A Poetical Translation of the works of Horace :: :: University of Virginia Library

A Poetical Translation of the works of Horace

With the Original Text, and Critical Notes collected from his best Latin and French Commentators. By the Revd Mr. Philip Francis...The third edition

Francis, Philip (1708?-1773)

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VOL. I.

II.

VOL. II.

THE SATIRES OF HORACE.

THE EPISTLES OF HORACE.

HORACE's ART of POETRY.

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II. VOL. II.

Primùm ego me illorum, dederim quibus esse Poetis,
Excerpam numero; neque enim concludere Versum
Dixeris esse satis ------

THE SATIRES OF HORACE.

THE FIRST BOOK OF THE SATIRES of HORACE.

Sat. I. To Mæcenas.

Whence is it, Sir, that none contented lives
With the fair Lot, which prudent Reason gives,
Or Chance presents, yet all with Envy view
The Schemes, that others variously pursue?

Broken with Toils, with ponderous Arms opprest,
The Soldier thinks the Merchant solely blest.
In opposite Extreme; when Tempests rise,
War is a better Choice, the Merchant cries;

The Battle joins, and in a Moment's Flight,
Death, or a joyful Conquest, ends the Fight.

When early Clients thunder at his Gate,
The Barrister applauds the Rustic's Fate.
While, by Subpœnas drag'd from home, the Clown
Thinks the supremely happy dwell in Town.

But every various Instance to repeat,
Would tire even Fabius, of incessant Prate.
Not to be tedious, mark the moral Aim
Of these Examples. Should some God proclaim,
“Your Prayers are heard; You, Soldier, to your Seas;
“You, Lawyer, take that envied Rustic's Ease:
“Each to his several Part. What! Ha! not move
“Even to the Bliss you wish'd! And shall not Jove,
With Cheeks enflam'd, and angry Brow, forswear
His weak Indulgence to their future Prayer?

But not to treat my Subject as in jest,
(Yet may not Truth in laughing Guise be drest,

As Masters fondly sooth their Boys to read
With Cakes and Sweetmeats?) let us now proceed:
With graver Air our serious Theme pursue,
And yet preserve our Moral full in view.

Who turns the Soil, and o'er the Plowshare bends:
He, who adulterates the Laws and vends;
The Soldier, and th' Adventurers of the Main,
Profess, their various Labours they sustain,
A decent Competence for Age to raise,
And then retire to Indolence and Ease.

Miser.
For thus the little Ant (to human Lore
No mean Example) forms her frugal Store,
Gather'd, with mighty Toils, on every side,
Nor ignorant, nor careless to provide
For future Want.

Horace.
Yet when the Stars appear,
That darkly sadden the declining Year,

No more she comes abroad, but wisely lives
On the fair Store, industrious Summer gives.
For thee, nor Summer's Heat, nor Winter's Cold,
Fire, Sea, nor Sword, stop thy Pursuit of Gold;
Nothing can break th' adventurous, bold Design,
So none possess a larger Sum than thine.
But, prithee, whence the Pleasure, thus by stealth,
Deep in the Earth to hide thy Weight of Wealth?

Miser.
One Farthing lessen'd, you the Mass reduce.

Horace.
And if not lessen'd, whence can rise its Use?
What though a thousand Acres yield thee Grain?
No more than mine, thy Stomach can contain.
The Slave, who bears the Load of Bread, shall eat
No more than he, who never felt the Weight.
Or say, what Difference, if we live confin'd
Within the Bounds by Nature's Laws assign'd,
Whether a thousand Acres of Demaine,
Or one poor hundred, yield sufficient Grain?

Miser.
Oh! but 'tis sweet to take from larger Hoards.

Horace.

Yet, if my little Heap as much affords,
Why shall your Granaries be valued more
Than my small Hampiers with their frugal store?

You want a Cask of Water, or would fill
An ample Goblet; whence the froward Will
To chuse a mighty River's rapid Course,
Before this little Fountain's lenient Source?
But mark his Fate, insatiate who desires
Deeper to drink, than Nature's Thirst requires;
With its torn Banks the Torrent bears away
Th' intemperate Wretch; while he, who would allay
With healthy Draughts his Thirst, shall drink secure,
Fearless of Death, and quaff his Water pure.

Some, self-deceiv'd, who think their Lust of Gold
Is but a Love of Fame, this Maxim hold,
No Fortune's large enough, since others rate
Our Worth proportion'd to a large Estate.
Say, for their Cure what Arts would you employ?
Let them be wretched, and their Choice enjoy.

At Athens liv'd a Wight, in Days of Yore,
Though miserably rich, yet fond of more,
But of intrepid Spirit to despise
Th' abusive Croud. Let them hiss on, he cries,
While, in my own Opinion fully blest,
I count my Money, and enjoy my Chest.

Burning with Thirst, when Tantalus would quaff
The flying Waters. . . . Wherefore do you laugh?
Change but the Name, of thee the Tale is told,
With open Mouth when dozing o'er your Gold;
On every Side the numerous Bags are pil'd,
Whose hallow'd Stores must never be defil'd
To human Use; while you transported gaze,
As if, like Pictures, they were form'd to please.

Would you the real Use of Riches know?
Bread, Herbs and Wine are all they can bestow.

Or add, what Nature's deepest Wants supplies;
These, and no more thy Mass of Money buys.
But, with continual Watching almost dead,
House-breaking Thieves, and midnight Fires to dread,
Or the suspected Slave's untimely Flight
With the dear Pelf. If this be thy Delight,
Be it my Fate, so Heaven in Bounty please,
Still to be poor of Blessings such as these.

Miser.
If, by a Cold some painful Illness bred,
Or other Chance, confine you to your Bed,
Your Wealth shall purchase some good-natur'd Friend
Your Cordials to prepare, your Couch attend,
And urge the Doctor to preserve your Life,
And give you to your Children and your Wife.

Horace.

Thy Wife and Children with Impatience wait
Thy dying Breath. With universal Hate
Thy Neighbours, Friends, Acquaintance, all pursue thee,
And untaught Infants even with Horrour view thee.
What wonder, that they justly prove unkind,
When all thy Passions are to Gold confin'd?

Nature, 'tis true, in each Relation gave
A Friend sincere; yet what you thus receive,
If you imagine, with an alien Heart,
And careless Manners to preserve; your Art
As well may teach an Ass to scour the Plain,
And bend obedient to the forming Rein.

Yet somewhere should your Views of Lucre cease,
Nor should your Fears of Poverty increase,
As does your Wealth; for since you now possess
Your utmost Wish, your Labour should be less.

Ummidius once (the Tale is quickly told)
So wondrous rich he measur'd out his Gold,
Yet never drest him better than a Slave,
Afraid of starving ere he reach'd his Grave:
But a bold Wench, of right Virago Strain,
Cleft with an Axe the wretched Wight in twain.

Miser.
By your Advice what Party shall I take?
Like Mænius live a Prodigal, and Rake
Like Nomentanus?

Horace.

Why will you pretend,
With such Extremes, your Vices to defend?
The sordid Miser when I justly blame,
I would not have you prodigal of Fame,
Scoundrel or Rake; for sure some Difference lies
Between the very Fool, and very Wise.
Some certain Mean in all things may be found,
To mark our Virtues, and our Vices bound.

But to return from whence we have digrest.
And is the Miser, then, alone unblest?

Does he alone applaud his Neighbour's Fate,
Or pine with Envy of his happier State?
To Crouds beneath him never turn his Eye,
Where in Distress the Sons of Virtue lie,
But, to outspeed the Wealthy, bend his Force,
As if they stop'd his own impetuous Course;

Thus, from the Goal when swift the Chariot flies,
The Charioteer the bending Lash applies,
To overtake the foremost on the Plain,
But looks on all behind him with Disdain.
From hence, how few, like sated Guests, depart
From Life's full Banquet, with a chearful Heart?

But let me stop lest you suspect I stole,
From blind Crispinus, this eternal Scrowl.

Sat. II. To Mæcenas.

The Tribes of Minstrels, stroling Priests and Players,
Perfumers, and Buffoons, are all in Tears,
For ah! Tigellius, sweetest Songster's dead,
And sure the Soul of Bounty with him fled.

Behold a Wretch, in opposite Extreme,
So fearful of a Spendthrift's odious Name,
He dare not even a sordid Pittance give,
To raise a worthy Friend, and bid him live.
Or ask another, why, in thankless Feasts
The Wealth of all his frugal Sires he wastes;
Then the luxurious Treat profuse supplies
With borrow'd Sums; because I scorn, he cries,
To be a Wretch of narrow Spirit deem'd,
By some condemn'd, by others he's esteem'd.

