Medulla Poetarum Romanorum Or, the Most Beautiful and Instructive Passages of the Roman Poets. Being a Collection, (Disposed under proper Heads,) Of such Descriptions, Allusions, Comparisons, Characters, and Sentiments, as may best serve to shew the Religion, Learning, Politicks, Arts, Customs, Opinions, Manners, and Circumstances of the Antients. With Translations of the same in English Verse. By Mr. Henry Baker |
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Miser.
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 | Medulla Poetarum Romanorum |  |
109
Miser.
See Avarice. Midas.
How are the Covetous than Slaves more free,That basely stoop for ev'ry Pin they see;
I can't imagine: He that still doth crave,
Must fear: and he that fears must be a Slave.—
Poor thirsty Tantalus, alas! in vain,
Essays to drink; his Lips the Stream eludes.—
What! dost Thou laugh?—but only change the Name,
Of Thee the Story's told: who, sleepless, brood'st
O'er thy full Bags, and gaping still for more,
Ne'er touchest what Thou hast; as to the Gods
'Twere consecrate, or only pictur'd Gold.
Essays to drink; his Lips the Stream eludes.—
What! dost Thou laugh?—but only change the Name,
Of Thee the Story's told: who, sleepless, brood'st
O'er thy full Bags, and gaping still for more,
Ne'er touchest what Thou hast; as to the Gods
'Twere consecrate, or only pictur'd Gold.
Dost Thou not know the Good, the Use of Wealth?
'Twill buy thee Bread, or Herbs, a Pint of Wine,
Or any Thing that Nature's Wants require.
But, Day and Night to be an anxious Wretch,
Always upon the Guard, in fear of Thieves,
And Fire, and Servants that may pilfer from Thee:—
Is this the Good of Wealth?—If so it be,
Then grant, kind Heav'n! I may be ever poor!—
Say, dost thou know Vectidius?—Who, the Wretch
'Twill buy thee Bread, or Herbs, a Pint of Wine,
Or any Thing that Nature's Wants require.
But, Day and Night to be an anxious Wretch,
Always upon the Guard, in fear of Thieves,
And Fire, and Servants that may pilfer from Thee:—
Is this the Good of Wealth?—If so it be,
Then grant, kind Heav'n! I may be ever poor!—
Whose Lands beyond the Sabines largely stretch:
A Length of Country, which a sailing Kite
Can scarce fly over in a Day and Night?
Him dost thou mean, who spight of all his Store,
Is ever craving, and will still be poor:
Born with the Curse and Anger of the Gods,
And hated by the Genius he defrauds?
At Harvest-home, and on the Sheering Day,
When he should Thanks to Pan and Pales pay,
And better Ceres: trembling to approach
The little Barrel, which he fears to broach:
H' essays the Wimble, draws it often back,
And deals to thirsty Servants but a Smack.
111
Before the Barley-Pudding comes in place:
Then bids fall on:—himself, for saving Charges,
A peel'd slic'd Onion eats, and tipples Verjuice.—
Unhappy Tantalus, amidst the Flood,
Where floating Apples on the Surface stood,
Eager pursues them with a longing Eye,
Yet can nor Thirst, nor Hunger satisfy.
Such is the Miser's Fate, who curs'd with Wealth,
Amidst his endless Treasure starves himself.—
Opimius, (who amidst his shining Store
Was still in Want, and miserably poor,
Who on Feast Days did wretch'd Wine provide
In earthen Jugs, and Lees on all beside:)
Lay in a Lethargy: all Hope was gone;
And now his joyful Heir ran up and down,
And seiz'd the Keys, and Chests, as all his own.
A friendly Doctor came, and this Design
He us'd for Cure: he brought a Table in,
And order'd some to tumble o'er his Coin.
This rouz'd him:—Then he cries, Sir, you're undone:
Wake, Sir, and watch; or else your Money's gone:
Your Heir will seize it. What, while I'm alive?
Then wake and show it, Sir: Come, come revive.
What must I do? Why really, Sir, you'll die,
Unless your Strength you instantly supply
With proper Food: Eat, Sir: What! are you loth?
Pray take this little Mess of Barly-Broth.
What does it cost? Not much, upon my Word.
How much pray? Why, two Groats. Two Groats! Oh Lord!
'Tis the same Thing to me to be undone
By Sickness, Thieves, or Physick: I'll have none.—
| Medulla Poetarum Romanorum | |