was Ajax mad, when harmless Sheep he slew?
And art thou sound of Mind, who durst commit
Unnatural Crimes, for vain and empty Names?
Is that Heart pure, which wild Ambition swells?

Should any one delight to bear a Lamb,
Where'er he travels, with him in his Litter;
And deck her out, as if she were his Daughter,
With gay Attire; give her a Train of Slaves,
And a rich Portion too, and thus address her:

208

My Dear! my Child! my Puppet! and my Darling!
And a fit Husband for his Girl provide;
The Prætor would adjudge him lunatic,
Place in sure Hands his Fortune and his Goods,
And to his Heirs assign him as a Ward.

But now suppose a Man should sacrifice,
For a dumb Lamb, his lovely blooming Daughter;
Will you pretend, that he is less insane?
I know you dare not. When such Folly, therefore,
Is join'd with Vice, it is the Height of Madness:
Each wicked Man is Lunatic convict.
Bellona, who delights in Fields of Blood,
Thundering from her wild Car, infects his Head
With frantic Rage, whom splendid Glory charms!—

Attend, while Nomentanus I indict:
Reason demonstrates every Spendthrift mad.
Soon as his Father died, and he possess'd
A thousand Talents, he proclaim'd around,
That Taylors and Perfumers, Huntsmen, Cooks,
All the vile Tenants of the Tuscan Street,
Fishmongers, Poulterers, Panders, and Buffoons
Should the next Morning at his Palace wait.
What then?—They all obey: The Pander first

209

Accosts the Heir; ‘Whatever I possess,
‘Or any of my Brethren, is your own;
‘To-day, To-morrow send; or when you please.’
Mark, how the Youth reply'd, benevolent;
‘Huntsman, you watch in the Lucanian Snow
‘Booted, that I may feast upon a Boar;
‘You, Sailor, bear Fatigues, and sweep the Seas
‘In Winter, to supply my Board with Fish;
‘While I, at Ease, regale myself at home;
‘Unworthy to enjoy such copious Wealth,
‘Were I not glad to share it with my Friends:
‘Take then this Tribute of a grateful Heart.
‘Here are for each of you five hundred Pounds.
‘But for the Man, who gives me daintier Fare,
‘And, when I call, will send his blooming Bride,
(He nods Consent) ‘three times that Sum be his!’

Æsopus' Son dissolv'd in Vinegar
A precious Pearl, which from her Ear, Metella
Had bounteously bestow'd; and, drinking, cry'd,
‘I swallow at a Draught eight thousand Pounds.’
Could he have giv'n a stronger Proof of Madness,
Supposing he had thrown it in the Sea?
The Sons of Quintius Arrius, Twins in Folly
And every Vice, no less than Twins by Nature,

210

On costly Nightingales were wont to dine.
Shall we with Chalk, or Charcoal, mark their Names;
Esteem them wise, or think their Brain was touch'd?

Were we to see a Man, with reverend Beard,
Delight to build Clay Houses, and to drive
A little Cart with Mice; at Ev'n or Odd
To play; and ride upon a Hobby-Horse;
We should condemn him as a Fool, or mad.
But now if Reason will evince, that Love
Is still more Boyish than these trifling Sports;
And that the Child, who blubbers for his Toy,
Is not so silly, as the Man who weeps,
Because his perjur'd Harlot has elop'd;
Would you, I say, convinc'd, then lay aside
Your foppish Dress, the Sign of your Disease,
Your nice Cravat, your little Cloak, and Ruff,
And act like Polemo, who, when of old,
He, in a drunken Fit, had chanc'd to stray
Into the School of sage Xenocrates,
And heard his wholesome Lore on Temperance;
Stole from his Head, abash'd, his flowery Wreath,
And turn'd a Convert to Philosophy.

Offer an Apple to a peevish Boy;
He will refuse. ‘My Darling take it.’ ‘No!’

211

Yet dies to have it, when it is deny'd.
How differs from this Boy th'excluded Lover,
Whose Picture on our Stage so lively shines?
Where with himself he argues, if he shall,
Or shall not to his Mistress' House return;
Though conscious he will surely go, unask'd;
And still he lingers near her hated Door.
‘Shall I not go, ev'n now, when I am call'd?
‘Or shall I end at once this Weight of Woes?
‘She thrust me out; invites: Shall I return?
‘No! I'd not go, were she herself to come.’
But thus the wiser Slave his Master chides:
‘Love, which the Bounds of Reason and Advice
‘Disclaims, not Reason nor Advice can rule,
‘Nor any Curb restrain: Here, Peace and War
‘Alternately succeed: And he, who strives
‘These changeful things to fix, which on Caprice
‘Alone depend, still veering like the Winds,
‘No better will prevail, than should he strive
‘To run by Reason, Mood, and Figure, mad.’

When, from an Apple picking out the Kernels,
And pressing them between your Thumb and Fingers,

212

You chance to strike the Cieling of the Room,
And leap with Joy; are you then sane of Mind?

Or when an old Man stammers out half Words,
To please his Puppet's Ear, is he more wise
Than wanton Boys, who Castles build with Clay?

To all this add the Rage of wild Desire,
The Murders that attend this frantic Flame.
When Marius late his Mistress Hellas slew,
And, stung with just Remorse, leap'd headlong down
A Precipice; will you allow him mad?
Or, to the same Thing giving different Names,
(As is the Mode) charge him with Vice alone?

An ancient Slave about the Cross-ways ran,
At Break of Day, fasting, with clean-wash'd Hands;
And thus devoutly to the Lares pray'd:
‘Ye Powers benign, to Me this Favour grant;
‘(Easy to you) that I may never die!’
The Master might have vouch'd him sound of Limb,
When he was sold; but had he said, of Mind,
An Action would have lain against the Vender.
Now all this Crowd is, by Chrysippus' School,
In the large Family of Madmen rank'd.

213

The Mother of a Boy, who, for five Months,
Has with a Quartan Ague been confin'd,
Thus stipulates with Heaven for his Relief;
‘Great Jove! from whom both Health and Sickness flow,
‘Have Pity on my Child! and, in return,
‘On the first Fasting-day thy Priests ordain,
‘After his Health shall be restor'd by thee,
‘Ere Morning dawns, he in the Tyber's Stream
‘Shall naked stand!’ Now, should propitious Chance,
Or the Physician's Skill, restore her Child,
The frantic Dame will plunge him in the Waves,
The Fever bring again, and kill her Darling.

Damasippus.
What Frenzy turns her Head?

Stertinius.
The Dread of Heaven.

Damasippus to Horace.
To me these Arms the eighth wise Man, Stertinius,
Has giv'n, to combat my upbraiding Foes;
And now, whoever taxes me as mad

214

Will find the Charge retorted on himself;
And be admonish'd to inspect the Pouch,
Behind his Back, which holds his Faults unknown.

Horace.
Stoic! so may you henceforth trade with Profit,
And every Loss retrieve, as you inform me,
(Since Frenzies are, it seems, of various kinds)
What is the Species that disturbs my Brain;
For to myself I seem of sober Mind.

Damasippus.
What! did Agravé think that she was mad,
When on her Thyrsus she in Triumph bore
Her Pentheus' Head, whom she had torn in pieces?

Horace.
Then be it so!—I yield to powerful Truth;
And own, that I am both a Fool and mad.
Yet say, in what my Frenzy does consist?

Damasippus.

Hear then the Charge. Though scarcely two Foot high,
You strut, and give yourself gigantic Airs;
And yet you laugh, when Turbo on the Stage,

215

(A mighty Spirit in a dwarfish Form)
On Tip-toe stalks, and stern Defiance lours.
And are you less ridiculous than he?
Dare you deny, that You affect to trace,
Though in low Life so vastly his Inferior,
The Customs, Ways, and Manners of Mæcenas?—

When from her Tadpole Brood the Mother-Frog
By Chance had stray'd, a Heifer in the Mead
Crush'd with his Foot the tender Family.
One, who escap'd, thus to his Dam relates
Their Fate; ‘A monstrous Beast has slain my Brethren.’
‘What! large as I am now?’ replies the Dam;
And swells herself. ‘Abundantly more large.’
‘What! bigger still?’ still puffing out with Wind.
‘Nay, you may burst yourself; but ne'er can match it.’
See your own Picture, Horace, to the Life!
A dd now to this your Itch of scribbling Verse,
Which is but heaping Fuel on the Fire.

216

If ever Bard was wise, you may be wise.
Not to insist upon your frantic Rage.—

Horace.
Forbear.

Damasippus.
And your Attire, more costly far
Than your Estate allows.—

Horace.
Good Damasippus,
Stick to your own Affairs.

Damasippus.
—Your wild Amours.

Horace.
Hush, Babbler, hush! And thou, more frantic, cease
Against my lesser Follies to declaim.

229

SATIRE IV.

A Dialogue between Horace and Catius, on the Art of Cookery.

Horace.
Say, Catius, whence and whither?

Catius.
No Delay,
My Friend, I beg; no Time have I to stay:
Eager to treasure in my pensive Mind
Some Maxims new; and, trust me, you will find
That not Pythagoras, or Socrates,
Or Plato's self, e'er gave such Rules as these.

Horace.
I crave your Pardon. 'Twas indeed a Crime
To break your Chain of Thought at such a Time.
But you, who, both by Nature and by Art,
Can all the Rules of Memory impart,
Will soon unite the broken Links again.

Catius.
All I had heard I labour'd to retain.

230

Fine are the Precepts, and as finely told.

Horace.
Your Author's Name, I pray you, first unfold.
A Foreigner or Native?

Catius.

I conceal
His Name; his Precepts freely I'll reveal.

Long Eggs prefer to round; with richer Juice
They always swell, and Cocks their Yolks produce.

More sweet the Cale that grows in sandy Fields
Than what our City Soil, well-water'd, yields.

Should an unlook'd-for Guest drop in at Night,
Thus learn to sooth his craving Appetite:
In Wine and Water dip your Fowl alive;
For thence the Flesh will Tenderness derive.

The Meadow-Mushroom you may safely prize;
But often in the others Poison lies.

The Man who eats, when Dinner-time is o'er,
Ripe Mulb'ries, gather'd from the Tree, before
Too fiercely rage the scorching solar Rays,
Will pass, secure of Health, the Summer Days.

Let not Aufidius' Morning-draught be thine!
With Honey sweeten'd, harsh Falernian Wine

231

He quaff'd; but to thy empty Veins alone
Let Liquors smooth, like lenient Mead, be known.

Pound Cockle-shells, when Costiveness prevails,
And with Dwarf-sorrel mix and Juice of Snails;
Then fasting drink it in white Coan Wine:
So your heal'd Bowels will no more repine.

With growing Moons the loos'ning Shell-fish swell:
The nobler Kinds not in all Oceans dwell.
The sweetest Oysters we at Circe take,
But far the largest in the Lucrine Lake.
Cray-fish Misenum's Promontory love,
While Cockles soft Tarentum's Coast approve.

What boots it that the choicest Fish you buy,
Unless with Critic Taste you well descry
Which needs most Sauce, which least, and thus excite,
By various Means, the languid Appetite.

The Boar (if you're displeas'd with flabby Food)
Who crunches Acorns in the Umbrian Wood,
On your wide Dish may spread his ample Size;
Those which in Marshes feed we never prize.

Kids, which in Vineyards browze, forbear to eat.
The Wings of pregnant Hares are dainty Meat.

232

None before Me could by their Taste engage
To know of Fish and Fowl the Kind and Age.

To mold the brittle Paste is paltry Fame,
And far too trivial all our Care to claim.
As if, though richest Wines your Cellars store,
Yet on your Fish you stinking Oyl should pour.

Expose your Massic when the Skies are clear;
If dreggy, 'twill be purg'd by nightly Air,
And lose that Odor which the Spirits wastes;
But through fine Linnen strain'd it vapid tastes.

He, who, his gross Falernian to refine,
Pours on the slimy Lees Surrentine Wine,
Should with the Liquor mix a Pigeon's Eggs;
The falling Yolk precipitates the Dregs.

Shrimps, Cockles to the Taste new Relish lend:
Lettuce, 'tis true, I dare not recommend;
So cold, it damps the loaded Appetite:
But your stanch Topers their dull Taste excite
With Ham or Chitterling, and some require
A Sausage, reeking from a Tavern Fire.

Two Sorts of Sauce deserve your utmost Care;
With Oyl alone the simplest we prepare:
Both Wine and Caviare too the other boasts,
(Caviare, the Produce of Byzantium's Coasts)

233

And shredded Herbs and Saffron; let it boil,
And, when it cools, infuse Venefrian Oyl.

With Form and Beauty Tibur's Fruits are grac'd,
But thine, Picenum, have a richer Taste.

Pots to preserve Venusia's Grape provide;
But in the Smoke the Alban may be dry'd.
The Roman Cooks this Grape before each Guest
With Apples, Salt and Pepper, at a Feast
To place on sep'rate Plates by Me were taught:
Caviare and Pickles into Use I brought.

Monstrous the Fault to crowd the vagrant Fish
(So dearly purchas'd) in a scanty Dish!

The simplest Fare a Zest from Neatness gains:
It turns one's Stomach when your Boy distains
The Glass with greasy Fingers; or when Dust
And Mold your ancient Goblet's Brim incrust.
How small of Mats and Rubbers is the Price!
But, O! of such Neglect how great the Vice!
Who with a greasy Broom an inlaid Floor
Would sweep, or spread a purple Carpet o'er
An unwash'd Couch? The less such Trifles claim
Of Care and Cost, the more will be your Blame.

234

Those Cates which, save among the Great, are rare,
With much more Credit you might justly spare.

Horace.
By all the Gods and Friendship I engage
Your Promise, Catius, to this learned Sage
To lead me strait, wherever he may live;
Though justly you translate, it sure must give
Much more Delight th'Original to hear
From his own Mouth, and mark his Voice and Air.
This Circumstance, though high in my Esteem,
To you, because enjoy'd, may trifling seem.
I, by the Love of sacred Science led,
Would quaff her Waters at the Fountain-head.

J. D.

237

SATIRE V. Ulysses and Tiresias.

This Satire is ironical, and levelled at the Craft and Subtlety of those who flatter rich old Men, in order to gain a Place in their Wills, and to inherit their Estates. But the Antidote, (viz. Irony and Raillery) is not strong enough to expell the Malignity of the Poison; and such Satires (as it has been rightly observed) teach the very Vices they pretend to correct.

Ulysses and Tiresias.
Ulysses.
Besides those Things you have already told,
Tiresias! grant me still this farther Boon:
Say, how I may retrieve my ruin'd State
At Ithaca? You smile.

Tiresias.
And well I may,
To hear this Question ask'd by one so fam'd
For Artifice. What! are you not content
Once more in Peace to reach your native Isle,
And see your Houshold Gods?

238

Ulysses.
You, by that Art
Which never fails, well know I must return
Naked and bare. The Suitors of my Wife
My Stores have lavish'd, and devour'd my Flocks.
Virtue and Character, without Estate,
Are trodden under Foot, more vile than Weeds.

Tiresias.

Since then you own yourself, without Disguise,
The Foe profess'd of Poverty; from Me
Accept these Rules, your Fortune to repair.

If Woodcocks you receive, or any Bird
More rare, let it take Wing, and fly away
To the Great House, which glitters from afar,
Whose Lord is old: And if you early cull
From your well-cultur'd Ground delicious Fruit,
Let the rich Man before your Lares taste it.
He is the God, whom you must first adore.
Nay, though he stands convict of Perjury,
Or be defil'd with his own Brother's Blood,
Oft as he calls, obsequiously attend,
And ever, with Obeisance, give him Place.

239

Ulysses.
What! must I stoop to sooth a wicked Slave?
I, who at Troy contended with the Great!
I scorn the Thought.

Tiresias.
Then live a Beggar still.

Ulysses.
Is this the Case? I then, who greater Ills
Have borne with Mind erect, will suffer Want.
But tell me, Sage profound, without Delay,
Some honourable Means to purchase Wealth.

Tiresias.

I have already told, and must repeat
My salutary Rules: Lay Stratagems
To steal into the Wills of rich old Men.
If, haply, one or two escape the Hook,
Though nibbling at the Bait; yet, undismay'd,
Still persevere; you will at last succeed.

If, at the Bar, a Cause is to be try'd,
Or great or small; be careful to enquire,
If Plaintiff or Defendant be most rich,
And unincumber'd with a Wife or Child.

240

Then strait espouse his Cause with all your Might.
No matter should he prove a branded Knave,
And his Antagonist a Man of Worth:
'Tis Crime enough to have a teeming Wife.

Addressing then the Client you elect,
‘Publius or Syrus!’ say, (for nicer Ears
Are sooth'd with soft Address and specious Names)
‘Your various Virtues have engag'd my Heart.
‘I know the Quirks and Subtleties of Law;
‘And am well skill'd to harrass, or defend.
‘These Eyes I'll lose, ere you shall suffer Wrong.
‘I'll plead your Cause, and doubt not the Success.
‘Nor Injury, nor Taunts, shall be your Lot.
‘Go home in Peace: Indulge your Genius there.
‘The Toil be mine: I'll be your second Self.’
Then, unremitting, prosecute the Cause,
If th'infant Statues the red Dog-star splits,
Or puffing Furius, with his out-stretch'd Paunch,
‘Spits on the wintry Alps his hoary Snow.’

One, pleas'd, will jog his Neighbour, and observe
‘How diligent this Man! how vehement!
‘He thinks no Toil too great, to serve his Friend!’
This draws more Fish: Your Ponds will never fail.

241

When you behold a wealthy Dotard's Heir,
Of puny Constitution, nicely bred;
By every gracious Art, creep gently in,
And gain, by slow Degrees, his Father's Love,
That you may stand the second in his Will:
And, if kind Death should snatch away the Boy,
Yourself succeed to his Inheritance.
This happy Die will often win the Stake.
For, should you bait for childless Men alone,
Suspicion may awake, and scan your End.

If any one intreats you to peruse
His Will, decline it; yet, with glancing Eye,
Of the first Page observe the second Line,
To see if You are nam'd Executor
Alone, or others in the Trust are join'd:
For oft a subtle Scrivener will elude
The cawing Crow, who wide extends his Mouth,
And sly Coranus shall Nasica dupe.

Ulysses.
Art thou with true prophetic Rage inspir'd,
Or dost thou mock me with Ænigmas dark?

242

Tiresias.
Whatever, sage Ulysses, I foretell,
In future Times shall come to pass—or not;
For great Apollo to my mental Eye
Unfolds the Book of Fate!

Ulysses.
Then, Prophet, say,
(If it be lawful) what that Fable means?

Tiresias.

When a young Prince, from great Æneas sprung,
The Parthians' Dread, shall rule the conquer'd World,
The Prophecy I sing will be fulfill'd.
Nasica, who abhors to pay his Debts,
To old Coranus shall his Daughter yield,
In Bloom of Youth; but shall be justly bilk'd.
The crafty Dotard begs him to peruse
His Will. He first declines it; then complies;
And, big with Hope, in Silence runs it o'er.
But O! how great his Grief, when there he finds
No Legacy, but Anguish and Despair!

243

Observe this farther Rule: If his Freedman
Or favourite House-keeper the Dotard sways,
By Bribes and generous Vails their Friendship gain.
Applaud their Diligence; and, in Return,
They will applaud your Worth, when out of Sight
This Scheme is good: But yet 'tis better far
To storm the Citadel, than take the Out-works.
If he, with frantic Rage, should Verses write,
Extoll them to the Skies, though ne'er so bad.
Is he a Wencher? Then, with chearful Air,
Give to his Arms your own Penelope.

Ulysses.
Penelope! And can'st thou think that she,
The wise, the chaste, who has so long withstood
Th'Assaults of all her Suitors, will at last
Surrender?

Tiresias.

Aye: Those thrifty Youths, more fond
Of Feasts and Revelries, than of the Fair,
Know not the Way to gain a Woman's Love:
Therefore Penelope is chaste and wise.
But let her share with you in Royal Gifts,

244

And (if Tiresias knows the human Heart)
No longer will she prove demure and coy.

In each Address with Caution ever act;
Neither remiss, nor too importunate.
The grave and sullen hate a babbling Tongue.
But be not always silent. You must play
The Part of Davus in the Comedy.
Stand near your Patron, with your Head reclin'd,
In awful Posture, ready to receive
And execute the Orders he shall give.
Does the Wind roughly blow? admonish him
From each cold Blast to guard his precious Head.
Be sure to push and elbow all around,
When in a Throng, to get him safely out.
If talkative, attend to all his Tales;
And, if vain-glorious, surfeit him with Praise.
With puffy Words the growing Bladder swell,
Till, with uplifted Hands, he cry, Forbear!

But when, by his wish'd Death, you are releas'd
From tedious Servitude, and all your Cares,
And broad-awake shall hear this welcome Clause;
‘Item, I leave one-fourth of my Estate,

245

‘And all my Goods and Chattels, to Ulysses:’
Then sigh; and in soft Words lament your Lot;
‘When shall I meet again with such a Friend?’
Is possible, bedew the Corpse with Tears;
And let a mournful Aspect hide your Joy.

If to your Care the Funeral Rites should fall,
Spare no Expence: Let all the Neighbours praise
The Pomp and Splendor of the solemn Show:
And to his Memory erect a Tomb
Magnificent, with meet Inscription grac'd.

If one of your Coheirs be old, infirm;
And should his Lungs heave with asthmatic Coughs,
Let him, if so inclin'd, at his own Price,
Purchase your Share of the Testator's Lands.

But I am call'd by ruthless Proserpine,
Who bears me hence. Live happy, and farewell!

252

SATIRE VI.

He compares the Cares and Troubles of a Town Life with the Ease and Pleasure of a Country one.

By Mr. Fawkes.

Oft has this been my Wish's utmost Bound,
To cultivate a little Tract of Ground,
Where a neat Dwelling in a Garden stood,
A living Fountain, and a waving Wood.
All this and more the gracious Gods have sent;
Thanks for their Bounties, and I rest content;
Nor aught beside, O Son of Maia, crave,
But Leisure to enjoy the Gifts you gave.
If I by Fraud ne'er made my Fortune more,
Nor lessen'd by Extravagance my Store;
If thus I ne'er preferr'd my foolish Prayer;
‘O for that Nook of Land that lies so fair!
‘That little Spot, to make my Meadow square.
‘O would propitious Fortune of her Pleasure
‘Direct me to some hidden Hoard of Treasure!

253

‘As once she bless'd the Peasant mean and poor,
‘Who bought those Acres which he plow'd before,
‘For Hercules benign turn'd up the golden Store.’

If then with what I have I'm satisfy'd,
Grant me this Boon, kind Mercury, beside;
Protect me as of old, be gracious yet,
And fatten all my Stock, but that of Wit!
When sick of Town I leave imperial Rome,
And climb the breezy Heights of Tusculum,
What can my Leisure Hours like Satire please?
The chiding Numbers flow with careless Ease,
For mad Ambition poisons not my Mind,
Nor shrinks my Body at the gross South Wind,
Nor do I Autumn's sickly Season dread,
When Proserpine makes Profit of the Dead.

O gentle Father of the Morning, hear,
Or Janus, if that better please thine Ear;
From thee the Labours of the busy Throng
Commence, be thou the Prelude of my Song!
First then for luckless Me thou hast decreed
Some Bail to give; ‘Urge, urge,’ thou cry'st, ‘thy Speed;
‘Let none prevent thee in the friendly Deed.’
The Case requires it, I must needs obey,
Whether the wintry Sun contracts the Day

254

In Circlet small, with Snow and Storm severe,
Or raging Boreas desolates the Year.
This Bail (my Bane) pronounc'd distinct and loud;
I hasten back, and, bustling through the Crowd,
Press on the tardy; till provok'd to Spleen
One cries aloud, ‘What does this Madman mean?
‘While to Mæcenas thus you haste to pay
‘Your Court, you shove your Betters in the Way.’
These Taunts, I own, my Breast with Transport fill:
But when I reach the high Esquilian Hill,
I'm worry'd with an hundred People's Prayers,
Begging my Interest for their own Affairs.
‘Roscius,’ says one, ‘desires in Court you'll meet
‘To-morrow in the Morning, just at eight.’
Another bawls, ‘The Secretaries pray,
‘On grand Affairs, your Presence here to-day.’
‘I humbly beg, good Sir, you'd be so kind
‘To get this Warrant by Mæcenas sign'd.’
“I'll try to serve you;” though I tell the Man;
Urgent he answers, ‘If you will, you can.’

Eight rolling Years are nearly at an End,
Since first Mæcenas deign'd to call me Friend;

255

Oft took me in his Chariot; and in short
Would ask important Questions of this sort;
‘Pray, what's the Hour? Which in your Choice takes Place.
‘The Swordsman Syrus, or the Blade of Thrace?
‘The Mornings now are piercing cold and chill,
‘And on th'unwary noxious Damps distill.’
Such weighty Secrets as the World may hear,
And safe are trusted in the leaky Ear.
Yet all the while with these high Honours crown'd,
Envy beheld my Happiness, and frown'd.
‘This Son of Fortune,’ would the spiteful say,
‘Sat lately with Mæcenas at the Play,
‘And met him in the Field of Mars to-day.’
Should some strange Rumour fly about the Street,
I'm stopp'd and ask'd by every one I meet:
‘Pray, good Sir (for you live among the Great,
‘And can inform us) are the Dacians beat?’
“I have not heard one Tittle, I protest.”
‘Ah! Sir, you grow so close, and love to jest.’
“Sir, I know nothing, as I hope to live.”
‘Well, Sir, but tell us, Will Augustus give
‘The Farms he promis'd to his martial Bands
‘In the Sicilian or Italian Lands?’

256

And though I still protest, and vow, and swear,
I'm quite a Stranger to the whole Affair,
Amaz'd, they think me grown profoundly sly;
No Mortal ever was so close as I.

Consum'd in Trifles thus the golden Day
Not without ardent Wishes steals away;
When shall I see my peaceful Country Farm,
My Fancy when with ancient Authors charm?
Or, lull'd to Sleep, my easy Hours delude
In sweet Oblivion of Sollicitude?
O for those Beans which my own Fields provide!
Deem'd by Pythagoras to Man ally'd;
The savoury Pulse serv'd up in Platters nice,
And Herbs high-relish'd with the Bacon Slice!
O tranquil Nights in pleasing Converse spent,
Ambrosial Suppers that might Gods content!
When with my chosen Friends (delicious Treat!)
Before the Houshold Deities we eat;
The Slaves themselves regale on choicest Meat.
Free from mad Laws we sit reclin'd at Ease,
And drink as much, or little, as we please.
Some quaff large Bumpers that expand the Soul,
And some grow mellow with a moderate Bowl.

257

We never talk of this Man's House or Vill,
Or whether Lepos dances well or ill:
But of those Duties which ourselves we owe,
And which 'tis quite a Scandal not to know:
As whether Wealth or Virtue can impart
The truest Pleasure to the human Heart:
What should direct us in our Choice of Friends,
Their own pure Merit, or our private Ends:
What we may deem, if rightly understood,
Man's sovereign Bliss, his chief, his only Good.

Mean-time my Friend, old Cervius, never fails
To chear our Converse with his pithy Tales:
Praise but Arellius, or his ill-got Store,
His Fable thus begins: In Days of yore
A Country Mouse within his homely Cave
A Treat to one of Note, a Courtier, gave;
A good plain Mouse our Host, who lov'd to spare
Those Heaps of Forage he had glean'd with Care;
Yet on Occasion would his Soul unbend,
And feast with Hospitality his Friend:
He brought wild Oats and Vetches from his Hoard;
Dry'd Grapes and Scraps of Bacon grac'd the Board:
In Hopes, no doubt, by such a various Treat,
To tempt the dainty Traveller to eat.

258

Squat on fresh Chaff, the Master of the Feast
Left all the choicest Viands for his Guest,
Nor one nice Morsel for himself would spare,
But gnaw'd coarse Grain, or nibbled at a Tare.
At length their slender Dinner finish'd quite,
Thus to the Rustic spoke the Mouse polite:
‘How can my Friend a wretched Being drag
‘On the bleak Summit of this airy Crag?
‘Say, do you still prefer this barbarous Den
‘To polish'd Cities, Savages to Men?
‘Come, come with Me, nor longer here abide,
‘I'll be your Friend, your Comrade, and your Guide.
‘Since all must die that draw this vital Breath,
‘Nor great nor small can shun the Shafts of Death;
‘'Tis ours to sport in Pleasures while we may;
‘For ever mindful of Life's little Day.’

These weighty Reasons sway'd the Country Mouse,
And light of Heart he sally'd from his House,
Resolv'd to travel with this courtly Spark,
And gain the City when securely dark.

Now Midnight hover'd o'er this earthly Ball,
When our small Gentry reach'd a stately Hall,
Where brightly glowing, stain'd with Tyrian Dye,
On Ivory Couches richest Carpets lie;

259

And in large Baskets, rang'd along the Floor,
The rich Collation of the Night before.
On purple Bed the Courtier plac'd his Guest,
And with choice Cates prolong'd the grateful Feast;
He carv'd, he serv'd, as much as Mouse could do,
And was his Waiter, and his Taster too.
Joy seiz'd the Rustic as at Ease he lay;
This happy Change had made him wondrous gay—
When lo! the Doors burst open in a Trice,
And at their Banquet terrify'd the Mice:
They start, they tremble, in a deadly Fright,
And round the Room precipitate their Flight;
The high-roof'd Room with hideous Cries resounds
Of baying Mastiffs, and loud-bellowing Hounds:
Then thus the Rustic in the Courtier's Ear;
‘Adieu, kind Sir! I thank you for your Cheer:
‘Safe in my Cell your State I envy not;
‘Tares be my Food, and Liberty my Lot!’