Fufidius, rich in Lands, and large Increase
Of growing Usury, dreads the foul Disgrace

To be call'd Rake; and, ere the Money's lent,
He prudently deducts his Cent per Cent.
Then, as he finds the Borrower distrest,
Cruel demands a higher Interest,
But lends profusely to the lavish Heir,
Whose Guardians prove too frugally severe.
All-powerful Jove, th' indignant Reader cries,
“But his Expences, with his Income, rise.”
No. 'Tis amazing, that this Man of Pelf
Hath yet so little Friendship for himself,
That even the Self-Tormentor in the Play,
Cruel who drove his much-lov'd Son away,
Amidst the willing Tortures of Despair,
Could not with Wretchedness like his compare.

But say, at what this tedious Preface aims,
That Fools are ever vicious in Extremes.
The soft Malthinus trails a Length of Train:
See that short Robe, how filthily obscene!
Rufillus with Perfumes distracts your Head;
With his own Scents Gargonius strikes you dead.
That Youth, when wanton Wishes fires his Veins,
All but a flowing-ermin'd Dame disdains;
Others their safer, cheaper Pleasures chuse,
And take a willing Mistress from the Stews.

When awful Cato saw a noted Spark
From a Night-Cellar stealing in the dark,
“Well done, my Friend, if Love thy Breast inflame,
“Indulge it here, and spare the married Dame.”

Be mine the silken Veil, Cupiennius cries,
Such vulgar Praise and Pleasure I despise.

All ye, who wish some dire Mishap may wait
This horning Tribe, attend while I relate
What Dangers and Disasters they sustain,
How few their Pleasures, and how mix'd with Pain.

A desperate Leap one luckless Caitiff tries;
Torn by the flagrant Lash another dies;
Some are by Robbers plunder'd as they fly;
Others with Gold a wretched Safety buy.
Nor seldom do they feel, with keener Smart,
Their Cuckold's Vengeance on th' offending Part.
Such various Woes pursue these Sons of Lust,
And all, but Galba, own the Sentence just.

Far safer they, who venture their Estate,
And trade with Females of the second Rate.
“Yet Sallust rages here with wild Desires,
“As mad as those, which lawless Love inspires.”
But had he been with less profusion kind,
Had common Sense his lavish Hand confin'd,
He had not now been wholly lost to Shame,
In Fortune ruin'd, as undone in Fame.
But here's the Joy and Comfort of his Life;
To swear, he never touch'd his Neighbour's Wife.

Thus, to an Actress when with lavish Hand
Marsæus gave his Mansion-House and Land;
My Soul, thank Heaven, he cries, from Guilt is free;
The wedded Dames are vestal Maids for me.

Actress or not, the Crime is still the same,
Equal the Ruin of Estate and Fame;
Equal the Folly, whether in Pursuit
Of Wife, or Slave, or loose rob'd Prostitute;

Unless you mean, content to be undone,
To hate the Person, not the Vice to shun.

Of Sylla's wanton Daughter when possest,
Villius believ'd himself supremely blest:
To a Dictator thus to be ally'd,
Dazled his Senses, and indulg'd his Pride;
But sure, if Vanity were fairly rated,
Methinks, poor Villius was full hardly treated,
When buffeted and stab'd the Coxcomb dies,
While in the Wanton's Arms a Scoundrel lies.

Suppose, his secret Something had addrest
The luckless Youth with all these Woes opprest;
“Did I, when burning with my wildest Fire,”
“Did I a Maid of Quality require?”
What could he answer to the poor Forlorn?
“The jilting Quean, forsooth, was nobly born.”

But Nature, rich in her own proper Wealth,
In Youth and Beauty; Chearfulness and Health,
In her Pursuit of Happiness disclaims
The Pride of Titles and the Pomp of Names.
Be thine, her wise Oeconomy to learn,
And real, from affected Bliss, discern.
Then, lest Repentance punish such a Life,
Never, ah! never kiss your Neighbour's Wife.
For see, what thousand Mischiefs round you rise,
And, few the Pleasures, though you gain the Prize.

What though Cerinthus doats upon the Girl,
Who flames with Emerald green, or snowy Pearl,
Is she beyond a common Mistress blest
With Leg more taper, or a softer Breast?

Besides, the public Nymph no Varnish knows,
But all her venal Beauties frankly shows,

Nor boasts some happier Charm with conscious Pride,
Nor strives a vile Deformity to hide.

When skilful Jockeys would a Courser buy,
They strip him naked to the curious Eye;
For oft an eager Chapman is betray'd
To buy a founder'd or a spavin'd Jade,
While he admires a thin, lighted-shoulder'd Chest,
A little Head, broad back and rising Crest.

Th' Example's good; then keep it in thy Mind,
Nor to the Fair-one's Faults be over-blind,
Nor gaze with idle Rapture on her Charms,
“Oh! what a taper Leg! what snowy Arms!”
For she may hide, whate'er she vainly shows,
Low Hips, short Waist, splay Feet, and hideous Nose.
All but her Face the Matron's Robe conceals,
Catia alone th' Et-cætera reveals.

But if you still pursue this dangerous Game,
(Perhaps the Dangers your Desires inflame)
What military Works around her rise!
Maids, Chairmen, Footmen, Flatterers, guard the Prize.
The flowing Robe and closely muffled Veil
With envious Folds the precious Thing conceal;
But what from Nature's Commoners you buy,
Through the thin Robe stands naked to your Eye:
Or, if you will be cheated, pay the Fair,
With foolish Fondness, ere she shews her Ware.

As when a Sportsman through the snowy Waste
Pursues a Hare, which he disdains to taste,
So (sings the Rake) my Passion can despise
An easy Prey, but follows when it flies.

Yet can a Song or Simile remove
The Griefs and Tortures of unlawful Love?

Were it not better Wisdom to inquire
How Nature bounds each impotent Desire;
What she with Ease resigns, or wants with Pain,
And thus divide the Solid from the Vain?
Say, should your Jaws with Thirst severely burn,
Would you a cleanly, earthen Pitcher spurn?
Should Hunger on your gnawing Entrails seize,
Will Turbot only, or a Peacock please?
And will you, when a willing Girl's at hand,
With swelling Veins deliberating stand?
No—be the yielding, ready Venus mine;
To cooler Lovers I the Dame resign,
Who plays the Coy-one, with a cold “Anon,”
“A Guinea more;” or “when my Husband's gone.”

Give me the Nymph, who flies into my Arms,
And sets at easy Rate her willing Charms;
Let her be streight and fair; nor wish to have,
Or Height or Colour, Nature never gave:
Then, while with Joy I clasp the pleasing Fair,
What mortal Goddess can with mine compare?
No Terrours rise to interrupt my Joys,
No jealous Husband, nor the fearful Noise
Of bursting Doors, nor the loud, hideous Yelling
Of barking Dogs, that shakes the Matron's Dwelling,
When the pale Wanton leaps from off her Bed,
The conscious Chamber-maid screams out her Dread
Of horrid Tortures; loudly cries the Wife,
“My Jointure's lost,”—I tremble for my Life:
Unbutton'd, without Shoes, I speed away,
Lest I in Fame, or Purse, or Person pay.
To be surpris'd is, sure, a wretched Tale,
And for the Truth to Fabius I appeal.

Sat. III.

[All Songsters have this Vice; they ne'er can bring]

All Songsters have this Vice; they ne'er can bring,
When they are ask'd, their froward Souls to sing;
Yet chaunt it forth, unask'd, from Morn to Night;
Such was Tigellius, most inconstant Wight!
Even Cæsar, who might well his Power have shewn,
If by his Father's Friendship and his own
He beg'd a Song, was sure to beg in vain,
Yet, when the Whim prevail'd, in endless Strain,
Through the whole Feast the jovial Catch he plies,
From Base to Treble o'er the Gamut flies.

Nothing was of a Piece in the whole Man;
Sometimes he like a frighted Coward ran,
Whose Foes are at his Heels; now soft and slow
He mov'd, like Folks, who in Procession go.
Now with two hundred Slaves he crouds his Train;
Now walks with ten. In high and haughty Strain
At Morn, of Kings and Governors he prates;
At Night—“A frugal Table, O ye Fates,

“A little Shell the sacred Salt to hold,
“And Clothes, though coarse, to keep me from the Cold.”
Yet give this Wight, thus frugally content,
A thousand Pound, 'tis every Penny spent
Within the Week: He drank the Night away
Till rising Dawn, then snor'd out all the Day.
Sure such a various Creature ne'er was known.
“But have you, Friend, no Vices of your own?”
That I have Vices, frankly I confess,
But of a different kind, and somewhat less.

