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

Augustus having kindly reproached Horace for not addressing more of his Pieces to him; this, it is thought, was the Occasion of his writing the following Epistle.

While you Affairs, so many and so great,
Alone dispatch; protect us by your Arms;
With Morals grace, and by wise Laws reform;
Shall I not trespass on the public Weal,
If, Cæsar, I too long detain your Ear?
Bacchus, and Romulus, and Leda's Twins,
Though after Death they were ador'd as Gods,
Yet, while they liv'd, and strove to serve Mankind,

496

Destructive Wars compos'd, and Cities built,
And planted Colonies; with Grief complain'd,
Instead of grateful Thanks and Praise deserv'd,
They met with Calumny and foul Reproach.
Alcides, who subdu'd the Hydra's Rage,
Who all the Labours bore ordain'd by Fate,
Found Envy could be quell'd by Death alone.
For he, who shines with Rays pre-eminent,
Oppresses Candidates of lower Rank,
But, when extinguish'd, will be lov'd again.
To you alive, we sovereign Honours pay,
And Altars raise, where we invoke your Name;
Confessing no such Prince before has risen,
Nor shall again in future Ages rise.
But yet your People, just in this alone,
That they acknowledge your superior Worth,
When with each Greek or Roman Chief compar'd,
Weigh not with equal Judgment other Things;
All modern Writers they despise and hate;
To Merit, till deceas'd, no Incense pay,
No Wit admire, unless of foreign Growth.
The Grecian Laws, on the twelve Tables grav'd,
The Treaties, which the ancient Kings of Rome
With Gabii, and the rigid Sabines form'd;

497

The Sibyls Books, and Scrolls of pristine Bards;
(So blindly they adore Antiquity)
They swear, on Alba's Top, were to our Sires
Divinely by the Choir of Muses giv'n.
What! though we own old Grecian Writers best,
Shall we from hence infer our Authors too
Excell in Merit, as they rise in Age?
To a short Issue then the Point is brought;
For sure we may with equal Truth maintain,
The Swan has sable Plumes, the Raven white.
In every Art we shine; we paint, we sing,
And wrestle better than th'anointed Greeks.
If Age improves our Verses like our Wine,
I would be glad to know how many Years
A proper Sanction to an Author give?
Shall he, who died an hundred Years ago,
Among the faultless Ancients be enroll'd,
Or with degraded Moderns take his Place?
Fix but the Time to finish the Dispute.
Roman.
He, who hath died an hundred Years ago,
May be esteem'd a Classic old and good.

498

Horace.
What if a single Month he want, or Year?
With whom must he be rank'd? The old and good,
Or those whom this and every Age must scorn?

Roman.
Him you may justly with the Ancients place,
Who only wants a single Month or Year.

Horace.
I take the Grant; and pluck out Year by Year,
As Hair by Hair the Horse's Tail was stripp'd;
'Till his vain Reasoning, who by Years alone
Computes each Author's Merit, and esteems
Nought valuable, till sanctify'd by Death,
Eludes his Grasp, like slippery Grains of Sand.

Roman.
Ennius was wise and valiant; and in him
Homer reviv'd.

Horace.
And yet the Critics say,
His Lines, so negligent, but ill support
His idle Vaunts of Pythagorean Dreams.

499

Roman.
Though Nævius' Plays are lost, yet still his Scenes
We quote by heart, as if but newly writ.
Each ancient Poem is so sacred held!
If Accius and Pacuvius you compare,
You'll own the first sublime, the last more learn'd.
Menander's Gown Afranius well becomes.
Plautus excells in winding-up his Plots,
Like Epicharmus, the Sicilian Bard.
For Weight of Thought Cæcilius, but for Art,
You'll Terence praise: These powerful Rome attends
In the full Theatre, and oft repeats:
These as her favourite Poets she has crown'd
From Livius' Æra to the present Age.

Horace.

Sometimes the Crowd judge right, but often wrong.
For if the ancient Poets they admire
Beyond all Bounds, suppose them blameless quite,
And all the Moderns to surpass; they err.
But if they will allow, that, in their Works,
Some Words are obsolete, and some too harsh,
And many Marks of Negligence appear,
They reason right; their Verdict I approve;

500

And righteous Jove the Sentence will confirm.

