A Poetical Translation of the works of Horace With the Original Text, and Critical Notes collected from his best Latin and French Commentators. By the Revd Mr. Philip Francis...The third edition |
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Epist. II. To Julius Florus.
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 | A Poetical Translation of the works of Horace |  |
Epist. II. To Julius Florus.
Dear Florus, faithful to the Good and Brave,
If any Person, who would sell a Slave,
Should thus treat with you, “Sir, this Boy's compleat
“From Head to Foot, and elegantly neat:
“He shall be yours for fifty Pounds. He plays
“The Vassal's Part, and at a Nod obeys
“His Master's Will—then for the Grecian Tongue,
“He has a Relish—pliable and young,
“Like Clay, well-temper'd with informing Skill,
“He may be moulded to what Shape you will.
“His Notes are artless, but his Air is fine,
“To entertain you o'er a Glass of Wine.
“He sinks in Credit, who attempts to raise
“His venal Wares with over-rating Praise,
“To put them off his Hands. My Wants are none,
“My Stock is little, but that Stock my own.
“No common Dealer would resign a Slave
“On equal Terms, nor should another have
“So good a Bargain. Guilty of one Slip,
“It seems, and fearful of the pendent Whip,
“I own he loiter'd once. The Money pay;
“The Lad is only apt to run away.”
I think, he safely may the Sum enjoy:
You knew his Failing, and would buy the Boy:
The Form was legal, yet you still dispute
The Sale, and plague him with an endless Suit.
If any Person, who would sell a Slave,
Should thus treat with you, “Sir, this Boy's compleat
“From Head to Foot, and elegantly neat:
“He shall be yours for fifty Pounds. He plays
“The Vassal's Part, and at a Nod obeys
“His Master's Will—then for the Grecian Tongue,
“He has a Relish—pliable and young,
“Like Clay, well-temper'd with informing Skill,
“He may be moulded to what Shape you will.
“His Notes are artless, but his Air is fine,
“To entertain you o'er a Glass of Wine.
“He sinks in Credit, who attempts to raise
“His venal Wares with over-rating Praise,
“To put them off his Hands. My Wants are none,
“My Stock is little, but that Stock my own.
409
“On equal Terms, nor should another have
“So good a Bargain. Guilty of one Slip,
“It seems, and fearful of the pendent Whip,
“I own he loiter'd once. The Money pay;
“The Lad is only apt to run away.”
I think, he safely may the Sum enjoy:
You knew his Failing, and would buy the Boy:
The Form was legal, yet you still dispute
The Sale, and plague him with an endless Suit.
At your Departure I declar'd, my Vein
Was lull'd asleep, unable to sustain
The Task of Writing, lest I should offend
In corresponding never with my Friend.
But what avails whatever I can say,
If you demur against so just a Plea?
Besides you murmur, that my Muse betrays
Your Expectations in her promis'd Lays.
Was lull'd asleep, unable to sustain
The Task of Writing, lest I should offend
In corresponding never with my Friend.
But what avails whatever I can say,
If you demur against so just a Plea?
Besides you murmur, that my Muse betrays
Your Expectations in her promis'd Lays.
A common Soldier, who by various Toils
And Perils gain'd a Competence in Spoils,
At Night fatigu'd while he supinely snor'd,
Lost to a Farthing his collected Hoard.
This rous'd his Rage, in Vengeance for his Pelf,
Against the Foe, nor less against himself.
A very Wolf, with empty craving Maw,
Now whetting keen his wide-devouring Jaw,
He charg'd with Fury, as the Folks report,
Scal'd the high Wall, and sack'd a royal Fort,
Replete with various Wealth: for this renown'd,
His Name is honour'd, and his Courage crown'd:
Besides, in Money he receives a Meed,
A Sum proportion'd to the glorious Deed.
And Perils gain'd a Competence in Spoils,
At Night fatigu'd while he supinely snor'd,
Lost to a Farthing his collected Hoard.
This rous'd his Rage, in Vengeance for his Pelf,
Against the Foe, nor less against himself.