Mænius on absent Novius vents his Spleen;
And do you think your Follies are unseen?
Another answers—No. I well perceive,
Quoth Mænius, but a kind Indulgence give
To my own Faults. This is a foolish Love,
And vicious, which our Censure should reprove:
For wherefore, while you carelessly pass by
Your own worst Vices with unheeding Eye,
Why so sharp-sighted in another's Fame,
Strong as an Eagle's Ken, or Dragon's Beam?
But know, that he with equal Spleen shall view,
With equal Rigour shall thy Faults pursue.

Your Friend is passionate; perhaps unfit
For the brisk Petulance of modern Wit;
His Hair ill-cut, his Robe, that aukward flows,
Or his large Shoes to Raillery expose

The Man you love; yet is he not possest
Of Virtues, with which very few are blest?
And underneath this rough, uncouth Disguise
A Genius of extensive Knowledge lies.

Search your own Breast and mark with honest Care
What Seeds of Folly Nature planted there,
Or Custom rais'd; for a neglected Field
Shall for the Fire its Thorns and Thistles yield.

And yet a shorter Method we may find,
As Lovers, to their Fair-one fondly blind,
Even on her Ugliness with Transport gaze;
For Hagne's Wen can good Balbinus please.
Oh! were our Weakness to our Friends the same,
And stamp'd by Virtue with some honest Name.

Let us, at least, in Friendship prove as mild,
As a fond Parent to his favourite Child.
If with distorted Eyes the Urchin glares,
“O the dear Boy, how prettily he stares!”
Is he of dwarfish and abortive Size?
“Sweet little Moppet,” the fond Father cries:
Or is th' unshapen Cub deform'd and lame?
He kindly lisps him o'er some tender Name.

Thus, if your Friend's too frugally severe,
Let him a wise Oeconomist appear.
Is he, perhaps, impertinent and vain?
“The pleasant Creature means to entertain.”

Is he too free to prate, or frankly rude?
“'Tis manly Plainness all, and Fortitude.”
Is he too warm? No. Spirited and bold.
Thus shall we gain new Friends, and keep the old.
But we distort their Virtue to a Crime,
And joy th' untainted Vessel to begrime.
Have we a modest Friend, and void of Art?
“He's a fat-headed Slave, and cold of Heart.”
While we converse with an ill-natur'd Age,
Where Calumny and Envy lawless rage,
Is there a Man by long Experience wise,
Still on his Guard, nor open to Surprize?
His cautious Wisdom and prudential Fear,
Shall Artifice and false Disguise appear.

If any one of simple, thoughtless Kind,
(Such as you oft your careless Poet find)
Who Life's politer Manners never knew,
If, while we read, or some fond Scheme pursue,
He teize us with his meer Impertinence,
We cry, the Creature wants even common Sense.
Alas! what Laws; of how severe a Strain,
Against ourselves we thoughtlessly ordain?
For we have all our Vices, and the best
Is he, who with the fewest is opprest.

A kinder Friend, who balances my good,
And bad together, as in Truth he should,
If haply my good Qualities prevail,
Inclines indulgent to the sinking Scale.
For like Indulgence let his Friendship plead,
His Merits be with equal Measure weigh'd;
For he, who hopes his Bile shall not offend,
Should over-look the Pimples of his Friend,
And even in Justice to his own Defects,
At least should grant the Pardon he expects.

But, since we never from the Breast of Fools
Can root their Passions, yet while Reason rules,
Let her hold forth her Scales with equal Hand,
Justly to punish, as the Crimes demand.

If a poor Slave, who takes away your Plate,
Lick the rich Sauce, the half-cold Fragments eat,
Yet should you crucify the Wretch, we swear
Not Labeo's Madness can with thine compare.
But is this Madness less than yours? A Friend
With some slight Folly may perhaps offend:
Forgive him, or with Justice you appear
Of harden'd Kind, inhumanly severe:
Yet you avoid him, and with Horrour shun,
As Debtors from the ruthless Ruso run,
Who damns the Wretches on th' appointed Day
His Interest or Principal to pay,

Or, like a Captive, stretch the listning Ear,
His tedious Tales of History to hear.

A Friend has foul'd my Couch; ah! deep Disgrace!
Or off the Table thrown some high-wrought Vase,
Or, hungry, snatch'd a Chicken off my Plat;
Shall I for this a good Companion hate?
What if he robb'd me, or his Trust betray'd,
Or broke the sacred Promise he had made?

Who hold all Crimes alike are deep distrest,
When we appeal to Truth's impartial Test.
Sense, Custom, social Good, from whence arise
All Forms of Right and Wrong, the Fact denies.

When the first Mortals crawling rose to Birth,
Speechless and wretched from their Mother-Earth,
For Caves and Acorns, then the Food of Life,
With Nails and Fists they held a bloodless Strife,
But soon improv'd, with Clubs they bolder fought,
And various Arms, which sad Experience wrought,
'Till Words, to fix the wandering Voice, were found,
And Names impress'd a Meaning upon Sound:
And now they cease from War; their Towns inclose
With formidable Walls, and Laws compose
To strike the Thief, and Highwayman with Dread,
And vindicate the sacred Marriage-Bed.

For Woman, long ere Helen's fatal Charms,
Destructive Woman! set the World in Arms:
But the first Heroes died unknown to Fame,
Like Beasts who ravish'd the uncertain Dame;
When, as the stoutest Bull commands the rest,
The weaker by the stronger was opprest.

Turn o'er the World's great Annals, and you find,
That Laws were first invented by Mankind
To stop Oppression's Rage; for though we learn,
By Nature, Good from Evil to discern:
What we should wise pursue, or cautious fly:
Yet can she never, with a constant Eye,
Of legal Justice mark each nice Extreme;
Nor can right Reason prove the Crime the same,
To rob a Garden, or, by Fear unaw'd,
To steal, by Night, the sacred Things of God.

Then let the Punishment be fairly weigh'd
Against the Crime; nor let the Wretch be flay'd,
Who scarce deserv'd the Lash.—I cannot fear,
That you shall prove too tenderly severe,
While you assert all Vices are the same;
And threaten, that were yours the Power supreme,
Robbers and Thieves your equal Rage should feel,
Uprooted by the same avenging Steel.

Is not the Wise a Shoemaker profest,
Handsome and rich; of Monarchy possest,
Why wish for what you have?

Stoic.
Yet hold, my Friend,
And better to the Stoic's Sense attend.
For though the Wise nor Shoes, nor Slippers made,
Yet is the wise a Shoemaker by Trade;
As, though Hermogenes may sing no more,
He knows the whole Extent of Music's Power;
Alfenus, turn'd a Lawyer in his Pride,
His Shop shut up, his Razors thrown aside,
Was still a Barber: So the Wise alone
Is of all Trades, though exercising none,
And reigns a Monarch, though without a Throne.

Horace.
Great King of Kings, unless you drive away
This pressing Croud, the Boys in wanton Play
Will pluck you by the Beard, while you shall growl,
Wretch as thou art, and burst in Spleen of Soul:
In short, while in Farthing-Bath you reign,
With only one poor Life-guard in your Train:
While the few Friends, with whom I joy to live,
Fool as I am, my Follies can forgive,
And I to them the same Indulgence shew,
No Bliss like mine thy Kingship can bestow.

Sat. IV.

[The comic Poets, in its earliest Age]

The comic Poets, in its earliest Age
Who form'd the Manners of the Grecian Stage,
Was there a Villain, who might justly claim
A better Right of being damn'd to Fame,
Rake, Cut-throat, Thief, whatever was his Crime,
They boldly stigmatiz'd the Wretch in Rhime.

From their Example whole Lucilius rose,
Though different Measures, different Verse he chose.
He railled with a gay and easy Air,
But rude his Numbers, and his Style severe.
He weakly fancied it a glorious Feat
His hundred Lines extempore to repeat,
And as his Verses like a Torrent roll,
The Stream is muddy, and his Waters foul.

He prattled Rhimes; but lazy and unfit
For writing well; for much, I own, he writ.

Crispinus thus my Littleness defies;
Here make the smallest Bett, the Boaster cries.

Crispinus.
“Pen, Ink, and Paper—name your Place and Time:
“Then try, Friend Flaccus, who can fastest rhime.”

Horace.

Thank Heaven, that form'd me of an humbler Kind;
No Wit, nor yet to pratling much inclin'd:
While thou shalt imitate the Winds, that blow
From Lungs of Leather, 'till the Metal flow.