266

SATIRE VII. A Dialogue between Horace and his Slave.

That every Man is a Slave, who is under the Controul of his Passions.

Davus.
I long in Silence have your Orders heard;
Wishing to speak my Thoughts; but as your Slave
That Freedom dare not take.

Horace.
Say, who is there?
Davus? Is't you?

Davus.
The same: True to my Lord:
Though wise enough, yet not to that Degree,
As to be early snatch'd by envious Death.
This is the Saturnalian Feast.

267

Horace.
'Tis true.
Speak freely then: So have our Sires ordain'd.

Davus.

Some steadily pursue the Course of Vice.
Others float to-and-fro, as Whim prevails;
To Virtue now, and now to Vice inclin'd.
Three Rings would Priscus on his left Hand wear
One Day; the next was seen with none; his Robe
Would often quit, and wear a mean Disguise;
This Day would in a Palace dwell; the next
In a poor Hutt, from whence a cleanly Slave
Would blush to issue; now he with the Learn'd
Would live at Athens; now with Whores at Rome.
His every Change the mere Effect of Whim.

The Gamester Volanerius, when the Gout
His knotted Joints had justly crippled, hir'd
A Boy, to gather up, and throw the Dice;
Yet still less wretched than the motley Man,
Whose Passions were at Variance; since the last
Gave up the Reins to Vice without Remorse.

Horace.
To whom this idle Stuff dost thou apply?

268

Davus.
To You.

Horace.
To Me, vile Rascal! Make it out.

Davus.

Though highly you extoll the frugal Fare
And simple Manners of our Ancestors;
Yet if some God should take you at your Word,
You would decline the Gift you had desir'd;
Either because your Heart is insincere,
Or that you have not Honesty enough
To chuse the Part you know is right and good;
Unable from the Mire to pluck your Foot.
When in the Country, you applaud the Town;
When in the Town, are charm'd with rural Joys;
Inconstant you, when uninvited, praise
Your wholesome Herbs, and bless your happy Stars,
That you are not oblig'd to drink; as if
You never supp'd abroad, but by Constraint.
But should Mæcenas call you to a Feast
At the Decline of Day, the whole House rings
With your wild Rage. ‘Bring me the Essence, Boy.
‘Does no-one hear? The Slaves are, sure, asleep.’

269

Mulvius and other Drolls, who had been ask'd
To sup with you, retire with many a Curse,
Which I, your humble Slave, dare not repeat.
Perhaps to Me it will be said; ‘You scent
‘A savoury Dish with Nose erect; indulge
‘Your Appetite; are slothful; and neglect
‘Your Master's Business; are too fond of Play;
‘You haunt the Tavern; and are often drunk.’
All this I own with Shame, and guilty plead.
But what if my Accuser should be found
Obnoxious to the same, or greater Faults,
(Though varnish'd and disguis'd with specious Names),
Than those with which he loads unhappy Davus,
His Slave, whom for a paltry Sum he bought?
If this should be the Case, can he, with Justice,
Punish a Man less wicked than himself?
—Nay, cease to fright me with that frowning Brow;
With-hold your Hand, and curb your swelling Rage,
While simply I relate the wholesome Truths
Which from Crispinus' Porter I have glean'd.

Your Neighbour's Wife charms you; a Whore your Slave.

270

Whose Crime deserves the greater Punishment?
Soon as my Flame is quench'd, I go content.
I have no Character to lose; nor fear
To be supplanted by a richer Rival.
But You, when throwing off the Roman Dress,
Your purple Robe and Rings, you meanly stoop,
To veil beneath a Cap your essenc'd Hair,
And muffle in a tatter'd Cloak your Face,
To seek some marry'd Dame, whose Room you enter
With trembling Joints, perplex'd with Hope and Fear;
Then are not you the Man, whose Garb you wear?
See now, the sordid Slave belies the Judge!
For what's the Difference, if you mount the Stage,
There to be cut and slash'd, and kill'd for Pay;
Or, driv'n by lordly Lust, expose your Limbs,
To bear the Penalties and torturing Pains,
An injur'd Husband may by Law inflict?
Though both are guilty, yet the Tempter, Man,
Calls for severest Vengeance on his Head.
To Him, provok'd, You bind yourself the Slave,
Forfeit your Fame, your Fortune, and your Life!
But what if you escape? Let us suppose
Her conscious Maid has pent you in a Chest,

271

Stifled; with Neck and Heels together join'd.
Now you'll be warn'd; nor try the Waves again,
Safe on the Shore: Experience makes us wise.
Alas! in spite of Warning, you proceed,
And run the Course of Vice, till, caught at last,
You grievously will rue your dear-bought Joys.
Thou oft-returning Slave! what savage Beast,
That once has broke his Chain, again will take it?

But if you should evade the Charge, and say,
‘I am not an Adulterer:’ I reply,
That ‘Davus is no Thief, since, wisely, He
‘Embezzles not your Goods, nor steals your Plate.’
But lay aside the Laws; and Nature then
Uncurb'd will soon rush forth with boundless Rage.
Can you be Lord to Me, yourself who serve
So many various Things and various Lords?
Three or four Touches of the Prætor's Rod
Can set me free: What Power can chase from you
The conscious Worm, that ever gnaws within?

Still add another weighty Circumstance;
If, as the Custom is among the Romans,
There is a Master-Slave, who rules the rest,

272

And yet himself is subject to his Lord,
What then are You to Me?—That Master-Slave:
You govern me indeed, but are yourself
The plyant Dupe of every Tyrant Lust;
A very Puppet, mov'd with Springs and Wires!

Horace.
Who then is free?

Davus.

The Wise; for he maintains
An Empire o'er himself; whom neither Want,
Nor Chains, nor Death affright; brave to subdue
Rebellious Lusts; and vain Ambition spurn:
Whose Happiness depends but on his Mind;
Collected in himself; polish'd and round;
Whom Fortune's Arrows ever strike in vain.

Examine well this Picture: See! if there
You can discern one Feature of your own.

Your Wench demands five Talents, and torments you;
She turns you out, and on your Shoulders pours
A full-charg'd Jordan's Freight; and mildly then
Calls you again. Assert your Freedom now,
And loose your Neck from this base Bondage. No.

273

Your Lord, with Rage relentless, drives you on;
And, if you loiter, galls you with his Spur.

Or, when with Rapture you a Picture view,
By Pausias drawn, are you less blameable
Than me; who, staring in the Street, admire
A Sign, with Coal or Oker rudely sketch'd,
Where Gladiators give and parry Blows,
With Ham out-stretch'd, in fencing Posture drawn.
But Davus is a Dolt, a lazy Knave;
And you a Man of Taste, a Connoisseur,
Who can distinguish old from modern Works.

If I am tempted by a smoking Pye,
No Name is hard enough for Me; but You
The Force of all Temptation can resist,
And never will regale at stately Feasts;
So great your Mind! your Virtue so precise!—

If, haply, I transgress, and gormandize
My Punishment is Stripes: And what is yours?
Your Luxury will cost more dear than mine.
The Price of frequent Feasts are Qualms and Loathing.
The Dropsy and the Gout bring up the Rear;
Nor can the tottering Legs support their Load.
Say, does the Boy, who steals at Dusk of Eve,

274

A Curry-comb, to buy a Bunch of Grapes,
Deserve the Lash? Then what does he deserve,
His Land who mortgages, and sells his Farm,
To pamper and indulge his Appetite?

Add, that you know not how t'improve your Time;
Nor can employ a single Hour alone:
Unsatisfy'd, from Place to Place you rove;
Seeking, by Wine or Sleep, to banish Care:
In vain; for Care pursues, where-e'er you fly.

Horace.
Give me a Stone!—

Davus.
At whom to throw it, Sir?

Horace.
A Club, or Sword!

Davus.
Hark! hark! my Master raves;
Or is repeating Verse!

Horace.
Fly, Rascal, fly!
Or I will send thee to my Sabine Farm,
And to eight whoreson Lubbers add a ninth!

278

The Same SATIRE Imitated.

[Sir,—I've long waited in my Turn to have]

By Mr. Christopher Pitt.

Servant.
Sir,—I've long waited in my Turn to have
A Word with you—but I'm your humble Slave.

Poet.
What Knave is that? My Rascal!

Servant.
Sir, 'tis I,
No Knave nor Rascal, but your trusty Guy.

Poet.
Well, as your Wages still are due, I'll bear
Your rude Impertinence this Time of Year.

Servant.
Some Folks are drunk one Day, and some for ever,
And some, like Wharton, but twelve Years together.

279

Old Evremond, renown'd for Wit and Dirt,
Would change his Living oftner than his Shirt;
Roar with the Rakes of State a Month; and come
To starve another in his Hole at Home.
So rov'd wild Buckingham, the public Jest,
Now some Inn-holder's, now a Monarch's Guest;
His Life and Politics of every Shape,
This Hour a Roman, and the next an Ape.
The Gout in every Limb from every Vice,
Poor Clodio hir'd a Boy to throw the Dice.
Some wench for ever; and their Sins on those
By Custom sit as easy as their Cloaths.
Some fly, like Pendulums, from Good to Evil,
And in that Point are madder than the Devil:
For they—

Poet.
To what will these vile Maxims tend?
And where, sweet Sir, will your Reflections end?

Servant.
In You.

Poet.
In Me, you Knave? Make out your Charge.

Servant.

You praise low-living, but you live at large.

280

Perhaps you scarce believe the Rules you teach,
Or find it hard to practise what you preach.
Scarce have you paid one idle Journey down,
But, without Business, you're again in Town.
If none invite you, Sir, abroad to roam,
Then—Lord, what Pleasure 'tis to read at home!
And sip your two Half-pints with great Delight
Of Beer at Noon, and muddled Port at Night.
From Encombe, John comes thundering at the Door,
With, ‘Sir, my Master begs you to come o'er,
‘To pass these tedious Hours, these Winter Nights,
‘Not that he dreads Invasions, Rogues, or Sprights.’
Strait for your two best Wigs aloud you call,
This stiff in Buckle, that not curl'd at all.
‘And where, you Rascal, are the Spurs,’ you cry;
‘And O! what Blockhead laid the Buskins by?’
On your old batter'd Mare you'll needs be gone,
(No Matter whether on four Legs or none)
Splash, plunge, and stumble, as you scour the Heath,
All swear at Morden 'tis on Life or Death:

281

Wildly through Wareham Streets your scamper on,
Raise all the Dogs and Voters in the Town;
Then fly for six long dirty Miles as bad,
That Corfe and Kingston Gentry think you mad.
And all this furious Riding is to prove
Your high Respect, it seems, and eager Love:
And yet that mighty Honour to obtain,
Banks, Shaftesbury, Dodington may send in vain.
Before you go, we curse the Noise you make,
And bless the Moment that you turn your Back.
As for myself, I own it to your Face,
I love good Eating, and I take my Glass:
But sure 'tis strange, dear Sir, that this should be
In Your Amusement, but a Fault in Me.
All this is bare refining on a Name,
To make a Difference where the Fault's the same.

My Father sold me to your Service here,
For this fine Livery and four Pounds a Year.
A Livery you should wear as well as I,
And this I'll prove—but lay your Cudgel by.
You serve your Passions. Thus, without a Jest,
Both are but Fellow-Servants at the best.
Yourself, good Sir, are play'd by your Desires,
A mere tall Puppet dancing on the Wires.

282

Poet.
Who, at this Rate of talking, can be free?

Servant.

The brave, wise, honest Man, and only He.
All else are Slaves alike, the World around,
Kings on the Throne, and Beggars on the Ground.
He, Sir, is proof to Grandeur, Pride, or Pelf,
And (greater still) is Master of himself:
Not to-and-fro by Fears and Factions hurl'd,
But loose to all the Interests of the World:
And while that World turns round, entire and whole
He keeps the sacred Tenor of his Soul;
In every Turn of Fortune still the same,
As Gold unchang'd, or brighter from the Flame:
Collected in himself, with godlike Pride,
He sees the Darts of Envy glance aside;
And, fix'd like Atlas, while the Tempests blow,
Smiles at the idle Storms that roar below.
One such you know, a Layman, to your Shame,
And yet the Honour of your Blood and Name.
If you can such a Character maintain,
You too are free, and I'm your Slave again.

But when in Hemskirk's Pictures you delight,
More than myself, to see two Drunkards fight,

283

‘Fool, Rogue, Sot, Blockhead,’ or such Names, are mine;
Yours are, ‘a Connoisseur,’ or ‘deep Divine.’
I'm chid for loving a luxurious Bit,
The sacred Prize of Learning, Worth, and Wit:
And yet some sell their Lands these Bits to buy;
Then, pray, who suffers most from Luxury?
I'm chid, 'tis true; but then I pawn no Plate,
I seal no Bonds, I mortgage no Estate.

Besides, high Living, Sir, must wear you out
With Surfeits, Qualms, a Fever, or the Gout.
By some new Pleasures are you still engross'd,
And when you save an Hour, you think it lost.
To Sports, Plays, Races, from your Books you run,
And like all Company, except your own.
You hunt, drink, sleep, or (idler still) you rhyme:
Why?—but to banish Thought, and murder Time.
And yet that Thought, which you discharge in vain,
Like a foul loaded Piece, recoils again.

Poet.
Tom, fetch a Cane, a Whip, a Club, a Stone,—

Servant.
For what?

Poet.
A Sword, a Pistol, or a Gun:

284

I'll shoot the Dog.

Servant.
Lord! who would be a Wit?
He's in a mad, or in a rhyming Fit.

Poet.
Fly, fly, you Rascal, for your Spade and Fork;
For once I'll set your lazy Bones to work.
Fly, or I'll send you back without a Groat
To the bleak Mountains where you first were caught.

285

SATIRE VIII. Horace and Fundanius.

A Description of the Feast of Rufus Nasidienus.

Horace.
How did you fare at wealthy Rufus' Feast?
When yesterday I sought you for my Guest
I heard you din'd with him.

Fundanius.
A better Day
I never past.

Horace.
Indeed! What Dainties, pray,
Allay'd your Hunger, and regal'd your Taste?

Fundanius.

First, a Lucanian Boar the Table grac'd:
Dissolv'd in Lees of Wine, Anchovies crown'd
The Dish with Sauce; with Carrots, many a Pound,
And Radishes and Lettuce garnish'd round.

286

And it was caught, if Rufus' Words were true,
When Southern Gales with genial Softness blew.

This Course remov'd, a Boy, in trim Array,
With purple Napkin swept the Crumbs away;
Another took up all the Scraps that fell,
That nothing might offend our Sight or Smell.
Then, like th'Athenian Maid, with solemn Pace
Stalking at Ceres' Feast, his tawny Face
Hydaspes rear'd, and brought Cæcubian Wines,
Alcon the Chian, prest from Latian Vines.
‘If you, Mæcenas, rather chuse the Growth
Of Alba or Falernus, I have both,’
The Master cries.

Horace.
O wretched Hoard! but say,
Who shar'd, beside, the Dainties of the Day!

Fundanius.

The upper Bed was with Mæcenas grac'd;
Next were Servilius and Vibidius plac'd;
I on the right-hand Bed, Viscus near Me,
Varius below, if true my Memory;
The left to Nomentanus was assign'd
And Porcius; Rufus in the midst reclin'd.

287

Porcius, than whom there lives no greater Droll,
At one large Gulp the Custards swallow'd whole.
While Nomentanus due Encomiums past,
And pointed out each Dish of higher Taste.
For Wild-fowl, Lobsters, Sea-fish were our Fare,
But so disguis'd we knew not what they were.
With Plaise delicious he my Plate supply'd,
(Such I ne'er eat) and with a Flounder fry'd:
Then said, ‘These Honey-apples should remain
‘Ungather'd, till the Moon is on the Wane;
‘For then, believe me, ruddier they appear.’
Where lies the Difference you from him may hear.

‘O!’ cries Vibidius, ‘we shall surely die
‘Without Revenge, unless we drink him dry:
‘Bring larger Glasses.’ Paleness now o'erspread
Poor Rufus' Face; for nothing did he dread
Like a hard Drinker, who with Jokes misplac'd
Attacks his Friends; or else he fear'd the Feast,
By these strong Liquors pall'd, would lose its Taste.

Briskly the Glass goes round; we drink away,
And soon the Flaggons drain; for all obey,
Save Rufus and the Sycophants; he sips
But little; they, like him, just wet their Lips.

288

Now came a Lamprey, in a Length of Dish,
Shrimps floating round. When thus our Host: ‘This Fish,
‘You see, is full of Spawn; the Flesh is bad,
‘That Season over. Thus the Soup is made.
‘Soon as we see the steaming Liquor boil,
‘Caviare we mix, and best Venafran Oyl,
‘And, well matur'd by Age, Italian Wine;
‘But, after it is boil'd, we Chian join:
‘Still farther to improve it some delight,
‘By Lesbian Vinegar and Pepper white.
‘Before my Time the Romans never knew
‘The Rocket green, and El'campane to stew;
‘But to Curtillus I the Palm resign
‘Of stewing Cray-fish in the Cockle Brine.’

The Canopy, high-towering o'er his Head,
While thus he spoke, fell down; and instant spread
Such Clouds of Dust, as ne'er are seen to rise
When o'er Campania's Plains the Whirlwind flies.

This Danger o'er, though greater Ills we fear'd
And stood aghast, our drooping Hearts were chear'd.
But from his Eyes th'o'erflowing Tears distill'd
In copious Streams, as if his Son were kill'd:

289

And had not Nomentanus thus reliev'd
His agonizing Friend, he still had griev'd:
‘O wayward Fortune, cruel Deity!
‘Whate'er our Wisdom plans is spoil'd by thee.’
From Peals of Laughter Varius could but just.
Refrain, though in his Mouth the Cloth he thrust.
Servilius, gravely sneering, then began:
‘So frail, so transient are the Hopes of Man!
‘Who, in Return for all his anxious Pains,
‘A Glory equal to his Labour gains?
‘Alas! that you should lavish all your Care
‘To treat your Friends with such delicious Fare;
‘To see your Boys in neat and gay Attire,
‘Your Soup well boil'd, your Loaves unscorch'd by Fire,
‘Since, spite of all this Toil, (as now the Case)
‘A Canopy may fall, or some choice Vase
‘Be broke by stumbling Slaves—As in the Field
‘So at a Feast, that Worth which lies conceal'd
‘In prosperous Days, in adverse is reveal'd.’

Rufus to this, ‘Thanks, kind and generous Friend!
‘O may the Gods to all your Prayers attend!’
Then for his Sandals call'd. From Man to Man,
On every Bed the whizzing Whisper ran.

290

No comic Scene could give more Laughter Birth.

Horace.
Did nothing more, I pray, provoke your Mirth?

Fundanius.

Vibidius calls aloud, ‘Is every Flask
‘Of Liquor broke, that I in vain must ask
‘So oft for Wine?’ Servilius, pleas'd by Art
So to have dup'd our Host, performs his Part,
As second in the Farce. With sparkling Eyes
See! he returns. When strait Servilius cries,
‘I doubt not now, but large Amends you've made
‘For the sly Trick that slippery Fortune play'd.’
With Flower and Salt well powder'd, lo! a Crane
Cut up and grill'd, borne by a servile Train.
Livers of milk-white Geese, which fat had grown
By eating Figs; of Hares the Wings alone,
As much the sweetest; Blackbirds over-broil'd,
And many a Ring-Dove of its Rump despoil'd.
All curious Things, no doubt, had not our Friend
Explain'd their various Uses without End.

But in Revenge we nothing more would taste,
And all abruptly hurry'd from the Feast,

291

As if Canidia's Breath, than Snakes more foul,
Had tainted every Dish, and poison'd every Bowl.

294

The MISER's FEAST. Being the Same SATIRE Imitated.

By Edward Greene Burnaby, Esq;

A Dialogue between one of the Guests and his Friend.

Friend.
'Twas said, you shar'd, a jovial Guest,
The Laughter of our Neighbour's Feast;
Or I expected you at three,
To eat some Ham and Fowl with Me.

Guest.
O! 'twas the finest Scene of Mirth,
And we the happiest Souls on Earth.

Friend.
But say, what Dishes deck'd the Board?
How many did the Wretch afford?
For Mirth alone could ne'er asswage
Your hungry Stomach's eager Rage.

295

Guest.

First on the Table's lower Station
A Leg of Mutton, Venison-fashion:
‘This,’ cries the Host, ‘I dare commend;
‘The Present of a noble Friend;
‘Which, far the fattest of the Herd,
‘His Lordship for myself preferr'd.’

And now, to cloath the Miser's Cheat,
Full Boats of sweet Sauce took their Seat;
With smoaking Gravy's richest Tides,
Which choak'd the Table's narrow Sides.
At Top a well-stuff'd Soup was plac'd,
High-season'd to provoke the Taste;
With every strongest Herb o'erspread,
But chiefly cramm'd and clogg'd with Bread:
This is in Plenty serv'd about,
To tire our loathing Palates out;
That, cloy'd with this, we might be able
To eat no choicer Things at Table.
The Crumbs now swept with skilful Care
(The Napkins somewhat worse for Wear)
Slow as the Bride with many a Tear
Stalks by her once-lov'd Husband's Bier,

296

So slow a loaded Negro stept,
(Such Slaves, you know, are cheaply kept)
With Salver rear'd he sweet Wine bore,
The Growth, 'twas said, of foreign Shore;
(But I can scarce believe 'tis true,
It any Place but England knew)
‘Such Wines,’ our Niggard cries, ‘as these
‘Did ne'er, I own, my Palate please;
‘They may be good; but I've a Store,
‘That must, I'm sure, regale you more.
‘Taste; I am certain you'll befriend it;
‘And, as the best, I dare commend it.
‘John, fetch the Wine of which I speak—
‘But on your Life no Bottle break.
‘Go; on the right, you know, 'tis spread;
‘The Corks, you'll find, are seal'd with red.’
He spoke—the Butler carries out
The Wine he went to hand about;
For Fear, that, conscious of the Cheat,
The Guests should smell the low Deceit;
And his best Wine, howe'er they sought,
The careful Servants never brought.

297

Friend.
Now tell me, who beside was there,
So bless'd the curious Feast to share?

Guest.

The worthy Giver of the Feast
In lordly Pomp at Top was plac'd;
And at the Bottom sat a Friend,
Prepar'd each Dish to recommend;
Beside there were a Number more;
I think we made just half a Score.
One Guest was seated close to Me
(An honest Captain of the Sea)
Who brought, the Niggard Wretch to spite,
Two Brothers to the jovial Sight.
Swelling in all the Pride of Fat,
Next, an huge Alderman there sat:
Scarcely four Syllables he spoke;
Others he left in Words to joke;
And, careless of whatever follow'd,
Each nearest Dish promiscuous swallow'd.
The Parasite, of curious Taste,
In Rank of Connoisseur was plac'd;

298

If any Dish unheeded lies,
His Hand displays the smoaking Prize:
For we, poor Critics of a Treat,
All with unknowing Relish eat;
As such nice Sauce disguis'd each Dish,
We scarce could tell the Fowl from Fish.
And now his friendly Arm high-pil'd
My Plate with half a Mackrell broil'd;
But broil'd in vain; my Nose betrays
The Fish had past its sweetest Days.
Next, Gooseberries in Plenty flow'd;
My Plate scarce bears the various Load:
For these with liberal Arm he plac'd,
To hide the Fish's real Taste.
The Captain sees with eager Eyes
This wond'rous Scene; then whispering cries,
‘Come, let us freely drink away,
‘Or we are poison'd, if we stay:
‘Quick let us drain the Niggard's Cellar;
‘Here, give some larger Glasses, Fellow.
‘Can such small Cups the Thirst appease?
‘A Thimble holds as much as these.’
He spoke; the Landlord, pale with Dread,
His Colour chang'd, and hung his Head,

299

As if some Thief had lately stole
His Gold; his other better Soul—
For one of such a sober Thinking
Trembles to hear the Sound of Drinking,
The Captain fills, and recommends
The Bottle to his nearest Friends.
Then high we charge, and ‘Your's and Mine’
Went round the Board in Floods of Wine.
His Parasites, dependent Folk,
Dar'd scarcely half indulge the Joke;
With lingering Mouth they sip the Cup,
And pause, unwilling, o'er the Sup.

High o'er the Shrimps, that round were spread,
An huge, long Turbot heaves his Head.
With all a Host's o'er-ruling Pride,
Then to the Alderman he cry'd;
‘This you will find delicious Food:
‘I took great Care to have it good.
‘My Servant ransack'd every Stall
‘From Westminster to Leadenhall,
‘Resolv'd the best alone should do,
‘To feast such worthy Guests as you:
‘The Butter for the Sauce design'd
‘(To treat you richly was my Mind)

300

‘From Chelsea came this Morning; here
‘Our Butter is but paltry Cheer.
‘But the Shrimp-sauce I need not puff;
‘All other Sauces are but Stuff—
‘This gives a Flavour to the Dish;
‘Which else were but a tasteless Fish.
‘My own directing Care express'd
‘Which Way the Turbot should be dress'd;
‘And, without Vanity, I'm plac'd
‘The foremost 'midst the Men of Taste.
‘'Tis bold, indeed, to recommend
‘This Sauce to an experienc'd Friend:
‘I know the Common-Council eats
‘The Sauce of Lobsters at their Treats;
‘But that affords too rich Delight,
‘And gluts the jaded Appetite.’

Alas! what sudden Turns of Fate
Mar ev'n the good Man's happiest State!
How, shuddering, must th'astonish'd Muse
Tell the Disaster that ensues!
Our Host, as, bending from his Chair,
He whisper'd in his Butler's Ear,
(Perhaps, for that's his general Cry,
Some Lecture on Frugality)

301

Loud as the widely-echoing Sound
When dreadful Earthquakes shake the Ground,
Dropt from the Seat (it could no more—
Time to the Dregs its Frame had wore)
The Table-cloth, to cheat his Fall,
He grasps; down rush Dish, Plates, and all.
The wondering Guests, with pensive Care
Pale, on the prostrate Landlord stare:
Poor Gripus sigh'd, and droop'd his Head;
He rather would have seen us dead:
And would have wept for all the Night,
Had not the Friend reliev'd his Plight:
‘O Fortune! what a cruel Jade,
‘Thou Mistress of the knavish Trade!
‘Away—no more these empty Jokes;
‘Go with thy Wit to other Folks;
‘Nor thus with Men of Virtue sport,—
‘Dear Sir—I hope you feel no Hurt.’
The Tar (in Truth, I thought he'd burst)
Full in his Mouth the Napkin thrust:
Half-pleas'd, half-angry at the Jest,
The Alderman his Laugh suppress'd:
‘All Men,’ he cry'd, ‘my Friend, are born
‘For Fortune's Spite, and Fortune's Scorn.

302

‘What though your boundless Merit claim
‘The Triumph of eternal Fame?
‘Intruding Woes your Glories blot,
‘Such is frail Life's precarious Lot!
‘While the rich Dishes to prepare,
‘You all a Landlord's Troubles share;
‘Each Sauce with strongest Seasonings grac'd
‘To suit the Guests discerning Taste;
‘The Servants with Decorum due
‘Clean for the Day, with Livery new;
‘Yet see what Ills your Rage provoke;
‘The Chair (perhaps the Legs were broke
‘By careless Fellows) hapless Doom!
‘Spreads with its ruin'd Frame the Room:
‘One Dish your Cook in roasting spoils,
‘Another, heedless, overboils;
‘And when your Kindness from the Stable
‘Calls your Postillion to the Table,
‘The Varlet, stumbling, breaks a Plate,
‘And all Things speak the Frown of Fate.
‘—Yet, Courage! Fortune rules us all;
‘Each has his Rise, and each his Fall:
‘Though Prussia's King, with dauntless Might,
‘Rouses his Squadrons to the Fight;

303

‘When Fortune's adverse Tempest lowers,
‘'Tis then she calls forth all his Powers;
‘Then gives that Blaze of Worth to shine,
‘Which else were but a hidden Mine:
‘And thus a Landlord's various Fame
‘(Your Stations, Friend, are much the same)
‘Is as the Good or Ill he bears,
‘Nor buoy'd by Hopes, nor sunk by Fears.’
He spoke; our grateful Host replies,
(The Tears just streaming from his Eyes)
‘O may kind Heaven's indulgent Love
‘The Tenor of your Vows approve!
‘Long may you live, too-generous Guest,
‘Of Men the happiest, as the best!’
He ended; and with mournful Call,
(Limping and faultring from his Fall)
His Cane demanding, turns about;
‘Excuse me, Friends;’—then hobbles out:
While with loud Laughter each Beholder
Joggs his next Neighbour by the Shoulder.
In short, not Shuter's Jokes could more
Have set the Table in a Roar.

304

Friend.
Now tell me, how you pass'd away
The rest of your delightful Day?

Guest.