A very Wolf, with empty craving Maw,
Now whetting keen his wide-devouring Jaw,
He charg'd with Fury, as the Folks report,
Scal'd the high Wall, and sack'd a royal Fort,
Replete with various Wealth: for this renown'd,
His Name is honour'd, and his Courage crown'd:
411
A Sum proportion'd to the glorious Deed.
His Chief soon after purposing to form
Another Siege, and take a Town by Storm,
Began to rouse this Desperado's Fire
With Words, that might a Coward's Heart inspire.
“Go whither your heroic Spirit calls,
“Go, my brave Friend, propitious mount the Walls,
“And reap fresh Honours with an ample Prize:—
“What stops your Course?” The Rustic shrewd replies:
“An't please you, Captain, let another trudge it,
“The Man may venture, who has lost his Budget.”
Another Siege, and take a Town by Storm,
Began to rouse this Desperado's Fire
With Words, that might a Coward's Heart inspire.
“Go whither your heroic Spirit calls,
“Go, my brave Friend, propitious mount the Walls,
“And reap fresh Honours with an ample Prize:—
“What stops your Course?” The Rustic shrewd replies:
“An't please you, Captain, let another trudge it,
“The Man may venture, who has lost his Budget.”
It was my Fortune to be bred and taught
At Rome, what Woes enrag'd Achilles wrought
To Greece: kind Athens yet improv'd my Parts
With some small Tincture of ingenuous Arts,
To learn a right Line from a Curve, and rove
In search of Wisdom through the museful Grove.
But lo! the Times, destructive to my Peace,
Me rudely ravish'd from the charming Place;
The rapid Tide of civil War a-main
Swept into Arms, unequal to sustain
The Might of Cæsar. Dread Philippi's Field
First clipt my Wings, and taught my Pride to yield.
My Fortune ruin'd, blasted all my Views,
Bold Hunger edg'd, and Want inspir'd my Muse.
But say, what Dose could purify me, blest
With Store sufficient, should I break my Rest,
To scribble Verse? The waning Years apace
Steal off our Thoughts, and rifle every Grace;
Alas! already have they snatch'd away
My Jokes, my Love, my Revellings, and Play.
They strive to wrest my Poems from me too:
Instruct me then what Method to pursue.
In short, the Race of various Men admire
As various Numbers: thee the softer Lyre
Delights: This Man approves the tragic Strain;
That joys in Bion's keen satiric Vein.
At Rome, what Woes enrag'd Achilles wrought
To Greece: kind Athens yet improv'd my Parts
With some small Tincture of ingenuous Arts,
To learn a right Line from a Curve, and rove
In search of Wisdom through the museful Grove.
But lo! the Times, destructive to my Peace,
Me rudely ravish'd from the charming Place;
The rapid Tide of civil War a-main
Swept into Arms, unequal to sustain
The Might of Cæsar. Dread Philippi's Field
First clipt my Wings, and taught my Pride to yield.
My Fortune ruin'd, blasted all my Views,
Bold Hunger edg'd, and Want inspir'd my Muse.
413
With Store sufficient, should I break my Rest,
To scribble Verse? The waning Years apace
Steal off our Thoughts, and rifle every Grace;
Alas! already have they snatch'd away
My Jokes, my Love, my Revellings, and Play.
They strive to wrest my Poems from me too:
Instruct me then what Method to pursue.
In short, the Race of various Men admire
As various Numbers: thee the softer Lyre
Delights: This Man approves the tragic Strain;
That joys in Bion's keen satiric Vein.
Three Guests I have, dissenting at my Feast,
Requiring each to gratify his Taste
With different Food. What Courses must I chuse?
What not? What both would order, you refuse;
What you commend, offensive to their Sight
Would marr their Meal, and pall their Appetite.
Requiring each to gratify his Taste
With different Food. What Courses must I chuse?
What not? What both would order, you refuse;
What you commend, offensive to their Sight
Would marr their Meal, and pall their Appetite.
But think you, thus amidst a World of Cares
And Toils, that I can write harmonious Airs?