Far, far am I from wishing to discard
Andronicus's Plays; which, I remember,
Orbilius read to me, a little Boy,
And made me tingle with his heavy Hand;
But that they should be deem'd correct, and pure
Unblemish'd Models: This, indeed, is strange.
For if, in these, a glowing Word, perchance,
Shines out, or one or two more polish'd Lines;
They give a Stamp, unworthily, to all.
I'm vex'd that any Work should be condemn'd,
Merely because 'tis new; and not because
It is uncouthly writ, and without Grace;
While Faults of ancient Bards are over-look'd,
And Fame and Honours ask'd for them alone.

Should I but doubt, if Atta's Plays deserv'd
To limp along the Stage with Saffron spread,
Scarce any Senator but would exclaim,
That I had lost all Sense of Modesty:
‘What! dare you then condemn the Scenes, in which
‘Moving Æsopus and learn'd Roscius plsy'd?’
Either because they nothing can approve
But what delighted them in younger Years;

501

Or else, perhaps, they think it a Disgrace
Now to unlearn what they have learn'd when Boys,
And in their Sons to own a better Taste.

He, who affects to praise the Salian Hymns,
Ambitious to be thought alone to know
What he, no more than I, can understand,
Intends not Honour to the Bards deceas'd,
Or to exalt their Fame; but us attacks;
Us and our Works, with Envy fraught, he hates.

But if the Greeks had so absurdly judg'd,
And crush'd each mental Offspring at its Birth,
Of their learn'd Writings, what had now remain'd
For us to thumb, and read with Thought intense?

Soon as from Wars victorious Greece respir'd,
Battening in Plenty, and luxurious Ease,
Now for Olympic Games she ardent sigh'd;
The Sculptors now of Marble, Ivory,
And Brass, admir'd; with Eyes and Heart entranc'd,
Beheld the Wonders of the Painter's Hand;
Now charm'd with Music, now with Tragedy.

Thus, on her Nurse's Lap, a fondled Girl
Sporting, some Trifle with Impatience seeks,
But in a Moment casts the Toy away.

502

We all are Children of a larger Growth:
No less inconstant in our Love or Hate.
Such are th'Effects of Peace, and prosperous Gales.

The Gates of noble Romans were, of old,
Early unbarr'd; and to their Clients they
Explain'd the Laws: This Custom long prevail'd.
Then might you hear the reverend Sage instruct
Th'attentive Youths to shun Extravagance,
To curb wild Lusts, and to increase their Store.

But now our Manners with the Times are chang'd;
All glow for Fame, and would be Authors deem'd.
The hoary Sires with Boys carouzing, sup,
(Their Heads with Myrtle crown'd) and Catches sing.
E'en I myself, who Poësy abjure,
Out-lye the Parthians; and, before the Sun
Shines out, call for my Papers, Pens and Desk.

Pilots alone attempt to steer a Ship;
None dare, unlicens'd, Hellebore prescribe;
Nor any, but Musicians touch the Lyre.
The Smith laborious tends his Forge alone.
But now all scribble Verse, both high and low;
Learn'd and unlearn'd, in Country and in Town.

503

Revolve we now the happy Fruits that spring
From this slight Fault, this pleasing Lunacy.

Rarely does Avarice taint the Poet's Heart:
Verses he loves; in these spends all his Time;
Laughs at the Flight of Slaves, Losses and Fires;
Forms no base Scheme to cheat his Friend or Ward;
Lives on coarse Bread, and vegetable Fare;
Unapt for War, yet useful to the State,
If you will grant small things may great support.
He forms the stammering Tongue to Sounds distinct;
Turns from Discourse obscene the tender Ear;
And strengthens riper Minds with Morals sage;
Tames Envy, Rage, and every Passion wild;
Illustrious Deeds recounts; the rising Age
Instructs by known Examples; chears the poor;
And cordial Counsel to th'afflicted gives.

Had not the Muse bestow'd a Bard, whence should
The Boys and Virgins chaste have learn'd their Hymns?
The Choir implores, and feels the present Gods!

