 | Epistle of Horace Imitated |  |
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Epistle II.
To SISSON PUTLAND, Esq;
Thou! the polite Tibullus of the Age!
Ingaging still, yet careless to ingage!
That, wisely know'st, thro' all Extremes, to steer!
A candid Critic! But a Judge severe!
Honest, to blame! And gen'rous, to commend!
Whose Praises, shame not! Censures, not offend!
Say, what the Pleasure, what the Bus'ness, say;
What Taste, for Taste is Thine, prolongs thy Stay?
Love, to attend? Or Friendship, to improve?
For Man is tam'd, by Friendship, and by Love!
Or steals the modest Bard his secret Flights;
And writes as fast, as easy Cassius writes?
Yet not, as Cassius, quitting Sense for Sound?
But strong, tho' smooth! Tho' rapid, yet profound!
Prefer'd by Thee, what Honors Richmond claims?
Adopts what new, revives what ancient Names?
And shall I call Her, from thy learn'd Retreat,
The Walk of Socrates, or Temple's Seat?
There weighs my Friend, as Chance or Art prevails,
Contending Factions, with impartial Scales?
The Statesmen in, The Statesmen out of Place?
And what the Pow'r, of Favor or Disgrace?
Or, more inlarg'd, surveys the Worldly Stage;
Of Peace, the Temper; and of War, the Rage?
From Craft of Priests, what Superstition springs;
What Devastation, from the Pride of Kings?
Or romes the wholesom Woods with early Care,
Inhaleing the sweet Breeze of Morning Air?
Studious, of Life; Contemplative, of Death;
That lasting Particle! That failing Breath!
Or marks the Road that strait to Virtue lies;
And What befits the Good, and What, the Wise?
And, as in slow and silent Search He moves,
Rude Forests turns to Academic Groves?
Ingaging still, yet careless to ingage!
That, wisely know'st, thro' all Extremes, to steer!
A candid Critic! But a Judge severe!
Honest, to blame! And gen'rous, to commend!
Whose Praises, shame not! Censures, not offend!
Say, what the Pleasure, what the Bus'ness, say;
What Taste, for Taste is Thine, prolongs thy Stay?
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For Man is tam'd, by Friendship, and by Love!
Or steals the modest Bard his secret Flights;
And writes as fast, as easy Cassius writes?
Yet not, as Cassius, quitting Sense for Sound?
But strong, tho' smooth! Tho' rapid, yet profound!
Prefer'd by Thee, what Honors Richmond claims?
Adopts what new, revives what ancient Names?
And shall I call Her, from thy learn'd Retreat,
The Walk of Socrates, or Temple's Seat?
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Contending Factions, with impartial Scales?
The Statesmen in, The Statesmen out of Place?
And what the Pow'r, of Favor or Disgrace?
Or, more inlarg'd, surveys the Worldly Stage;
Of Peace, the Temper; and of War, the Rage?
From Craft of Priests, what Superstition springs;
What Devastation, from the Pride of Kings?
Or romes the wholesom Woods with early Care,
Inhaleing the sweet Breeze of Morning Air?
Studious, of Life; Contemplative, of Death;
That lasting Particle! That failing Breath!
Or marks the Road that strait to Virtue lies;
And What befits the Good, and What, the Wise?
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Rude Forests turns to Academic Groves?
For Thou art not a Body, void of Soul,
A specious Half of Man, but perfect Whole;
Where inward Beauty vies with outward Grace:
Thy Mind is fully image'd in thy Face.
Fortune to Thee unlocks her shining Store;
Much tho' She gave, yet Nature gave Thee more:
A Heart, to polish Opulence with Use,
And make Heav'n's Bounty needful, not profuse.
For Thou, in either Social Part, transcend;
The lib'ral Lover, and the lib'ral Friend!
To Whom, the Art of Living well is known;
Not That of Living well to Self alone!
Whose Board with rich Oeconomy is grac'd;
The Flow of Plenty, not the Flood of Waste!
Whose order'd House adorn'd with decent Show;
Prescrib'd, on What to spare, on What bestow!
What more, to bless the Mother, cou'd be given;
That for her fondest Child solicits Heaven?
Than Judgment, to distinguish Right from Wrong?
The graceful Person? The persuasive Tongue?
The free Behavior? The polite Address?
The happy Turn, to Think, and to Express?
The Sense, to paint Opinion boldly true?
The Wit, to place it in the fairest View?
The Conduct, clear of Error as of Blame?
With private Credit, and with public Fame.
With Strength of Body, and with Bloom of Health?