One bids me be his Bail: another prays,
That I would only listen to his Lays,
And leave all Business; more to raise your Wonder,
Although they live the length of Rome asunder,
Yet both must be obey'd: and here you see
A special Distance—“But the Streets are free,
“And, while you move with flowing Fancy fraught,
“Nothing occurs to disconcert your Thought.”
And Toils, that I can write harmonious Airs?
One bids me be his Bail: another prays,
That I would only listen to his Lays,
And leave all Business; more to raise your Wonder,
Although they live the length of Rome asunder,
415
A special Distance—“But the Streets are free,
“And, while you move with flowing Fancy fraught,
“Nothing occurs to disconcert your Thought.”
A Builder hastens with his loaded Team,
His Porters: now a Stone, and now a Beam
Nods cumbrous Ruin: justling Waggons jar
With mournful Herses in tumultuous War:
Hence runs a madding Dog with baneful Ire:
Thence a vile Pig polluted with the Mire.
Go then, and bustle through the noisy Throng,
Invoke the Muse, and meditate the Song.
His Porters: now a Stone, and now a Beam
Nods cumbrous Ruin: justling Waggons jar
With mournful Herses in tumultuous War:
Hence runs a madding Dog with baneful Ire:
Thence a vile Pig polluted with the Mire.
Go then, and bustle through the noisy Throng,
Invoke the Muse, and meditate the Song.
The Tribe of Writers to a Man admire
The peaceful Grove, and from the Town retire,
Devote to Bacchus, indolently laid,
Court soft Repose, and triumph in the Shade,
How then in Noise unceasing tune the Lay,
Or tread where others hardly find their Way.
The peaceful Grove, and from the Town retire,
Devote to Bacchus, indolently laid,
Court soft Repose, and triumph in the Shade,
How then in Noise unceasing tune the Lay,
Or tread where others hardly find their Way.
A manly Genius, who, long wont to chuse
The calm Retreat of Athens for his Muse,
Seven Years hath studied, and with meagre Looks
Hath waxen old in Discipline, and Books,
Dumb as a Statue slowly stalks along,
And yields Diversion to the gaping Throng.
The calm Retreat of Athens for his Muse,
Seven Years hath studied, and with meagre Looks
Hath waxen old in Discipline, and Books,
Dumb as a Statue slowly stalks along,
And yields Diversion to the gaping Throng.
Plung'd in a Tide of Business, through the Town
Toss'd by the noisy Tempest up and down,
How can my Muse with animating Fire
Adapt her Numbers to the sounding Lyre?
Toss'd by the noisy Tempest up and down,
How can my Muse with animating Fire
Adapt her Numbers to the sounding Lyre?
A Rhetorician, and a Lawyer once,
Brothers, and each in his Profession Dunce,
Dispens'd the Palms between themselves alone,
And this a Gracchus, that a Mucius shone.
What milder Frenzy goads the rhiming Train?
I deal in Lyric, he in mournful Strain:
How grand the Diction, copious the Design!
A wonderous Work, and polish'd by the Nine!
See, with what Air of magisterial Pride
And high Disdain we view from Side to Side
Apollo's Temple, as if we ourselves,
And none but we, supply'd the vacant Shelves!
Then follow farther, if your Time admits,
And at a Distance hear these mighty Wits;
How far entitled to his Blast of Praise,
Each freely gives, and arrogates the Bays.
Like Gladiators, who with bloodless Toils
Prolong the Combat, and engage with Foils,
With mimic Rage we rush upon the Foe,
Divide the Palm, and measure Blow for Blow.
Alcæus I in his Opinion shine,
He soars a new Callimachus in mine,
Or if Mimnermus more excite his Flame,
He struts and glories in the darling Name.
Brothers, and each in his Profession Dunce,
417
And this a Gracchus, that a Mucius shone.
What milder Frenzy goads the rhiming Train?
I deal in Lyric, he in mournful Strain:
How grand the Diction, copious the Design!
A wonderous Work, and polish'd by the Nine!
See, with what Air of magisterial Pride
And high Disdain we view from Side to Side
Apollo's Temple, as if we ourselves,
And none but we, supply'd the vacant Shelves!