504

It draws down Showers from Heaven by lenient Prayer;
Averts Diseases, and each dreaded Plague;
Verse can the Gods of Heaven and Hell appease!

Our hardy Hinds of old, with little blest,
Soon as their Corn was hous'd (who still had kept
This happy Day in view) with festal Joys
Reliev'd their Mind and Body, long fatigu'd;
And, with their sturdy Boys and faithful Wife,
(Who shar'd their Labours, and their Pleasures share)
Earth with a Swine, with Milk Sylvanus sooth'd;
And offer'd to their Genius Flowers and Wine,
The Genius who suggests how transient Life!

Hence first, among the Clowns, the Custom rose,
In Verse alternate, rustic Taunts to pour;
And, as the Season annually return'd,
They still indulg'd the sportive Vein, unblam'd;
Till by degrees the harmless Joke was turn'd
Into keen Malice, daring to attack
The Names of worthy Men without Controul,
Those, whom th'envenom'd Tooth had wounded deep,

505

Loudly complain'd; and others join'd the Cry,
Though yet untouch'd, and made the Cause their own.
At length it was ordain'd by Law, that none
Presume, in Song or Libel, to defame
His Neighbour's Character on Pain of Death.
The Bards, thus check'd by Fear of Chastisement,
To Flattery warp'd the Muse, to give Delight.

Now conquer'd Greece subdu'd her Conqueror,
And into savage Latium brought her Arts.
The rough Saturnian Metre charm'd no more;
And Elegance expell'd the Style uncouth.
Yet Traces of those rude and barbarous Times
For many Years remain'd, and still remain.
Late we began ro read the Grecian Bards;
Nor till the second Punic War was o'er,
Could Rome, blest in the Arms of Peace, enquire
What worthy Strains by Thespis were compos'd,
And what by Æschylus and Sophocles:
And then we try'd their Pieces to translate,
Not unsuccessful; for the Roman Muse,
Happily bold, bursts forth in Tragic Strains,
But cannot brook Restraint, and hates the Toil
To file and polish every rugged Line.

506

It may, perhaps, be thought an easier Task,
To paint the Manners fit for Comedy,
As they are chiefly drawn from common Life;
And yet a nicer Pencil it requires,
As each Spectator is prepar'd to judge,
Whether the Characters are just, or not;
Nor are Mistakes so readily forgiven.

Observe, how Plautus well sustains the Parts
Of an enamour'd Youth, a crafty Pimp,
A Father doating on his hoarded Bags;
But Parasites alone Dossennus paints;
His slattern Muse shuffles along the Stage;
Could but the Bard put Money in his Purse,
(His only Wish) 'twas all the same to him,
Whether his Plays were well compos'd or ill.

Whom sickle Glory in her Chariot bears,
To try the Stage, a cold Spectator kills,
A warm puffs up. So small, so slight a thing
Chears or dejects the Heart, that thirsts for Fame!
Farewell these Trifles! if the Palm refus'd
Afflicts my Soul, or giv'n elates with Pride.

Another thing, that chases off the Stage,
And terrifies the sanguine Bard, is this;
Th'illiterate brutal Crowd (whose Number far

507

Exceeds the Virtuous, Noble, and Polite)
Oft, in the Middle of an Act, demand
To see the Gladiators, or a Bear;
For in such Shows the Populace delight:
And, if the Knights presume to thwart the Whim,
‘To Arms,’ they cry, and stun the House with Noise.

And now the Knights themselves are better pleas'd
To gratify th'uncertain Eye than Ear.
For four long Hours, or more, the Action stops,
While routed Squadrons fly along the Stage;
Then captive Monarchs drag their ponderous Chain;
Chariots and Litters pass; and Cars and Ships,
Of polish'd Ivory, conquer'd Cities bear.