‘'Tis strange,’ the Sailor cries, ‘I think,
‘You make us stay so long for Drink;
‘Pr'ythee, how often must I call?
‘—What, have your Bottles had a Fall?’
With Peals of Laughter, as he spoke,
His Friends improv'd on every Joke:
While you, who late, most worthy Host,
Lamented, as your All were lost;
Chear'd-up, return with Smiles of Art,
Those poor Disguisers of the Heart—
For now aloft uprear'd in Air,
A mighty Hash the Servants bear;
Full many a Leg of Fowl set forth—
(‘Wings,’ cries our Host, ‘are little worth.’)
Round with the strongest Sauce 'twas grac'd
Of Mushrooms, to disguise the Taste;
The Fowls far stronger—which were spoil'd,
For former Dinners roast and boil'd.
In a full Dish another brings
Of a tough Hare the shatter'd Wings:

305

‘These are esteem'd delicious Meat;
‘The Backs we Critics never eat.’
Then brought they, roasted o'er and o'er,
Of mangled Larks a plenteous Store:
In short, or Fowls, or Meats, or Fish,
We all were sick of every Dish:
Besides, with endless Strain, our Host
Still plagues us with, ‘How dear the Cost!
‘I'm sure, I might extoll my Food:
‘I hope, you find your Dinner good:
‘You see your Treat’—(and full enough
He'd giv'n us of his precious Stuff)
‘John, take the Cloth, and, swift as Thought,
‘Be Wine, and Pipes, and Glasses brought.’

Now nods and whispers every Guest,
Tir'd-out by such a wretched Feast;
One takes his Watch; ‘As I'm alive,
‘Sir, I've engag'd myself at five,
‘To meet a Set of Friends at Tea;
‘And now 'tis almost six by Me.’
‘So late?’ exclaims his Neighbour-Friend;
‘I too a Party must attend
‘Of Ladies to Vauxhall to-night.’
Then rose we all in vengeful Spite,

306

And from the Table, to a Man,
Half-poison'd by the Dainties ran;
Leaving his Parasites to sip
The scarce-wet Glass with sparing Lip.

Thus in an angry League we part,
Just famish'd, with as ready Heart,
(Leaving the Niggard in the Lurch)
As modish Ladies from a Church.

The END of the Second Book.

307

THE FIRST BOOK OF THE EPISTLES OF HORACE.

Translated by John Duncombe, M. A.

Inscribed to the Reverend Glocester Ridley, LL. B.

309

EPISTLE I. To Mæcenas.

Mæcenas having often kindly upbraided Horace with his Indolence in not sending him Lyric Verses, the Poet writes this Epistle by way of Apology: In which he tells him, that those Amusements which were the Diversion of his Youth, have now, in his maturer Age, lost all their Charms, and given Place to more important Studies; and that he has no Relish for any-thing but Moral Philosophy, which alone can regulate our Manners, and guide us to Happiness.

Belov'd Mæcenas, whom my earliest Muse
Chose for her Subject, and my last shall chuse;
No longer youthful Studies can engage
Your Friend, like some old Champion from the Stage
Timely dismiss'd, his Genius damp'd by Age.

310

Veianius on Alcides' Shrine his Arms
Has hung, and tastes in Solitude the Charms
Of rural Life, lest, as his Powers decay,
Vanquish'd or spent for Pity he should pray.
A secret Voice oft cries, ‘The batter'd Horse
‘Release in Time, lest flagging in the Course
‘With broken Wind he pant.’ Now then adieu
To Verse and Trifles; what is Fit and True
Shall be my only Care; my only Thought
To hoard up moral Rules, which may be brought
To Use hereafter. But if you enquire
What Sect I'm of, whose School I most admire,
To no Man's Faith, to no Opinion sworn,
Where'er the Tempest hurries me, I'm borne.
Now through the Sea of Politics I steer,
An active Statesman, rigidly severe,
And strictly virtuous: Now by Stealth return
To Aristippus' Tent, and cautious learn
The subject World to govern, not obey.
Long as to toilsome Rustics is the Day,
Long as the Year to restless Wards, so slow,
To Me the dull and lazy Moments flow,
That check my great Design; which in each Stage
And State of Life concerns us; in Old Age

311

And Youth, in Riches and in Poverty.
Mean while with these rude Elements I try
To form my Mind and each Defect supply.
Would you to clear your dimmer Sight forbear,
Because to rival Lynceus you despair?
Or hopeless Glycon's Vigour to attain,
In Feet or Hands permit the Gout to reign?
To go thus far is something. Is your Breast
By Dread of Want or Thirst of Wealth possest?
Soft Words may be apply'd, whose Balm can ease
Your Pain, or partly conquer your Disease.
Say, does Ambition fire? Some grave Discourse
Thrice read, will calm and stop the Fever's Force
Though Envy, Passion, Sloth, the Love of Wine,
Or Lust inspire, your Ear if you resign
To wholesome Words, you still may be reclaim'd.
The wildest Beasts by Discipline are tam'd.
Vice to avoid is Virtue; and to fly
Folly, a Step to Wisdom. You apply
Your Mind's and Body's utmost Strength, Disgrace
And Poverty to baffle, which you place
Among the worst of Ills. In Search of Gain,
Through Sands, Rocks, all the Dangers of the Main,

312

Fearless to farthest India you repair.
And can you think it less deserves your Care,
Your false Opinions to remove; and wait
Instruction's Call at Wisdom's sacred Gate?
What Champion that could win th'Olympic Crown
Would idly wrestle in a Country-Town?
To Gold yields Silver, and to Virtue Gold,
If Reason's Hand th'impartial Balance hold.
‘Seek Money first; let Virtue next be sought:’
This is the Lesson in the Forum taught,
And practis'd by the Son and aged Sire.
Should your Estate of what the Laws require
But just fall short, tho' grac'd with Wisdom, Sense,
A blameless Life, and manly Eloquence,
You're a Plebeian still. Yet Children sing
Amid their Sports, ‘Do Right, and be a King.’
Be this thy Wall of Brass, No Guilt to know,
Nor let one Crime sit blushing on thy Brow!
Which do you think most worthy of your Praise,
The Roscian Law of these degenerate Days,
Or this trite Song, our great Forefathers' Theme,
Which crowns the virtuous with a Diadem?
Are you more pleas'd with his Advice, who says,
‘A large Estate, my Son, with Justice raise,

313

‘If possible; if not, at any Rate
‘Be sure, my Son, to raise a large Estate;
‘'Till towering o'er the Vulgar, in the Pit
‘Among the Knights or Senators you sit.’
Or his, who bids you look superior down
On Fortune's Malice, and defy her Frown?
But if the People ask, Why, since I chuse
In the same Walls to sojourn, I refuse
In Judgment to agree, nor disapprove
Or like whatever they dislike or love;
Mine is the Answer that wise Reynard gave
To the sick Lion: ‘To your Royal Cave
‘I see the Print of Feet, but from it, none:
‘Hence, Love of Life your Presence bids me shun.’
A Beast you are of many Heads; the View
Of each far different; which shall I pursue?
Or whither follow? Some the Taxes hire,
Others with Gifts the greedy Widow fire;
For childless Misers some in Ambush lie,
While others thrive by griping Usury.
Thus are they all engag'd a different Way,
And vary in their Notions every Day.

‘No Joys,’ the rich Man cries, ‘I e'er partake
‘Like those which Baiæ yields.’ The Lucrine Lake

314

Strait feels his Building-fury. But his Mind
Soon veers about, capricious as the Wind.
‘Pack up your Tools,’ he says; ‘To-morrow meet
‘At fair Teanum; there shall be my Seat.’
Or does his Chamber hold the genial Bed?
‘How blest the single Life, that once I led!’
If single still, ‘How happy they, who prove
‘The matchless Pleasures of connubial Love!’
What Bands this changeful Proteus can secure?
But sure, you cry, more steady are the Poor.
No. They their Lodgings or their Barbers change;
From Bed to Bed, from Bath to Bath they range;
And as fantastic Humours daily show
In their hir'd Skiffs, as those rich Lords, who row
In their own Yatchs. Me if you meet with Hair
Ill cut, you scarce from Laughter can forbear:
My Vest ill-suited to my Coat, and Cloak
Hanging uneven to the Ground, provoke
Your Smiles. But if I, varying in my Thought,
Seek what I shunn'd, and shun what late I sought;
If through th'unequal Tenor of my Life
My Passions jar, and are so much at Strife,

315

That now I build, now level to the Ground,
And change by Turns each Square into a Round,
This you esteem a Madness felt by all,
Nor for a Guardian or Physician call.

Thus you, who in your Bard can scarcely brook
An ill-pair'd Nail, his real Faults o'erlook;
Though for Controul and Counsel he depends
On you, the best of Patrons and of Friends.

To sum up all: The wise Man is above
This empty World, and second but to Jove;
Blest with Wealth, Beauty, Honour, Liberty,
And vigorous Health, when from the Phthysic free.

322

EPISTLE II. To Lollius.

By I. P. SHARD, Esq;

Horace having read over in the Country the Iliad and Odyssey of Homer, while Lollius was employed in pleading at Rome, takes Occasion from thence to point out in this Epistle the moral Instruction to be drawn from that noble Author; and shows the pernicious Effects of Civil Discord, Envy, Avarice, Lust and Anger.

Whilst with Applause, at Rome, you, Lollius, plead,
Homer again I at Præneste read;
Whose moral Song instructs us how to live,
Better than all the Rules the Stoics give.
When, free from Business, you an Hour can spare,
These Lines will tell you what my Reasons are.

The Lust of Paris, as the Poet shows,
Arm'd against Troy a Host of Grecian Foes.
In that long War we learn what Mischief springs
From the mad Rage of Nations, and their Kings.

323

The Seeds of War Antenor would destroy;
Paris compulsive Bliss can ne'er enjoy,
And ere he Helen quit, will ruin Troy.
Nestor, with cool Advice, would fain asswage
Achilles' and Atrides' fatal Rage:
Atrides burns with Love; both burn with Ire:
The Subjects for their Princes Guilt expire.
Alike Sedition, Anger, Lust, Deceit
Reign in the Trojan Walls, and Grecian Fleet.

The Fruits that Virtue yields, to Wisdom join'd,
We in th'Example of Ulysses find:
When his wise Counsels Ilium had subdu'd,
He various Men, and various Cities view'd;
Midst countless Perils sought his native Shore,
But always rose above them Conqueror!
The tuneful Sirens sung, but sung in vain;
He clos'd his Ears against the pleasing Strain:
Had he, when Circe brew'd the tempting Draught,
Without an Antidote the Poison quaff'd,
He, with his Friends, transform'd into a Brute,
Ingloriously had serv'd the Prostitute.
As were the Suitors of Penelopé,
Born but to eat and drink, just such are we;

324

Like the young Nobles of Alcinoüs' Train,
Luxurious, gay, effeminate and vain,
Who glory'd in their sleeping half the Day,
And sung and danc'd, to banish Cares away.

Assassins early rise, your Life to take;
And to preserve it, will not you awake?
When blest with Health, if Exercise you shun,
Swell'd by the Dropsy, you'll be forc'd to run.
Call for your Book and Lamp before 'tis light,
And study both to know and do what's right:
Envy or Lust will else torment your Breast,
And you will seek your Couch in vain for Rest.
Strange! what but hurts the Eye we haste to cure,
Yet what corrodes the Mind, whole Years endure.
Begin, and half is done; make no Delay;
Who a good Life defers from Day to Day,
Waits, like the Bumpkin on the River's Side,
'Till the Stream passes, which will ever glide.

To seek for Riches, and a fruitful Wife,
Are the two grand Sollicitudes of Life:
Forests we fell and plow, t'increase our Store;
Let him that has enough not thirst for more.
Nor House, nor Lands, nor Heaps of Gold can ease
Either the Body's or the Mind's Disease.

325

Both must at once with perfect Health be blest,
Rightly to use those Riches, when possest:
Riches no more the anxious Mind delight,
Than glaring Pictures the disorder'd Sight;
The Gouty Fomentations cannot bear;
Music wants Charms for an imposthum'd Ear.
He tastes no Joy whose Bosom Vice defiles;
An unclean Vessel the best Liquor spoils.
Let Pleasure all her Charms display in vain;
Nor purchase transient Joy with lasting Pain.
The Miser always wants; your Views confine:
The Envious at another's Welfare pine:
The brazen Bull, Procrustes' Bed of Steel,
Ne'er gave such Torture as the Envious feel.
Anger to desperate Actions spurs us on;
Curb it, or you'll repent the Deed, when done;
Whilst Hate and Vengeance animate the Blow;
And make you rush with Fury on your Foe.
Rage is short Madness; bind it fast in Chains;
It serves a Slave, or else a Tyrant reigns.
The docile Colt, form'd by the Jockey's Hand,
Is taught at length to know his Lord's Command:
The Whelp, that bay'd the Deer-skin in the Hall,
Now in the Woods obeys the Huntsman's Call.

326

To good Advice give Ear: 'Tis now the Time,
Now, while your youthful Mind is free from Crime.
When new the Cask, it should be tinctur'd well;
Once season'd, it will long retain its Smell.
Whatever Speed you run in Virtue's Race,
I neither will retard nor mend my Pace.

332

The Same EPISTLE Imitated.

[While you, my Friend, are ever doom'd to Town]

By a Friend in IRELAND.

To a Tutor at Trinity College, Dublin.

While you, my Friend, are ever doom'd to Town,
(A Province worse than thankless to the Gown)
Your constant Toil while stubborn Youth requires,
To prune its Wings, and check its early Fires,
To mark its Bent, its future Course to plan,
And point the dangerous Passage up to Man;
Kind Fortune gives to Me the flowery Mead,
The silent Hour, and Thought-creating Shade:
She gives the former Sages to review,
And, kinder still, she gives to love them too.

Here (to avoid the suffocating Heat,
When panting Cattle to the Woods retreat)
I quit the Fields, the Morning Ramble leave,
And take my Homer to a neighb'ring Cave;

333

That mighty Bard who still the Laurel wears,
Unchang'd, unblasted by two thousand Years;
Whose every Page, with heavenly Wisdom fraught,
Can show the wisest he may still be taught;
In which more true Instruction clearly shines,
Than Years can glean from all the School-Divines.

Is there a Passion, Virtue, Vice, or Whim,
But what we find exemplify'd in him?
Experienc'd Age, in old Antenor's Form,
Shuns a rash War, and would divert the Storm.
In youthful Paris, mark how fatal prove
The headstrong Errors of misguided Love!
Entranc'd by Pleasure, and absorb'd by Joy,
‘Let Helen smile,’ he cries, ‘and perish Troy!’

When Kings contend, obedient to the Call
Of frantic Honour, see their Subjects fall;
See Youth and Age in mix'd Confusion slain,
While Xanthus' Flood runs purple to the Main.
Fill'd with the Woes of War, our Thoughts pursue
Its various Rage through every Point of View;
We trace its Progress from its early Birth,
And mark its Ravage o'er the wasted Earth;
From Times remotest to our own advance,
Then curse th'ambitious Perfidy of France.

334

Now turn your Eyes, and quit the dubious Fight
For Prudence, Patience, and a milder Sight:
Behold Laertes' Son! how, truly great,
He stands superior to the Frowns of Fate!
How, wrapt in virtuous Fortitude, he braves
Alluring Sirens, Circe, Winds and Waves:
Charm'd with a Soul thus resolute, we glow;
And almost wish for Ills, to bear them so.

See next the Nurslings of Alcinoüs' Court,
Born but to laugh, to eat, to drink, and sport!
Like airy Flies, which, gathering in a Swarm,
Devour those Sweets, they never help'd to form:
Then say, does nothing in the Picture strike?—
The general Satire suits us all alike;
As useless, sensual, indolent as they,
We trifle Time insensibly away.

Strange! with what Fear, what trembling Haste we fly,
To set a Limb, or heal an injur'd Eye,
And yet the Passions wound the nobler Part,
Taint the dull Soul, and petrify the Heart:
Though numerous Evils waste the sickly Mind,
No Care's apply'd, no Remedy design'd.

335

The few Resolves, which may perhaps be wrought
In some kind lucid Interval of Thought,
Sink the next Moment unperceiv'd away,
Lost in the various Bustling of the Day.
The World commands; the World we all attend;
And trust Futurity the rest to mend.
O dangerous Error! can our manly Prime
For ever last? and are we Lords of Time?
Can we command his Motion to be slack,
Or on the Dial turn the Shadow back?
Compute this Period; see what Length of Days,
What Ages bear such negligent Delays!
A just Allowance for our Childhood give;
Allow for Dotage, when we scarcely live;
For Sleep allow, for Sickness, and for Pain;
Then count our Days, and say how few remain!
How soon this melancholy Truth appears,
The longest Date is scarcely twenty Years!

And yet this Man, this Creature of a Day,
This Bubble, rising just to burst away,
Vast as the wide-spread Ocean in Desires,
Still discontented, more and more requires;
Possess'd of one, his ever-labouring Breast
Is rack'd as strongly by some new Request.

336

How soft the Picture! what an easy Fate!
Would Heaven indulge us with a small Estate.
We scarce have gain'd it, when a farther View
Allures the Eye, and charms us to pursue;
Or larger Heaps, or public Trust we claim,
Or Phantom-pleasures from the Voice of Fame:
Grant these possess'd, and even add to these
Wealth, Freedom, Quiet, any thing you please;
A Wife we covet yet, insatiate still,
And force kind Heaven to curse against its Will.

Shall then ev'n cumbrous Fortune, O my Friend!
Add Pound to Pound, nor ever learn to end?
Shall Heaps on Heaps demand some new Supply,
As over-drinking only makes us dry?
Ask Philip's Son, if Fate would grant his Boon,
What could he crave? He sighs, and shows the Moon.

We own, indeed, that Prudence may produce
From Gold, well-manag'd, an extensive Use;
We own, that large Convenience it affords,
The best of Servants, though the worst of Lords.
Some haughty Fair-one does thy Soul adore?
Dispatch this Advocate, and sigh no more.

337

The first of Beauties, when that boldly bids,
Submits, and worn-out H---n succeeds.
Hast thou a Genius, which neglected lies?
Gold makes the World that slighted Genius prize.
It gives thee all the wisest may desire,
Food, Cloaths, the Town, or Leisure to retire:
And, greater still, it gives the generous Mind,
To Worth in Want the Pleasure to be kind.

This we allow, but 'tis as justly true,
The Taste, the Relish must be first in you.
Nor think, that Riches infinite can please
The tortur'd Slave, who Fears and Hopes obeys:
To him the Gems which either India brings,
As useless prove, as dull and idle things;
As in Change-Alley Tales of Love appear,
Or Handel's Music to a Lapland Ear.

Would'st thou taste Fortune then? with studious Care
Watch o'er each Passion, and thy Mind prepare.
For Gold, where Passions uncorrected rule,
Confirms the Villain, or augments the Fool.
In tainted Casks though richest Wines you pour,
They lose their Richness, and are chang'd to sour.

338

See the pale Miser, who intensely pries
On untouch'd Bags with ever-wakeful Eyes,
Nor dares to use the Wealth his Labour won,
Create the very Want he means to shun.

From boisterous Rage preserve your Temper free,
Convinc'd 'tis Madness in a less Degree.

But chief from Envy, as the sharpest Ill,
Which Art can find, or Man be doom'd to feel.
Strange Torment! say, by what unguarded Ways
Steals in this watchful Enemy to Ease?
Does mutual Hate the mutual Passion move?
Or springs it rather from a selfish Love?
From Hate we thus conclude it cannot rise;
Reduce the Envy'd, and our Envy dies.
Then sure of Frenzies 'tis the last, the worst,
Through mean Self-love to make ourselves accurst.

For Me, or near or distant be my End,
I stand resolv'd industriously to mend;
Resolv'd, with all the Efforts in my Power,
To snatch at Time, and husband every Hour.
Pleas'd with the Thought, on Sure's mæandring Flood
I muse; or wander to the devious Wood;
Nor mean for Loiterers in the Race to stay,
Nor envy those who bravely lead the Way.

1756.

339

EPISTLE III. To Julius Florus.

Augustus having sent his Son-in-Law, Claudius Tiberius Nero, with a powerful Army to replace Tigranes on the Throne of Armenia, Horace here enquires how Julius Florus and the other Wits in the Train of Claudius employed their Time; advises him to subdue those Passions which are the Source of all Evil, and in particular to be reconciled to his Friend Munatius Plancus.

Tell me, my Florus, on what foreign Coast
Claudius to Battle leads his warlike Host?
Say, are you now in Thracian Realms detain'd,
On Hebrus' Banks, by icy Fetters chain'd,
Between the Sea-wash'd Castles do you sail,
Or breathe on Asia's Hills a purer Gale?
What studious Cares engage your learned Band?
But chief inform me, what distinguish'd Hand
Transmits to latest Times Augustus' Fame,
In Peace and War alike a deathless Name!

340

What now employs our Titius? He whose Verse
Soon with just Praise the Public will rehearse:
Who, scorning Lakes and Streams, has, free from Dread,
Dar'd to drink deep at Pindar's Fountain-head.
How fares the Poet? does he still retain
The Memory of Me? the Theban Strain
Has he adapted to the Latian Lyre?
Or does he rage and foam with Tragic Fire?
What does my Celsus? warn'd so oft to raise
A Fortune of his own, nor touch the Lays,
Which to the latest Times the sacred Nine
Transmit, preserv'd by Phœbus Palatine;
Lest, when their Feathers every Bird resumes,
We scorn the Jay divested of his Plumes.
What's your own Study? o'er what fragrant Flowers
Now hover you? not slender are your Powers,
Nor unadorn'd your Mind. Whether a Cause
You eloquently plead, or civil Laws
Clearly expound, or sport in polish'd Lays,
The conquering Ivy all your Toil repays.
Try but to shun each Source of Care, you'll rise
To sacred Wisdom's Heights; be this the Prize

341

Pursu'd by all; be these the glorious Ends
Of all that are their own, their Country's Friends.

Tell me in your Reply, and tell me true,
Do you with such Regard Munatius view
As he deserves? or, patch'd by bungling Hands,
Have you not burst fair Friendship's brittle Bands?
But should slight Knowledge of the World inspire
This fatal Enmity, or youthful Fire,
Live like two Brothers, and live where you will,
At your Return a pamper'd Steer I'll kill.

342

The Same EPISTLE Imitated.

[You, whom all Places in their Turns delight]

By Mr. Nevile, Fellow of Jesus College, Cambridge.

You, whom all Places in their Turns delight,
Say, whither do you next direct your Flight?
To Town? to Country? or do you repair
To flutter at Brighthelmstone with the Fair?
Will nothing from the Press this Season steal,
To give the Nibblers of these Times a Meal?

343

Can Mason Days of Gothic Darkness grace,
And not to Railings rouse the snarling Race?
Mason, who creeps not with low Sons of Rhyme,
But on Pindaric Pinions soars sublime!
Sleeps he? or does he meditate again
To rival Athens in the Tragic Strain?
Or, kindling with a Ray of purer Fire,
To holiest Raptures wake the British Lyre?

Does Celsus still a War with Reason wage,
And spread French Tinsel o'er his pilfer'd Page?
How shall we titter at this fluttering Jay,
When his bright Plumes fall one by one away;
When cruel Critics cull each glittering Line,
And give it back to Boileau and Racine!
Or say, what Sweets invite your roving Muse?
You want not Genius, but the Will to use;
Sure in whate'er you do to win Applause:
Whether you lend a Polish to the Laws;
To Culprit Clowns explain what's just and fit,
Or charm the Circle with a Flow of Wit.
Go! the cold Lenitives of Care resign;
Go! while you may, wear Wisdom's Wreath divine:

344

For this all toil, who shine, or e'er have shone,
Friends to Mankind's true Interests, or their own.
Sprinkle an Anecdote or two of State:
Has Union heal'd the Bickerings of the Great?
Or does Court-policy drop Balsam o'er
The Wound, that closes, but to gape the more.
Howe'er that be, some Comfort we must feel,
While wakes One Patriot for the public Weal.

345

EPISTLE IV. To Albius Tibullus.

He extolls his good Qualities, and from the Consideration of the Uncertainty of Life, advises him to make the most of the present Time.

Tibullus , candid Critic of my Lays,
Say, how at Pedum pass your vacant Days?
Are you in Works engag'd, that will outvie
The Tuscan Bard's, or do you lonely fly
To the sequester'd Silence of a Wood,
Musing on what becomes the Wise and Good?
A Soul informs your Clay. Indulgent Heaven
To You has Beauty, Wealth, and Prudence given.
What can a Mother wish her Son but Sense,
And, to express it, manly Eloquence;
To live esteem'd by all, with Credit, Health,
Neatness of Fare, and Competence of Wealth?
Perplex'd by Hopes and Fears, by Care and Strife,
Think every Day the Period of your Life.

346

Time unexpected will be Gain. You'll find
Me, when with Smiles you would relax your Mind,
Well-cas'd with Fat, with Skin most sleek and fine,
One of the Herd of Epicurus' Swine.

348

The Same EPISTLE Imitated.

[Dear Sir, to all my Trifles you attend]

By Mr. Christopher Pitt.

To John Pitt, Esq;

Dear Sir, to all my Trifles you attend,
But drop the Critic to indulge the Friend;
And with most Christian Patience lose your Time,
To hear me preach, or pester you with Rhyme.

Here with my Books or Friends I spend the Day,
But how at Kingston pass your Hours away?
Say, shall we see some Plan with ravish'd Eyes,
Some future Pile in Miniature arise?
(A Model to excell, in every Part,
Judicious Jones, or great Palladio's Art)
Or some new Bill, that, when the House is met,
Shall claim their Thanks, and pay the Nation's Debt?

Or do you study, in the silent Wood,
The sacred Duties of the Wise and Good?
Nature, who form'd you, nobly crown'd the Whole
With a strong Body, and as firm a Soul.

349

The Praise is yours to finish every Part,
With all th'Embellishments of Taste and Art.
Some see in canker'd Heaps their Riches roll'd;
Your Bounty gives new Splendor to your Gold.

Could your dead Father hope a greater Bliss,
Or your surviving Parent more than this?
Than such a Son; a Lover of the Laws,
And ever true to Honour's glorious Cause;
Who scorns all Parties, though by Parties sought,
Who greatly thinks, and nobly speaks his Thought,
With all the chaste Severity of Sense,
Truth, Judgment, Wit, and manly Eloquence.
So in his Youth great Cato was rever'd,
By Pompey courted, and by Cæsar fear'd;
Both he disdain'd alike with godlike Pride;
For Rome and Liberty he liv'd—and died!

The future Time is never in our Power;
Then 'tis clear Gain to snatch the present Hour.
Break from your serious Thoughts, and laugh away
In Pimpern Walls one idle easy Day.
You'll find your rhyming Kinsman well in Case,
For ever fix'd to this delicious Place;

350

Though not like L--- with Corpulence o'er-grown;
For he has twenty Cures—and I but one.

To a Gentleman, whose Father had left the Bulk of his Estate to a younger Son. In Allusion to the Same Epistle.

By Mr. Say.

Dear Friend, whom favouring Providence allows
A fruitful Soil, that round a pleasant Seat
Lies various; Pasture, Arable, or Wood;
A Plain with rising Hills inclos'd: What now
Shall the divining Muse suppose t'engage
Your thoughtful Hours? Or in some Grove retir'd
You walk unseen; (in Contemplation high
Rais'd up above the World) and see beneath,
Compassionate, the Cares and fond Designs
Of restless Mortals, always in Pursuit
Of what they always have; still heaping up

351

Stores to be us'd, yet never use their Stores.
O blind of Heart! the Bliss ye seek, behold
Already in your Hands!—Or else with Eyes
Fix'd on some grave Discourse, you now perhaps
Consult with ancient Sages, how to guide
Your Life by Wisdom's Rules, enquiring still
What most beseems the Good t'enquire.—Blest Man!
To whom your wealthy Sire has left enough,
Though with a partial Hand; and God reveal'd
The Secret known to few, to very few,
That ‘Half a great Estate’ (as the wrong'd Bard
To a greedy Brother sung) ‘is more than All.’
Happy! who well have learn'd the precious Art
To value right his Gifts, and freely use
What God has freely sent; nor will be bought
With rich Temptations to enslave your Hours,
And quit the Ease Heaven's Kindness has indulg'd.

What can a careful Mother more request
For her lov'd Son, than to be wise and good;
Able to speak his Sense; that vigorous Health,
And public Fame and Favour may attend

352

A well-spent Life; and a neat Table, spread
With wholesome Food convenient? Though not rich,
Yet never poor. All beyond this is mere
Incumbrance, and the Wish of Fools, who toil
As if they were to raise a Stock to-day,
On which to live for Ages! Wisely you
Enjoy the present Blessing, and depend
On Heaven for what shall be. This Hour, you think,
May prove your last; and hence to-morrow's Sun,
As unexpected, will more grateful rise.

353

EPISTLE V. To Torquatus.

The Poet invites his Friend to Supper, and gives him his Bill of Fare and Company.

If you can loll on antique Beds, and eat
Herbs for your Supper, on an earthen Plate,
To-night, Torquatus, I'll expect you here.
My Wine was cask'd in Taurus' second Year:
Minturna's marshy Valley yields the Vine;
Bring yours, if better; if not, drink of mine.

Already shines my Sideboard, smokes my Fire:
From Hopes, and Fears, and Thirst of Gain retire,
And Moschus' Cause. To-morrow's glorious Morn
Indulges Rest; for then was Cæsar born;
So may we safely, 'till the rising Light,
In social Converse wear the shorten'd Night.

Say, why are Riches giv'n, but to enjoy?
Who starves himself to glut some favourite Boy
Is little less than mad. Flowers will I spread,
And deeply drink, and no Reproaches dread.