Then follow farther, if your Time admits,
And at a Distance hear these mighty Wits;
How far entitled to his Blast of Praise,
Each freely gives, and arrogates the Bays.
Like Gladiators, who with bloodless Toils
Prolong the Combat, and engage with Foils,
With mimic Rage we rush upon the Foe,
Divide the Palm, and measure Blow for Blow.
Alcæus I in his Opinion shine,
He soars a new Callimachus in mine,
Or if Mimnermus more excite his Flame,
He struts and glories in the darling Name.
Much I endure, when writing I would bribe
The public Voice, and sooth the fretful Tribe
Of rival Poets: Now my rhiming Heat
Is cool'd, and Reason reassumes her Seat,
I boldly bar mine Ears against the Breed
Of babbling Bards, who without Mercy read.
The public Voice, and sooth the fretful Tribe
Of rival Poets: Now my rhiming Heat
Is cool'd, and Reason reassumes her Seat,
I boldly bar mine Ears against the Breed
Of babbling Bards, who without Mercy read.
419
Bad Poets ever are a standing Jest,
But they rejoice, and, in their Folly blest,
Admire themselves; nay, though you silent sit,
Extort Applause, and wanton in their Wit.
But he, who studies masterly to frame
A finish'd Piece, and build an honest Fame,
Shall with his Papers, faithful to his Trust,
Assume the Spirit of a Censor just,
Boldly blot out whatever seems obscure,
Or lightly mean, unworthy to procure
Immortal Honour, though the Words give way
With warm Reluctance, and by Force obey;
Though yet enshrin'd within his Desk they stand,
And claim a Sanction from his Parent Hand.
As from the Treasure of a latent Mine,
Long darken'd Words he shall with Art refine;
Full into Light, to dignify his Page,
Shall bring the Beauties of a former Age,
Once by the Catoes, and Cethegi told,
But now deform'd, and obsolete with Mould.
New Words he shall endenizen, which Use
Shall authorise, and currently produce;
Then, brightly smooth, and yet sublimely strong,
Like a pure River, through his flowing Song
Shall pour the Riches of his Fancy wide,
And bless his Latium with a vocal Tide.
Luxuriant Phrases, under due Command
He shall restrain with wholesom, forming Hand;
Polish the rude, and sever from its Place
Whatever wants an Elegance or Grace.
He seems with Freedom, what with Pain he proves,
And now a Satyr, now a Cyclops moves.
I, for my part, would rather fairly pass
For Dotard, Scribbler, stupid Dolt, or Ass,
Could I but please, or dupe myself in short,
Than write good Sense, and smart severely for't.
But they rejoice, and, in their Folly blest,
Admire themselves; nay, though you silent sit,
Extort Applause, and wanton in their Wit.
But he, who studies masterly to frame
A finish'd Piece, and build an honest Fame,
Shall with his Papers, faithful to his Trust,
Assume the Spirit of a Censor just,
Boldly blot out whatever seems obscure,
Or lightly mean, unworthy to procure
Immortal Honour, though the Words give way
With warm Reluctance, and by Force obey;
Though yet enshrin'd within his Desk they stand,
And claim a Sanction from his Parent Hand.
As from the Treasure of a latent Mine,
Long darken'd Words he shall with Art refine;
Full into Light, to dignify his Page,
Shall bring the Beauties of a former Age,
Once by the Catoes, and Cethegi told,
But now deform'd, and obsolete with Mould.
New Words he shall endenizen, which Use
Shall authorise, and currently produce;
Then, brightly smooth, and yet sublimely strong,
Like a pure River, through his flowing Song
Shall pour the Riches of his Fancy wide,
And bless his Latium with a vocal Tide.
421
He shall restrain with wholesom, forming Hand;
Polish the rude, and sever from its Place
Whatever wants an Elegance or Grace.
He seems with Freedom, what with Pain he proves,
And now a Satyr, now a Cyclops moves.
I, for my part, would rather fairly pass
For Dotard, Scribbler, stupid Dolt, or Ass,
Could I but please, or dupe myself in short,
Than write good Sense, and smart severely for't.