Nor lessen'd, nor accumulated Wealth?
A specious Half of Man, but perfect Whole;
Where inward Beauty vies with outward Grace:
Thy Mind is fully image'd in thy Face.
Fortune to Thee unlocks her shining Store;
Much tho' She gave, yet Nature gave Thee more:
A Heart, to polish Opulence with Use,
And make Heav'n's Bounty needful, not profuse.
For Thou, in either Social Part, transcend;
The lib'ral Lover, and the lib'ral Friend!
To Whom, the Art of Living well is known;
Not That of Living well to Self alone!
Whose Board with rich Oeconomy is grac'd;
The Flow of Plenty, not the Flood of Waste!
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Prescrib'd, on What to spare, on What bestow!
What more, to bless the Mother, cou'd be given;
That for her fondest Child solicits Heaven?
Than Judgment, to distinguish Right from Wrong?
The graceful Person? The persuasive Tongue?
The free Behavior? The polite Address?
The happy Turn, to Think, and to Express?
The Sense, to paint Opinion boldly true?
The Wit, to place it in the fairest View?
The Conduct, clear of Error as of Blame?
With private Credit, and with public Fame.
With Strength of Body, and with Bloom of Health?
Nor lessen'd, nor accumulated Wealth?
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But Thou! whate'er thy Hope, whate'er thy Fear;
What Suns may light, what Clouds obscure the Sphere;
What Favors sooth Thee, or what Wrongs inrage;
What Tempests ruffle, or what Calms asswage;
Amidst, thy Pain or Pleasure, Ease or Strife:
Still think each Close of Noon, thy Last of Life.
Less grievous so shall fall each spreading Night,
That falls thy Grief to banish with the Light!
More joyous so shall shine each rising Day,
That shines to Joy with unexpected Ray!
‘Strike from your Wish, what lies not in your Power,
‘Grateful the Bliss! and critical the Hour!’
What Suns may light, what Clouds obscure the Sphere;
What Favors sooth Thee, or what Wrongs inrage;
What Tempests ruffle, or what Calms asswage;
Amidst, thy Pain or Pleasure, Ease or Strife:
Still think each Close of Noon, thy Last of Life.
Less grievous so shall fall each spreading Night,
That falls thy Grief to banish with the Light!
More joyous so shall shine each rising Day,
That shines to Joy with unexpected Ray!
‘Strike from your Wish, what lies not in your Power,
‘Grateful the Bliss! and critical the Hour!’
Whene'er You grant the Favor You intend,
And welcom at my humbler Gate descend;
To laugh with Freedom, and without Design,
To open all your Heart, and open mine:
My House will look like Epicurus' School,
Examin'd by his strict, not looser Rule.
The Master still the same, the Truth to speak,
Nor yet has rais'd one Rose to grace his Cheek;
Nor fair Complexion boasts, nor polish'd Skin;
Nor portly Body bears, nor doubled Chin.
Safe from my Hand, if safe from luring Priest,
On Fig, or Grape, the Ortolan may feast.
Secure the Boar, on German Acrons fed,
Preserve the savage Honors of his Head.
No fat Domestic pampers at my Side,
To blow my Virtues, till they burst with Pride;
If any of thy Virtues fill my Heart!
Or gloss my Vices with Religious Art;
To blast, not bless, the wholsom Food I eat,
And make me swallow Poison with my Meat.
Let naked Truth officiate at my Board,
With neat, but not luxurious Plenty stor'd;
And pour the gen'rous, but not lavish'd Wine.
I am not of the Herd of Sable Swine!
And welcom at my humbler Gate descend;
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To open all your Heart, and open mine:
My House will look like Epicurus' School,
Examin'd by his strict, not looser Rule.
The Master still the same, the Truth to speak,
Nor yet has rais'd one Rose to grace his Cheek;
Nor fair Complexion boasts, nor polish'd Skin;
Nor portly Body bears, nor doubled Chin.
Safe from my Hand, if safe from luring Priest,
On Fig, or Grape, the Ortolan may feast.
Secure the Boar, on German Acrons fed,
Preserve the savage Honors of his Head.
No fat Domestic pampers at my Side,
To blow my Virtues, till they burst with Pride;
If any of thy Virtues fill my Heart!
Or gloss my Vices with Religious Art;
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And make me swallow Poison with my Meat.
Let naked Truth officiate at my Board,
With neat, but not luxurious Plenty stor'd;
And pour the gen'rous, but not lavish'd Wine.
I am not of the Herd of Sable Swine!
| Epistle of Horace Imitated | |