Thrice happy Fannius, of his own free Grace,
Who in Apollo's Temple hangs his Face,
And gilds his Works to view; while I with Fear
Repeat my Verses to the public Ear;
Because by few such Works as mine are read,
Conscious of meriting the Lash they dread.

Take me a Man at venture from the Croud,
And he's ambitious, covetous, or proud.
One burns to Madness for the wedded Dame;
Unnatural Lusts another's Breast inflame.
O'er Gold's fair Lustre, one with Rapture sighs;
For bronze Antiques the stupid Albius dies.

The venturous Merchant, from the rising Day
To Regions warm'd beneath the setting Ray,
Like Dust, collected by a Whirlwind, flies
To save his Pelf, or bid the Mass arise.
All these dread Poets, and their Rhimes detest—
“Yonder he drives—avoid that furious Beast;
“If he may have his Jest, he never cares
“At whose Expence; nor Friend, nor Patron spares;
“And if he once th' ill-natur'd Paper stain,
“He joys to hear the Croud repeat the Strain.”

Now hear this short Defence. For my own Part,
I claim no Portion of the Poet's Art.
'Tis not enough to close the flowing Line,
And in ten Syllables your Sense confine,
Or write in meer prosaic Rhimes like me,
That can deserve the Name of Poetry.

Is there a Man, whom real Genius fires,
Whom the diviner Soul of Verse inspires;
Who talks true Greatness; let him boldly claim
The sacred Honours of a Poet's Name.

Some doubt, if Comedy be justly thought
A real Poem, since it may be wrought
In Style and Subject without Fire or Force,
And, bate the Numbers, is but meer Discourse.

For though we see the Father high enrag'd,
By a kept Mistress when his Son's engag'd,
Nor takes the portion'd Maid, but deep in Drink
Reels in fair Day-light (shameful) with his Link;
Yet could Pomponius from his Father hear,
Were he alive, a Lecture less severe?

'Tis not enough your Language to refine,
When, if you break the Measures of the Line,
In common Life an angry Father's Rage
Is but the same with Demea's on the Stage.

Take from Lucilius' Writings, or from mine,
The Cadences, and Measures of the Line,
Then change their Order, and the Words transpose,
No more the scatter'd Poet's Limbs it shows;
Not so—When hideous Discord bursts the Bars,
And iron Gates, to pour forth all her Wars.

Of this enough; hereafter we shall show,
Whether 'tis real Poetry, or no.
Let me now ask, if Satire should appear,
With Reason, such an Object of your Fear.
Sulcius, and Caprius, fiercest of their Trade,
Hoarse with the Virulence, with which they plead,
When through the Secrets they stalk with Libels arm'd;
Mark! how the Thieves, and Robbers are alarm'd;
But yet the Man of honest Hands and pure
May scorn them both, in Innocence secure:

Or though like Cælius you a Villain be,
I'm no Informer. Whence your Fears of me?
With Shops, and Stationers I never deal;
No rubric Pillar sets my Works to sale,
O'er which the Hands of vulgar Readers sweat,
Or whose soft Strains Tigellius can repeat.
Even by my Friends compel'd I read my Lays,
Nor every Place, nor every Audience please.

Full many Bards the public Forum chuse
Where to recite the Labours of their Muse;
Or vaulted Baths, that best preserve the Sound,
While sweetly floats the Voice in Echoes round.
The Coxcombs never think at whose Expence
They thus indulge the dear Impertinence.
“But you in Libels, mischievous, delight,
“And never, but in Spleen of Genius, write.”
Is there, with whom I live, who know my Heart,
Who taught you how to aim this venom'd Dart?

He, who malignant tears an absent Friend,
Or, when attack'd by others, don't defend;
Who trivial Bursts of Laughter strives to raise,
And courts of prating Petulance the Praise;
Of Things he never saw who tells his Tale,
And Friendship's Secrets knows not to conceal,
This Man is vile; here, Roman, fix your Mark;
His Soul is black, as his Complexion's dark.

We often see, among a Croud of Guests,
Who scatters round his cold, insipid Jests,

And only spares his Host, until the Bowl
With honest Freedom opes his inmost Soul;
Yet, though a cruel Joker you detest,
He seems a courteous, well-bred, easy Guest.
But if in idle Raillery I said,
Rufillus with Perfumes distracts my Head,
While foul Gargonius breathes a ranker Air,
You think me most envenom'd and severe.

If we, by Chance, that Thief Petillius name,
You, as your Custom is, defend his Fame.
“Petillius is my Friend; from early Youth
“Chearful we liv'd together, and in truth
“I have been much indebted to his Power,
“And I rejoice to find his Danger o'er.
“But, in the Name of Wonder be it said,
“At that same Trial how he sav'd his Head.”—
Such Rancour this, of such a poisonous Vein,
As never, never, shall my Paper stain:
Much less infect my Heart, if I may dare
For my own Heart, in any thing, to swear.

Yet some Indulgence I may justly claim,
If too familiar with another's Fame.
This from a Father's fond Indulgence flows,
Who mark'd the Folly, as to Life it rose
In strong Examples. If he bad me live
Content with what his Industry could give,

Or leave me at his Death: “Behold, my Son,
“Young Albius there, how wretchedly undone!
“Yet no mean Lesson is the Spendthrift's Fate
“To caution Youth from squandering their Estate.”
To fright me from the Harlot's vagrant Bed,
“Behold Scetanius, and his Ruin dread;”
That I might ne'er pursue the wedded Dame,
“An honest Venus will indulge your Flame.
“My Son, by poor Trebonius be advis'd;
“Sure 'tis no pleasant Tale to be surpris'd.”

“'Twixt right and wrong the Learned may decide,
“With wise Distinctions may your Conduct guide;
“Be mine the common Wisdom, that inspires
“The frugal Manners of our ancient Sires,
“And, while your Youth may yet a Tutor claim,
“To guard your Virtue, and preserve your Fame.
“But soon as Time confirms, with stronger Tone,
“Your Strength and Mind, your Conduct be your own.”

Thus did he form my Youth with lenient Hand;
When he for Virtue urg'd the soft Command,
Pointing some awful Senator to view,
“His grave Example constantly pursue.”
Would he dissuade me? “Can you doubt, he cries,
“That equal Ruin and Dishonour rise
“From such an Action, when that Scoundrel's Name
“Is branded with the flagrant Marks of Shame?”

For, as when neighbouring Funerals affright
The Patient, who indulg'd his Appetite
And bid him spare himself, we often find,
Another's Shame alarms a tender Mind.

Thus, pure from more pernicious Crimes I live:
Some venial Frailties you may well forgive,
For such I own I have; and yet even these,
A Length of Time, although by slow Degrees,
A Friend sincere, who can with Candour love,
Or my own Reason, shall perhaps remove;
For in my Bed, or in the Collonade
Sauntering, I call Reflexion to my Aid.
“This was well done. Here Happiness attends.
“This Conduct makes me pleasing to my Friends.
“Were that Man's Actions of a beauteous Kind?
“Oh! may I never be to such inclin'd.”

Thus, silently I talk my Conduct o'er,
Or trifle with the Muse an idle Hour;
For which, among my Frailties, I demand
Forgiveness, and shall call a powerful Band,
If you refuse, of Poets to my Aid
(Well fraught with Numbers is the rhiming Trade)
To force you, like the proselyting Jews,
To be, like us, a Brother of the Muse.

Sat. V.

[With Heliodorus, who by far possest]

With Heliodorus, who by far possest
More Learning, than the Tribe of Greeks profest,
Leaving imperial Rome I took my Way
To poor Aricia, where that Night I lay.
To Forum-Appii thence we steer, a Place
Stuff'd with rank Boatmen, and with Vintners base,
And laggard into two Days Journey broke
What were but one to less incumber'd Folk;
The Appian Road, however, yields most Pleasure
To those, who chuse to travel at their Leisure.
The Water here was of so foul a Stream
Against my Stomach I a War proclaim,
And wait, though not with much Good-humour wait,
While with keen Appetites my Comerades eat.

The Night o'er Earth now spread her dusky Shade,
And through the Heavens her starry Train display'd;
What Time, between the Slaves and Boatmen rise
Quarrels of clamorous Rout. The Boatman cries,
Step in, my Masters; when with open Throat,
“Enough, you Scoundrel; will you sink the Boat?”
Thus, while the Mule is harness'd and we pay
Our Freight, an Hour in Wrangling slips away.

The fenny Frogs with Croakings hoarse and deep,
And Gnats loud-buzzing, drive away our Sleep.
Drench'd in the Lees of Wine the watry Swain
And Passenger in loud alternate Strain
Chaunt forth the absent Fair, who warms his Breast,
'Till wearied Passenger retires to Rest.