At Argos liv'd a Citizen, well known,
Who long imagin'd, that he heard the Tone
Of deep Tragedians on an empty Stage,
And sat applauding in extatic Rage:
In other Points a Person, who maintain'd
A due Decorum, and a Life unstain'd,
Whose real Virtues you might well commend,
A worthy Neighbour, hospitable Friend,
Of easy Humour and of Heart sincere,
Fond of his Wife, nor to a Slave severe,
Nor prone to Rage, although the Felon's Fork
Defac'd the Signet of a Bottle-Cork;
A Man, who shun'd (well knowing which was which)
The Rock high pendent, and the yawning Ditch;
He, when his Friends, at much Expence and Pains,
Had amply purg'd with Ellebore his Brains,
Wrought off his Madness, and the Man return'd
Full to himself, their Operation spurn'd.
“My Friends, 'twere better you had stopp'd my Breath;
“Your Love was Rancour, and your Cure was Death,
“To rob me thus of Pleasure so refin'd,
“The dear Delusion of a raptur'd Mind.
Who long imagin'd, that he heard the Tone
Of deep Tragedians on an empty Stage,
And sat applauding in extatic Rage:
In other Points a Person, who maintain'd
A due Decorum, and a Life unstain'd,
Whose real Virtues you might well commend,
A worthy Neighbour, hospitable Friend,
Of easy Humour and of Heart sincere,
Fond of his Wife, nor to a Slave severe,
Nor prone to Rage, although the Felon's Fork
Defac'd the Signet of a Bottle-Cork;
A Man, who shun'd (well knowing which was which)
The Rock high pendent, and the yawning Ditch;
He, when his Friends, at much Expence and Pains,
Had amply purg'd with Ellebore his Brains,
Wrought off his Madness, and the Man return'd
Full to himself, their Operation spurn'd.
“My Friends, 'twere better you had stopp'd my Breath;
“Your Love was Rancour, and your Cure was Death,
423
“The dear Delusion of a raptur'd Mind.
'Tis Wisdom's part to bid adieu to Toys,
And yield Amusements to the Taste of Boys,
Not the soft Sound of empty Words admire,
And model Measures to the Roman Lyre,
But learn such Strains and Rhapsodies, as roll
Tuneful through Life, and harmonise the Soul.
And yield Amusements to the Taste of Boys,
Not the soft Sound of empty Words admire,
And model Measures to the Roman Lyre,
But learn such Strains and Rhapsodies, as roll
Tuneful through Life, and harmonise the Soul.
If no Repletion from the limpid Stream
Allay'd the Cravings of your thirsty Flame,
You strait would tell the Doctor your Distress,
And is there none, to whom you dare confess,
That, in proportion to your growing Store,
Your Lust of Lucre is inflam'd the more?
If you were wounded, and your Sores imbib'd
No soothing Ease from Roots or Herbs prescrib'd,
You would avoid such Medicines, besure,
As Roots and Herbs, that could effect no Cure.
But you have heard, that Folly flies apace
From him, whom Heaven hath gifted with the Grace
Of happy Wealth, and though you have aspir'd
Not more to Wisdom, since you first acquir'd
A Fund, yet will you listen to no Rule,
But that from Fortune's insufficient School?
Could Riches add but Prudence to your Years,
Restrain your Wishes, and abate your Fears,
You then might blush with Reason, if you knew
One Man on Earth more covetous than you.
Allay'd the Cravings of your thirsty Flame,
You strait would tell the Doctor your Distress,
And is there none, to whom you dare confess,
That, in proportion to your growing Store,
Your Lust of Lucre is inflam'd the more?
If you were wounded, and your Sores imbib'd
No soothing Ease from Roots or Herbs prescrib'd,
You would avoid such Medicines, besure,
As Roots and Herbs, that could effect no Cure.
But you have heard, that Folly flies apace
From him, whom Heaven hath gifted with the Grace
Of happy Wealth, and though you have aspir'd
Not more to Wisdom, since you first acquir'd
A Fund, yet will you listen to no Rule,
But that from Fortune's insufficient School?