354

What Wonders Wine effects? By that, reveal'd
Are Secrets; Cowards hurry'd to the Field;
To the dejected, Courage it imparts,
Fires with fresh Hopes the bold, and teaches Arts.
Bumpers inspire with Eloquence divine,
And ev'n the needy drown their Wants in Wine.
I, for my part, will strict Attention lend,
Lest a stain'd Bed, or dirty Cloth offend;
And every Plate and Dish shall, like a Glass,
Reflect your Face—'Mongst Friends let nothing pass
The Door. That well-match'd Tempers may be join'd,
You here will Brutus and Septimius find;
Sabinus too, if by no better Feast
And a kind Girl detain'd, shall be my Guest:
And Room will still be left for other Friends;
But in the Dog-days' Heat a Crowd offends.
Your Number fix; and, letting Business wait,
Slip from your Client through the Garden Gate.

356

The Same EPISTLE Imitated.

[Since you, dear Dan, without a courtly Sneer]

By a Friend in IRELAND.

Since you, dear Dan, without a courtly Sneer,
Can sit on Oak, and feast on Country Cheer,
To Supper come, and come in friendly Guise,
Ere Phœbus sets, or noxious Vapours rise.

Light is my Claret; Paul is strictly true;
Th'Importer he; the Vintage fifty-two;
For Fare—the Sure can Flukes and Trouts supply,
My Barn a Chicken, and my Doves a Pye;
Add, that Pomona o'er Vicarial Land
Her Fruits diffuses with a bounteous Hand:
If more than such your better Tythes afford,
Send when you please, and I'll attend the Board.
If not, your favourite Chillingworth resign
For social Converse, harmless Mirth, and Wine;
Since this fair Eve precedes th'auspicious Morn,
On which, thank Heaven! our George the Good was born,

357

We'll sit uncensur'd, chat the Hours away,
'Till Light appears; then grateful toast the Day.

Plagu'd with no Doubts, unanxious for an Heir,
Free from lean Avarice, and the Frown severe,
'Tis mine to quaff; to stretch in careless Ease;
And Fools may call me thoughtless, if they please.

What cannot Wine perform? Its genial Fire
To amorous Youth restores the tottering Sire;
It arms the Coward Hand; revives the Brave;
Strikes off his Fetters from the labouring Slave;
Nay, bids Avaro, fearless, ope the Door,
And give, strange Power! one Farthing to the Poor.

Though little Cost adorns my friendly Treat,
At least the Furniture is plainly neat;
Each Knife, well-whetted, cuts exactly keen,
In each bright Dish your Face is clearly seen;
The Cloth is fair as Lyddy's snowy Breast,
And all may satisfy an easy Guest.

Nor dread, my Friend, to see a motley Train
Of clamorous Blockheads, or of pertly vain:
I hate Disputes; and hold this general Rule,
'Tis Labour lost to wrangle with a Fool.

358

No Reverend Doctor, with important Face,
Who palms Stupidity for Heavenly Grace;
No Lawyer, who, o'erjoy'd himself to hear,
Refuses Quarter to the wounded Ear;
None such expect—I'll bid a sprightly few,
Or leave the Choice of Company to You.

Such are my Terms; if grateful such, attend;
And bilk a Wife one Night, to please a Friend.

1757.

359

EPISTLE VI. To Numicius.

That a wise Man admires nothing but Virtue.

Nought to admire, Numicius, is the best
Of Arts, to make and to preserve us blest.
All the successive Seasons of the Year,
Sun, Moon, and Stars, some view untouch'd with Fear.
What think you of the Wealth Earth's Bowels yield?
What of the precious Pearls that lie conceal'd
Within th'Arabian Gulph or Indian Seas?
What of th'Applause conferr'd on those who please
The grateful People? With what Eyes, what Ears,
Should these be seen or heard? The Man who fears
Their Opposites, almost as much admires
As he who covets them. Both their Desires
Proceed from Fear; Impressions both receive
From unforeseen Events. Whether he grieve

360

Or joy, desire or fear, it just will prove
The same, if when he sees what towers above
Or sinks beneath his Hopes, he stands with Eyes
Aghast, unknowing how to act. The Wise
Should be esteem'd a Fool, the Just Unjust,
If ev'n in Virtue he should place more Trust
Than fitting. Now, go gaze with doating Heart
On Urns and Statues, wrought by Grecian Art,
Or Tyrian Purple prize, with Gems and Gold
Adorn'd. Rejoice, a thousand Eyes behold
Thy Action at the Bar. There, soon and late,
Attend, lest Mucius, from the large Estate
His Consort brought him, should more Wealth amass:
Shameful! that he, from such a vulgar Class
Deriv'd, should be the Envy, not the Scorn,
Of thee, so nobly sprung, Patrician-born!

All that lies hid in Earth will Time reveal,
And all that now so gaily shines, conceal.

Grac'd as thou art with Honours well bestow'd,
And often seen along the Appian Road
Passing in Pomp, there still remains at last
That Road, where Numa and where Ancus past.

361

Without Delay you seek a Cure, when Pains
By Chance afflict your Bowels or your Reins:
For would not you (who would not?) happy live?
If Virtue only can this Blessing give;
Scorn all Delights, and follow Virtue's Lore:
But if you think that Virtue is no more
Than a bare Name, as holy Groves are Trees,
Let then no Ship the Port before you seize.
Mind your Affairs. A thousand Talents keep;
A thousand add; another thousand heap,
To swell your Store; a fourth, the Sum to square:
For why? They who all-mighty Money share,
A portion'd Wife, Fame, Credit, Friends possess;
These Venus' self and soft Persuasion bless.

Though rich in Slaves, the Cappadocian King
Is poor in Money. Thou, more noble, bring
Lucullus to our View. For he, 'tis said,
When ask'd to lend a hundred Robes, to aid
The Stage's Splendor, cry'd, ‘How can I lend
‘So many? Yet I'll try, and strait will send
‘All that I have.’ Then writes, He had at Hand
Five thousand; all or Part they might command.

Ill furnish'd is that House which nought contains
Superfluous, to elude the Master's Pains,

362

And give his Servants Room to steal secure.
If Wealth alone confers and can insure
True Happiness, to this Pursuit attend
Early and late. But should your Bliss depend
On public Favour, let your Slave suggest
The Names of Men of Note, or twitch your Vest,
And bid you lend o'er Lumber in the Way
Your Hand. ‘This in the Fabian Tribe bears Sway;
‘This in the Veline; he alone can chuse
‘A Consul, or the Ivory Chair refuse.’
Then frankly call him Brother, Son, or Sire,
As suits his Age. But if you still require
Good Cheer to make you blest, at Dawn of Day
Go rouze the Boar, or lure the finny Prey.
This did Gargilius. He, each Morn, along
The crowded Forum led a loaded Throng
Of Slaves, with Spears and Toils. At Night he brought
On a large Mule some Boar which he had bought,
The People's Wonder. Let us, gorg'd with Food
Yet undigested, plunge into the Flood;
Regardless of the Censor's Mark, disdain
All Decency, and, with Ulysses' Train,

363

For lawless Pleasures, from our Country fly.
If, to conclude, you with Mimnermus cry,
That Love and Mirth afford the only Joy
In Life, be Love and Mirth your sole Employ.

Farewell; if better Precepts you can lend,
Freely impart; if not, to these attend.

366

The Same EPISTLE Imitated.

[With steady Wing between Extremes to soar]

By Another Hand.

With steady Wing between Extremes to soar,
Not proudly vain, nor despicably poor;
Our even Soul in Virtue's Scale to poize,
Not sunk by Cares, nor buoy'd by idle Joys;
In a calm Medium to secure our State,
Deaf to uneasy Love and restless Hate:
This golden Lesson ancient Sages taught,
Thus Tully acted, and thus Horace thought.
Cato for this disdain'd Rome's little Pride,
And Scipio threw his worthless Wreaths aside.
These Rules alone insure untainted Bliss,
And point the easy Path to Happiness.
Stay thy fix'd Breast, by flattering Scenes unbent;
Fond Admiration dwells not with Content.
Some lurking Ills the gaz'd-at Pomp destroy,
Delights fatigue, tumultuous Pleasures cloy.

367

While abject Crowds are ruffled with Surprize,
And ideot Wonder stares from vulgar Eyes;
No sudden Turn the settled Thought can move;
Philosophers admire not, but approve.
No glaring Meteors can disturb their Soul,
Nor all the starry Worlds above that roll:
Since what the dastard Populace affright,
A Newton or a Derham may delight.
They trace, unmov'd, the Comet's swift Career,
Though Monarchs shudder, and though Nations fear;
They view the countless Terrors of the Sky
With cool Reflection, and through Reason's Eye.
Let us then spurn all vain terrestrial Joys,
Think Honours Trifles, Diadems but Toys:
Shall the Mind lie unhing'd by each mad Flight,
And gaudy Objects catch the giddy Sight?
Shall we from Paint and Stone our Bliss receive,
Hang o'er a Statue, on a Picture live?

Go, purchase Gewgaws, and at Auctions pine
For Mummies, Urns, a Pebble, or a Coin.
Peru its Birds or Butterflies shall bring,
And India's Womb be tortur'd for a Ring.

368

A Tea-board from Japan thy Wish attends;
Persia a Screen, a Carpet Turkey sends.

Yet know, whate'er you are, whom Pleasure's Bait
Tempts to Delight, or Grandeur prompts to State;
Whether for Trifles of a higher Sphere
You long, perhaps, a Coronet to wear,
Or your vain Breast beats fondly for a Star;
Pleas'd from your gilded Chariot to bestow
A Look on bending Crowds that gaze below;
Or, more exalted, ev'n at Courts preside,
And cringing Levees feed your swelling Pride:
Though you in Senates every Taste could hit
With Compton's Eloquence, and Stanhope's Wit,
Know your gay Sunshine swiftly hastes to set:
You to that common fatal Goal must run,
Where Tudors and Plantagenets are gone.

If through your Blood contagious Humours glide,
If torturing Pains afflict your aching Side,
If Agues chill, or Fevers scorch your Brain,
Quick seek a Refuge from Disease and Pain.
Do you (as sure all must) desire with Ease
And true Content to tread Life's dangerous Ways,

369

If Virtue can alone that Blessing give,
And her Attendants only happy live,
Pursue the Goddess with unceasing Pain
O'er the bleak Mountain, or the barren Plain,
While Wealth invites and Pleasure smiles in vain.

But if strict Virtue's Laws your Soul denies,
As holy Cheats impos'd on vulgar Eyes,
To Interest's Call your Honesty postpone,
Bid Widows weep, and plunder'd Orphans groan;
Add Plumb to Plumb, your swelling Stock increase,
Till a Director's Wealth your Labours bless;
Till your full Warehouses can hold no more,
And your heap'd Treasures bend the groaning Floor.

The Man whom Wealth surrounds no Want laments,
Each Charm, each Grace his every Wish prevents;
Obsequious Friends his crowded Levee grace,
And willing Beauty yields to his Embrace:
Less Hervey's Form could tempt th'enamour'd Maid,
Less Murray's strongest Eloquence persuade.

If then Content by Gold alone is bought,
Let that alone employ your every Thought.

370

But should vain Pomp and Grandeur sooth your Breast,
Convinc'd that all who haunt the Court are blest,
Quick to the Park and Drawing-room repair,
Like Savage, know each Staff and Ribbon there;
Bow to the Minister, accost his Grace,
And talk familiar with the Peer in Place;
Inroll each noble Lord among your Friends,
Who makes a Bishop, or a Member sends.

If more substantial Bliss Ragouts supply,
And all the Joys of Life in eating lie,
The Dictates of your Palate swift pursue,
Search all that's costly, elegant, and new:
Be it the Business of each Day to dine,
While Meats Pontac supplies, and Jephson Wine.

Thus Serjeant Miller, deaf to Mammon's Call,
Oft chang'd his Wig, and hurry'd from the Hall;
And if the luscious Turbot fill'd his Eye,
Threw Littleton and all his Tenures by;
Or while the Venison bent his loaded Fork,
Left Eloquence and Law to Pratt and Yorke.

If your soft Senses Mirth and Music charm,
And Wit and Love alone your Soul can warm,

371

Be seen at every Masquerade and Play,
Wear at Quadrille the tedious Nights away;
The Joys most exquisite that Life can give
From Heidegger's alluring Arts receive,
And every Wish that fires your wanton Will,
In Epicurus' modern Groves fulfill.

Pleasures like these low vulgar Minds affect;
From these the People Happiness expect.
But Virtue Minds of nobler Stamp invites
To her sincere and more refin'd Delights.
In Paths where soft enchanting Pleasures play,
An Orleans or a Rochester may stray;
But a Nassau approves the thorny Way.

372

EPISTLE VII. To Mæcenas.

Horace excuses himself for not having waited on Mæcenas according to his Promise, and gratefully thanks him for all Favours; but at the same Time declares, with the Frankness becoming an honest Man, that he would rather part with any thing than his Liberty.

Five Days, I told you, I from Town should stay;
All August long I faithless keep away:
But, if you wish me well, I sure shall gain
The same Indulgence, striving to retain
My Health, as wanting Health; while now the Heats
And Fruits autumnal crowd the gloomy Streets
With many a funeral Pomp; and for his Heir
Each Parent trembles; and too anxious Care,
Or close Attendance in the Forum, fills
The Blood with feverish Fire, and opens Wills.

373

But when stern Winter o'er the Alban Plain
Shall spread his snowy Mantle, to the Main
Your Poet must descend, and there comply
With Health's Demand, and study sparingly.
Till, with your Leave, to You he flies in Spring,
On the first Swallow's, or the Zephyr's Wing.

Rich have you made me; not the awkward Way
Calabrians give their Pears: ‘Eat, Sir, I pray.’
“Enough, I thank you.” ‘Take whate'er you will,
‘And for your pretty Boys your Pockets fill.’
“As much, as for 'em all, my Thanks receive.”
‘Nay, what are left we to the Hogs shall give.’

Spendthrifts and Fools present what they despise;
But Obligations thence can never rise.
True Wisdom with a cautious Hand bestows
Her valued Gifts; for Gold from Dross she knows
I of your Bounty a just Sense retain;
But, if with you I always must remain,
Return my sprightly Health, the youthful Grace
Of jetty Locks; return my jovial Face,
And all my Jokes and Laughs, and every Sigh
Breath'd, 'midst our Mirth, for Cynara's Cruelty.

374

A Mouse, half-famish'd, through a narrow Hole
Into a Granary with Rapture stole;
At last, well-fill'd, he strove, but strove in vain,
To squeeze his pamper'd Carcass out again.
When thus a Weasel: ‘If you ever mean
‘T'escape, return, as erst you enter'd, lean.’
If this suits me, your Favours I resign:
Nor, cloy'd with luscious Dainties, do I pine
For a plain Meal; nor could Arabia buy,
With all her Wealth, my peerless Liberty.
You oft my easy Temper praise. I own,
Absent or present, you to me have shown
A Prince's Bounty, and a Parent's Love.
Can I then spurn your Gifts, or thankless prove?
Wise, like his Sire, Telemachus reply'd,
‘In barren Ithaca we cannot ride,
‘So rocky is the Ground, the Fields so few:
‘Take back your Steeds, Atrides; they to You
‘Are better suited.’—Humble Minds approve
An humble Station. Thus from Rome I rove
To soft Tarentum's Vale, or Tibur's Grove.

As Philip, by his Pleadings known to Fame,
Bold as in War, at two from Business came,

375

And, now grown old, complain'd the Forum lay
Too distant from his House, old Stories say,
A Stranger in a Barber's Shop he spy'd
Paring his Nails. ‘Demetrius, haste,’ he cry'd,
‘Haste, and his State, his Family enquire;
‘Ask who his Patron is, and who his Sire.’
The Boy his Master's Orders well obeys;
He goes, and soon returns. “His Name, he says,
“Is Menas; he enjoys a Cryer's Place;
“Small is his Income; but without Disgrace
“He lives; each Day he hurries up and down,
“And trades in every Quarter of the Town.
“Fix'd are his Lodgings; few he calls his Friends,
“And Pastimes he partakes, when Business ends.
“I from himself would this Account receive:
“Bid him to Supper.” Menas can't believe,
But wonders with himself. At last, he cry'd,
“Your Master is too courteous.” ‘What! deny'd
‘The Slave to come?’ “He did. Your Words create
“No Passion in him, but Contempt or Hate.”

Philip next Day observ'd this careless Cryer
Selling small Wares, and clad in mean Attire;

376

And first accosts him. He Excuses made
Of the Confinement and Fatigue of Trade
For staying from his House; and, last, for Want
Of due Respect.’ ‘Your Pardon I will grant
‘Freely,’ says Philip, ‘sup with me to-day.’
“Just as you please.” ‘At four then come away.
‘In the mean time your Business exercise.’
At Supper while he sits, without Disguise
Bluntly he talks, no matter Wrong or Right,
Nor rises from the Feast till late at Night.
Now lavish of his Visits, soon and late,
He nibbles, like a Trout, the treacherous Bait.

One festal Day, retiring from the Town,
His Patron to his Villa takes him down.
And now, well-mounted, he can scarce forbear
From praising, every Step, the Sabine Air;
While Philip smiles. At length, himself and Friends
Fully to please, he Gold to Menas lends,
And bids him at his Pleasure more require,
Would he turn Farmer, and from Town retire.

To cut my Story short, a Farm is bought;
Now, a mere Rustic, in each Word and Thought

377

He dwells on Fields or Vineyards; Trees he plants;
And still the more he gains, the more he wants.
But when he found himself at last bereft
Of Flocks and Herds, by Sickness or by Theft,
His Hopes deceiv'd by an ungrateful Soil,
And all his Steers worn out by Length of Toil,
At Dead of Night, with Grief and Rage opprest,
He flies to Philip, an unlook'd-for Guest.
Soon as he saw his rough and woful Mien,
He cries, ‘By Labour, Menas, or Chagrin,
‘You're alter'd much.’ He answers, “Every Name,
“By Heaven, but that of Wretch, I here disclaim.
“By the good Genius then that rules your Fate,
“And this Right Hand, so sacred, I intreat,
“Restore, restore me to my former State!”

When by Experience thus we learn, how vain
Our Hopes, 'tis prudent timely to regain
The Port we left. We all shall surely find
That the best Station which best suits our Mind.

381

The Same EPISTLE Imitated.

['Tis true, my Lord, I gave my Word]

By Mr. Pope and Dr. Swift.

'Tis true, my Lord, I gave my Word,
I would be with you, June the third;
Chang'd it to August, and in short
Have kept it—as you do at Court.
You humour me when I am sick,
Why not when I am splenetic?
In Town, what Objects could I meet?
The Shops shut up in every Street,
And Funerals blackening all the Doors,
And yet more melancholy Whores:
And what a Dust in every Place?
And a thin Court that wants your Face,
And Fevers raging up and down,
And W--- and H--- both in Town!

‘The Dog-days are no more the Case.’
'Tis true; but Winter comes apace:

382

Then Southward let your Bard retire,
Hold out some Months 'twixt Sun and Fire,
And you shall see, the first warm Weather,
Me and the Butterflies together.

My Lord, your Favours well I know;
'Tis with Distinction you bestow;
And not to every one that comes,
Just as a Scotchman does his Plumbs.
‘Pray take them, Sir.’ “Enough's a Feast.”
‘Eat some, and pocket up the rest.’
“What rob your Boys? those pretty Rogues!”
‘No, Sir, you'll leave them to the Hogs.’

Thus Fools with Compliments besiege ye,
Contriving never to oblige ye.
Scatter your Favours on a Fop,
Ingratitude's the certain Crop;
And 'tis but just, I'll tell you wherefore,
You give the Things you never care for.
A wise Man always is or shou'd
Be mighty ready to do Good,
But makes a Difference in his Thought
Between a Guinea and a Groat.

Now this I'll say, you'll find in Me
A safe Companion, and a free;

383

But if you'd have me always near—
A Word, pray, in your Honour's Ear.
I hope it is your Resolution
To give me back my Constitution!
The sprightly Wit, the lively Eye,
Th'engaging Smile, the Gayety,
That laugh'd down many a Summer Sun,
And kept you up so oft till one;
And all that voluntary Vein,
As when Belinda rais'd my Strain.

A Weasel once made shift to slink
In at a Corn-loft through a Chink;
But having amply stuff'd his Skin,
Could not get out as he got in.
Which one belonging to the House
('Twas not a Man, it was a Mouse)
Observing, cry'd, ‘You 'scape not so;
‘Lean as you came, Sir, you must go.’

Sir, you may spare your Application,
I'm no such Beast nor his Relation;
Nor one that Temperance advance,
Cramm'd to the Throat with Ortolans:
Extremely ready to resign
All that may make me none of mine.

384

South-Sea Subscriptions take who please,
Leave me but Liberty and Ease.
'Twas what I said to Craggs and Child,
Who prais'd my Modesty, and smil'd.
‘Give me,’ I cry'd, (enough for Me)
‘My Bread and Independency!’
So bought an annual Rent or two,
And liv'd—just as you see I do;
Near fifty, and without a Wife,
I trust that Sinking Fund, my Life.
Can I retrench? Yes, mighty well;
Shrink back to my paternal Cell,
A little House, with Trees a-row,
And, like its Master, very low;
There died my Father, no Man's Debtor,
And there I'll die, nor worse nor better.

To set this Matter full before ye,
Our old Friend Swift will tell his Story.

‘Harley, the Nation's great Support,
‘Returning home one Day from Court,’—
But you may read it, I stop short.

For the Remainder, see Swift's Works, Vol. II.

385

EPISTLE VIII. To Celsus Albinovanus.

On Nero's Secretary, Muse, attend;
Wishes of Joy and good Success I send:
Should he the Compliment return, and say,
‘How does your Master pass the vacant Day?’
Tell him, though threatening many a great Design,
Life's prudent Part, or pleasant, is not mine.
Not that my Vineyards or my Olives fail,
Destroy'd by Drought, or driving Storms of Hail;
Not that my Cattle die in distant Fields;
No, but because my Mind no Harvest yields.
In Mind less healthy than in Body sound,
I to myself a restless Foe am found;
More fond of my Disease than of the Cure,
I hate my Doctor, nor my Friends endure;
Am angry when my Slumbers they would break,
And from its Lethargy my Soul awake;
To Things that hurt me obstinately run,
But what may profit me delight to shun:

386

Loathing what I possess, my fickle Mind
Veers, like a Vane, with every Gust of Wind:
Uneasy still from Place to Place I rove;
At Tibur, Rome; at Rome, I Tibur love.

Next ask of his Affairs: If in the Grace
Of the young Prince and Court he holds a Place.
If so, rejoice; then whisper in his Ear,
‘We shall bear You, as You your Fortune bear.’

388

The Same EPISTLE Imitated.

[Haste, Muse, to Spithead, and (if Winds do not alter)]

Haste, Muse, to Spithead, and (if Winds do not alter)
You soon in the Swift will arrive at Gibraltar;
There aboard the St. George (she'll be known by the Pennant)
Drink a full Can of Flip to my Friend the Lieutenant;
With farther Increase to his Laurels and Spoils,
And a Flag at the last in Reward of his Toils.
If of Me he enquires, you may frankly reply
That you know not a Mortal so restless as I:
Not because that at Bowls I've had litttle Success,
Or that Failure of Fines makes my Fellowship less,
Or that Colds have prevented my Rides to the Hills;
But my Mind is perplex'd with fantastical Ills:
With my Friends who advise me, no Sailor's so warm,
When in Sight of a Prize, or in Dread of a Storm.
Here, to Town I'm inventing, or wishing for Calls,
And longing for Turns at the Temple or Paul's.

389

There, ‘College alone gives me real Delight,
‘So careless the Day, and so peaceful the Night!’
Were I in his Case, now the Channel would please,
Now the Straits, now the Bay, now th'American Seas:
My Wish, if a Convoy, would soon be to cruize;
If a Cruizer, no Doubt I a Convoy should chuse.

That his Captain approves him I readily guess;
Next ask how he's lik'd by the Crew and the Mess:
If there too he pleases, in prosperous Gales
Bid him look to his Ballast, and take in his Sails!

Cambridge.

390

EPISTLE IX. To Claudius Tiberius Nero.

Septimius only, strange as it may seem,
Can tell the Rank I hold in your Esteem.
For when he asks and begs, that, as a Friend,
I would his Service warmly recommend
To you, as not unworthy the Regard
Of one so studious Merit to reward,
Thinking that you such Trust in me repose,
My Influence better than myself he knows.

By many a Plea I strove to stand excus'd,
But fear'd, if his Request I still refus'd,
I should be thought my Interest to disown
Or under-rate, to serve myself alone.
To shun the Censure of this worse Offence,
Behold me arm'd with courtly Confidence!
If for a Friend such Boldness you approve,
Believe him brave, and worthy of your Love.

391

The Same EPISTLE Imitated.

[Dear Dick, howe'er it comes into his Head]

By Mr. Prior.

To the Right Hon. Robert Harley, Esq;

Dear Dick, howe'er it comes into his Head,
Believes as firmly as he does his Creed,
That You and I, Sir, are extremely great,
Though I plain Mat, You Minister of State.
One Word from Me, without all Doubt, he says,
Would fix his Fortune in some little Place.

392

Thus better than myself, it seems, he knows
How far my Interest with my Patron goes;
And answering all Objections I can make,
Still plunges deeper in his dear Mistake.

From this wild Fancy, Sir, there may proceed
One wilder yet, which I foresee and dread;
That I in Fact a real Interest have,
Which to my own Advantage I would save,
And, with the usual Courtier's Trick, intend
To serve myself, forgetful of my Friend.

To shun this Censure, I all Shame lay by,
And make my Reason with his Will comply;
Hoping for my Excuse, 'twill be confest
That of two Evils I have chose the least.
So, Sir, with this Epistolary Scroll
Receive the Partner of my inmost Soul:
Him you will find in Letters and in Laws
Not unexpert, firm to his Country's Cause,
Warm in the glorious Interest you pursue,
And, in one Word, a Good Man and a True.

393

EPISTLE X. To Fuscus Aristius.

This Epistle is wholly in Praise of a Country Life: And, inspired by his Subject, Horace is more poetical here than usual.

I, Lover of the Country, to my Friend,
A Lover of the Town, good Wishes send:
Twins in all else, but here much Difference lies;
Well-pair'd, what this refuses, that denies.
Like two old Doves we cherish mutual Love;
You keep the Nest; while I with Rapture rove
O'er Hills and Dales, or through the mossy Grove.
I, like a Slave from the Priest's Service fled,
Am cloy'd with honey'd Cakes, and long for Bread.
Would you agreeably to Nature live,
And chuse your Situation, can she give
One more delightful than the Country yields?
Where are the Winters milder?—When the Fields

394

Glow with the Lion's or the Dog-star's Ray,
Where do such balmy Gales their Heat allay?
Here anxious Cares our peaceful Slumbers fly.
Can Pavements of Numidian Marble vye
With Herbs, in Show or Smell? Are Streams in Lead
Confin'd, more pure than from the Fountain-head
Gushing with gentle Murmurs? Trees you love
Mix'd with your streaky Columns, and approve
That House, whence Fields in beauteous Prospect rise.
Drive Nature out, soon back again she flies,
And the weak Efforts of Disgust defies.

He, whose deluded Eyes alike admire
The purple Dye of Latium and of Tyre,
His grievous Loss will ne'er so dearly rue
As he, who blindly takes the false for true.

They whom Prosperity has rais'd too high,
Will sink, dejected by Adversity.
With what we love unwillingly we part.
Renounce the Charms of Grandeur—To the Heart
In the low Cottage more Contentment springs
Than know the Friends, or ev'n the Breasts of Kings.

395

The well-arm'd Stag drove from their common Field
The Horse: To Strength superior forc'd to yield,
He sought the Aid of Man, and took the Rein:
But when, the Foe defeated, from the Plain
Triumphant he return'd, in vain he strove
The Bit and galling Saddle to remove.
So he, who, flying Want, his Freedom gives
For meaner Gold, an endless Slave, receives
A Master, since he knew not how to use
The little that he had—In narrow Shoes
Our Feet are wrung, and stumble in the wide;
Such are the Mind and Fortune not ally'd.

Live, Fuscus, happy in your present State;
Nor be afraid to let me feel the Weight
Of your Rebuke, whene'er your Friend desires
To heap up more than Competence requires.
For hoarded Wealth will govern, or obey;
More fit to follow than to lead the Way.

Behind Vacuna's mouldering Shrine I write,
Where all things, but your Absence, give Delight.

399

The Same EPISTLE Imitated.

[Dellius, of rural Scenes a Lover grown]

By Another Hand.

Dellius , of rural Scenes a Lover grown,
Salutes his Friend, a Lover of the Town:
Except the Difference Town and Country make,
Who think we disagree, perhaps mistake;
(The Difference much the same as is between
The Egg a Swan produces, and a Hen)
Debating, scribbling, saunt'ring, sitting still,
Studious of Ease, and Brothers of the Quill.

London your Choice, I know; but I approve
The mossy Seat, the River and the Grove.
If you should ask how I employ my Hour—
Better than those in Place, or those in Power;
Not plagu'd with Business, nor a Slave to Pelf,
Lord of my Time, and Master of myself.
What have your noisy Streets like this to give?
Or what like this, Newcastle to receive?

400

Cotta, disgrac'd, in Ariconian Vales,
Likes, I am told, the Neighbourhood of Wales;
Sick of Parade, Attendance and Resort,
Flies, and exhales the Surfeit of a Court.

You want a Ground-plot for some new Design!
Consult the Oracle at Nature's Shrine,
‘Build in the Country,’ says the Voice divine.