Our clumsy Bargeman sends his Mule to graze,
And the tough Cable to a Rock belays,
Then snores supine; but when at rising Light
Our Boat stood still, up starts a hair-brain'd Wight;
With Sallow Cudgel breaks the Bargeman's Pate,
And bangs the Mule at a well-favour'd Rate.
Thence onward labouring with a World of Pain
At ten, Feronia, we thy Fountain gain;
There land and bathe; then after Dinner creep
Three tedious Miles, and climb the rocky Steep
Whence Anxur shines. Mæcenas was to meet
Cocceius here, to settle Things of Weight:
For they had oft in Embassy been join'd,
And reconcil'd the Masters of Mankind.
Here while I bath'd my Eyes with cooling Ointment
They both arriv'd according to Appointment;
Fonteius too, a Man of Worth approv'd,
Without a Rival by Antonius lov'd.

Laughing we leave an Entertainment rare,
The paultry Pomp of Fundi's foolish Mayor,
The Scrivener Luscus: now with Pride elate,
With Incense fum'd, and big with Robes of State.

From thence our wearied Troop at Formiæ rests,
Murena's Lodgers, and Fonteius' Guests.
Next rising Morn with double Joy we greet,
When we with Plotius, Varius, Virgil meet:
Pure Spirits these; the World no purer knows;
For none my Heart with such Affection glows.
How oft did we embrace! Our Joys how great!
For sure no Blessing in the Power of Fate
Can be compar'd, in Sanity of Mind,
To Friends of such companionable Kind.

Near the Campanian Bridge that Night we lay,
Where public Officers our Charges pay.
Early next Morn to Capua we came;
Mæcenas goes to Tennis; hurtful Game
To a weak Appetite, and tender Eyes,
So down to sleep with Virgil Horace lies.
Then by Cocceius we were nobly treated,
Whose House above the Caudian Tavern's seated.

And now, O Muse, in faithful Numbers tell
The memorable Squabble that befel,
When Messius and Sarmentus join'd in Fight,
And whence descended each illustrious Wight.
The high-born Messius—from vile Osci came,
His Mistress might her Slave Sarmentus claim.

From such fam'd Ancestry our Champions rise—
Hear me, thou horse-fac'd Rogue, Sarmentus cries;
We laugh; when Messius, throwing up his Head,
Accepts the Challenge. O, Sarmentus said,
If you can threaten now, what would you do,
Had not the Horn been rooted out that grew
Full in thy Front. A Gash, of foul Disgrace,
Had hurt the grisly Honours of his Face.
Then on his Country's infamous Diseases,
And his foul Visage, many a Joke he raises.
He bids him, like the one-ey'd Cyclops dance;
“He neither Mask, nor tragic Buskins wants.”
Messius reply'd in Virulence of Strain;
“Did you to Saturn consecrate your Chain?
“Though you were made a Scrivener since your Flight,
“Yet that shall never hurt your Lady's Right.
“But, prithee, wherefore did you run away?
“Methinks, a single Pound of Bread a day
“Might such a sleek thin-gutted Rogue content;”
And thus the jovial Length of Night we spent.

At our next Inn our Host was almost burn'd,
While some lean Thrushes at the Fire he turn'd.

Through his old Kitchen rolls the God of Fire,
And to the Roof the vagrant Flames aspire.
But Hunger all our Terrours overcame,
We fly to save our Meat and quench the Flame.

Appulia now my native Mountains shows,
Where the North-Wind with nipping Sharpness blows,
Nor could we well have climb'd the steepy Height
Did we not at a neighbouring Village bait,
Where from green Wood the smothering Flames arise,
And with a smoky Sorrow fill our Eyes.

In Coaches thence at a large Rate we came
Eight Leagues, and baited at a Town, whose Name
Cannot in Verse and Measures be exprest,
But may by Marks and Tokens well be guest.
Its Water, Nature's cheapest Element,
Is bought and sold; its Bread, most excellent;
Which wary Travellers provide with Care,
And on their Shoulders to Canusium bear,
Whose Bread is sandy, and its wealthiest Stream
Poor as the Town's of unpoetic Name.

Here Varius leaves us, and with Tears he goes:
With equal Tenderness our Sorrow flows.
Onward to Rubi wearily we toil'd,
The Journey long, the Road with Rain was spoil'd.

To Barium, fam'd for Fish, we reach'd next Day,
The Weather fairer, but much worse the Way.
Then water-curs'd Egnatia gave us Joke,
And Laughter great, to hear the moon-struck Folk
Assert, if Incense on their Altars lay,
Without the Help of Fire it melts away.
The Sons of Circumcision may receive
The wonderous Tale, which I shall ne'er believe;
For I have better learn'd, in blissful Ease
That the good Gods enjoy immortal Days,
Nor anxiously their native Skies forsake,
When Miracles the Laws of Nature break.

From thence our Travels to Brundusium bend,
Where our long Journey, and my Paper end.

Sat. VI. To Mæcenas.

Though, since the Lydians fill'd the Tuscan Coasts,
No richer Blood than yours Etruria boasts;
Though your great Ancestors could Armies lead,
You don't, as many do, with Scorn upbraid
The Man of Birth unknown, or turn the Nose
On me, who from a Race of Slaves arose:
While you regard not, from what low Degree
A Man's descended, if his Mind be free;
Convinc'd, that long before th' ignoble Reign
And Power of Tullius, from a servile Strain
Full many rose for Virtue high renown'd,
By Worth ennobled, and with Honours crown'd:
While he, who boasts that ancient Race his own,
Which drove the haughty Tarquin from the Throne,
Is vile and worthless in the People's Eyes:
The People, who, you know, bestow the Prize
To very Scoundrels, and like Slaves to Fame
With foolish Reverence hail a well-born Name,

And with a stupid Admiration gaze,
When the long Race its Images displays.

But how shall we, who differ far and wide
From the meer Vulgar, this great Point decide?
For grant, the Croud some high-birth'd Scoundrel chuse,
And to the low-born Man of Worth refuse
(Because low-born) the Honours of the State,
Shall we from thence their Vice or Virtue rate?
Were I expell'd the Senate-House with Scorn,
Justly, perhaps, because thus meanly born
I fondly wander'd from my native Sphere;
Yet shall I with less real Worth appear?
Chain'd to her beamy Car Fame drags along
The Mean, the Great: an undistinguish'd Throng.

Poor Tillius, when compel'd in luckless Hour
To quit your purple Robe and Tribune's Power,
A larger Share of Envy was thy Fate,
Which had been lessen'd in a private State.
For in black Sandals when a Coxcomb's drest,
When floats the Robe impurple'd down his Breast,
Instant, “what Man is this,” he round him hears,
“And who his Father?” As when one appears
Sick of your Fever, Barrus, to desire
That all the World his Beauty should admire,
Curious the Ladies ask, “What Mien and Air,
“What Leg and Foot he has, what Teeth and Hair.”

So he, who promises to guard the State,
The Gods, the Temples and imperial Seat,
Makes every Mortal ask his Father's Name,
Or if his Mother was a slave-born Dame.

“And shall a Syrian Slave, like you, presume
“To hurl the freeborn Citizens of Rome
“From the Tarpeïan Rock's tremendous Height,
“Or to the Hangman Cadmus give their Fate?”

Tillius.
My Collegue sits below me one Degree,
For Novius, like my Father, was made free.

Horace.

Shall you for this a true Messala seem,
And rise a Paulus in your own Esteem?
But when two hundred Waggons croud the Street,
And three long Funerals in Procession meet,
Beyond the Fifes and Horns his Voice he raises,
And sure such Strength of Lungs a wonderous Praise is.

As for myself, a Free-man's Son confest,
A Freeman's Son, the public Scorn and Jest,
That now with you I joy the social Hour,
That once a Roman Legion own'd my Power;
But though they envy'd my Command in War
Justly perhaps, yet sure 'tis different far
To gain your Friendship, where no servile Art,
Where only Men of Merit claim a Part.

Nor yet to Chance this Happiness I owe;
Friendship like your's she had not to bestow.
My best-lov'd Virgil first, then Varius told
Among my Friends what Character I hold:
When introduc'd, in few and faultring Words
(Such as an infant Modesty affords)
I did not tell you my Descent was great,
Or that I wander'd round my Country Seat
On a proud Steed in richer Pastures bred:
But what I really was, I frankly said.

Short was your Answer, in your usual Strain;
I take my Leave, nor wait on you again,
Till, nine Months past, engag'd and bid to hold
A Place among your nearer Friends enroll'd.
An Honour this, methinks, of nobler Kind,
That innocent of Heart and pure of Mind,
Though with no titled Birth, I gain'd his Love,
Whose Judgement can discern, whose Choice approve.