Democritus, if now alive, would burst
With Laughter, at the Follies of the Pit,
When, gaping, it devours with eager Eyes
The Panther and the Camel's Monster-brood,
Or the white Elephant; and would behold,
With greater Glee, their Humours than the Show;
Admiring those, who try their Skill in vain,
To make deaf Asses listen to their Tale.
What Stentor's Voice so loud as to be heard,

508

When Shouts are echo'd from the Theatre?
Garganus, you would think, with Tempests roar'd,
Or the wild Billows of the Tuscan Sea;
With so much Clamour they behold these Sights,
And foreign Riches, lavishly display'd!
Soon as an Actor on the Stage appears,
Bedawb'd with Gold, in tawdry Splendor dress'd,
An universal Clap runs round the House.
‘Has he yet spoken?’ No. ‘What then delights?’
The gay Embroidery of his purple Robe.

But, lest it should be thought I would condemn,
With envious Spleen, an Art I will not try,
I gladly give to worthy Tragic Bards
The Praises which their Merits justly claim.

He, who afflicts my Breast for others Woes,
Provokes and sooths, and with false Terror fills;
Like a Magician hurries me away;
Now sets me down at Athens, now at Thebes:
This is the Man, whom I a Poet deem;
He fully knows the Mystery of his Trade.

But yet, great Prince, employ some Thoughts on those,
Who to the Reader's Judgment rather trust,
Than to the proud Spectator's blind Caprice;

509

If you would fill the Pile magnificent,
Worthy Apollo, which to him you rear,
With chosen Books, and in the Poets raise
A Zeal with greater Care to trace the Paths
Which lead to lofty Pindus' verdant Brow.

Indeed, we Poets many Faults commit
Injurious to ourselves: As when a Scroll
We put into your Hands, employ'd, or tir'd;
When with our Friends we quarrel, if they blame
A single Line; when we, unask'd, repeat
What we before repeated; and complain
The Graces in our Works are over-look'd;
Or when we hope, that soon as Cæsar knows
We scribble Verse, he, of his own Accord,
Will graciously invite, a Pension give,
And dictate to our Muse some favourite Theme.

Yet be it Cæsar's Praise to weigh with Care
What Writers shall to future Times transmit
His various Worth, approv'd in War and Peace,
Pure and unsully'd by degrading Hands.

To Chœrilus great Alexander gave
A Royal Present for some paltry Lines.
And yet, as Ink the fairest Paper stains,
So, worthless Verse pollutes the fairest Deeds.

510

But the same Monarch, who so dearly bought
Those wretched Lines, by his Decree ordain'd,
None but Apelles should his Picture draw,
Nor any, but Lysippus, carve his Statue.
But if this Critic-King, who judg'd so well
Of Arts dependent on the Eye, had been
To judge of Books, and of the Muses Gifts,
(So ill his Taste) you would almost have sworn,
Bœotia's foggy Clime had giv'n him Birth.

But Virgil, Varius, (Bards belov'd by You)
Dishonour'd not their generous Patron's Choice.
Th'Applause which that Distinction crown'd has shown,
How nice your Judgment, and how worthy they!

Not moulded Brass more lively can express
The Hero's Form, than Poets in their Works
His Manners trace, the Features of the Mind.
If to my Will but equal were my Powers,
I would no longer grovel on the Ground,
In humble Verse, but boldly sing your Deeds;
The various Climes and Rivers you have pass'd;
Hills curb'd by Forts, and barbarous Realms subdu'd;
Ev'n Parthia dreading Rome beneath your Sway;

511

O'er all the World the Rage of War restrain'd,
And Janus barr'd, the Pledge of lasting Peace.

But nor the Majesty of Cæsar brooks
A flimsy Work; nor dares my bashful Muse
Attempt a Task so far beyond her Strength.
A foolish Fondness hurts the Man we love,
And chiefly when display'd in fulsome Verse.
For with more Ease we learn, and longer hold,
What we deride, than what we reverence.
No Thanks to him, by whose untoward Zeal
I stand abash'd, the Butt of Ridicule.
I would not be expos'd to View in Wax,
A hideous Form; nor prais'd in hobbling Verse;
Lest Bard and Patron, in an open Box,
Be carry'd to the Street, where Spice, Perfumes,
And Frankincense are sold, with all such Trash,
As commonly is wrapt in worthless Leaves.

524

EPISTLE II. To Julius Florus.

In Excuse for his not having written to him, Horace says it is much better to employ our Time in modelling our Lives, than in composing Verses.