Is there, where Winters purer Joys inspire,
Morn's wholesome Frost, and Evening's smokeless Fire?
Is there, where Summer's more refreshing Gales
Fan the scorch'd Hills, and chear the drooping Vales?
Where Discontent a rarer Guest is seen,
Or Sleep less broken by intruding Spleen?

What is that Marble Portal to this Bower,
Array'd in Green, or pearl'd by every Shower?
Or what the Stream which Pipes and Conduits yield,
To the bright Rill that trickles through my Field?

Copying, ye own your Wants; the Case is clear;
In Town ye humbly mimic what is here.
Look at St. James's or on Grosvenor-Square;
Behold our Walks, our Trees, and our Parterre!

401

Tell me, why Sheffield's House so pleasant stands?
Because a Length of Country it commands.

Nature, though of her Tone by Force bereft,
Returns elastic to the Point she left;
Spite of Distortion she appears the same,
And from the Bend recovers like the Palm.

Not she, who, gull'd by Want of Taste, or Care,
Buys the resembling Delf for China Ware,
Nor they who to a City Vault resort,
And are, instead of Claret, dup'd with Port,
Will half so dearly the Deception rue,
As they who take false Blessings for the true.

Who launch too far on Fortune's peaceful Lake,
The Tempest of Adversity will shake.
'Tis hard to part with what allures the Eyes,
And the Hand pauses, ere it drops the Prize.

Fly then betimes, with unambitious Wings,
To the still Vale, where Peace eternal springs,
Leave Anguish to the Great, and Cares to Kings!

The British Monarch, by the Picts dismay'd,
Call'd in the warlike Saxon to his Aid.

402

His good Ally to Conquest led the Way,
But took the whole Dominion for his Pay:
The Stranger, wanton in his new Abode,
Soon on the Neck of Vassal Nobles trod,
And lifted high the Hand, and exercis'd the Rod.

Thus, if my Friend should for Preferment trade,
And sell his Liberty, of Want afraid;
The meagre Monster is no more I own,
But a more lordly Tyrant mounts the Throne;
And who a Treasure by Dependence gains,
I wish him well and long to wear his Chains.

'Tis known that Shoes (just such is an Estate)
Pinch, or supplant, too little, or too great.

If wise, you'll be content, though short of Wealth,
With the rich Gifts of Competence and Health:
Despise not then the Happiness they bring,
For virtuous Freedom is a sacred Thing.
And when you see me break the Rule laid down,
And on some Courtier fawning in the Town,
Give to your Indignation full Career,
Nor spare your Friend, but justly be severe.

403

EPISTLE XI. To Bullatius.

He invites his Friend to quit Asia, and return back to Rome; observing at the same Time, that a Man of an equal Temper may be happy in any Climate.

Tell me, Bullatius, did the Sight
Of far-fam'd Lesbos give Delight?
Say, what Idea you retain
Of Chios, what of Crœsus' Reign,
Sardis? Did Samos' Neatness move,
Or do you Colophon approve,
And Smyrna? Do they all fall short,
Or more than answer Fame's Report?
Or, in your Fancy, do they yield
To Tyber's Stream and Mars's Field?
Some Asian City would you chuse?
Or all for Lebedus refuse?
Whose friendly Port receiv'd you, free
From Toils by Land, and Storms by Sea?

404

Bullatius.
Say, did you ever see that Town?

Horace.
I have, 'Tis a mean Place, less known
Than Gabii or Fidenæ.

Bullatius.
There
I'd rather breathe the vital Air,
Forgetting and forgot, on Shore
Secure to hear old Ocean roar,
Than tempt again its boisterous Tide.

Horace.

They who to Rome from Capua ride,
Would not, though wet with Dirt and Rain,
For ever at an Inn remain.
The Wretch too, numb'd by freezing Skies,
To Baths and Fires with Transport flies,
Yet will he never place in these
His sovereign Bliss—Beyond the Seas,
If Tempests roar, and Surges swell,
Your shatter'd Vessel would you sell?

405

He, who his Mind with Reason arms,
Fair Rhodes or Mitylene's Charms
Regards no more than silk Attire
In Frost; a Cloak in June; and Fire
In August's Heat. Whilst yet you may,
Whilst Fortune smiles, at Rome display
The Joys of Chios, Samos, Rhodes.
Whatever prosperous Hour the Gods
Bestow, with grateful Hand receive,
And on to-day contented live.

If Reason, and not Change of Air,
Alone can free our Souls from Care;
If those who range at last will find
They shift their Climate, not their Mind;
'Tis idle Labour sure to roam
Abroad for Bliss; since here at home
The Man, of equal Soul possest,
May e'en at Ulubræ be blest.

407

The Same EPISTLE Imitated.

[Still, my dear Lord, do fair Italia's Shores]

By George Lord Bishop of Derry.

To Charles Earl of Middlesex.

Still, my dear Lord, do fair Italia's Shores,
Florence' proud Gates, and Venice' Sea-girt Towers,
Still do the Ruins of Imperial Rome
Please more than Parks and Palaces at home?
Or say, if ne'er one Wish unbidden stole
From Tyber's Banks to poor forsaken Knowle?

Or do you chuse some Country Town in France?
For Instance, should you take a House at Nantz;
Why, you may tell me, that though Nantz scarce yields
In Dirt to Westminster and Tothill-Fields,
There 'midst Tobacco, Brandy, Smoke, what not?
Your Friends forgetting, nay by them forgot,

408

(Sure Fate of Absence!) you could live content,
But to escape that Plague, the Parliament.

Come tir'd and wet from Sussex, do you swear
Never to stir beyond St. James's-Square?
Though pinch'd with Cold this Winter, would you fly
To Taverns and to Bagnios in July?
What though you found th'Attendance once severe,
Yorkshire Petitions come not every Year.

The Man whose Taste is temperate; whose Breast
Feels the calm Transports of a Mind at Rest,
Looks down with pitying or regardless Eye
On the proud Science of learn'd Luxury;
Sees all our visionary Pleasures roll
Vain Medicines to the Fever of the Soul;
Like Fires beneath the Dog-star's furious Ray,
Or Parties to Vauxhall on New-Year's Day.

But you, with Nature's best Endowments grac'd,
And form'd by pleasing to be ever pleas'd,
Come, to your Friend's impatient Wishes, come,
Boast the Delights of Italy at home.
With gay Reflection, Nature never sour,
Live o'er the past, improve the present Hour.

409

'Tis Reason sets th'unquiet Mind at Ease,
Not Cities, nor their tributary Seas:
Men pass unchang'd o'er twenty different Soils;
Parsons drinks Ale at Wapping or Versailles.
Restless in vain we shift the varying Scene,
Whilst Indolence, that Canker, preys within.
Those Heart-felt Joys which you so oft receive,
Not Gondolas nor Berlins have to give;
Joys which from Sense, Good-nature, Virtue flow,
Alike or on the Thames or on the Po:
And were it not for a perplexing Ferry,
Your Lordship might be happy ev'n at Derry.

410

EPISTLE XII. To Iccius.

While the Poet seems here to applaud the Parsimony and Abstinence of his Friend, he censures him ironically as a philosophical Miser. In Book I. Ode XXIX. he is represented as assuming the Character of a Soldier from the same Principle.

Since now Agrippa to your Hands
Entrusts the Income of his Lands
In Sicily, if you employ
Rightly the Profits you enjoy,
Not Jove himself can send you more:
These idle Murmurs then give o'er.
He that is able to procure
All that is needful, is not poor.
Of Raiment and of Food possest,
Not wealthy Monarchs are more blest.

If in the midst of choicest Meat
Shell-fish and Herbs alone you eat,

411

So would you live, though Fortune roll'd
To you her Stream of liquid Gold:
Since you unalter'd would remain
By Wealth; or all things would disdain
Compar'd with sacred Virtue's Love:
Why should it then our Wonder move
If every Neighbour's Cattle feeds
On sage Democritus's Meads,
Whilst upward soars his active Mind,
And leaves th'encumbring Clay behind,
Since you no abject Thoughts retain
Midst this contagious Thirst of Gain,
But, studying things sublime, enquire
What makes the madding Waves retire;
How the four Seasons change their Course;
Whether the Stars by native Force,
Or by a foreign Impulse, stray;
Why brightly shines, with full-orb'd Ray,
Or wanes the Moon; how things agree
By a discordant Harmony;
And whom most Madness seems to seize,
Stertinius or Empedocles?

But whether now you load your Dish
With slaughter'd Onions, Leeks, or Fish,

412

Place worthy Grosphus near your Heart,
And freely what he asks impart;
For Grosphus you may safely trust,
Nothing he'll ask but what is just.
When you a good Man's Wants supply,
His Friendship you may cheaply buy.

Now, ere I finish, let my Verse
The State of Rome's Affairs rehearse.
Cantabria, by Agrippa's Hands
Is conquer'd, and th'Armenian Bands
By Nero. Great Phraätes bows
The Knee, and Cæsar's Sway allows.
From her full Horn fair Plenty pours
Rich Harvests on Italia's Shores.

415

The Same EPISTLE Imitated.

By Another Hand.

To a Politician.

Between what you collect and what you set,
An hundred Pounds per Quarter, Profit net!
Opulent Doctor, 'tis a Bishop's Store;
Wish not in Wantonness of Heart for more;
And, if you dare, complain that you are poor.
The World's good Things enjoy'd, and at Command,
You need not stoop to kiss the Royal Hand.
With Health, with Ease, with Affluence—I doubt
What more you can acquire—except the Gout.

416

Should you, in Plenty's Lap, of Diet spare,
Lettuce and Water-cresses all your Fare,
O'er the cool Sallad, Hermit-like, rejoice;
We would not call it Avarice, but Choice.
Fortune can never alter Nature's Bent,
And Virtue is the Mother of Content.

Think we, that Newton's Meat was spoil'd by Flies,
While his free Soul was absent in the Skies;
When you by Tythes and Parish Cares perplex'd,
With thieving Neighbours, cheating Farmers vex'd,
Yet unabsorb'd in all this worldly Sink,
Find Time to eat, and read, and bowl, and think:
Of Actions trace the Springs and mark the Tides;
Why, amid War, our Navy peaceful rides;
What checks our Vigour; whether on the Deep
Haddock by Choice, or by Direction sleep:
Discern between the Tarnish'd and the Pure,
Why Vernon shines, while Norris is obscure:
With public Spirit, and unbyass'd Mind,
What Good the Senate might do—if inclin'd!—
Can fix (nice Points!) who least are in the Wrong;
Who more a Patriot, Bolingbroke or Yonge.

417

But whether, Friend, you kill the stalled Beast,
Or slaughter Leeks and Onions for the Feast;
Pray, think of Charles, and of your own Accord
A Pipe, unask'd for, to your Guest afford;
You'll find him easy; Moderation stints
His Evening-Draught to six or seven Pints.
When the full Casks with liquid Plenty burst,
'Tis very hard a Friend should die of Thirst.

As to the rest; above how Matters go,
Who fall and rise at Westminster, you know:
Unrighteous Blackerby the just Decree
Has heard abash'd, and shorter by the Knee.
Justice returns; while Ceres o'er the Fields
The Promise of a Golden Harvest yields.

1741.

418

EPISTLE XIII. To Vinius Asella.

He gives him Directions in what manner to present his Book to Cæsar.

Vinius , as you have heard me oft command,
Give these seal'd Volumes to Augustus' Hand,
If he has Health and Spirits, or should ask:
But be not, pray, so zealous in your Task
As to offend, and, slighting Time and Place,
Officious bring my Writings to Disgrace.
If heavy is the Burden, be it thrown
Rather away, than like an awkward Clown
Rudely presented; on the Name of Ass,
Which your Sire bore, then many a Joke will pass.

Leap every Ditch, and every Hill ascend;
And when at length you reach your Journey's End,
Thus bear your Bundle; not the Papers cram
Beneath your Arm, as Bumpkins hold a Lamb;

419

The pilfer'd Wool as Pyrrhia hides from View,
Or as a Drunkard holds his Cap and Shoe.

Say not abroad that you with Labour bear
Poems, that will delight great Cæsar's Ear.
Be sure, so strictly charg'd, due Care to take,
And O! beware, lest my Commands you break.

420

The Same EPISTLE Imitated.

[Boy, haste away with careful Pace]

By Edward Greene Burnaby, Esq;

Boy, haste away with careful Pace,
And take these Poems to his Grace;
On every Corner closely seal'd,
Be they to none but him reveal'd;
Say, for the public Eye design'd,
They only wait to know his Mind.
If no rude Gout's intruding Smart
Disturbs his usual Mirth of Heart,
Or if successful in Resort
Kind Fortune crowns his Vows at Court,
If thus in Health and Spirits gay,
He may demand th'unproffer'd Lay;
Yet, stay awhile; contented rest
To view the Temper of his Breast;
Zeal too-officious may offend,
And say what Bard would lose a Friend?
Submissive steal out every Word
With, ‘May it please my noblest Lord!’

421

If you intrude, he'll sure despise,
And spurn my Offspring from his Eyes:
Besides, from his exalted Station
Some Gold awaits a Dedication.
If by his wayward Mood to-day
You think he'll frown upon the Lay,
Then back your sudden Steps pursue;
Perhaps another Day will do.
Better precarious Hopes resign,
Than lose my Labour, and my Coin.

Boy, hence with rapid Course proceed,
Nor Floods, nor Dykes, nor Mountains heed;
Fly on, till Victor at the Gate
You're summon'd to the Room of State.
There, when with cringing Smile you've bow'd,
Steal from your Arm the letter'd Load;
But not with such a clownish Air
As Lawyers oft their Parchments bear;
Nor use a self-destructive Art,
Like F---rn---r, whose perfidious Heart
Form'd, under Friendship's Veil, the Plan
Of Forgery 'gainst the good old Man:

422

Nor awkward, as the rural Maid,
Who, by a wanton Joy betray'd,
Bears, at Diversion's sprightly Call,
Her Cloak and Pattens to a Ball.
Then thus, ‘My Lord, with toiling Care
‘These Papers diffident I bear;
‘Scarce would the noblest Volumes rise
‘Worthy so great a Critic's Eyes;
‘The Author droops with Doubts o'erspread;
‘And just the Reason of his Dread.’

Yet, Boy, with Care proceed; a Fall
Would spoil my Book, my Hopes, my All.
Good Heaven, a Poet's Wishes bless,
And crown my Labours with Success;
Nor let my Patron's Hand refuse
Provision to a starving Muse!

423

EPISTLE XIV. To his Country Steward.

It seems as if Horace's Steward in the Country had complained to him of the Hardships he there endured, desiring to be sometimes employed in Town. The Poet here enters into the real Motives of this Request, and moralises on it, advising him to give some Attention to the Improvement of his Mind and the correcting of his Passions, as well as to the cultivating of his Master's Land.

You that o'erlook my Woods and little Farm,
Which gives me to myself, but fails to charm
You, though 'twas wont five Families to hold,
And sent five worthy Senators of old
To Varia's Court: See! whether you can tear
The Brambles from my Ground, ere I can clear
My Mind; if Horace or his Fields improve
The most. Though here my Lamia's Grief and Love
Confine me, while all Comfort he disdains,
And of his Brother's early Loss complains,

424

Yet, spite of this Restraint, my Heart, my Soul
Bear me to you, and pant to reach the Goal.
I praise the Country, you admire the Town;
Each other's State we love, but hate our own.
The guiltless Places all our Blame receive;
The Mind's in Fault which ne'er itself can leave.

The Country, when a Slave, was all your Care,
But now, a Rustic grown, you long to share
The Games, the Shows, that you at Rome admire.
I, more consistent, grieve when I retire
To Rome, where Calls of hated Business lead.
We different Objects love, and thence proceed
Different Pursuits. What you a Desert wild
Would call, a beauteous Prospect would be styl'd
By him who thinks with me; the same would spurn
What you extoll. I know your Wishes turn
On smoky Taverns and the greasy Stews:
My Fields raise Sallads, but the Vine refuse.
You grieve that here no Tavern yields you Store
Of Wine, and languish for a Minstrel-Whore,
To whose soft Warbling, with untutor'd Feet,
In awkward Gambols you the Ground may beat.

425

Yet you pretend that ceaseless Toil you bear,
And the hard stubborn Glebe with Harrows tear;
‘I tend (you say) the Ox, from Labour freed,
‘And every Night with Leaves, fresh-gather'd, feed.
‘To save the Meads, by Fences I restrain
‘Th'impetuous River, swoln with hasty Rain.’
The Drone, who every Labour would refuse,
With such Pretexts conceals his real Views.

The Rise of our Division now survey.
I, once with Silk and scented Hair so gay,
Who, as you know, all sordid Views apart,
Knew how to win rapacious Cynara's Heart,
And lov'd to drink Falernian half the Night,
Now chuse a frugal Supper, and delight
To sleep near purling Streams. Not those I blame
Who once are wild, but those who ne'er reclaim.

None in the Country on my Actions casts
An envious Eye; none there with Scandal blasts
My harmless Joys; they, smiling, see me toil
To move the Stones, or break the stubborn Soil.
With Slaves in Town a scanty Meal would please
Your Taste; your Wish is to be rank'd with these.
With longing Eye the shrewder Slave desires
Your Garden, Billets, Flocks, and chearful Fires.

426

The Ox would Trappings wear; the Horse would plow:
Let all pursue that Art, which best they know.

427

The Same EPISTLE Imitated.

[Yes; though my Friends engaging Arts employ]

By Mr. Nevile.

Yes; though my Friends engaging Arts employ,
Though Pleasure tempts we with each tinsel Toy,
Restless in Crowds I bear about my Chain,
And long to taste my Liberty again.
How wide the Distance between You and Me?
Not Dunce and Warburton more disagree.
The Walks, which pleas'd I tread, transported view,
Worse than the Wilds of Kent appear to You;
And, in my Turn, the Sights that once have been
By You call'd charming, half give Me the Spleen.

Say, from what Cause can Tastes so different spring?
The Place, so both resolve it, is the thing.

428

No; 'tis the Mind, however we mistake,
The Mind, that never can itself forsake.
When sick of Company, with Suitors ply'd,
‘O for the Peace of College Life!’ you cry'd;
No sooner in your Cell, you sigh for all
You left in London; Park, Play, Opera, Ball.

Be fair for once, and tell me if you find
In Me such Symptoms of a wavering Mind:
Else whence the Pangs which Thoughts of Town create,
When Business drags me to the Scenes I hate?
I grant you, here no Coffee-house affords
The Sight of sauntering Fops, or prating Lords;
No Bagnio, Brothel, for nocturnal Hour,
No Watch to bully, and no Streets to scour.
‘Who, that the Belles of Ranelagh has seen,
‘With rose-cheek'd Flirts could circle Clare-Hall Green?
‘Or who, once happy in a Masquerade,
‘Could bear to ramble in a Rookery's Shade?’

Such Toys, such Vanities your Fancy take;
What Wonder if our Souls no Music make?
I, who with foreign Delicacies fed,
Pish'd at all Taverns but the Bedford-Head,

429

Contented now make Dinners, which you'd call
Light ones, and some Court-Chaplain none at all.
The Park's gay Walks forgot, entranc'd I rove
Where, without Art, Trees twine into a Grove:
These Shades attract not Envy's baleful Leer,
And rancorous Hatred sheds no Venom here.
Say, can I style him blest who loses all
Life's choicest Hours in Senate, Council, Hall;
Or him, who, though his secret Soul receives
No real Joy, but what Retirement gives,
Each Taste neglected, and each Talent lost,
Drudges for Pay in some low dirty Post?

Yet from the Tradesman to the hireling Peer,
Who toil in Dust and Smoke throughout the Year,
What Numbers sigh for the Retreat that yields
Sound Sleep, still Walks, and ever-fragrant Fields!

If for a fancy'd Good Men grasp an Ill,
E'en let the Fools be wretched, if they will.

430

EPISTLE XV. To Numonius Vala.

Having been advised by his Physician to use the cold Baths at Velia or Salernum, he enquires the Nature of the Roads, Soil, Air, Water, &c. and concludes with a droll Character of Mænius.

With wonted Truth, dear Vala, tell your Friend,
(For well he knows on You he may depend)
The Temper of the wintry Velian Sky,
And if Salernum's Air be moist or dry?
What are the People's Manners; which the Way?
Antonius Musa's Counsel I obey,

431

Who bids me Baiæ's Springs no longer use.
Me too her slighted Nymph with Envy views,
While in cold Streams in Winter's Depth I lave.
For I have left her Myrtle Groves, and Wave
With Sulphur fraught; which soon, 'tis said, relieves
The lingering Gout. The desert Village grieves,
Shunn'd by the Sick, who now at Clusium dare
To bathe, or fly to Gabium's cooler Air.
I too shall change my Station, and must force
Beyond his wonted Inn my wondering Horse.
‘Where art thou turning? I am bound no more
‘To the Cumæan, or the Baian Shore,’
Twitching the Bit, th'impatient Rider cries,
For in his Mouth a Horse's Hearing lies.

Which of these Regions yields the choicest Grain?
Do they in Cisterns catch the falling Rain?
Or do deep Wells afford a purer Draught?
Their Wine, so meagre, is beneath my Thought.
At home, with poorer Wine, and coarser Food,
I am content; but that they both be good,
Expect abroad; for then I look for Wine
Generous and rich, my Spirits to refine;

432

To drown my Cares, with Hopes and Words to fire,
And all my Blood with genial Warmth inspire.
Which Country does most Hares and Boars afford?
Which Seas with Oysters and best Fish are stor'd?
That, thence returning, I in Bulk may rise
(So plump and sleek) to true Phæäcian Size.

When Mænius had by Luxury out-ran
Th'Estate his Parents left him, he began
To be esteem'd a Wit: With Hunger keen,
On Friends and Foes he vented his Chagrin.
With Chance for Guide, he could by Turns regale
On a rich Banquet or a scanty Meal;
The Shambles Gulph, and their eternal Bane:
His Throat devour'd whate'er his Wit could gain.
When uninvited to some Patron's Board,
Or when the Dupes, who fear'd him, would afford
No Dinner, Tripe he thought most dainty Meat,
And more would swallow than three Bears could eat.
‘The Spendthrift's Paunch,’ he then has oft been heard
To say, ‘with red-hot Iron should be sear'd.’
But the same Mænius, in a prosperous Day,
In Riot and Excess threw all away.

433

Then, as the Great and Wealthy who so blest,
Of Venison-Feasts and Ortolans possest!
Just such am I; when Cash runs low, I give
Due Praises to a calm Retreat; and live
Contented with my Lot. But when I share
A grand Repaste, and feed on luscious Fare,
A Sage no more, I change my Strain, and own
None but the Rich are wise; for they alone
Know how to live. How blest a large Estate,
Such Villas to erect, and feast in Rooms of State!

435

EPISTLE XVI. To Quintius.

He gives him a Description of his Farm, and of the Pleasures he enjoys there; observing that Quintius is no less happy, if what the World says of him be true, but that he should rather trust his own Conscience than the Voice of Fame: For genuine Virtue must be rooted in the Heart, and does not depend merely on external Actions.

Should you, dear Quintius, ask me, if in Grounds
Pasture or arable, my Farm abounds;
Whether tall Elms, by Vines embrac'd, it yields;
Or Apples, or rich Olives crown my Fields;
Let this Account, in ample Form, suffice.
Between a Ridge of lofty Hills it lies,
Deep in a shadowy Vale. The rising Day
Gilds its right Front, its left the setting Ray.
The balmy Air would charm you. Every Bush
Glows with the Cornel's or the Dam'scen's Blush.

436

The Beech and Oak in every Hedge afford
Food to my Herds, and Shelter to their Lord.
You'd almost think we near Tarentum live.
A Stream here flows, to which we well might give
A River's Name; for on the Thracian Coasts,
Waters more pure and cold not Hebrus boasts;
To cleanse the Stomach fit, and clear the Head.
And in this sweet (with Truth I might have said
Delicious Valley) I my Health retain
When sickly Autumn burns the russet Plain.
Happy are you, if what you oft' have heard
You strive to merit: Rome has long conferr'd
On You that Title. Yet, my Friend, beware,
And let Rome's Voice much less your Credit share,
Than your own Heart; none but the Wise and Good
Think truly happy. Nor permit your Blood
To boil with feverish Heat, till all your Frame
Trembles, because Rome calls you by the Name
Of sound and well. Simple the Shame, to hide
A Wound, till Balsams are in vain apply'd.
Say, should one sooth your Ears with Words like these,
Praising by Sea and Land your Victories,

437

‘Whether the People offer warmer Prayers
‘For your Prosperity, or you for theirs,
‘May Jove, who guards you both with watchful Eye,
‘Long doubtful keep!’ This, you would strait descry,
Was Cæsar's Due. But when they give the Name
Of Wise and Good, can you that Title claim?
Flattery, 'tis true, we all admire. But they
Who give it us may take it all away
Whene'er they please. As he who from the Place
He once conferr'd with Scorn removes the Base.
‘Resign that Place,’ enrag'd he cries; ‘'tis mine.’
I sneak away, and strait the Place resign.
But should they say, I had incurr'd the Guilt
Of Theft, or of Adultery, or had spilt
My Father's Blood; unconscious of Offence
Shall I change Colour, arm'd with Innocence?
False Honours charm, and false Reports dismay
None but an abject Mind. But plainly say,
Who is your upright Man?
Quintius.
He who delights
To keep the Senate's Laws, and guard our Rights;

438

Quick in Dispatch, who weighty Points decides,
And still by Equity his Judgment guides.

Horace.

Yet his own House, and every Neighbour cries,
There lurks a rotten Heart in that Disguise.
Suppose my Slave should say, ‘I never thieve,
‘Or run away.’ “You due Rewards receive,”
Say I, “nor shall be scourg'd.” ‘I never kill'd.’
“No Crows with your stak'd Carcass shall be fill'd.”
But should he on himself the Name bestow
Of Good and Thrifty, that I'll scarce allow.
The Wolf avoids the Toils; the Kite with Care
Shuns cover'd Hooks; the Hawk the treacherous Snare.
Virtue, for her own sake, the Good embrace;
But Penalties alone can move the Base:
For they will blend Things sacred and profane,
Long as they undiscover'd can remain.
If from large Heaps of Beans you steal a few,
My Loss indeed is less; the Crime in You
Is full as great as if you stole them all.
Your honest Man, whom every Judgment-hall,

439

And every Court so uncorrupted sees,
Whene'er he seeks by Victims to appease
The Gods, to Janus or Apollo prays
Aloud; but, in a softer Accent, says,
‘O fair Laverna, my Deceits allow,
‘The outward Form of Sanctity bestow,
‘And let my Crimes be skreen'd from all but thee!’
Say, is a Miser than his Slave more free,
More good, who stoops whene'er by Chance he views
A Farthing? For who craves, will fear to lose;
And him who lives in Fear I deem a Slave.
The Wretch who toils with ceaseless Care to save
And scrape up Wealth, has basely left the Post
Assign'd by Virtue, and his Armour lost.

Slay not a Captive, if he can be sold;
For he may serve to feed your Sheep; or hold
The Plough; or o'er the Seas in Winter roam,
To bring you Corn, or Burdens bear at home.

The wise and virtuous Man will boldly dare
To say, ‘O Pentheus, King of Thebes, declare,
‘What Evils undeserv'd I must endure?’
“I'll take thy Goods.” ‘My Cattle, Furniture,

440

‘And Gold you may.’ “The Jailor's Hands shall seize
“And chain thee in a Dungeon.” ‘When I please
‘A God will set me free.’ Death he must mean,
If right I guess. Death shuts the human Scene.

444

EPISTLE XVII. To Scæva.

Horace here shows, that though a quiet and indolent Life has its Charms, yet an active one, with a zealous Endeavour to procure the Patronage of the Great by laudable Methods, is preferable to it; since, if successful, it will enable us to serve our Relations and Dependents.

Though no Advice you need, by which to steer
In the nice Commerce with the Great, yet hear
The Counsel, Scæva, of your little Friend;
As if a blind Man would Assistance lend,
So I, myself though wanting to be taught,
Would fain lend some Instruction worth your Thought.

If Dust, and Brawls, and rattling Cars displease,
And Slumbers undisturb'd, and downy Ease
Delight, seek Ferentinum's calm Retreat:
Not on the Rich alone true Pleasures wait;

345

Nor has he Reason to lament his Lot,
Who steals through Life unseen, and is forgot.

But would you serve your Friends, and with good Cheer
Regale yourself, then gain the rich Man's Ear.
“If Aristippus were with Herbs content,
‘He would not,’ said Diogenes, ‘frequent
‘The Tables of the Great.’ While he again
Reply'd, “Diogenes would Herbs disdain,
“Could he with Converse please the Great.” Now say,
Which argued best? or let me lead the Way,
As eldest, and inform you, why my Voice
Freely I give for Aristippus' Choice.
He thus the Cynic's Snarlings would retort:
‘I, for my own sake, sooth the Great. You court
‘The Vulgar. I have Horses at Command,
‘And dine with Princes. You, with craving Hand,
‘Beg a small Dole, yet say you nothing want:
‘Far beneath those, who your Petition grant!’

But Aristippus could conform with Grace
To every Habit, Circumstance, and Place;
Nor at his Lot repin'd; though still he sought
A higher Station; yet it would be thought

446

Strange, if that Churl, who could from Patience claim
Only a thread-bare Rug, could do the same.
The one, not waiting for his purple Vest,
Rov'd to each public Place, however drest,
And play'd in all an easy decent Part:
The other at Miletian Robes would start,
As at a Snake, or foaming Dog; and die
With Cold, rather than wear such Finery.
Return his Rags, and with the Fool comply!