If some few, trivial Faults deform my Soul
(Like a fair Face when spotted with a Mole)
If none with Avarice justly brand my Fame,
With Sordidness, or Deeds too vile to name:
If pure and innocent: if dear (forgive
These little Praises) to my Friends I live,
My Father was the Cause, who, though maintain'd
By a lean Farm but poorly, yet disdain'd

The Country-Schoolmaster, to whose low Care
The mighty Captain sent his high-born Heir
With Satchel, Copy-book, and Pelf to pay
The wretched Teacher on th' appointed Day.

To Rome by this bold Father was I brought
To learn those Arts, which well-born Youth are taught,
So drest and so attended, you would swear
I was some wealthy Lord's expensive Heir;
Himself my Guardian, of unblemish'd Truth,
Among my Tutors would attend my Youth,
And thus preserv'd my Chastity of Mind
(That prime of Virtue in its highest Kind)
Not only pure from Guilt, but even the Shame,
That might with vile Suspicion hurt my Fame;
Nor fear'd to be reproach'd, although my Fate
Should fix my Fortune in some meaner State,
From which some trivial Perquisites arise,
Or make me, like himself, Collector of Excise.

For this my Heart far from complaining pays
A larger Debt of Gratitude and Praise;
Nor, while my Senses hold, shall I repent
Of such a Father, nor with Pride resent,
As many do, th' involuntary Disgrace,
Not to be born of an illustrious Race.
But not with theirs my Sentiments agree,
Or Language; for if Nature should decree,
That we from any stated Point might live
Our former Years, and to our Choice should give
The Sires, to whom we wish'd to be allied,
Let others chuse to gratify their Pride:

While I, contented with my own, resign
The titled Honours of an ancient Line.
This may be Madness in the People's Eyes,
But in your Judgement not, perhaps, unwise;
That I refuse to bear a Pomp of State,
Unus'd and much unequal to the Weight.

Instant a larger Fortune must be made;
To purchase Votes my low Addresses paid;
Whether a Jaunt or Journey I propose
With me a Croud of new Companions goes,
While, anxious to compleat a Length of Train,
Domestics, Horses, Coaches I maintain.
But now as Chance or Pleasure is my Guide,
Upon my bob-tail'd Mule alone I ride.
Gall'd is his Crupper with my Wallet's Weight;
His Shoulder shews his Rider's aukward Seat.

Yet no penurious Vileness e'er shall stain
My Name, as when, great Prætor, with your Train
Of five poor Slaves, you carry where you dine
Your travelling Kitchen and your Flask of Wine.

Thus have I greater Blessings in my Power,
Than you, proud Senator, and thousands more.
Alone I wander, as by Fancy led,
I cheapen Herbs, or ask the Price of Bread;
I listen, while Diviners tell their Tale,
Then homeward hasten to my frugal Meal,
Herbs, Pulse, and Pancakes; each a separate Plate:
While three Domestics at my Supper wait.

A Bowl on a white Marble Table stands,
Two Goblets, and a Ewer to wash my Hands;
An hallow'd Cup of true Campanian Clay
My pure Libations to the Gods to pay.
I then retire to Rest, nor anxious fear
Before dread Marsyas early to appear,
Whose very Statue swears it cannot brook
The Meanness of a slave-born Judge's Look.
I sleep till ten; then take a Walk, or chuse
A Book, perhaps, or trifle with the Muse:
For chearful Exercise and manly Toil
Anoint my Body with the pliant Oil,
But not with such as Natta's, when he vamps
His filthy Limbs and robs the public Lamps.

But when the Sun pours down his fiercer Fire,
And bids me from the toilsome Sport retire,
I haste to bathe and decently regale
My craving Stomach with a frugal Meal;
Enough to nourish Nature for a Day,
Then trifle my Domestic Hours away.

Such is the Life from bad Ambition free;
Such Comfort has the Man low-born like me;
With which I feel myself more truly blest,
Than if my Sires the Quæstor's Power possest.

Sat. VII.

[How mungrel Persius in a vengeful Mood]

How mungrel Persius in a vengeful Mood
That out-law'd Wretch Rupilius King pursu'd
With poisonous Filth, and Venom all his own,
To Barbers and to blear-eyed Folk is known.

Persius had Wealth by foreign Traffick gain'd,
And a vexatious Suit with King maintain'd.
Presumptuous, vain, and obstinate the Wight,
Conquering even King in Virulence of Spite,
In Bitterness of Speech outstrip'd the Wind,
And left the swift-tongue'd Barrus far behind.

Now to the King returns our wandering Tale,
When all fair Means of Reconcilement fail
(For Men are obstinate when War's proclaim'd
As they with inward Courage are enflam'd;
When Hector and Achilles fierce engag'd
Dire was the Conflict and to Death they rag'd:

And why? because the gallant Thirst of Fame,
The Love of Glory was in Both extreme:
But if a Quarrel between Cowards rise,
Or between Chiefs of less heroic Size,
Glaucus to Diomed is forc'd to yield,
The Dastard buys his Peace and quits the Field)
What Time o'er Asia with Prætorial Sway
Great Brutus rul'd, began this dire Affray.
Persius and King, intrepid Pair, engage
(More equal Champions never mounted Stage)
And now they rush impetuous into Court,
Fine was the Sight, and delicate the Sport.
Persius begins; loud Bursts of Laughter rise;
He praises Brutus, Brutus, to the Skies.
“Brutus, like Sol, o'er Asia pours the Day;
“His Friends are Stars and healthful is their Ray,
“Except the King; he like the Dog-star reigns,
“That Dog of Heaven, detested by the Swains.”
Thus rush'd he onward like a Winter-Flood,
That tears it's Banks and sweeps away the Wood.

To this impetuous Bitterness of Tide
The King with equal Virulence replied.
A Vine-dresser he was of rustic Tone,
Whom oft the Traveller was forc'd to own

Invincible; with clamorous Voice opprest,
When Cuckow, Cuckow, was the standing Jest.

But with Italian Vinegar imbued,
The sour-tongu'd Mungrel the Dispute renew'd;
“Let me conjure you by the Powers divine,
“Since 'tis the Glory, Brutus, of your Line
“To slaughter Kings, be this thy glorious Deed,
“That this same King beneath thy Vengeance bleed.”

Sat. VIII.

[In Days of Yore our Godship stood]

In Days of Yore our Godship stood
A very worthless Log of Wood.
The Joiner doubting, or to shape Us
Into a Stool, or a Priapus,
At length resolv'd, for Reasons wise,
Into a God to bid me rise;
And now to Birds and Thieves I stand
A Terrour great. With ponderous Hand,
And something else as red as Scarlet,
I fright away each filching Varlet.
The Birds, that view with awful Dread
The Reeds, fast stuck into my Head,
Far from the Garden take their Flight,
Nor on the Trees presume to light.

In Coffins vile the Herd of Slaves
Were hither brought to croud their Graves;
And once in this detested Ground
A common Tomb the Vulgar found;
Buffoons and Spendthrifts, vile and base,
Together rotted here in Peace.

A thousand Feet the Front extends,
Three hundred deep in Rear it bends,
And yonder Column plainly shows
No more unto its Heirs it goes.
But now we breathe a purer Air
And walk the sunny Terrass fair,
Where once the Ground with Bones was white
With human Bones, a ghastly Sight!

But, oh! nor Thief, nor savage Beast,
That us'd these Gardens to infest,
E'er gave me half such Care and Pains
As they, who turn poor People's Brains
With venom'd Drugs and magic Lay—
These I can never fright away;
For when the beauteous Queen of Night
Up-lifts her Head adorn'd with Light,
Hither they come, pernicious Crones!
To gather poisonous Herbs and Bones.

Canidia with dishevel'd Hair
(Black was her Robe, her Feet were bare)
With Sagana, infernal Dame!
Her elder Sister, hither came.
With Yellings dire they fill'd the Place,
And hideous pale was either's Face.
Soon with their Nails they scrap'd the Ground,
And fill'd a magic Trench profound
With a black Lamb's thick-streaming Gore,
Whose Members with their Teeth they tore,
That they may charm the Sprights to tell
Some curious Anecdotes from Hell.

The Beldams then two Figures brought;
Of Wool and Wax the Forms were wrought;
The Woollen was erect and tall,
And scourg'd the waxen Image small,
Which in a suppliant, servile Mood
With dying Air just gasping stood.

On Hecate one Beldam calls;
The other to the Furies bawls,
While Serpents crawl along the Ground,
And Hell-born Bitches howl around.
The blushing Moon to shun the Sight
Behind a Tomb withdrew her Light.