Could Riches add but Prudence to your Years,
Restrain your Wishes, and abate your Fears,
You then might blush with Reason, if you knew
One Man on Earth more covetous than you.
If that be yours, for which you fairly told
The Price concluded, (and, as Lawyers hold,
In some things Use a Property secures)
The Land, which feeds you, must of course be Yours.
Your Neighbour's Bailiff, who manures the Fields,
And sows the Corn, which your Provision yields,
Finds in effect, that he is but your Slave:
You give your Coin, and in Return receive
Fowls, Eggs, and Wine; and thus it will be found,
That you have bought insensibly the Ground,
The Fee of which to Purchasers before
Perhaps, had been two thousand Pounds, or more;
For what avails it in a Life well past,
At first to pay the Purchase, or at last?
The frugal Man, who purchas'd two Estates,
Yet buys the Pot-herbs, which his Worship eats,
Though he thinks not: this Tyrant of the Soil
Buys the mere Wood, which makes his Kettle boil;
And yet he calls that Length of Land his own,
From which the Poplar, fix'd to Limits known,
Cuts off Disputes, as if he had the Power
Of that, which in the Moment of an Hour
By Favour, Purchase, Force, or Fate's Commands
May change its Lord, and fall to other Hands.
The Price concluded, (and, as Lawyers hold,
425
The Land, which feeds you, must of course be Yours.
Your Neighbour's Bailiff, who manures the Fields,
And sows the Corn, which your Provision yields,
Finds in effect, that he is but your Slave:
You give your Coin, and in Return receive
Fowls, Eggs, and Wine; and thus it will be found,
That you have bought insensibly the Ground,
The Fee of which to Purchasers before
Perhaps, had been two thousand Pounds, or more;
For what avails it in a Life well past,
At first to pay the Purchase, or at last?
The frugal Man, who purchas'd two Estates,
Yet buys the Pot-herbs, which his Worship eats,
Though he thinks not: this Tyrant of the Soil
Buys the mere Wood, which makes his Kettle boil;
And yet he calls that Length of Land his own,
From which the Poplar, fix'd to Limits known,
Cuts off Disputes, as if he had the Power
Of that, which in the Moment of an Hour
By Favour, Purchase, Force, or Fate's Commands
May change its Lord, and fall to other Hands.
Since thus no Mortal properly can have
A lasting Tenure; and, as Wave o'er Wave,
Heir comes o'er Heir, what Pleasure can afford
Thy peopled Manors, and encreasing Hoard?
Or what avails it, that your Fancy roves
To join Lucanian to Calabrian Groves,
If Death, to Gold inflexible, must mow
Down Great and Small together at a Blow?
A lasting Tenure; and, as Wave o'er Wave,
Heir comes o'er Heir, what Pleasure can afford
Thy peopled Manors, and encreasing Hoard?
Or what avails it, that your Fancy roves
To join Lucanian to Calabrian Groves,
If Death, to Gold inflexible, must mow
Down Great and Small together at a Blow?
427
The gaudy Splendour, and the costly State
Of Jewels, Marble, Tuscan Medals, Plate,
Pure Ivory Statues, Pictures hung on high,
And Garments tinctur'd with Sidonian Dye,
There are, who never could pretend to share,
And some who never thought them worth their Care.
Of Jewels, Marble, Tuscan Medals, Plate,
Pure Ivory Statues, Pictures hung on high,
And Garments tinctur'd with Sidonian Dye,
There are, who never could pretend to share,
And some who never thought them worth their Care.
One Brother, fond of sauntering and Perfume,
Prefers his Pleasure to the wealthy Bloom
Of Herod's Gardens; while in quest of Wealth,
Though rich, another shall forego his Health,
From dawning Day till shady Night with Toil
Burn the thick Copse, and tame the savage Soil.
But whence these Turns of Inclination rose,
The Genius this, the God of Nature knows:
That mystic Power, which our Actions guides,
Attends our Stars, and o'er our Lives presides:
This we may trace, propitious, or malign,
Stamp'd on each Face, and vary'd through each Line.