He who atchieves great Actions, and can show
In Triumph to the State her conquer'd Foe,
By Valour rises to the Throne of Jove;
Yet 'tis no little Praise, to win the Love
Of those, whose Safety is the public Care.
Not every one to Corinth can repair.

Who doubts his Strength had best sit still: Agreed.
But what of him who tries, and does succeed?
Unless confess'd his manly Prowess shines,
I yield, and plead no more, The first declines
The Weight, too heavy for his puny Size
And puny Mind. This seeks, and wins the Prize.

447

Sure he then Honours and Rewards may claim,
Or Virtue is a vain and empty Name.

The modest Man, who all his Wants conceals,
Gains more than him, who all his Wants reveals.
Favours receiv'd with Thanks, or snatch'd by Force,
Are things far different. This then is the Source
And Sum of all. He who makes these Complaints,
‘My Sister wants a Dower, my Mother faints,
‘Oppress'd by Poverty; I've scarce a Field
‘That's fit for Sale, or that will Pasture yield,’
Cries out, ‘Give, give.’ This adds an earnest Prayer
That he too with the first the Boon may share.
But would the Raven cease to croak, his Prey
By no fierce Rival would be torn away.

The low Dependent, eager to attend
Down to his Country Seat a wealthy Friend,
When he complains of Roads, or Rain, or Frost,
His Chest burst open, and his Baggage lost,
What does he but the stale Devices use
Of crafty Courtezans, who often lose
A Necklace, or a Bracelet, as with Tears
Incessantly they din their Cullies Ears,

448

'Till at the last no Credit they can gain,
When they with undissembled Grief complain.

The Man, who once has suffer'd by Deceit,
Will scarce be forward to relieve the Cheat,
Who pleads a broken Leg: In vain his Eyes
O'erflow with Tears; in vain he loudly cries,
‘O raise me, raise me, by Osiris' Name;
‘Believe me, 'tis no Trick; O help the Lame!
This well-tim'd Answer echoes through the Town,
“Go, seek some Stranger; here your Arts are known.”

452

The Same EPISTLE Imitated.

[Self-taught, though Bevil nicely can discern]

By Another Hand.

Self-taught, though Bevil nicely can discern,
And how to treat his Betters need not learn;
Yet oft he has, and oft will condescend
To hear the Reasons of his humble Friend:

453

As if with quickest Eye he went astray,
And of a blind Man should enquire the Way.
Happy! if in my Ear some Bird might sing,
That Bevil said, approving, ‘'Tis the Thing.’

If to domestic Joys your Wishes tend,
If whirling Cars and rattling Dice offend;
If neither Routs nor Levees you admire,
Swift to your Villa by the Thames retire:
For Bliss is not confin'd to Pomp alone;
Nor mean his Lot, though uninscrib'd his Stone,
Who steals through Life, and dies with Worth unknown.

But, if you rise to nobler useful Ends,
And, the Soul's genuine Feast! can serve your Friends,
Or Country; go to Courts, not cringing wait,
Mix, as you do, with Ministers of State;
While Pollio counts the Clock, and thinks you late.

Could he have fed on Pulse and meagre Fare,
Would frank Hilario breathe St. James's Air?
Less, less would he, who knows to win, and keep
His Patron's Friendship, in a Garret sleep:
Say, which is right?—Our Verdict must agree:
Man of the World, we give the Prize to thee.

454

Once, on a peaceful Sabbath, I am told,
Hilario met poor Cinna, Cronies old!
And thus accosts him: ‘For an Age unseen,
‘My boon Companion, why so grave and thin?
‘When to the World your Genius you display,
‘What, from a Bookseller receive your Pay!
‘Though, night-gown'd in a Blanket, plac'd on high,
‘You scorn the nether World, and range the Sky,
‘With all your Wit and Genius—you are wrong;
‘A solid Meal is better than a Song.
‘If I must wear a Livery, let it be
‘Not from the Vulgar, but from high Degree;
‘Not stoop to little Men and little Things,
‘But chuse my Masters out of Peers and Kings.’

Each Station on Hilario graceful sat,
If not above, yet not beneath his Fate;
Plain, or embroider'd, he regarded not;
His Manners never alter'd with his Coat.
O! what a Panic would poor Cinna seize,
Changing for Silk his double-breasted Frieze!
One, unconcern'd, in Frock, or Suit of Lace,
Is seen and known at every public Place,
And either Part can act with decent Grace.

455

Awkward and shuddering t'other would appear,
Oblig'd detested Finery to wear.
‘Bring back his Frieze, he'll starve,’ Hilario cry'd,
‘And let him live with Poverty and Pride.’

Armies to rout, in Field, in Council, great,
Out-number'd, conquer, or with Fame retreat;
His Glory, mounting on Ætherial Wing,
Ascends the Throne of Jove, with Prussia's King:
Yet humbler Laurels may the Muse await;
For next to Greatness, is to please the Great.

All dare not climb the Pyramid's high Top:
Who fear to venture, at the Basis stop.
What if we scale yon Heaven-aspiring Cone,
Would not you say, my Friend, ‘'Twas bravely done?’
Thus, even thus, one pale at Distance eyes,
Another makes his Way, and grasps the Prize.
'Tis right; for Virtue is a barren Praise,
Unless her Fruits we gather with her Bays.

But wide the Difference (which Prudence weighs)
Whether we modest ask, or boldly seize.
His Wants who whispers soft, without Offence,
Is better heard than noisy Impudence;

456

That dins eternal, in his Patron's Ear,
His mortgag'd Lands, and Tenants in Arrear;
A sickly Mother, an expensive Son,
By Loans distress'd, by Chancery undone.

Speak out, Impostor; thy bold Hopes relate:
‘Give me, my Lord, a competent Estate.’
But if he knew with Modesty to taste,
Without the Scramble he might share the Feast.

A low Companion, by his Lord from Town
To Buxton or to Scarb'rough carry'd down,
Who mourns his rifled Trunk, and Money fled,
His Breeches stolen from beneath his Head;
Acts like that crafty Nymph, who, well advis'd,
For many a Month her Jewels advertis'd.

In vain the Vagrant, with dissembled Sores,
And painted Ulcers, for Compassion roars:
Though by St. Patrick, and each Saint, he swear,
You turn away your unbelieving Ear:
Stripp'd of his Vizard, glares the Knave complete,
While all the Village rings, ‘A Cheat, a Cheat!’

457

EPISTLE XVIII. To Lollius.

By I. P. SHARD, Esq;

Horace had already addressed the second Epistle of this Book to his young Friend Lollius (whose Education he had much at Heart) for the Improvement of his Morals. He here instructs him in the Arts which tend to conciliate the Favour of the Great; of whose Pride and Extravagance he at the same Time draws a lively Picture.

You scorn, my Lollius, if I judge aright,
To seem a Friend, and be a Parasite.
Not more unlike the Chaste and Wanton are,
Than a true Friend, and servile Flatterer.

Those, who the opposite Extreme admire,
Mere Slovens, both in Person and Attire;
Who rude blunt Manners virtuous Freedom call;
Into at least as great an Error fall.
On each Extreme a different Vice is seen;
For Virtue's Throne is seated in the Mean.

458

The one, too fawning, 'midst the lower Guests,
Diverts the Table with his fulsome Jests;
Watches and dreads each Motion of his Lord,
And with feign'd Raptures echoes every Word.
The trembling School-boy thus his Lesson says,
Thus the first Actor's Part the Mimic plays.

The other wrangles with important Air,
And, arm'd with trifling Cavils, splits a Hair.
‘I surely ought to know what's right or wrong;
‘Hold; let me speak: No Bribe shall tye my Tongue.’

What is it they so eagerly contest?
‘Which is the nearest Way, who fences best.’

Those, who their Substance waste in Love, or Play,
Or vainly squander it in living gay;
Who, eager, thirsting after Riches run,
And Poverty, as 'twere a Scandal, shun;
The wealthy Friend, though ten times worse, such Fools
Contemns, or else commands them as his Tools;
And, like a pious Mother, cries, ‘Heaven grant
‘To you the many Virtues that I want!’

459

The Poor should never with the Wealthy vye;
‘My Wealth will all my Follies justify.
‘Cease my Expences then to emulate;
‘A modest Garb best suits an humble State.’

Eutrapelus, on wanton Malice bent,
To many a Coxcomb costly Habits sent:
With the gay Dress gay Passions strait arise;
He sleeps till Noon; Business neglected lies:
He riots, wenches, spends his small Estate,
And in a loathsome Jail repents too late.

Be not too curious; but let nothing wrest
A Secret, once intrusted, from your Breast.

Blame not another's Taste, nor yours commend;
Quit your Amusements to oblige a Friend.

Amphion saw his Brother's Love decay;
Guessing the Cause, he threw his Lyre away.
Such Complaisance a noble Friend requires;
So yield Obedience to his mild Desires:
Nor, when he calls you up to hunt, refuse,
And cry, You know not how to quit the Muse.

Hunting's a noble Exercise; 'tis good
To whet the Appetite, and cleanse the Blood.
Since you are healthy, active, swift and strong,
To such as you such manly Sports belong.

460

When in the Lists your Skill in Arms you try,
You know what loud Applauses rend the Sky.
So great your Art, so graceful is your Air,
You far outshine the most accomplish'd there.

Ev'n when a Youth you serv'd your first Campaign
Beneath that Prince, who tam'd rebellious Spain;
Bade Parthia our imprison'd Troops restore,
Bade Roman Eagles deck her Fanes no more;
Rome's Glory to complete, now draws his Sword,
And bids the conquer'd World confess its Lord!

Though none observe more close what's just and meet,
Yet you can trifle at your Country-Seat;
You and your Brother different Parties take,
The Actian Fight you mimic on your Lake:
Bravely you combat, anxious of Renown,
Till Victory the Conqueror's Temples crown.

With your Friend's Humour chearfully comply;
The Favour he'll return with Usury.

If of my poor Advice you stand in Need,
Of whom, to whom, and what you speak, take heed.

461

Th'Inquisitive will blab; from such refrain;
Their leaky Ears no Secret can retain.
Let from your Lips no Word unguarded fall;
No Power a Word, once utter'd, can recall.

If you to visit a rich Patron go,
No strong Desire of what you meet with show;
Perhaps he'll think no Service can repay
The trifling Boon, or send you griev'd away.

Let those you recommend be Men well-known,
Lest you should blush at Vices not your own;
The best may be deceiv'd, but ne'er pretend
A Man whose Crimes are flagrant to defend;
Bur if, well-try'd, you find he stands the Test,
With all your Power protect him, when opprest.
For, if you suffer Calumny to spread,
The near Infection you'll have Cause to dread:
Your Interest bids you quench the neighbouring Fire;
Neglected Flames a double Force acquire.

To court the Great the Unexperienc'd run,
Their Smiles, as dangerous, th'Experienc'd shun.
Your Bark, with prosperous Sails, now cuts the Deep,
Lest the Winds change its Course, these Maxims keep:

462

The Gay the Grave, the Grave the Merry hate;
The Slow the Quick, the Active the Sedate;
The Tipler him that's fober, though he swear
His Head nocturnal Revels cannot bear.
Uncloud your Brow, and put on Looks serene;
Reserve will seem Moroseness; Silence, Spleen.

With Sages oft converse; learn'd Authors read;
They teach you in the Paths of Peace to tread;
Show you how vain Desires the Soul torment,
How Wealth increases Care, not gives Content.
There you the secret Springs of Virtue find;
There learn to still the Tumults of the Mind;
Learn that true Pleasure flies the Rich and Great,
And loves to dwell in a sequester'd State.

When to Digentia's verdant Banks I go,
Whose Streams through bleak Mandela's Meadows flow,
While I there breathe my Villa's wholesome Air,
I to the Gods address this humble Prayer:
‘Should you the Number of my Days increase,
‘Bless them with Leisure, Competence, and Peace:
‘Plenty of Books, a Year's Provision grant,
‘To keep me from the anxious Dread of Want!’

463

Let all-dispensing Jove but yield Assent,
I ask no more; I'll give myself Content.

468

The Same EPISTLE Imitated.

[Spence, with a Friend you pass the Hours away]

By Mr. Christopher Pitt.

To Mr. Spence, When Tutor to the Earl of Middlesex.

Spence , with a Friend you pass the Hours away
In pointed Jokes, yet innocently gay:
You ever differ'd from a Flatterer more
Than a chaste Lady from a flaunting Whore.

'Tis true you rally'd every Fault you found,
But gently tickled while you heal'd the Wound:
Unlike the paltry Poets of the Town,
Rogues, who expose themselves for Half a Crown;
And still obtrude on every Soul they meet
Rudeness for Sense, and Ribaldry for Wit:
Who, though half-starv'd, in spite of Time and Place
Repeat their Rhymes, though Dinner stays for Grace:

469

And as their Poverty their Dresses fit,
They think of Course a Sloven is a Wit.
But Sense (a Truth these Coxcombs ne'er suspect)
Lies just 'twixt Affectation and Neglect.

One Step still lower, if you can, descend
To the mean Wretch, the Great Man's humble Friend;
That moving Shade, that Pendant at his Ear,
That two-legg'd Dog, still pawing on the Peer.
Studying his Looks, and watching at the Board,
He gapes to catch the Droppings of my Lord;
And tickled to the Soul at every Joke,
Like a press'd Watch repeats what t'other spoke:
Echo to Nonsense! such a Scene to hear!
'Tis just like Punch and his Interpreter.

On Trifles some are earnestly absurd;
You'll think the World depends on every Word.
‘What! is not every Mortal free to speak?
‘I'll give my Reasons, though I break my Neck.’
And what's the Question? If it shines or rains,
Whether 'tis twelve or fifteen Miles to Stains.

The Wretch, reduc'd to Rags by every Vice,
Pride, Projects, Races, Mistresses, and Dice,

470

The rich Rogue shuns, though full as bad as he,
And knows a Quarrel is good Husbandry.
‘'Tis strange,’ cries Peter, ‘you are out of Pelf;
‘I'm sure I thought you wiser than myself:’
Yet gives him nothing—but Advice too late,
‘Retrench, or rather mortgage your Estate:
‘I can advance the Sum—'tis best for both—
‘But henceforth cut your Coat to match your Cloth.’

A Minister, in mere Revenge and Sport,
Will give his Foe a paltry Place at Court.
The Dupe for every Royal Birth-day buys
New Horses, Coaches, Cloaths, and Liveries;
Plies at the Levee; and, distinguish'd there,
Lives on the Royal Whisper for a Year.
His Mistress shines in Brussels and Brocade;
And now the Wretch, ridiculously mad,
Draws on his Banker, mortgages, and fails,
Then to the Country runs away from Jails.
There, ruin'd by the Court, he sells a Vote
To the next Burgess, as of old he bought;
Rubs down the Steeds which once his Chariot bore,
Or sweeps the Borough, which he serv'd before.

471

But, by this roving Meteor led, I tend
Beyond my Theme, forgetful of my Friend.
Then take Advice; and preach not out of Time,
When good Lord Middlesex is bent on Rhyme.

Their Humour check'd or Inclination crost,
Sometimes the Friendship of the Great is lost.
With innocent Amusements still comply,
Hunt when he hunts, and lay the Fathers by:
For your Reward you gain his Love, and dine
On the best Venison and the best French Wine.

Never in Wine or Wrath betray your Trust;
Be silent still, and obstinately just:
Explore no Secrets, draw no Characters;
For Echo will repeat, and Walls have Ears:
Nor let a busy Fool a Secret know;
A Secret gripes him 'till he lets it go:
Words are like Bullets, and we wish in vain,
When once discharg'd, to call them back again.

Defend, dear Spence, the honest and the civil,
But to cry up a Rascal—that's the Devil.
Who guards a good Man's Character, 'tis known,
At the same Time protects and guards his own.
For as with Houses so it fares with Names,
A Shed may set a Palace all on Flames:

472

The Fire neglected on the Cottage preys,
And mounts at last into a general Blaze.

'Tis a fine thing, some think, a Lord to know;
I wish his Tradesmen could but think so too.
He gives his Word—then all your Hopes are gone:
He gives his Honour—then you're quite undone.

Most Folks so partial to themselves are grown,
They hate a Temper differing from their own.
The Grave abhor the Gay, the Gay the Sad,
And Formalists pronounce the Witty mad:
The Sot, who drinks six Bottles in a Place,
Swears at the Flinchers who refuse their Glass.
Would you not pass for an ill-natur'd Man,
Comply with every Humour that you can.

Pope will instruct you how to pass away
Your Time like him, and never lose a Day;
From Hopes or Fears your Quiet to defend,
To all Mankind, as to yourself, a Friend;
And, sacred from the World, retir'd, unknown,
To lead a Life with Morals like his own.

When to delicious Pimpern I retire,
What greater Bliss, my Spence, can I desire?

473

Contented there my easy Hours I spend
With Maps, Globes, Books, my Bottle, and a Friend.
There I can live upon my Income still,
Ev'n though the House should pass the Quakers Bill:
Yet to my Share should some good Prebend fall,
I think myself of Size to fill a Stall.
For Life or Health let Heaven my Lot assign,
A firm and even Soul shall still be mine.

474

EPISTLE XIX. To Mæcenas.

He shows the Mistakes of Poetasters and Men of no Genius, in imitating the Faults of eminent Writers, and overlooking their Beauties; and gives the Reason why his contemporary Poets affect to despise his Writings.

To old Cratinus if you Credit give,
‘No Verses long can please, or long can live,
‘Which Water-drinkers write.’ Since to the Race
Of frantic Poets Bacchus gave a Place
Among his Fauns and Satyrs, all the Nine
Each Morning savour of the Fumes of Wine,
On Wine great Homer lavishes such Praise,
As shows that Wine had oft inspir'd his Lays.
And Father Ennius too was said to drain
The Goblet, ere he sung the martial Train.

475

‘Be Law the Study of each sober Soul!
‘Leave Verse to those, who love the sparkling Bowl!’
Since thus I spoke, our Bards, by Night and Day,
Have o'er their Cups maintain'd an endless Fray.
What though some Mimic copies Cato's Dress,
Will that the Greatness of his Mind express?
Or will one Instance of his Worth be shown,
By lowering Looks, bare Feet, and scanty Gown?
The Moor, who strove, by Eloquence and Ease,
In Speech to rival fam'd Timagenes,
Burst at the Disappointment. Such the Fate
Of those, who Faults alone can imitate!
There's not a Bard, but should by Chance my Face
Be pale, would Cumin drink. Ye servile Race
Of Mimics, will ye still provoke my Spleen,
And make me burst with Laughter or Chagrin?

Through Paths untrod before I led the Way,
And all the Hive their Leader will obey.
First in Iämbics on the Latian Plain
I sung; adopting both the Fire and Strain
Of keen Archilochus; but ever strove
To shun that Bitterness of Style, which drove

476

Lycambes to Despair. Yet, lest my Lays
Should fail to claim an equal Share of Praise,
The Sapphic and Alcaïc Notes I join,
And temper thus the Harshness of his Line:
Nor does my Muse one virtuous Name traduce,
Or vent foul Calumny and rank Abuse.
His Strains, by Roman Bards before unsung,
I first adapted to the Roman Tongue,
And hear, I own it, with unfeign'd Delight,
That Men of Taste are pleas'd with what I write.

But should you ask, why am I oft amus'd
With Praise before my Face, and strait abus'd
Behind my Back? I thus reply: No Vote
Do I e'er purchase with a thread-bare Coat.
I cannot hear and praise what Courtiers write:
Nor can I ask a Pedant, to recite
And teach his Scholars my unworthy Lay.
Hence these Complaints arise—And when I say,
‘'Twill but add Weight to Trifles to rehearse
‘In crowded Theatres my careless Verse.’
“'Tis a mere Joke:—For Cæsar's Ear,” they cry,
“'Tis all reserv'd; puff'd up with Vanity,
“You think that tuneful Numbers you alone
“Can write; no Verses please you but your own.”

477

I dare not answer in sarcastic Guise,
Dreading the furious Contest that might rise,
But beg a Truce, and Leisure to revise.
For Jests will Quarrels and Contention breed;
Contention Rage, and Wars to Rage succeed.

479

The Same EPISTLE Imitated.

['Tis said, Dear Sir, no Poets please the Town]

By Mr. Christopher Pitt.

To Mr. Lowth.

'Tis said, Dear Sir, no Poets please the Town,
Who drink mere Water, though from Helicon:
For in cold Blood they seldom boldly think;
Their Rhymes are more insipid than their Drink.
Not great Apollo could the Train inspire,
'Till generous Bacchus help'd to fan the Fire.
Warm'd by two Gods at once, they drink and write,
Rhyme all the Day, and tipple all the Night.

Homer, says Horace, nods in many a Place,
But hints he nodded oftner o'er the Glass.
Inspir'd with Wine old Ennius sung, and thought
With the same Spirit that his Heroes fought:
And we from Johnson's Tavern-Laws divine,
That Bard was no great Enemy to Wine.
'Twas from the Bottle King deriv'd his Wit,
Drank 'till he could not talk, and then he writ.

Let no coif'd Serjeant touch the sacred Juice,
But leave it to the Bards for better Use:

480

Let the grave Judges too the Glass forbear,
Who never sing, and dance but once a Year.
This Truth once known, our Poets take the Hint,
Get drunk or mad, and then get into Print:
To raise their Flames indulge the mellow Fit,
And lose their Senses in the Search of Wit:
And when with Claret fir'd they take the Pen,
Swear they can write, because they drink like Ben.
Such mimic Swift or Prior to their Cost,
For in the rash Attempt the Fools are lost.
When once a Genius breaks thro' common Rules,
He leads a Herd of imitating Fools.
If Pope, the Prince of Poets, sick a-bed,
O'er steaming Coffee bends his aching Head,
The Fools in public o'er the fragrant Draught
Incline those Heads that never ach'd or thought.
This must provoke his Mirth or his Disdain,
Cure his Complaint, or make him sick again.

I too, like them, the Poet's Path pursue,
And keep great Flaccus ever in my View;
But in a distant View—yet what I write,
In these loose Sheets, must never see the Light;
Epistles, Odes, and twenty Trifles more,
Things that are born and die, in Half an Hour.

481

‘What! you must dedicate,’ says sneering Spence,
‘This Year, some new Performance to the Prince:
‘Though Money is your Scorn, no Doubt in Time
‘You hope to gain some vacant Stall by Rhyme;
‘Like other Poets, were the Truth but known,
‘You too admire whatever is your own.’

These wise Remarks my Modesty confound,
While the Laugh rises, and the Mirth goes round;
Vex'd at the Jest, yet glad to shun a Fray,
I whisk into a Coach, and drive away.

482

EPISTLE XX.

[Your Thoughts, my Book, (with Sorrow I discern)]

He addresses himself to his Book, which, under the Allegory of a Child, he supposes weary of Confinement, and begging Leave to go abroad into the World. He shows the bad Consequences that would attend the Gratification of its Request: And at the Conclusion he gives a brief Account of his own Family, Person and Temper.

Your Thoughts, my Book, (with Sorrow I discern)
On Janus and Vertumnus wholly turn.
Fond of the Sosian Binding, you detest
The modest Shelf, and close-confining Chest.
You grieve that here you are beheld by few,
And long to shine, expos'd to public View;
Not so brought up. The Height of your Desire
Attain; once seen, you never can retire.
‘Wretch that I am! what have I sought!’ you'll cry;
In some dark Corner when despis'd you lie.

483

For if, unprejudic'd, I reason right,
Your Youth alone your Lovers will delight.
When once each vulgar Hand your Beauty soils,
The lazy Moth shall batten on your Spoils;
Or Packets you shall bear to Afric's Shore,
Or Spain; while smiles your slighted Monitor;
Like him, who down a steepy Summit drove
His stubborn Ass; for who his Friend would prove
Against his Will? Old Pedants too will teach,
By your kind Aid, the Rudiments of Speech,
In Alleys dark, to many a lisping Boy.
At Evening, when more Hearers you enjoy,
Say, that my Sire a Freeman's Right possest;
Though small my Fortune, that, beyond my Nest,
I stretch'd my Wings. For thus, my lowly Birth
While you confess, you will enhance my Worth.
Say, that at Rome with Praises I was crown'd
By all the Great; in War and Peace renown'd;
Grey-hair'd before my Time; of Stature low;
Fond of the Sun; and ever quick to show
Some hasty Sparks of momentary Fire:
And if, perchance, my Age they should enquire,

484

Say, four-and-forty Winters I attain'd,
When Lepidus and Lollius Consuls reign'd.

487

The Same EPISTLE Imitated.

[Charm'd with the letter'd Lustre of the Press]

Charm'd with the letter'd Lustre of the Press,
The Turkey Binding, and the gilded Dress,
You long, my Book, on Dodsley's Counter spread,
To view Pall-Mall, and gaze on Tully's Head;
You scorn the Friend select, and private Ear,
And pant for Glory in a public Sphere.
For this, though tarnish'd by the Devil's Hand,
And press'd, and stamp'd, and bound by my Command,
You ne'er complain—Yet shun that dangerous Coast,
Those fatal Shelves where thousands have been lost.
Though, safe from all the Terrors of the Main,
Their wish'd-for Port Pitt, Warton, Carter gain,
Yet think on Creech, whom that impetuous Wave
Stripp'd of the Laurel which Lucretius gave.

From Criticism's Rage you first shall feel
The various Tortures of her monthly Wheel;

488

And then, too late convinc'd, your hasty Choice
You'll mourn, strait banish'd by the public Voice
To the fam'd Shops of Bedlam or St. Paul,
The Trunk to line, or flutter on the Wall.
Then shall I smile; like him, who, when he strove
From his lame Horse's Foot a Stone to move,
Return'd th'ungrateful Kick he gave, and cry'd,
‘Take Kick for Kick, and there's the Stone beside.’
To save unwilling Friends in vain is Labour try'd. [OMITTED]

489

The latter Part of SATIRE II. BOOK II. Imitated.

[_]

The following Imitation being omitted in its proper Place, p. 191. the Reader, it is thought, will not be displeased at seeing it here.

Quo magis his credas, puer hunc ego parvus Ofellum, &c.

A cavalier (the Men of ancient Date,
When young, remember what I here relate)
Was blest with Wealth, yet, frugal 'midst his Store,
He early learn'd the Lesson to be poor.
'Twas at the Time, when taught by Cromwell's Hand
Civil Confusion overspread the Land:
He amongst others suffer'd in the Cause,
And saw his Right expiring with the Laws.
The brave old Man comply'd without a Groan,
And earn'd his Bread in spite of Wind and Sun,
A Labourer in Fields, but Yesterday his own.

‘And is,’ he smiling said, ‘the Change so great?
I ever was before-hand with my Fate.
When Heaven around me all its Blessings strow'd,
My Heart ne'er wanton'd, nor my Bowl o'erflow'd.

490

‘A Stranger to Variety and Cost,
‘(Unless some Holiday would have me roast)
‘I liv'd on little: Happy was my Lot!
‘A Fritter in the Pan, or Bacon in the Pot.

‘But if an old Acquaintance, with Delight,
‘After a tedious Absence, bless'd my Sight;
‘Or a good Neighbour, in a rainy Hour,
‘Kindly dropp'd in, to chat away a Shower;
‘'Twas well: I sought not what the Shops afford
‘To the sleek Citizen, or high-fed Lord.
‘No wanton Sauce gave Riot to the Dish;
‘No Stream was troubled for Supply of Fish:
‘A Barn-door Fowl, or Mountain Kid, went down
‘As well as Dainties from a Market-Town.
‘A Sallad might be added for the Guest,
‘And Golden-pippins made a second Feast.

‘Perhaps, though idly, innocently gay,
‘At Riddles, Questions and Commands, we play:
‘Talk of old Times; and o'er the laughing Ale
‘Uncloud our Brows, and happily regale;
‘Or toast the blithsome Lass, or tell the mirthful Tale:
‘Wishing for Times more honest and less dear,
‘A plenteous Harvest, and a fruitful Year.

491

‘Let Fortune vainly rave, by my Consent,
‘Play all her Tricks, and all her Malice vent,
‘Shifting her alterable Look each Day;
‘And take the little that is left away:
‘While I, regardless of her Female Mind,
‘Laugh at the foolish Idol of Mankind.

‘Tell me, my Children, were ye more at Ease,
‘Ere Winds disturb'd the Calmness of your Days?
‘Amidst exorbitant and Rebel Grants
‘Has Providence been thrifty to your Wants?
‘Or, since this rough, fanatical Dragoon,
‘This canting Lord, his Tyranny begun,
‘Say, has our homely Food less sumptuous prov'd?
‘Say, have we liv'd less happy, or less lov'd?

‘Trace from the Conquest, and you'll rarely find
‘The same Estate to the same Blood confin'd.
‘This lawless Soldier robb'd me of my Due;
‘Him too the Law may in its Turn undo:
‘Or grant his Title be remov'd from Doubt,
‘His Heir, infallibly, will see him out.

‘The Farm, 'tis true, went whilom by my Name,
‘Where Folks enquir'd for Goodman and his Dame:
‘The Tone is chang'd; and who on Visits come
‘Ask is the Colonel, or his Spouse at home.

492

‘Who knows, but Time in rolling-on may mend,
‘And angry Fortune be once more my Friend?
‘Who knows, but yet our Lands may be restor'd,
‘And the pleas'd Hovel own its former Lord?