O Florus, Friend of Nero good and brave,
What if a Man should offer you to Sale
A Boy, at Gabii or at Tibur born,
And thus accost you: ‘He is neat and clean;
‘Sound, I will warrant him, from Head to Foot.
‘Pay down but twenty Pounds, and he is yours;
‘He'll fly, like Lightning, at his Master's Nod;
‘Is skill'd in Greek, and fit for any Art;
‘Like plyant Clay you'll mould him to your Hand.
‘Besides, he rudely sings a merry Catch.
‘You might be jealous, should I say too much.
‘Though poor, I live on what I have; nor need
‘I part with him; my little is enough.
‘None but myself would with such Candor deal

525

‘He once, but once, was faulty; and to shun
‘The Scourge, took to his Heels, and ran away.
‘Now buy him, or refuse; just as you please.’

You pay the Price, and bear him off content.
The Boy escapes; you heavily complain,
And for the Purchase-money sue the Man;
But with what Right let your own Heart be Judge;
For from the Master you had learn'd his Fault.

Now to apply, and bring this Story home.
I fairly told you, when you went from hence,
That I was lazy, and unfit to write,
Lest you should chide, because no Letter came.
But what avails it, if you still complain?
You would not, surely, break the Law we made
With joint Consent? It seems, you blame me too,
As if defrauded of the promis'd Verse.

A Soldier, in Lucullus' Wars, had lost
(After a tedious March, while sound he slept)
The little Gold, which he had hoarded up.
Now angry with himself, and all Mankind,
A very Tyger grown, wild he attacks
A Royal Fort, and takes it, Sword in Hand,
Replete with Stores, and strongly fortify'd.
This rais'd his Credit, and he justly gain'd

526

Part of the Spoils, and some Reward besides.
Soon after this, the Prætor wish'd to storm
Another Fort; (no matter for the Name)
He singles out this Man, and thus accosts
In Words that might a Coward's Courage raise:
‘Go, where your Virtue leads; go prosperous forth,
‘Sure to receive the Honours you deserve:
‘Why do you faulter?’ What was his Reply?
(Though rude in Speech, the Fellow was no Fool)
“Most noble Captain, I am satisfy'd;
“Bid him go conquer, who has lost his Purse.’

It was my Fortune to be bred at Rome,
Instructed there, how fatal to the Greeks
The fell Resentment of Achilles prov'd:
Athens then show'd a little more than this,
And taught me to distinguish Right from Wrong,
And search for Truth in Academus' Grove.
Me, quite unskill'd, from that delightful Seat
The Tide of Civil War bore into Arms,
Too weak to cope with mighty Cæsar's Force.
From whence Philippi sent me soon away,
Stripp'd of my Plumes, with House and Fortune lost;
Impatient Want first made me scribble Verse.
But now I have enough, and crave no more,

527

What Hellebore could ever purge my Brain,
If I should rather chuse to write than sleep?

Each Year some Joy steals with it as it flies;
Time has already robb'd me of my Sports,
The Joys of Venus, Revellings and Play;
And now the Pilferer would snatch my Verse.
What would you have me do, when of three Guests
No single Dish can suit the Taste of each?
What you approve disgusts the other two;
Nor can those two agree among themselves.
One for Heroics; one for Satire asks:
A third the Lyric Muse alone can please.

What! can you think it possible for Me
To write at Rome, amidst such Noise and Care?
One wants me for his Bail; another calls
T'attend, at ten, the Reading of his Play,
Postponing all Affairs. The House of one
On Mount Quirinus stands; the other lives
At the most distant Part of Aventine;
Yet both of these am I oblig'd to see.
How wide the Distance too full well you know.
‘The Streets are clear; compose then as you walk.’
Yes; here a Builder with his Workmen hies,
Bearing large Logs of Timber; there a Crane

528

Up-heaves a poaderous Stone, or massy Beam.
Hearses and Waggons now dispute the Way;
Here runs a miry Sow; there a mad Dog.
Go now, and meditate sonorous Verse!