Oh! if I lye, may Ravens shed
Their Ordure on my sacred Head;
May Thieves and Prostitutes and Rakes
Beneath my Nose erect a Jakes.

Not to be tedious, or repeat
How Flats and Sharps in Concert meet,
With which the Ghosts and Hags maintain
A Dialogue of passing Strain;
Or how, to hide the Tooth of Snake
And Beard of Wolf, the Ground they break;
Or how the Fire of Magic seiz'd
The waxen Form and how it blaz'd;
Mark! how my Vengeance I pursu'd
For all I heard, for all I view'd.

Loud as a Bladder bursts its Wind
Dreadful I thunder'd from behind.
To Town they scamper'd struck with Fear,
This lost her Teeth and that her Hair.
They drop'd the Bracelets from their Arms,
Their Incantations, Herbs and Charms;
Who-e'er had seen them in their Flight
Had burst with laughing at the Sight.

Sat. IX.

[Musing, as wont, on this and that]

Musing, as wont, on this and that,
Such Trifles, as I know not what,
When late the Street I saunter'd through,
A Wight, whose Name I hardly knew,

101

Approaching pertly makes me stand,
And thus accosts me, Hand in Hand.
“How do you do, my sweetest Man?”
Quoth I, as well as Mortal can,
And my best Wishes yours—When he
Would follow—What's your Will with me?
“That one of your profound discerning
“Should know me: I'm a Man of Learning.”—
Why then be sure upon that Score
You merit my Regard the more.
Impatient to discard the Fop,
One while I run, another stop,
And whisper, as he presses near,
Some nothing in my Servant's Ear.

But while at every Pore I sweated,
And thus in muttering Silence fretted—
“Bolanus, happy in a Skull
“Of Proof, impenetrably dull,
“O for a Portion of thy Brains”—
He on the Town and Streets and Lanes
His prating, praising Talent try'd,
And, when I answered not, he cry'd,
Ay, 'tis too plain; you can't deceive me,
You miserably wish to leave me.
But I shall never quit you so:
Command me—whither would you go?—
You do me Honour—but, in short,
There's not the least Occasion for't.
I visit one—to cut the Strife,
You never saw him in your Life;
Nor would I lead you such a Round—
He lives above a Mile of Ground

103

Beyond the Tyber—“Never talk
“Of Distance, for I love a Walk.
“I never have the least Enjoyment
“In Idleness: I want Employment.
“Come on; I must and will attend
“Your Person to your Journey's End.”

Like vicious Ass, that fretting bears
A wicked Load, I hang my Ears;
While he, renewing his Civilities,
“If well I know my own Abilities,
“Not Viscus, though your Friend of yore,
“Not Varius could engage you more;
“For who can write melodious Lays
“With greater Elegance or Ease?
“Who moves with smoother Grace his Limbs
“While through the mazy Dance he swims?
“Besides, I sing to that Degree
“Hermogenes might envy me.”

Have you no Mother, Sister, Friends,
Whose Welfare on your Health depends?—
“Not one; I saw them all by Turns
“Securely settled in their Urns.”
Thrice happy they, secure from Pain!
And I thy Victim now remain;
Dispatch me: for my Goody-Nurse
Early presag'd this heavy Curse.
She con'd it by the Sieve and Shears,
And now it falls upon my Ears—
Nor Poison fell, with Ruin stor'd,
Nor horrid Point of hostile Sword,
Nor Pleurisy, nor Asthma-Cough,
Nor Cripple-Gout shall cut him off:

105

A noisy Tongue and babbling Breath
Shall teize and talk my Child to Death.
But if he would avert his Fate,
When he arrives at Man's Estate
Let him avoid, as he would Hanging,
Your Folks long-winded in Haranging.

We came to Vesta's about Ten,
And he was bound in Person then
To stand a Suit, or by the Laws
He must have forfeited his Cause.
Sir, if you love me, step aside
A little into Court, he cry'd.
If I can stand it out, quoth I,
Or know the Practice, let me die:
Besides, I am oblig'd to go
Precisely to the Place you know.—
“I am divided what to do
“Whether to leave my Cause, or you.”—
Sir, I beseech you spare your Pains.
Your humble Servant—“By no Means.”
I follow, for he leads the Way;
'Tis Death; but Captives must obey.

Then he renews his plaguy Strain, as
“How stands your Friendship with Mæcenas?—
“For Friendships, he contracts but few,
“And shews in that his Judgement true.—
“Commend me to you, Brother-Bard,
“No Man has play'd a surer Card.
“But you should have a Man of Art:
“One, who might act an under-part.
“If you were pleas'd to recommend,
“The Man I mention, to your Friend,

107

“Sir, may I never see the Light
“But you shall rout your Rivals quite.”—

We live not there, as you suppose,
On such precarious Terms as those:
No Family was ever purer:
From such Infections none securer.
It never hurts me in the least,
That one excels in Wealth, or Taste;
Each Person there of course inherits
A Place proportion'd to his Merits—
“'Tis wonderful, and to be brief,
“A Thing almost beyond Belief.”—
But, whether you believe, or no,
The Matter is exactly so.
“This adds but Fewel to the Fire,
“The more you kindle my Desire
“To kiss his Hand, and pay my Court.”—
Assail, and you shall take the Fort.
Such is the Vigour of your Wit,
And he is one, who can submit;
The first Attack is therefore nice
The Matter is to break the Ice.
“I shan't be wanting there, he cry'd,
“I'll bribe his Servants to my Side;
“To-Day shut out still onward press,
“And watch the Seasons of Access;
“In private haunt, in public meet,
“Salute, escort him through the Street.
“There's nothing gotten in this Life,
“Without a World of Toil and Strife!”

While thus he racks my tortur'd Ears,
A much-lov'd Friend of mine appears,

109

Aristius Fuscus, one who knew
My sweet Companion through and through.
We stop, exchanging “So and so:”
“Whence come, and whither do you go?”

I then began in woful wise
To nod my Head, distort my Eyes,
And pull his Renegado Sleeve,
That he would grant me a Reprieve;
But he was absent all the while,
Malicious with a leering Smile.

Provok'd at his Dissimulation
I burst with Spleen and Indignation.
“I know not what you had to tell
“In private.”—I remember well:
But shall a Day of Business chuse,
This is the Sabbath of the Jews;
You would not thus offend the leathern-
curtail'd Assemblies of the Brethren.—
“I have no Scruples, by your Leave,
“On that account.”—But, Sir, I have:
I am a little superstitious,
Like many of the Croud capricious:
Forgive me, if it be a Crime,
And I shall talk another Time.—

Oh! that so black a Sun should rise!
Away the cruel Creature flies,
And leaves me panting for my Life
Aghast beneath the Butcher's Knife.

At last, by special Act of Grace
The Plaintiff meets him Face to Face,
And bawls as loud as he could bellow:
“Ha! whither now, thou vilest Fellow?

111

“Sir, will you witness for my Capture?”
I signified, I would with Rapture;
And then to magnify the Sport
He drags my Pratler into Court;
And thus, amidst the Noise and Rabble,
Apollo sav'd me in the Squabble.

Sat. X.

[Yes, I did say, that his rough Verses roll'd]

Yes, I did say, that his rough Verses roll'd
In ruder Style præcipitately bold;
Who reads Lucilius with so fond an Eye,
Foolishly fond, who can this Charge deny?
But, that with Wit he lash'd a vicious Age,
He's frankly prais'd in the same equal Page.
Should I grant more, I may as well admit
Laberius' Farces elegantly writ.

113

'Tis not enough a bursting Laugh to raise,
And yet even this may well deserve its Praise;
Close be your Language; let your Sense be clear,
Nor with a Weight of Words fatigue the Ear.
From grave to jovial you must change with Art,
Now play the Critic's, now the Poet's Part;
In Raillery assume a gayer Air,
Discreetly hide your Strength, your Vigour spare,
For Ridicule shall frequently prevail,
And cut the Knot, when graver Reasons fail.

The ancient Writers of the comic Stage
Our Imitation here may well engage,
Though read not by Tigellius, smooth of Face,
Or yonder Ape, of horrible Grimace.
Calvus, Catullus better suit their Vein,
Whose wanton Songs they chaunt in tuneful Strain.

But yet a mighty Feat it must be thought—
“His motley Page with Greek and Latin's wrought!”
Blockheads! who think it wonderful or hard,
So oft perform'd by yonder Rhodian Bard.