Prefers his Pleasure to the wealthy Bloom
Of Herod's Gardens; while in quest of Wealth,
Though rich, another shall forego his Health,
From dawning Day till shady Night with Toil
Burn the thick Copse, and tame the savage Soil.
But whence these Turns of Inclination rose,
The Genius this, the God of Nature knows:
That mystic Power, which our Actions guides,
Attends our Stars, and o'er our Lives presides:
This we may trace, propitious, or malign,
Stamp'd on each Face, and vary'd through each Line.
I from a Fortune moderate shall grant
Myself enough to satisfy my Want,
Nor fear the Censure of my thankless Heir,
That I have left too little to his Share;
And yet the wide Distinction would I scan
Between an open, hospitable Man,
And Prodigal; the Frugalist secure,
And Miser, pinch'd with Penury; for sure
It differs whether you profusely spend
Your Wealth, or never entertain a Friend;
Or, wanting Prudence, like a Play-day Boy
Blindly rush on, to catch the flying Joy.
Avert, ye Gods, avert the loathsome Load
Of Want inglorious, and a vile Abode.
To me are equal, so they bear their Charge,
The little Pinnace and the lofty Barge.
Nor am I wafted by the swelling Gales
Of Winds propitious, with expanded Sails,
Nor yet expos'd to Tempest-bearing Strife,
Adrift to struggle through the Waves of Life,
Last of the first, first of the last in Weight,
Parts, Vigour, Person, Virtue, Birth, Estate.
Myself enough to satisfy my Want,
Nor fear the Censure of my thankless Heir,
That I have left too little to his Share;
And yet the wide Distinction would I scan
Between an open, hospitable Man,
And Prodigal; the Frugalist secure,
And Miser, pinch'd with Penury; for sure
It differs whether you profusely spend
Your Wealth, or never entertain a Friend;
Or, wanting Prudence, like a Play-day Boy
Blindly rush on, to catch the flying Joy.
429
Of Want inglorious, and a vile Abode.
To me are equal, so they bear their Charge,
The little Pinnace and the lofty Barge.
Nor am I wafted by the swelling Gales
Of Winds propitious, with expanded Sails,
Nor yet expos'd to Tempest-bearing Strife,
Adrift to struggle through the Waves of Life,
Last of the first, first of the last in Weight,
Parts, Vigour, Person, Virtue, Birth, Estate.
You are not covetous: be satisfy'd.
But are you tainted with no Vice beside?
From vain Ambition, Dread of Death's Decree,
And fell Resentment, is thy Bosom free?
Say, can you laugh indignant at the Schemes
Of magic Terrours, visionary Dreams,
Portentous Wonders, witching Imps of Hell,
The nightly Goblin, and enchanting Spell?
Dost thou recount with Gratitude and Mirth
The Day revolv'd, that gave thy Being birth?
Indulge the Failings of thy Friends, and grow
More mild and virtuous, as thy Seasons flow?
But are you tainted with no Vice beside?
From vain Ambition, Dread of Death's Decree,
And fell Resentment, is thy Bosom free?
Say, can you laugh indignant at the Schemes
Of magic Terrours, visionary Dreams,
Portentous Wonders, witching Imps of Hell,
The nightly Goblin, and enchanting Spell?
Dost thou recount with Gratitude and Mirth
The Day revolv'd, that gave thy Being birth?
Indulge the Failings of thy Friends, and grow
More mild and virtuous, as thy Seasons flow?
Pluck out one Thorn to mitigate thy Pain,
What boots it thee, while many more remain?
Or act with just Propriety your Part,
Or yield to those of Elegance and Art.
Already glutted with a Farce of Age,
'Tis Time for thee to quit the wanton Stage,
Lest Youth, more decent in their Follies, scoff
The nauseous Scene, and hiss thee reeling off.
What boots it thee, while many more remain?
431
Or yield to those of Elegance and Art.
Already glutted with a Farce of Age,
'Tis Time for thee to quit the wanton Stage,
Lest Youth, more decent in their Follies, scoff
The nauseous Scene, and hiss thee reeling off.
| A Poetical Translation of the works of Horace | |