The Bards all love the Woods, and hate the Town,
True Sons of Bacchus, pleas'd with Sleep and Shade.
Amid such ceaseless Din by Day and Night,
You cannot, sure, expect that I should trace
The narrow Paths the ancient Poets trod,
Or aught produce, that merits your Regard.

The Wit, to Books and Study who has giv'n
Sev'n tedious Years in Athens' calm Retreat,
Stalks forth, a walking Statue, and excites
(Grown grey with Cares) the Laughter of the Crowd.
Can I then, here in Town, by Business tost,
And bandy'd to-and-fro from Place to Place,
Cherish a Hope such Verses to compose
As may be fit to grace the Latian Lyre?

At Rome two Brothers liv'd, a Lawyer one;
And one taught there the Art of Rhetoric;
They flourish'd on each others Parts and Skill:

529

A Gracchus this, and that a Scævola.

Nor from this Frenzy are we Bards secure:
I Lyrics write; another Elegy;
My Verses he commends as all divine;
His Lines I praise as polish'd by the Muse.
Mark in Apollo's Temple how we strut,
While all around we cast our Eyes, and see
The Shelves and Niches vacant, where we hope
Our Works shall live, preserv'd to future Times.
Pursue us at a Distance, and observe
What prompts our Pride, and in what Style we talk;
While each on each the Laurel-Wreath confers.
Aiming to wound, we slyly ward the Blow;
Like Samnites, brandish Foils from Morn till Night.
At length, Alcæus I depart, in his
Account; but who, d'ye think, is he in mine?
Callimachus, be sure; or, if he please,
Mimnermus he shall stalk with Head erect.

I many things must bear whene'er I write,
And humbly court the Suffrage of the Crowd,
To keep in Peace the fretful Race of Bards;
But, when the Fit is past, and I am calm,
I stop my Ears to all their senseless Din.
The Writers of bad Verse are ridicul'd,

530

Yet they rejoice, and triumph in their Works;
And, if you hesitate, or silent stand,
Blest in themselves, applaud the happy Thought.

But he, who hopes to write a finish'd Piece,
Must exercise the Censor's irksome Task,
And dare degrade whatever Words he finds
To fail in Weight, or Dignity, or Grace,
Unwilling though they quit the darling Seat,
And in his own Scrutore securely sleep.
Old Words he must revive, discreetly bold,
And bring to Light the nervous Phrases, us'd
By our redoubted Sires, in pristine Days,
Which now lie cover'd in a Heap of Dust;
And new invent, which Custom will confirm.
Copious and clear, like a pure Stream he flows,
Enriching Rome with Tides of Eloquence.
The Stragglers he brings back; and those too rough
With Culture smooths; the lifeless cuts away;
Yet polishes each Line with so much Ease,
It seems th'Effect of Chance, though wrought with Toil:
As he, who in the Pantomime now moves
A Satyr light, and now a Cyclops rude,
Was form'd by Art, though Nature it appears.

531

Much rather for a Dotard would I pass;
Be happily deceiv'd, and with my Faults
Content, than deem'd a Wit, and rack'd with Spleen.

At Argos once there liv'd a Citizen,
A Man of some Account, who thought he heard
Tragedians act their Part with wond'rous Skill;
In empty Theatres he us'd to sit,
Well-pleas'd, alone, and loudly clapp'd his Hands;
In all things else he show'd a sober Mind;
A civil Neighbour, hospitable Friend,
Mild to his Wife; nor would he curse his Slave,
If he by chance had broke a costly Jar;
Knew how to shun a Rock, or open Well.
But when his Friends had call'd the Doctor in,
And purg'd his Brain with Hellebore; restor'd,
And in his perfect Senses, he cry'd out,
‘What have ye done? Alas! you have destroy'd,
‘Not sav'd my Life. Blasted is all my Joy!
‘The sweet Delusion of my Mind is lost!’

O Wisdom! let me now pursue thy Paths,
Discarding Trifles, fit for Boys alone;
Let me, instead of scanning empty Verse,
Now learn to scan the Tenor of my Life,
To smooth and harmonize my jarring Soul.