‘Come then, my Boys, for Heaven is on your Side,
‘With manly Sinews bear against the Tide,
‘Patience our Strength, and Honesty our Guide!’

The END of the First Book.

493

THE SECOND BOOK OF THE EPISTLES OF HORACE.

Translated by William Duncombe, Esq;

Inscribed to the Reverend Sneyd Davies, M. A. Archdeacon of Derby.

495

EPISTLE I. To Augustus.

Augustus having kindly reproached Horace for not addressing more of his Pieces to him; this, it is thought, was the Occasion of his writing the following Epistle.

While you Affairs, so many and so great,
Alone dispatch; protect us by your Arms;
With Morals grace, and by wise Laws reform;
Shall I not trespass on the public Weal,
If, Cæsar, I too long detain your Ear?
Bacchus, and Romulus, and Leda's Twins,
Though after Death they were ador'd as Gods,
Yet, while they liv'd, and strove to serve Mankind,

496

Destructive Wars compos'd, and Cities built,
And planted Colonies; with Grief complain'd,
Instead of grateful Thanks and Praise deserv'd,
They met with Calumny and foul Reproach.
Alcides, who subdu'd the Hydra's Rage,
Who all the Labours bore ordain'd by Fate,
Found Envy could be quell'd by Death alone.
For he, who shines with Rays pre-eminent,
Oppresses Candidates of lower Rank,
But, when extinguish'd, will be lov'd again.
To you alive, we sovereign Honours pay,
And Altars raise, where we invoke your Name;
Confessing no such Prince before has risen,
Nor shall again in future Ages rise.
But yet your People, just in this alone,
That they acknowledge your superior Worth,
When with each Greek or Roman Chief compar'd,
Weigh not with equal Judgment other Things;
All modern Writers they despise and hate;
To Merit, till deceas'd, no Incense pay,
No Wit admire, unless of foreign Growth.
The Grecian Laws, on the twelve Tables grav'd,
The Treaties, which the ancient Kings of Rome
With Gabii, and the rigid Sabines form'd;

497

The Sibyls Books, and Scrolls of pristine Bards;
(So blindly they adore Antiquity)
They swear, on Alba's Top, were to our Sires
Divinely by the Choir of Muses giv'n.
What! though we own old Grecian Writers best,
Shall we from hence infer our Authors too
Excell in Merit, as they rise in Age?
To a short Issue then the Point is brought;
For sure we may with equal Truth maintain,
The Swan has sable Plumes, the Raven white.
In every Art we shine; we paint, we sing,
And wrestle better than th'anointed Greeks.
If Age improves our Verses like our Wine,
I would be glad to know how many Years
A proper Sanction to an Author give?
Shall he, who died an hundred Years ago,
Among the faultless Ancients be enroll'd,
Or with degraded Moderns take his Place?
Fix but the Time to finish the Dispute.
Roman.
He, who hath died an hundred Years ago,
May be esteem'd a Classic old and good.

498

Horace.
What if a single Month he want, or Year?
With whom must he be rank'd? The old and good,
Or those whom this and every Age must scorn?

Roman.
Him you may justly with the Ancients place,
Who only wants a single Month or Year.

Horace.
I take the Grant; and pluck out Year by Year,
As Hair by Hair the Horse's Tail was stripp'd;
'Till his vain Reasoning, who by Years alone
Computes each Author's Merit, and esteems
Nought valuable, till sanctify'd by Death,
Eludes his Grasp, like slippery Grains of Sand.

Roman.
Ennius was wise and valiant; and in him
Homer reviv'd.

Horace.
And yet the Critics say,
His Lines, so negligent, but ill support
His idle Vaunts of Pythagorean Dreams.

499

Roman.
Though Nævius' Plays are lost, yet still his Scenes
We quote by heart, as if but newly writ.
Each ancient Poem is so sacred held!
If Accius and Pacuvius you compare,
You'll own the first sublime, the last more learn'd.
Menander's Gown Afranius well becomes.
Plautus excells in winding-up his Plots,
Like Epicharmus, the Sicilian Bard.
For Weight of Thought Cæcilius, but for Art,
You'll Terence praise: These powerful Rome attends
In the full Theatre, and oft repeats:
These as her favourite Poets she has crown'd
From Livius' Æra to the present Age.

Horace.

Sometimes the Crowd judge right, but often wrong.
For if the ancient Poets they admire
Beyond all Bounds, suppose them blameless quite,
And all the Moderns to surpass; they err.
But if they will allow, that, in their Works,
Some Words are obsolete, and some too harsh,
And many Marks of Negligence appear,
They reason right; their Verdict I approve;

500

And righteous Jove the Sentence will confirm.

Far, far am I from wishing to discard
Andronicus's Plays; which, I remember,
Orbilius read to me, a little Boy,
And made me tingle with his heavy Hand;
But that they should be deem'd correct, and pure
Unblemish'd Models: This, indeed, is strange.
For if, in these, a glowing Word, perchance,
Shines out, or one or two more polish'd Lines;
They give a Stamp, unworthily, to all.
I'm vex'd that any Work should be condemn'd,
Merely because 'tis new; and not because
It is uncouthly writ, and without Grace;
While Faults of ancient Bards are over-look'd,
And Fame and Honours ask'd for them alone.

Should I but doubt, if Atta's Plays deserv'd
To limp along the Stage with Saffron spread,
Scarce any Senator but would exclaim,
That I had lost all Sense of Modesty:
‘What! dare you then condemn the Scenes, in which
‘Moving Æsopus and learn'd Roscius plsy'd?’
Either because they nothing can approve
But what delighted them in younger Years;

501

Or else, perhaps, they think it a Disgrace
Now to unlearn what they have learn'd when Boys,
And in their Sons to own a better Taste.

He, who affects to praise the Salian Hymns,
Ambitious to be thought alone to know
What he, no more than I, can understand,
Intends not Honour to the Bards deceas'd,
Or to exalt their Fame; but us attacks;
Us and our Works, with Envy fraught, he hates.

But if the Greeks had so absurdly judg'd,
And crush'd each mental Offspring at its Birth,
Of their learn'd Writings, what had now remain'd
For us to thumb, and read with Thought intense?

Soon as from Wars victorious Greece respir'd,
Battening in Plenty, and luxurious Ease,
Now for Olympic Games she ardent sigh'd;
The Sculptors now of Marble, Ivory,
And Brass, admir'd; with Eyes and Heart entranc'd,
Beheld the Wonders of the Painter's Hand;
Now charm'd with Music, now with Tragedy.

Thus, on her Nurse's Lap, a fondled Girl
Sporting, some Trifle with Impatience seeks,
But in a Moment casts the Toy away.

502

We all are Children of a larger Growth:
No less inconstant in our Love or Hate.
Such are th'Effects of Peace, and prosperous Gales.

The Gates of noble Romans were, of old,
Early unbarr'd; and to their Clients they
Explain'd the Laws: This Custom long prevail'd.
Then might you hear the reverend Sage instruct
Th'attentive Youths to shun Extravagance,
To curb wild Lusts, and to increase their Store.

But now our Manners with the Times are chang'd;
All glow for Fame, and would be Authors deem'd.
The hoary Sires with Boys carouzing, sup,
(Their Heads with Myrtle crown'd) and Catches sing.
E'en I myself, who Poësy abjure,
Out-lye the Parthians; and, before the Sun
Shines out, call for my Papers, Pens and Desk.

Pilots alone attempt to steer a Ship;
None dare, unlicens'd, Hellebore prescribe;
Nor any, but Musicians touch the Lyre.
The Smith laborious tends his Forge alone.
But now all scribble Verse, both high and low;
Learn'd and unlearn'd, in Country and in Town.

503

Revolve we now the happy Fruits that spring
From this slight Fault, this pleasing Lunacy.

Rarely does Avarice taint the Poet's Heart:
Verses he loves; in these spends all his Time;
Laughs at the Flight of Slaves, Losses and Fires;
Forms no base Scheme to cheat his Friend or Ward;
Lives on coarse Bread, and vegetable Fare;
Unapt for War, yet useful to the State,
If you will grant small things may great support.
He forms the stammering Tongue to Sounds distinct;
Turns from Discourse obscene the tender Ear;
And strengthens riper Minds with Morals sage;
Tames Envy, Rage, and every Passion wild;
Illustrious Deeds recounts; the rising Age
Instructs by known Examples; chears the poor;
And cordial Counsel to th'afflicted gives.

Had not the Muse bestow'd a Bard, whence should
The Boys and Virgins chaste have learn'd their Hymns?
The Choir implores, and feels the present Gods!

504

It draws down Showers from Heaven by lenient Prayer;
Averts Diseases, and each dreaded Plague;
Verse can the Gods of Heaven and Hell appease!

Our hardy Hinds of old, with little blest,
Soon as their Corn was hous'd (who still had kept
This happy Day in view) with festal Joys
Reliev'd their Mind and Body, long fatigu'd;
And, with their sturdy Boys and faithful Wife,
(Who shar'd their Labours, and their Pleasures share)
Earth with a Swine, with Milk Sylvanus sooth'd;
And offer'd to their Genius Flowers and Wine,
The Genius who suggests how transient Life!

Hence first, among the Clowns, the Custom rose,
In Verse alternate, rustic Taunts to pour;
And, as the Season annually return'd,
They still indulg'd the sportive Vein, unblam'd;
Till by degrees the harmless Joke was turn'd
Into keen Malice, daring to attack
The Names of worthy Men without Controul,
Those, whom th'envenom'd Tooth had wounded deep,

505

Loudly complain'd; and others join'd the Cry,
Though yet untouch'd, and made the Cause their own.
At length it was ordain'd by Law, that none
Presume, in Song or Libel, to defame
His Neighbour's Character on Pain of Death.
The Bards, thus check'd by Fear of Chastisement,
To Flattery warp'd the Muse, to give Delight.

Now conquer'd Greece subdu'd her Conqueror,
And into savage Latium brought her Arts.
The rough Saturnian Metre charm'd no more;
And Elegance expell'd the Style uncouth.
Yet Traces of those rude and barbarous Times
For many Years remain'd, and still remain.
Late we began ro read the Grecian Bards;
Nor till the second Punic War was o'er,
Could Rome, blest in the Arms of Peace, enquire
What worthy Strains by Thespis were compos'd,
And what by Æschylus and Sophocles:
And then we try'd their Pieces to translate,
Not unsuccessful; for the Roman Muse,
Happily bold, bursts forth in Tragic Strains,
But cannot brook Restraint, and hates the Toil
To file and polish every rugged Line.

506

It may, perhaps, be thought an easier Task,
To paint the Manners fit for Comedy,
As they are chiefly drawn from common Life;
And yet a nicer Pencil it requires,
As each Spectator is prepar'd to judge,
Whether the Characters are just, or not;
Nor are Mistakes so readily forgiven.

Observe, how Plautus well sustains the Parts
Of an enamour'd Youth, a crafty Pimp,
A Father doating on his hoarded Bags;
But Parasites alone Dossennus paints;
His slattern Muse shuffles along the Stage;
Could but the Bard put Money in his Purse,
(His only Wish) 'twas all the same to him,
Whether his Plays were well compos'd or ill.

Whom sickle Glory in her Chariot bears,
To try the Stage, a cold Spectator kills,
A warm puffs up. So small, so slight a thing
Chears or dejects the Heart, that thirsts for Fame!
Farewell these Trifles! if the Palm refus'd
Afflicts my Soul, or giv'n elates with Pride.

Another thing, that chases off the Stage,
And terrifies the sanguine Bard, is this;
Th'illiterate brutal Crowd (whose Number far

507

Exceeds the Virtuous, Noble, and Polite)
Oft, in the Middle of an Act, demand
To see the Gladiators, or a Bear;
For in such Shows the Populace delight:
And, if the Knights presume to thwart the Whim,
‘To Arms,’ they cry, and stun the House with Noise.

And now the Knights themselves are better pleas'd
To gratify th'uncertain Eye than Ear.
For four long Hours, or more, the Action stops,
While routed Squadrons fly along the Stage;
Then captive Monarchs drag their ponderous Chain;
Chariots and Litters pass; and Cars and Ships,
Of polish'd Ivory, conquer'd Cities bear.

Democritus, if now alive, would burst
With Laughter, at the Follies of the Pit,
When, gaping, it devours with eager Eyes
The Panther and the Camel's Monster-brood,
Or the white Elephant; and would behold,
With greater Glee, their Humours than the Show;
Admiring those, who try their Skill in vain,
To make deaf Asses listen to their Tale.
What Stentor's Voice so loud as to be heard,

508

When Shouts are echo'd from the Theatre?
Garganus, you would think, with Tempests roar'd,
Or the wild Billows of the Tuscan Sea;
With so much Clamour they behold these Sights,
And foreign Riches, lavishly display'd!
Soon as an Actor on the Stage appears,
Bedawb'd with Gold, in tawdry Splendor dress'd,
An universal Clap runs round the House.
‘Has he yet spoken?’ No. ‘What then delights?’
The gay Embroidery of his purple Robe.

But, lest it should be thought I would condemn,
With envious Spleen, an Art I will not try,
I gladly give to worthy Tragic Bards
The Praises which their Merits justly claim.

He, who afflicts my Breast for others Woes,
Provokes and sooths, and with false Terror fills;
Like a Magician hurries me away;
Now sets me down at Athens, now at Thebes:
This is the Man, whom I a Poet deem;
He fully knows the Mystery of his Trade.

But yet, great Prince, employ some Thoughts on those,
Who to the Reader's Judgment rather trust,
Than to the proud Spectator's blind Caprice;

509

If you would fill the Pile magnificent,
Worthy Apollo, which to him you rear,
With chosen Books, and in the Poets raise
A Zeal with greater Care to trace the Paths
Which lead to lofty Pindus' verdant Brow.

Indeed, we Poets many Faults commit
Injurious to ourselves: As when a Scroll
We put into your Hands, employ'd, or tir'd;
When with our Friends we quarrel, if they blame
A single Line; when we, unask'd, repeat
What we before repeated; and complain
The Graces in our Works are over-look'd;
Or when we hope, that soon as Cæsar knows
We scribble Verse, he, of his own Accord,
Will graciously invite, a Pension give,
And dictate to our Muse some favourite Theme.

Yet be it Cæsar's Praise to weigh with Care
What Writers shall to future Times transmit
His various Worth, approv'd in War and Peace,
Pure and unsully'd by degrading Hands.

To Chœrilus great Alexander gave
A Royal Present for some paltry Lines.
And yet, as Ink the fairest Paper stains,
So, worthless Verse pollutes the fairest Deeds.

510

But the same Monarch, who so dearly bought
Those wretched Lines, by his Decree ordain'd,
None but Apelles should his Picture draw,
Nor any, but Lysippus, carve his Statue.
But if this Critic-King, who judg'd so well
Of Arts dependent on the Eye, had been
To judge of Books, and of the Muses Gifts,
(So ill his Taste) you would almost have sworn,
Bœotia's foggy Clime had giv'n him Birth.

But Virgil, Varius, (Bards belov'd by You)
Dishonour'd not their generous Patron's Choice.
Th'Applause which that Distinction crown'd has shown,
How nice your Judgment, and how worthy they!

Not moulded Brass more lively can express
The Hero's Form, than Poets in their Works
His Manners trace, the Features of the Mind.
If to my Will but equal were my Powers,
I would no longer grovel on the Ground,
In humble Verse, but boldly sing your Deeds;
The various Climes and Rivers you have pass'd;
Hills curb'd by Forts, and barbarous Realms subdu'd;
Ev'n Parthia dreading Rome beneath your Sway;

511

O'er all the World the Rage of War restrain'd,
And Janus barr'd, the Pledge of lasting Peace.

But nor the Majesty of Cæsar brooks
A flimsy Work; nor dares my bashful Muse
Attempt a Task so far beyond her Strength.
A foolish Fondness hurts the Man we love,
And chiefly when display'd in fulsome Verse.
For with more Ease we learn, and longer hold,
What we deride, than what we reverence.
No Thanks to him, by whose untoward Zeal
I stand abash'd, the Butt of Ridicule.
I would not be expos'd to View in Wax,
A hideous Form; nor prais'd in hobbling Verse;
Lest Bard and Patron, in an open Box,
Be carry'd to the Street, where Spice, Perfumes,
And Frankincense are sold, with all such Trash,
As commonly is wrapt in worthless Leaves.

524

EPISTLE II. To Julius Florus.

In Excuse for his not having written to him, Horace says it is much better to employ our Time in modelling our Lives, than in composing Verses.

O Florus, Friend of Nero good and brave,
What if a Man should offer you to Sale
A Boy, at Gabii or at Tibur born,
And thus accost you: ‘He is neat and clean;
‘Sound, I will warrant him, from Head to Foot.
‘Pay down but twenty Pounds, and he is yours;
‘He'll fly, like Lightning, at his Master's Nod;
‘Is skill'd in Greek, and fit for any Art;
‘Like plyant Clay you'll mould him to your Hand.
‘Besides, he rudely sings a merry Catch.
‘You might be jealous, should I say too much.
‘Though poor, I live on what I have; nor need
‘I part with him; my little is enough.
‘None but myself would with such Candor deal

525

‘He once, but once, was faulty; and to shun
‘The Scourge, took to his Heels, and ran away.
‘Now buy him, or refuse; just as you please.’

You pay the Price, and bear him off content.
The Boy escapes; you heavily complain,
And for the Purchase-money sue the Man;
But with what Right let your own Heart be Judge;
For from the Master you had learn'd his Fault.

Now to apply, and bring this Story home.
I fairly told you, when you went from hence,
That I was lazy, and unfit to write,
Lest you should chide, because no Letter came.
But what avails it, if you still complain?
You would not, surely, break the Law we made
With joint Consent? It seems, you blame me too,
As if defrauded of the promis'd Verse.

A Soldier, in Lucullus' Wars, had lost
(After a tedious March, while sound he slept)
The little Gold, which he had hoarded up.
Now angry with himself, and all Mankind,
A very Tyger grown, wild he attacks
A Royal Fort, and takes it, Sword in Hand,
Replete with Stores, and strongly fortify'd.
This rais'd his Credit, and he justly gain'd

526

Part of the Spoils, and some Reward besides.
Soon after this, the Prætor wish'd to storm
Another Fort; (no matter for the Name)
He singles out this Man, and thus accosts
In Words that might a Coward's Courage raise:
‘Go, where your Virtue leads; go prosperous forth,
‘Sure to receive the Honours you deserve:
‘Why do you faulter?’ What was his Reply?
(Though rude in Speech, the Fellow was no Fool)
“Most noble Captain, I am satisfy'd;
“Bid him go conquer, who has lost his Purse.’

It was my Fortune to be bred at Rome,
Instructed there, how fatal to the Greeks
The fell Resentment of Achilles prov'd:
Athens then show'd a little more than this,
And taught me to distinguish Right from Wrong,
And search for Truth in Academus' Grove.
Me, quite unskill'd, from that delightful Seat
The Tide of Civil War bore into Arms,
Too weak to cope with mighty Cæsar's Force.
From whence Philippi sent me soon away,
Stripp'd of my Plumes, with House and Fortune lost;
Impatient Want first made me scribble Verse.
But now I have enough, and crave no more,

527

What Hellebore could ever purge my Brain,
If I should rather chuse to write than sleep?

Each Year some Joy steals with it as it flies;
Time has already robb'd me of my Sports,
The Joys of Venus, Revellings and Play;
And now the Pilferer would snatch my Verse.
What would you have me do, when of three Guests
No single Dish can suit the Taste of each?
What you approve disgusts the other two;
Nor can those two agree among themselves.
One for Heroics; one for Satire asks:
A third the Lyric Muse alone can please.

What! can you think it possible for Me
To write at Rome, amidst such Noise and Care?
One wants me for his Bail; another calls
T'attend, at ten, the Reading of his Play,
Postponing all Affairs. The House of one
On Mount Quirinus stands; the other lives
At the most distant Part of Aventine;
Yet both of these am I oblig'd to see.
How wide the Distance too full well you know.
‘The Streets are clear; compose then as you walk.’
Yes; here a Builder with his Workmen hies,
Bearing large Logs of Timber; there a Crane

528

Up-heaves a poaderous Stone, or massy Beam.
Hearses and Waggons now dispute the Way;
Here runs a miry Sow; there a mad Dog.
Go now, and meditate sonorous Verse!

The Bards all love the Woods, and hate the Town,
True Sons of Bacchus, pleas'd with Sleep and Shade.
Amid such ceaseless Din by Day and Night,
You cannot, sure, expect that I should trace
The narrow Paths the ancient Poets trod,
Or aught produce, that merits your Regard.

The Wit, to Books and Study who has giv'n
Sev'n tedious Years in Athens' calm Retreat,
Stalks forth, a walking Statue, and excites
(Grown grey with Cares) the Laughter of the Crowd.
Can I then, here in Town, by Business tost,
And bandy'd to-and-fro from Place to Place,
Cherish a Hope such Verses to compose
As may be fit to grace the Latian Lyre?

At Rome two Brothers liv'd, a Lawyer one;
And one taught there the Art of Rhetoric;
They flourish'd on each others Parts and Skill:

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A Gracchus this, and that a Scævola.

Nor from this Frenzy are we Bards secure:
I Lyrics write; another Elegy;
My Verses he commends as all divine;
His Lines I praise as polish'd by the Muse.
Mark in Apollo's Temple how we strut,
While all around we cast our Eyes, and see
The Shelves and Niches vacant, where we hope
Our Works shall live, preserv'd to future Times.
Pursue us at a Distance, and observe
What prompts our Pride, and in what Style we talk;
While each on each the Laurel-Wreath confers.
Aiming to wound, we slyly ward the Blow;
Like Samnites, brandish Foils from Morn till Night.
At length, Alcæus I depart, in his
Account; but who, d'ye think, is he in mine?
Callimachus, be sure; or, if he please,
Mimnermus he shall stalk with Head erect.

I many things must bear whene'er I write,
And humbly court the Suffrage of the Crowd,
To keep in Peace the fretful Race of Bards;
But, when the Fit is past, and I am calm,
I stop my Ears to all their senseless Din.
The Writers of bad Verse are ridicul'd,

530

Yet they rejoice, and triumph in their Works;
And, if you hesitate, or silent stand,
Blest in themselves, applaud the happy Thought.

But he, who hopes to write a finish'd Piece,
Must exercise the Censor's irksome Task,
And dare degrade whatever Words he finds
To fail in Weight, or Dignity, or Grace,
Unwilling though they quit the darling Seat,
And in his own Scrutore securely sleep.
Old Words he must revive, discreetly bold,
And bring to Light the nervous Phrases, us'd
By our redoubted Sires, in pristine Days,
Which now lie cover'd in a Heap of Dust;
And new invent, which Custom will confirm.
Copious and clear, like a pure Stream he flows,
Enriching Rome with Tides of Eloquence.
The Stragglers he brings back; and those too rough
With Culture smooths; the lifeless cuts away;
Yet polishes each Line with so much Ease,
It seems th'Effect of Chance, though wrought with Toil:
As he, who in the Pantomime now moves
A Satyr light, and now a Cyclops rude,
Was form'd by Art, though Nature it appears.

531

Much rather for a Dotard would I pass;
Be happily deceiv'd, and with my Faults
Content, than deem'd a Wit, and rack'd with Spleen.

At Argos once there liv'd a Citizen,
A Man of some Account, who thought he heard
Tragedians act their Part with wond'rous Skill;
In empty Theatres he us'd to sit,
Well-pleas'd, alone, and loudly clapp'd his Hands;
In all things else he show'd a sober Mind;
A civil Neighbour, hospitable Friend,
Mild to his Wife; nor would he curse his Slave,
If he by chance had broke a costly Jar;
Knew how to shun a Rock, or open Well.
But when his Friends had call'd the Doctor in,
And purg'd his Brain with Hellebore; restor'd,
And in his perfect Senses, he cry'd out,
‘What have ye done? Alas! you have destroy'd,
‘Not sav'd my Life. Blasted is all my Joy!
‘The sweet Delusion of my Mind is lost!’

O Wisdom! let me now pursue thy Paths,
Discarding Trifles, fit for Boys alone;
Let me, instead of scanning empty Verse,
Now learn to scan the Tenor of my Life,
To smooth and harmonize my jarring Soul.

532

Thus then I reason, when at home retir'd;
If still the more you drink, the more you thirst,
Strait to the Doctor you relate your Case;
But if the more you gain, you covet more,
You dare not this to any Friend impart.
If, by the Root or Herb prescrib'd, your Wound
Is unasswag'd, you will not always use
The Root or Herb, which had been try'd in vain.
But you have heard, that wicked Folly quits
The Man, on whom the Gods have Wealth bestow'd;
And now more rich, but not a Jot more wise,
You follow still the same deceitful Guides.

If Riches could confer or Wit or Sense,
And from your Breast expell Desires and Fears,
With Reason might you blush, if you could find
A Man on Earth more covetous than you.

If That be ours we purchase with our Coin,
Possession too must make some things our own;
And thus the Lawyers teach: Agreed. So then
Yon' Field, which feeds you, is your Property;
And when the Bailiff of rich Orbus sows
The Seed, which springing yields you Corn for Bread,

533

What does he less than own you for his Lord?
You pay the Price, and in Return receive
Baskets of Grapes, Fowls, Eggs, or Casks of Wine,
For your own Use; and thus you piece-meal buy
Th'Estate, which cost two thousand Pounds, or more.
What Difference, if you pay, for what you eat,
This Hour; or bought it many Years ago?
The Purchaser of fair Aricia's Fields
Pays for the very Herbs, on which he dines,
Though he thinks otherwise; pays for the Wood,
Pil'd on the Hearth, to make his Kettle boil:
And yet he calls that spacious Tract his own,
To where the Poplar ends Disputes; as if
That could belong to any Man which hangs
On the fleet Wing of every wavering Hour,
Prepar'd by Gift, or Sale, or Force, or Death,
To quit its Lord, and pass to other Hands?

Since Nature then no endless Tenure grants,
But one Heir drives another off the Stage,
Like Wave impelling Wave; O! what avail
Your stately Villas, and your Piles of Plate?
Why to Lucania's Forests should you join
Calabria's Fields, since ruthless Pluto claims

534

Both High and Low, nor heeds the Charms of Gold?
Jewels, and Marble, Tuscan Statues, Plate,
Pictures, and Ivory, and purple Robes,
Some not possess, and some not ev'n desire.

Why of two Brothers one should still delight
To loiter and to play; and Baths prefer
To Herod's Gardens and his wealthy Palms;
The other toil, from Break of Day till Night,
(Restless, though rich) to mellow and improve
The shrubby Ground with Fire and with the Share,
That Genius knows, who guides our natal Star;
The God of Human Nature! With each Man
Who dies, of changeful Face; now white, now black.

For Me, I shall not scruple from my Store
(Though small) freely to use what suits my Taste,
Regardless, though my ravenous Heir should scowl,
Because I leave not more than has been given.
Yet nicely will I weigh the Difference
Between a generous Man and Prodigal;
Between the Sordid and th'Oeconomist.
'Tis one thing sure, profusely not to spend;
Another, to receive with open Heart,

535

And entertain a Friend; and, like the Boys
On Festivals, to snatch the short-liv'd Day.

Let but uncleanly Want from Me retire;
I care not then, if down the Stream of Life
In a small Skiff or stately Barge I sail.
Nor am I hurry'd by too strong a Blast,
Nor always struggle against Wind and Tide.
In Power, Wit, Person, Virtue, Birth, Estate,
Behind the first, yet still before the last.

‘But why all this of Avarice to Me?
‘You cannot say, I'm tainted.’ True. What then?
Have you with That discarded every Vice?
From vain Ambition is your Bosom free;
From Anger, and the slavish Fear of Death?
And do you laugh at Dreams, and magic Charms,
At Witches, Miracles, and nightly Ghosts?
Do you with grateful Mind each Birth-day greet?
Pardon your Friends, and at th'Approach of Age
Grow wiser, milder, better by Decay?
What boots it that a single Thorn is drawn,
If many more are left to give you Pain?

But if you know not how to live, give up
Your Part to those, who act more gracefully.

536

Enough have you indulg'd, and eat and drank
Enough; 'tis Time for you to quit the Board,
Lest playful Youth, whom Follies more become,
Should mock, and drive you reeling from the Feast.

544

The END of the Second Book.

545

THE THIRD BOOK OF THE EPISTLES OF HORACE. COMMONLY CALLED The ART of POETRY .

Translated by the Same Hand.

Inscribed to Isaac Pacatus Shard, Esq;

547

The Art of Poetry. Addressed to L. PISO, and his Two Sons.

The Argument.

Whatever Work we undertake should be all of a Piece, and consistent with itself; else, though some Parts of it may be beautiful, it will, upon the whole, be ridiculous. Unity of Design. To chuse a Theme suited to our Genius. Method. With what Restrictions it is allowable to coin new Words, and revive old ones.

After a short Account of the various Metre proper for different kinds of Poetry, he lays down more particular Rules for the Conduct of the Drama. Language, or Style. Passions. Brief Rules for Actors. Manners and Characters. Safer to form a Play on an old Subject, than to invent a new

548

one. In planning an Epic Poem, to follow the Example of Homer. The Manners to be carefully marked. A Description of those proper for every Stage of Life. The Office of the Chorus.

