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

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.

University of Virginia Library

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.

SATIRE III.
[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.