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

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.

University of Virginia Library

THE SECOND BOOK OF THE SATIRES OF HORACE.

SATIRE I. Horace and Trebatius.