Of the Changes in the Roman Stage and Music. Of Satire. Satire beneath the Dignity of the Tragic Muse. Rules for the decent Conduct of Farce. The Greek Originals to be studied. The Rise and Progress of the Grecian Drama. Defects of the Roman Poets. He advises them to correct and polish their Works from Year to Year; rallies those who pretend to Inspiration without Art or Study. A large Stock of Knowledge the only Source of good Writing. The Characters and Manners of greater Importance than Diction and Colouring. The Grecian Education more proper than the Roman to form a Poet. Farther Directions to Play-writers. Some Faults excusable. No Medium in Poetry; yet all pretend to be Poets, and many without Study or Application.

The ancient Poets were Priests and Prophets, and their Office highly honoured: How beneficial to Society.

Here the Poet, transported by his Subject, rises above the common Epistolary Style.

Genius, Art, and Study, all necessary to constitute a Poet.

The Tricks of the Roman Nobles to catch Applause.

549

A young Man should submit his Poems to the Correction of a judicious Friend. He concludes the whole with a humorous Description of an empty Poëtaster.

To a Man's Head suppose a Painter joins
A Horse's Neck, with various Plumage spread
O'er various Limbs; or should he draw, above,
A female Face, and a foul Fish below:
Would you not laugh at such a motley Piece?
Trust me, my Friends, such is the Book, where join
Things incoherent as a sick Man's Dreams,
Nor Head nor Foot, that to one Form belongs.

“Poets, you'll say, and Painters are allow'd
“The Liberty to feign whate'er they please.”
'Tis true: This Leave we ask, and freely give;
But not to reconcile Antipathies,
To couple Doves with Snakes, with Tygers Lambs.

‘Some that, at first, have promis'd mighty things,
Yet, in their tawdry Work, have tack'd alone
A purple Shred or two, which widely shine:

550

Diana's Altar, and her Grove; a Stream,
That through delightful Meadows swiftly runs,
The rapid Rhine, or Iris' watry Bow,
In florid Lines they paint. Yet here, perhaps,
They ought not to be plac'd. You might as well
A Cypress draw, when You receive a Price
To paint the Horrors of a Storm, and show
A shipwreck'd Sailor buffeting the Waves.

Why sinks your stately Palace to a Cot?
Chuse as you will the Subject of your Piece,
But let that Piece be simple still and one.

O Sire, and Youths deserving such a Sire!
Most Poets are misled by specious Forms:
One strives to be concise, and is obscure;
Another studies to be smooth, and sinks;
He that affects to soar, with Fustian swells;
Who fears to rant, creeps languid on the Ground;
And he, who loves the Marvellous, will paint
In Woods the Dolphin, and in Streams the Boar.
The very Fear of Faults, if void of Art,
Will into Faults the cautious Bard betray.
The meanest Sculptor in th'Æmilian Square
On Brass can grave the Nails or flowing Locks,
Unhappy in the Whole, because unskill'd

551

To join the Parts, and make them harmonize.
But I no more like such a one would write,
Than, with a Nose of hideous Size, appear
With jetty Eyes, and Hair of jetty Hue.

They, who compose, should still a Subject chuse
Proportion'd to their Strength; and know what Weight
Their Shoulders will sustain, and what refuse.
Nor Eloquence, nor Method will forsake
Those who are Masters of the Theme they treat.

In this (or I mistake) consists the Force
And Grace of Method, to assign a Place
For what shall now be said, and what postpon'd,
And reassum'd with greater Elegance.

Let him, who plans a Poem, and aspires
To Praise, adopt this Thought, and that reject.

Be sparing and reserv'd in coining Words;
Yet will he never fail to please, who Words
Of new Invention can with Grace apply,
Smooth on the Tongue, and easy to the Mind:
This Licence with Discretion you may use;
For things abstruse, and novel Arts require
New Phrases, to our rustic Sires unknown.
These will be prais'd, if from the Grecian Stock

552

They spring, and without Force are grafted here.
Shall Virgil, or shall Varius be deny'd
What was to Plautus and Cecilius given?
If from my slender Store I can produce
A few new Words, shall it in Me be deem'd
A Crime, when Cato's and old Ennius' Style
Enrich'd our Tongue, and gave new Names to things?
It ever was, and will be still allow'd,
‘To coin new Words, well suited to the Age.
‘Words are like Leaves; some wither every Year;
‘And, every Year, a younger Race succeeds.

Ourselves, and all our Works, to Death we owe.
The Royal Lucrine Mole, by Cæsar rais'd,
Protects our Navy from the the Northern Storms:
The Lake long barren, fit for Oars alone,
Now feels the Plough, and feeds the neighbouring Towns:
The Tyber, that before licentious roll'd,
And swept away the Harvest, has been taught
A happier Course; yet these, and all the Works
Of Man shall die! Who then can vainly hope,
That Words, more frail, for ever shall endure?

553

Many that now are lost, again shall live;
And many drop, which we in Honour hold.
So Custom wills, to whom alone belongs
The Power despotic over Words and Speech.

Homer first taught the World in Epic Verse
To sing heroic Deeds and mournful Wars.

In Verse of various Length, Complaints at first
Were taught to sigh; now Joy and Pleasure smile.
But who invented simple Elegy,
Critics dispute; and still the Suit depends.

Rage with Iämbics arm'd Archilochus,
A kind of Verse invented by himself.
This Foot the Sock and lofty Buskin took,
Adapted to the Stage and Dialogue,
And fit to quell the Clamours of the Pit.

To sounding Strings the Lyric Muse records
Gods, and the Sons of Gods, the Victor-Horse,
The Wrestler, pining Youth, and Joys of Wine.

Shall He be honour'd with a Poet's Name,
Who knows not how to make a proper Draught,
Or to adjust the Colouring of his Piece?
What! shall I, falsely bashful, rather chuse
To live in shameful Ignorance, than learn?

554

Still let your Style be suited to your Theme.
The Comic Muse abhors a lofty Verse;
And Tragedy a low and creeping Style.
Yet sometimes Comedy exalts her Voice;
And angry Chremes chides in tumid Phrase.
Tragedians, too, in humble Words complain.
Peleus and Telephus, when Exiles both
And poor, dismiss their big and sounding Words,
Else would they strive in vain to move the Heart.

'Tis not enough that Plays are tersely writ,
And elegant; let them be tender too,
And each Affection raise, or qualify.
Our Passions sympathize with what we see.
If you would have me weep, first weep yourself:
Then Your Misfortunes, Telephus! and Yours,
O Peleus! wound and touch me to the Soul.
If ill you act your Part, I sleep or smile.

Ev'n in the Face the Passions should be read.
A Countenance dejected waits on Grief;
Joy shows a chearful Air; and Anger frowns;
Important Truths a Look severe attends.
Nature first forms the Motions of the Soul
Within, to Fortune's ever-shifting Course;
Now swells with Mirth; then kindles into Wrath;

555

Or sinks us to the Ground with Heart-felt Woe;
And what we feel is by the Tongue express'd.
The Roman Knights, and ev'n the Populace
Will justly hiss that Actor off the Stage,
Whose Gesture and whose Looks belye his Words.
Wide is the Difference between the Style
A God or Hero speaks; an old Man sage,
Or fiery Youth: Nor must the noble Dame
Talk in the Language of her faithful Nurse.
Observe the Husbandman, and Merchant vague,
The savage Colchian, and Assyrian false,
Argives polite, and untaught Thebans rude:
How various are the Manners of each Class!

Tradition trace, or things consistent feign.
If you Achilles bring upon the Stage,
Draw him, as Homer has already drawn,
Wrathful, impatient, cruel, insolent;
‘Scorning all Judges, and all Law but Arms.
Medéa must be fierce; and Ino weep;
Iö a Vagrant paint; Ixion false;
Orestes wild, and haunted by the Furies.

But if you dare to tread unbeaten Paths,
And introduce new Characters, be sure

556

To make them still consistent, and the same,
From the first Opening to the closing Scene.

Not small the Task on a new Theme to write;
And 'twill be more discreet from Homer's Works
To borrow, than your own Invention trust.
An antique Piece you may so well improve,
‘That with some Justice it may pass for yours;’
But then you must not trace it Step by Step,
‘Nor Word for Word too faithfully translate;’
Nor to your Muse such rigid Laws prescribe,
As will your Genius cramp; which once impos'd,
You cannot then without a Fault transgress.

Begin not, like the vaunting Bard of old,
‘Troy's famous War, and Priam's Fate, I sing.
‘In what will all this Ostentation end?
The Mountain labours, and behold a Mouse!
Far better he, whose Plan is always good:
‘Muse! sing the Man who, after Troy was burn'd,
‘Such various Realms and various Manners saw.’
The first presents a Flash, and sinks in Smoke;
But this from Smoke bursts in a Blaze of Light,
Prepar'd to show us glorious Miracles,
Scylla with barking Dogs, Antiphates,
Charybdis' Gulph, and Polyphemus' Den.

557

He does not the Return of Diomed
From Meleager's Death begin; nor trace
The Trojan War from Leda's double Egg;
But hastens to th'Event, and swiftly bears
His Reader to the 'midst of things at once,
As if appriz'd of what had pass'd before:
Each Circumstance he artfully omits,
Which he despairs to polish and adorn;
The true and fabulous so nicely blends,
That all the Parts harmoniously cohere.

You, who attempt to entertain the Pit,
Hear what the People will with Me expect.
If you would have th'applauding Audience stay
From the Beginning till the Curtain falls,
You must of every Stage the Manners mark,
And how our Tempers vary with our Years.

The Child, who but begins to speak, and walk
With steady Step, is fond of idle Play
With his Companions; easily provok'd,
But soon appeas'd; and changes every Hour.

The beardless Youth, freed from his Tutor's Yoke,
Delights in Horses, Hounds, and Exercise;
‘Prone to all Vice, impatient of Reproof;

558

Profuse of Money; slothful to provide
Things useful; proud, impetuous, fickle, vain;
Hating to-morrow what he loves to-day.

With alter'd Mind, a Man of riper Years
For Wealth and Honours toils: he cultivates
The Friendship of the Great; with Forecast wise,
Slow to pursue what he may wish undone.

Many the Evils that attend on Age:
The old Man heaps up Wealth he dares nor use;
Procrastinates; and is in Action cold;
Tardy to hope, listless, and clings to Life;
Suspicious, fretful, never to be pleas'd;
Extolls the Manners of the sober Youths,
Who in his Childhood liv'd; and sternly chides
The wild Excesses of the present Race.

As Life advancing many Blessings brings,
Our ebbing Years will many take away.
We must not therefore give the Parts of Age
To Youth; nor those of Youth to Infancy;
But yield to each its proper Cast of Thought.

The Business of the Stage is all compriz'd
In Action or Description. What we hear
More slowly moves the Heart than what we see.

559

But Decency requires that many things,
Unfit for Sight, be wrought behind the Scenes,
Which Eloquence pathetic will relate.
Medéa must not shed her Children's Blood;
Nor wicked Atreus human Entrails boil
Upon the Stage; nor Progne to a Bird,
Nor Cadmus to a Snake, be there transform'd.
Things so incredible would shock the Sight.

A Play, which hopes again to be requir'd,
Should of five Acts consist, nor more, nor less.

Bring in no God, unless some weighty Cause,
And worthy heavenly Aid, his Presence asks.

Three Actors only in one Scene must speak.
The Chorus bears a single Actor's Part;
But it must nothing sing between the Acts,
But what may aptly suit, and aid the Plot.
The Virtuous it supports with kind Advice;
Delights to sooth the Storms of swelling Rage;
Applauds the Banquet of a temperate Meal;
Loves Justice, Band of all Society,
And wholesome Laws, and Peace with open Gates;
Reveals not Secrets; and implores the Gods,
To raise the Wretched, and to quell the Proud.

560

The Flute, of old, was slender, small and plain,
Had but few Stops, nor was it bound with Brass,
Nor, like the Trumpet, loud; yet its soft Notes
Aided the warbling Choir; able to fill
The little Theatre with Melody:
The People there (so few they might be told)
Chaste, frugal, temperate, contented met.
But when our Sires out-stretch'd their conquering Arms,
Enlarg'd the ample Walls of powerful Rome,
And on each festal Day carouz'd with Wine
Without Restraint; licentious Manners grew,
And chang'd our Music and our Poësy.
The Hind and Citizen, the Man of base
And generous Birth, confus'dly blended sat.
What could such Judges taste but Show and Sound?
The Minstrel to the ruder Flute now join'd
Luxurious Tones, while in a richer Dress
He trail'd his lengthen'd Robe along the Stage.
Then too were added to the solemn Harp
More sprightly Sounds; and swelling Eloquence
Burst forth in Rants unknown to chaster Times.
The Chorus, to display important Truths,

561

And teach the Crowd approaching Destiny,
Dark, as the Pythian from the Tripod sung.

He, who contended for a worthless Goat
In Tragic Style at first, soon introduc'd
The rough and naked Satyrs on his Stage,
‘And jok'd, when Decency would give him Leave:
For the Spectators, who, on Holydays,
Lawless assembled there and flush'd with Wine,
Were only to be drawn, and kept together,
By Arts like these, and grateful Novelty.
On this Condition then, we will allow
The drolling Satyrs Laugh, and that they turn
Things serious into Pleasantry; that he,
Who lately shone a Hero, or a God,
Array'd in purple Robes and Royal Gold,
Shall not adopt the Language of the Stews,
Nor while he shuns a low and creeping Style,
In Fustian soar, and vainly catch the Clouds.

The Tragic Muse, disdaining trivial Verse,
Will rarely with the wanton Satyrs mix;
As the chaste Matron, on a festal Day,
Reluctant dances, by the Priest compell'd.

Were I, my Friends, to write satiric Farce,
All broad and vulgar Words I would avoid;

562

Yet not so far indulge the Tragic Strain,
As to make Davus, and bold Pythias speak
In such a Style as might Silenus suit,
Giving sage Lessons to his Pupil-God.
From a known Fable I would draw my Plan;
So easily the Language too should flow,
That every one shall hope to do the same,
Till by repeated Tryals, 'twill be found,
That it requires much Labour, Thought and Care.
So much may Method and Connexion raise,
And ev'n to common Subjects Beauty give!

If right I judge, let not the rural Gods,
From Forests brought, in such smooth Phrases speak
As if they all their Lives had pass'd at Court;
Nor ever rally in a Style too soft;
Nor babble things impure and scandalous;
For Men of Fortune and high Birth despise
What the base Vulgar crown with loud Applause. [OMITTED]

Not all who hear can judge of Harmony,
And Rome is too indulgent. Shall I then,
On this depending, without Study write,
Nor strive to polish and adorn my Lines?

563

Or, thinking every one will mark my Faults,
With timid Caution ne'er transgress a Rule?
Censure by this, indeed, we may escape,
Not merit Favour. But here lies the Art,
To steer the middle Course, and shun Extremes.

But you, my Friends, take my Advice, and read
The Greek Originals both Day and Night.
The Jests of Plautus, and his Numbers too,
Our Sires have prais'd; with too much Patience sure,
(I scarce forbear to use a harsher Name)
If You and I know how to scan a Verse,
And can distinguish coarse from liberal Wit.

Thespis, 'tis said, invented Tragedy,
And in a Cart his Plays and Actors bore;
On these alone they acted then and sung;
Their Faces with the Lees of Wine besmear'd.

But Æschylus the decent Robe and Mask
Added; and rais'd a little Stage with Planks,
Taught them to bellow, and in Buskins stalk.

With great Applause then ancient Comedy
Appear'd; but her licentious Speech requir'd
The Curb of Law, and justly was restrain'd:
Dumb grew the Choir, not suffer'd to defame.

564

The Roman Bards have nothing left untry'd;
Nor small the Honours they have gain'd, who dar'd
Forsake the Grecian History, and teach
The Muse, in Persons of our own, to rise
Majestic; or in lighter Scenes to sport:
And Rome in Eloquence would now excell
No less than Arms and Valour, could her Sons
Bear the slow Toil, to polish and correct.

But you, from great Pompilius Numa sprung,
No Poem with your sacred Sanction vouch,
But what, by Length of Time and many a Blot,
Is to the Summit of Perfection wrought.

Genius, if we believe Democritus,
Is far more excellent than Art; and He
All, but the Mad, excludes from Helicon.
Most Poets, therefore, never trim their Nails
Or Beards; shun Company, and hate the Baths.
That Man, no doubt, deserves a Poet's Name,
Whose Head was never shorn by Barber's Hand;
Whose Brain defies the strongest Hellebore.
‘O my unhappy Stars! for in the Spring,
‘If Physic had not cur'd me of the Spleen,
‘None would have writ with more Success than I.’

565

But I am satisfy'd with common Sense.
Me, as a Whetstone, then let others use;
Though blunt itself, it gives the Steel an Edge;
Though I compose not, I may teach the Bards,
Where to collect their Wealth; what will improve;
Is fit or not; where Art or Error leads.

A comprehensive Mind, with Knowledge fraught,
Is the true Source and Spring of writing well.
If then you study the Socratic Lore,
This Knowledge you will readily obtain;
And, when the Theme is fully understood,
Words from your Pen will flow without Constraint.

The Man, who knows the various Offices,
We owe our Country, Parents, Children, Friends,
And how a Judge or General should act,
Will truly paint what's suitable to each.
The Lives of Men and Nature still consult,
And then your Characters will all be just.

A sentimental Play, with Manners true,
Though void of Beauty, Art, or polish'd Style,
Will sometimes greatly please, and fill the Pit
Sooner than sounding Trifles, void of Thought.

566

The Muse her Wit and Eloquence bestow'd
On Greece, inflam'd with Love of Praise alone.
The Roman Youth are train'd to frugal Arts,
To multiply, divide, and subdivide;
To Plutus, God of Wealth, their Vows they pay,
Taught to despise Apollo's barren Wreath.
When once the Rust of Avarice corrupts
The tender Mind, in vain shall we expect
To see a Poem fit to be preserv'd
With Oyl of Cedar, in a Cypress Case.

Poets design to profit, or delight,
Or useful things in pleasing Verse convey.
When Morals you instill, be brief; and then
Your Precepts will be readily retain'd.
Whatever is superfluous, slips away.
Fiction should always wear the Face of Truth.
Tempt not our Faith by things incredible;
Nor bring upon the Stage that Child alive,
Who had by wicked Lamia been devour'd.
The Aged will explode an idle Tale;
And Stories too severe disgust the Young.
‘But he who joins Instruction with Delight,
‘Profit with Pleasure, gains the Praise of all:

567

For such a Work shall live, pass o'er the Seas,
And bear to future Times the Author's Fame!

Yet there are Faults which Pardon may deserve.
Not every String obeys the Master's Hand,
Nor always can the Archer hit the Mark.
So, in a Work where many Beauties shine,
I will not cavil at a few Mistakes,
Which Inadvertence sometimes may commit,
Or human Nature could not wholly shun.
What then? suppose a Copyer should transcribe
The same Words wrong, though often told his Fault;
Or a Musician the same jarring Strings
Repeat? Who could abstain from Ridicule?
So he, who trips at every other Line,
May justly be compar'd to Chœrilus.
For when he stumbles on a shining Verse,
‘I smile to see it in such Company,
‘And wonder by what Magic it came there;’
But fret whenever honest Homer nods:
Yet in long Works we will excuse a Nap.

Pictures and Poems are in this alike,
Some are seen best at Distance, some when near:

568

That Picture loves the Shade; but this the Light,
And challenges the Critic's piercing Eye;
So in poëtic Works, some must be read
Slightly alone, and with a transient View:
That once has pleas'd; this will for ever please.

Though by thy Father's Voice, from early Youth,
Taught what is right, and with a Genius blest,
Yet thou, the eldest Piso, mark my Words:
In other things a Mean may be allow'd;
The Man who cannot like Messala plead,
Nor Depth of Learning like Casselius boast,
May practise; and is held in some Esteem.

But Gods, nor Men, nor venal Pillars grant
The Name of Poet to the middle Class.
As at the genial Board, a jarring String,
Or Poppy with Sardinian Honey mix'd,
Or Shells of ropy Oyl disgust the more,
Because these Niceties we well can spare;
Thus Poësy, invented but to please,
Must highly entertain, or not at all;
Be excellent, or execrably bad!

569

The Man, who is unskill'd in martial Arms,
To guide the Trochus, or to hurl the Quoit,
Forbears the Lists to enter; lest the Ring
Should hoot him from the Field with just Contempt.
But every Dolt presumes to scribble Verse.
Why not? Is he not free? Of liberal Birth?
Perhaps possesses too a Knight's Estate;
Unblemish'd with the Stain of any Vice?

But, Piso! You will nothing speak or write,
Unless Minerva smiles: Such is Your Sense!
Your Judgment such! But if, in Time to come,
You aught compose, submit it to the Ear
Of learned Metius; to your Sire and Me;
And keep it for nine Years conceal'd at home:
While in your own Scrutore, you may correct;
But, publish'd once, it cannot be recall'd!

Orpheus, the Priest and Prophet of the Gods,
From filthy Food and Murder first reclaim'd
A savage Race of Men: Hence was he said
To tame the Tyger's and the Lion's Rage.
Thus, when Amphion built the Walls of Thebes,
The Stones, 'tis said, obey'd his magic Lyre,
And follow'd, as his Song harmonious led.

570

It was, of old, the Province of the Bard,
Public from Private, Sacred from Profane,
To separate; quell vagrant Lust; and keep
The Marriage-bed immaculate; to build
Cities and Towns; and Laws to carve on Wood:
From hence were Poets and their Works esteem'd
Divine. Illustrious Homer after these,
And then Tyrtæus rose, with martial Song
Who rouz'd the manly Soul to great Exploits.

In Verse were Oracles reveal'd: In Verse
Were Nature's Secrets taught: The Grace of Kings
By Verse procur'd; and the Dramatic Muse
Reliev'd their Minds from irksome Cares of State.
E'en great Apollo deigns to strike the Lyre,
And all the Muses in the Chorus join.
‘Then blush not, noble Piso, to protect
What Kings have honour'd, and the Gods inspire!

If to compose a Poem worthy Praise,
Be more th'Effect of Genius or of Art,
Is yet a Question: But I neither see,
What can mere Art, devoid of Nature's Wealth,
Nor Genius, uninform'd, effect alone;

571

They ask each other's kindly Aid; nor can,
Without the strictest Union, gain their End.

Who, swift of Foot, would win th'Olympic Prize,
Has done and suffer'd many things in Youth;
Borne Heat and Cold; and carefully abstain'd
From Wine and Love's soft Joys. The Minstrel too,
Who sings the Pythian Hymns in Phœbus' Praise,
First learn'd his Art, and fear'd the Master's Frown.
But each now cries, “What charming Lines I write!
“I'll with the foremost press; Plagues, seize the last!
“What shall I sneak, and own my Ignorance
“With Front abash'd? Not I; forbid it, Jove!”

As Cryers call to Sales the Passers-by,
The noble Poet, rich in Lands and Coin,
Tempts all the Indigent to praise his Works;
And if he treats with hospitable Cheer
The hungry Wits; and sometimes gives in Bail,
To snatch 'em from the Bailiff's harpy Paw,
He must be lucky, if he can discern
A true Admirer from a Sycophant.

If you have giv'n, or promis'd aught to give,

572

Beware, that you invite not such a Man,
Brim-full of Joy, to hear your Poem read;
For, at each Line, transported he will cry,
“How charming all! divine! incomparable!”
Here he turns pale; and there the friendly Drops
Will trickle down his Cheeks; and, sometimes too,
In Ecstacy he dances round the Room.
‘As those, that truly grieve at Funerals,
‘Are not so loud, as Slaves who weep for Hire;
Thus Friends appear less mov'd than Flatterers.

Princes are said to prove by copious Cups
The Truth of him they would adopt for Friend;
For Wine unmasks the Soul. Whene'er you write,
Take Heed, you be not caught by Reynard's Wiles.

To sage Quintilius when a youthful Bard
Read o'er a hasty Piece, he'd frankly say,
“I pr'ythee, Friend, correct this Word, or that.”
If he reply'd, it was not in his Power,
And that he had attempted it in vain,
“Then blot it out; and those unpolish'd Lines
“On your poëtic Anvil forge again.”

But if he sound him readier to defend,
Than to correct his Faults, he said no more;

573

But left him then, unrivall'd, to admire
His own dear Person, and his darling Muse.

A Man discreet and good with Freedom blames
An empty Line, and censures one that's harsh;
Strikes out th'unpolish'd Verses with his Pen;
Cuts off vain Ornaments; and bids you throw
More Light on Passages obscure, or dark;
Makes you explain what seems equivocal;
And sets his Mark on Words that must be chang'd;
A very Aristarchus! nor will say,
“For Trifles why should I displease my Friend?—
Trifles, like these, to serious Mischiefs lead,
When once You stand the Butt of Ridicule.

The Wise avoid a Poet in his Fits,
As they would shun th'infectious Leprosy,
The Plague, a moon-struck Wretch, or foaming Dog;
The Boys pursue, and hoot him through the Streets.
If, while he bellows out his fustian Lines,
He, like a Fowler busy to ensnare
The Mearl, should fall into a Well or Ditch,
And cry aloud for Help; there may he cry;
For none would lend a Hand to help him up.
Who knows, but that on Purpose he leap'd down?

574

And, if a Rope were dropp'd, to draw him out,
He there perversely would resolve to stay.

‘Hear how an old Sicilian Poet died:’
Empedocles, ambitious to be thought
A God immortal, down the burning Jaws
Of Ætna leap'd.—Then let us not dispute
The Right of Bards, to die whene'er they please.
For why should it be deem'd a greater Crime
To kill that Man, who would be glad to live,
Than to keep him alive who longs to die?
Suppose the Gulph had thrown him out alive,
He would not be content to be a Man,
But for his Godship plunge a second Time.

It is not clear to Me, in just Revenge
For what Offence (Incest or Sacrilege)
With this poëtic Rage he is possess'd,
(That he's possess'd, no Mortal will deny)
And, like a baited Bear, broke from the Stake,
The Learned and Unlearned puts to Flight;
But if some hapless Wretch he chance to meet,
He worries him to Death with rumbling Verse;
Sticks, like a Leach; nor drops, till full of Blood.

N. B. The Lines marked thus ‘are taken from Lord Roscommon.

University of Virginia Library

2. VOLUME the SECOND and LAST.

THE FIFTH BOOK OF THE ODES OF HORACE. COMMONLY CALLED THE EPODES.

ODE I. To Mæcenas.

ODE II. The Praises of a Country Life.

The Same ODE Imitated.

[Thrice happy, who free from Ambition and Pride]

ODE III. To Mæcenas.

ODE IV. To Menas, Pompey's Freed-man.

ODE V. Canidia.

ODE VI. To Cassius Severus.

ODE VII. To the Roman People.

ODE IX. To Mæcenas.

ODE X. On Mævius.

ODE XI. To Pettius.

ODE XIII. To a Friend.

ODE XIV. To Mæcenas.

ODE XV. To Neæra.

ODE XVI. To the Roman People.

ODE XVII. To Canidia.

Canidia's Answer.

THE SECULAR ODE.

EPILOGUE.

THE FIRST BOOK OF THE SATIRES OF HORACE.

SATIRE I.

SATIRE III.[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable.

SATIRE IV.

SATIRE V.

SATIRE VI. To Mæcenas. The Qualities of true Nobility.

THE SATIRES AND EPISTLES By Several Hands.

SATIRE VII.

SATIRE VIII.

SATIRE IX.

SATIRE X.

THE SECOND BOOK OF THE SATIRES OF HORACE.

SATIRE I. Horace and Trebatius.

SATIRE II. Of Frugality.

SATIRE III. Damasippus. Horace.[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable.

SATIRE IV.

SATIRE V. Ulysses and Tiresias.

SATIRE VI.

SATIRE VII. A Dialogue between Horace and his Slave.

The Same SATIRE Imitated.

[Sir,—I've long waited in my Turn to have]

SATIRE VIII. Horace and Fundanius.

The MISER's FEAST. Being the Same SATIRE Imitated.

THE FIRST BOOK OF THE EPISTLES OF HORACE.

Translated by John Duncombe, M. A.

EPISTLE I. To Mæcenas.

EPISTLE II. To Lollius.

The Same EPISTLE Imitated.

[While you, my Friend, are ever doom'd to Town]

EPISTLE III. To Julius Florus.

The Same EPISTLE Imitated.

[You, whom all Places in their Turns delight]

EPISTLE IV. To Albius Tibullus.

The Same EPISTLE Imitated.

[Dear Sir, to all my Trifles you attend]

To a Gentleman, whose Father had left the Bulk of his Estate to a younger Son. In Allusion to the Same Epistle.

EPISTLE V. To Torquatus.

The Same EPISTLE Imitated.

[Since you, dear Dan, without a courtly Sneer]

EPISTLE VI. To Numicius.

The Same EPISTLE Imitated.

[With steady Wing between Extremes to soar]

EPISTLE VII. To Mæcenas.

The Same EPISTLE Imitated.

['Tis true, my Lord, I gave my Word]

EPISTLE VIII. To Celsus Albinovanus.

The Same EPISTLE Imitated.

[Haste, Muse, to Spithead, and (if Winds do not alter)]

EPISTLE IX. To Claudius Tiberius Nero.

The Same EPISTLE Imitated.

[Dear Dick, howe'er it comes into his Head]

EPISTLE X. To Fuscus Aristius.

The Same EPISTLE Imitated.

[Dellius, of rural Scenes a Lover grown]

EPISTLE XI. To Bullatius.

The Same EPISTLE Imitated.

[Still, my dear Lord, do fair Italia's Shores]

SATIRE III.
[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

SATIRE III. Damasippus. Horace.
[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.