532

Thus then I reason, when at home retir'd;
If still the more you drink, the more you thirst,
Strait to the Doctor you relate your Case;
But if the more you gain, you covet more,
You dare not this to any Friend impart.
If, by the Root or Herb prescrib'd, your Wound
Is unasswag'd, you will not always use
The Root or Herb, which had been try'd in vain.
But you have heard, that wicked Folly quits
The Man, on whom the Gods have Wealth bestow'd;
And now more rich, but not a Jot more wise,
You follow still the same deceitful Guides.

If Riches could confer or Wit or Sense,
And from your Breast expell Desires and Fears,
With Reason might you blush, if you could find
A Man on Earth more covetous than you.

If That be ours we purchase with our Coin,
Possession too must make some things our own;
And thus the Lawyers teach: Agreed. So then
Yon' Field, which feeds you, is your Property;
And when the Bailiff of rich Orbus sows
The Seed, which springing yields you Corn for Bread,

533

What does he less than own you for his Lord?
You pay the Price, and in Return receive
Baskets of Grapes, Fowls, Eggs, or Casks of Wine,
For your own Use; and thus you piece-meal buy
Th'Estate, which cost two thousand Pounds, or more.
What Difference, if you pay, for what you eat,
This Hour; or bought it many Years ago?
The Purchaser of fair Aricia's Fields
Pays for the very Herbs, on which he dines,
Though he thinks otherwise; pays for the Wood,
Pil'd on the Hearth, to make his Kettle boil:
And yet he calls that spacious Tract his own,
To where the Poplar ends Disputes; as if
That could belong to any Man which hangs
On the fleet Wing of every wavering Hour,
Prepar'd by Gift, or Sale, or Force, or Death,
To quit its Lord, and pass to other Hands?

Since Nature then no endless Tenure grants,
But one Heir drives another off the Stage,
Like Wave impelling Wave; O! what avail
Your stately Villas, and your Piles of Plate?
Why to Lucania's Forests should you join
Calabria's Fields, since ruthless Pluto claims

534

Both High and Low, nor heeds the Charms of Gold?
Jewels, and Marble, Tuscan Statues, Plate,
Pictures, and Ivory, and purple Robes,
Some not possess, and some not ev'n desire.

Why of two Brothers one should still delight
To loiter and to play; and Baths prefer
To Herod's Gardens and his wealthy Palms;
The other toil, from Break of Day till Night,
(Restless, though rich) to mellow and improve
The shrubby Ground with Fire and with the Share,
That Genius knows, who guides our natal Star;
The God of Human Nature! With each Man
Who dies, of changeful Face; now white, now black.

For Me, I shall not scruple from my Store
(Though small) freely to use what suits my Taste,
Regardless, though my ravenous Heir should scowl,
Because I leave not more than has been given.
Yet nicely will I weigh the Difference
Between a generous Man and Prodigal;
Between the Sordid and th'Oeconomist.
'Tis one thing sure, profusely not to spend;
Another, to receive with open Heart,

535

And entertain a Friend; and, like the Boys
On Festivals, to snatch the short-liv'd Day.

Let but uncleanly Want from Me retire;
I care not then, if down the Stream of Life
In a small Skiff or stately Barge I sail.
Nor am I hurry'd by too strong a Blast,
Nor always struggle against Wind and Tide.
In Power, Wit, Person, Virtue, Birth, Estate,
Behind the first, yet still before the last.

‘But why all this of Avarice to Me?
‘You cannot say, I'm tainted.’ True. What then?
Have you with That discarded every Vice?
From vain Ambition is your Bosom free;
From Anger, and the slavish Fear of Death?
And do you laugh at Dreams, and magic Charms,
At Witches, Miracles, and nightly Ghosts?
Do you with grateful Mind each Birth-day greet?
Pardon your Friends, and at th'Approach of Age
Grow wiser, milder, better by Decay?
What boots it that a single Thorn is drawn,
If many more are left to give you Pain?

But if you know not how to live, give up
Your Part to those, who act more gracefully.

536

Enough have you indulg'd, and eat and drank
Enough; 'tis Time for you to quit the Board,
Lest playful Youth, whom Follies more become,
Should mock, and drive you reeling from the Feast.

544

The END of the Second Book.