“But Languages each other may refine
“(As Chian softens the Falernian Wine)

115

“At least in Verse.” But say, my rhiming Friend,
Were you that Thief Petillius to defend,
While other Lawyers sweated in the Cause,
And urg'd in pure Latinity the Laws:
While wondering Crouds upon their Language hung,
Would you forgetful of your native Tongue,
In foreign Words and broken Phrases speak,
The half-bred Jargon of a mungrel Greek?

Italian born, I once propos'd to write
Some Grecian Versicles, in deep of Night
(When Dreams, they say, are true) Rome's Founder rose
And awful spake, “You may as well propose
“To carry Timber to a Wood, as throng
“The crouded Writers of the Grecian Song.”

Let swelling Furius on th' affrighted Stage
Murder poor Memnon, or in muddy Rage
Deform the Head of Rhine: in idle Vein
I write, what never shall presume to gain
The Prize, where Metius high in Judgement sits
To hear the Labours of contending Wits;
Or where the People with applauding Hands
The well-wrought Scene repeatedly demands.

Of all Mankind, in light and chearful Strain
Fundanius best can paint the comic Scene,

117

The wily Harlot, and the Slave, who join
To wipe the Miser of his darling Coin.
Pollio in pure, Iambic Numbers sings
The tragic Deeds of Heroes and of Kings;
And Varius in sublime and ardent Vein
Supports the Grandeur of the Epic Strain.
On Virgil all the rural Muses smile,
Smooth flow his Lines, and elegant his Style.
Satire alone remain'd, no easy Strain,
Which Varro, and some others, try'd in vain,
Where I, perhaps, some slight Success may claim,
Though far inferior to th' Inventor's Fame:
Nor from his Head shall I presume to tear
That sacred Wreath, he well deserves to wear.

I said, his Verse in muddy Rapture flows,
And more his Errours, than his Beauties shows;
But, prithee, You that boast a Critic's Name
Don't you sometimes the mighty Homer blame?
Does not Lucilius, though of gentle Strain,
Correct even Accius and reform his Scene?
And in his Pleasantry old Ennius rate,
When his dull Lines want Dignity and Weight?
Yet when he speaks of his own Right to Fame
Confesses frankly their superior Claim.

What then forbids our equal Right to know
Why his own Verses inharmonious flow?
Or whether in his Subject lies the Fault,
Or in himself, that they're not higher wrought,
Than if the Art of Verse were to confine
In ten low Feet a cold, dull Length of Line,

119

Content his rhiming Talents to display
In twice an hundred Verses twice a Day.
Such, Cassius, thy Rapidity of Song,
Which like a foaming River pour'd along,
Whose volum'd Works (if Fame be not a Liar)
Kindled around thy Corps the funeral Fire.

Lucilius raillies with politer Ease
Than all the rhiming Tribe of ancient Days,
Nay more correct than him (I frankly own)
Who form'd this Kind of Verse to Greece unknown;
Yet, were he fated to the present Age,
He sure had blotted the redundant Page;
Prun'd all luxuriant Excellence away,
And while he labour'd o'er th' instructive Lay
Would often scratch his Head in dull Despair
And to the Quick his Nails bemusing tear.

Would you a Reader's just Esteem engage?
Frequent correct with Care the blotted Page;
Nor strive the Wonder of the Croud to raise,
But the few better Judges learn to please.
Be thine, fond Madman, some vile School to chuse,
Where to repeat the Labours of your Muse,
While I, like hiss'd Arbuscula unaw'd,
Despise the Vulgar, since the Knights applaud.

Say, shall that Bug Pantilius move my Spleen?
Shall I be tortur'd when a Wretch obscene,
Or foolish Fannius, for a sordid Treat
With sweet Tigellius, shall my Verses rate?
Let Plotius, Varius, and Mæcenas deign
With Virgil, Valgius, to approve my Strain;
Let good Octavius even endure my Lays;
Let Fuscus read, and either Viscus praise;

121

Let me, with no mean Arts to purchase Fame,
Pollio, Messala, and his Brother name:
Let Bibulus and Servius be my own,
And Furnius for a Critic's Candour known;
Among my learned Friends are many more,
Whose Names I pass in modest Silence o'er;
These I can wish to smile; enjoy their Praise;
Hope to delight, and grieve if I can please.
Be gone, Demetrius, to thy lovesome Train
Of minstrel Scholars, and in sighing Strain
With soft Hermogenes these Rhimes deplore—
Haste, Boy, transcribe me this one Satire more.

End of the First Book.

123

THE SECOND BOOK OF THE SATIRES of HORACE.

Sat. I. Horace. Trebatius.

Horace.
There are to whom too poignant I appear;
Beyond the Laws of Satire too severe.
My Lines are weak, unsinew'd, others say—
A Man might spin a thousand such a Day.

125

What shall I do, Trebatius?

Treb.
Write no more.

Horace.
What! Give the dear Delight of scribling o'er?

Treb.
Yes.

Horace.
Let me die but your Advice were best.
But, Sir, I cannot sleep; I cannot rest.

Treb.
Swim o'er the Tiber, if you want to sleep,
Or the dull Sense in t'other Bottle steep,
Or to immortal Cæsar tune your Lays,
Indulge your Genius, and your Fortune raise.

Horace.
Oh! were I equal to the glorious Theme,
Wide o'er the Field his Iron War should gleam;
A thousand Darts should pierce the hardy Gaul,
And from his Horse the wounded Parthian fall.

127

Treb.
Then give his peaceful Virtues forth to Fame;
His Fortitude and Justice be your Theme.

Horace.
Yes. I will hold the daring Theme in view,
Perhaps hereafter your Advice pursue.
But Cæsar never will your Horace hear;
A languid Panegyric hurts his Ear.
Too strongly guarded from the Poet's Lays
He spurns the Flatterer and his saucy Praise.

Treb.
Better even this, than cruelly defame,
And point Buffoons and Villains out by Name.
Sure to be hated even by those You spare,
Who hate in just Proportion as they fear.

Horace.

Tell me, Trebatius, are not all Mankind
To different Pleasures, different Whims inclin'd?
Milonius dances when his Head grows light,
And the dim Lamp shines double to his Sight.
The Twin-born Brothers in their Sports divide;
Pollux loves boxing; Castor joys to ride.
Indulge me then in this my sole Delight,
Like great and good Lucilius let me write.

129

Behold him frankly to his Book impart,
As to a Friend, the Secrets of his Heart:
To write was all his Aim; too heedless Bard,
And well or ill, unworthy his Regard.
Hence the old Man stands open to your View,
Though with a careless Hand the Piece he drew.

His Steps I follow in Pursuit of Fame,
Whether Lucania or Apulia claim
The Honour of my Birth; for on the Lands,
By Samnites once possest, Venusium stands,
A forward Barrier, as old Tales relate,
To stop the Course of War and guard the State.

Let this Digression, as it may, succeed—
No honest Man shall by my Satire bleed;
It guards me like a Sword, and safe it lies
Within the Sheath 'till Thieves and Villains rise.

Dread King and Father of the mortal Race,
Behold me, harmless Bard, how fond of Peace!
And may all Kinds of mischief-making Steel
In Rust, eternal Rust, thy Vengeance feel.

131

But he who hurts me (nay, I will be heard)
Had better take a Lion by the Beard;
His Eyes shall weep the Folly of his Tongue,
By laughing Crouds in rueful Ballad sung.

Th' Informer Cervius threatens with the Laws;
Turius your Judge, You surely lose your Cause;
Are you the Object of Canidia's Hate,
Drugs, Poisons, Incantations, are your Fate:
For powerful Nature to her Creatures shows
With various Arms to terrify their Foes.
The Wolf with Teeth, the Bull with Horns can fight;
Whence, but from Instinct and an inward Light?
His long-liv'd Mother trusts to Scæva's Care—

Treb.
No Deed of Blood his pious Hand could dare?

Horace.

Wonderous indeed! that Bulls ne'er strive to bite,
Nor Wolves, with desperate Horns, engage in fight.
No Mother's Blood the gentle Scæva spills,
But with a Draught of honey'd Poison kills.

Then, whether Age my peaceful Hours attend,
Or Death his sable Pinions round me bend:
Or Rich, or Poor: at Rome; to Exile driven:
Whatever Lot by powerful Fate is given,
See me resolv'd to write.

Treb.
How much I dread
Thy Days are short; some Lord shall strike thee dead

133

With freezing Look—

Horace.

What! when with honest Rage
Lucilius lash'd the Vices of his Age;
From conscious Villains tore the Mask away,
And strip'd them naked to the Glare of Day,
Were Lælius or his Friend (whose glorious Name
From conquer'd Carthage deathless rose to Fame)
Were they displeas'd when Villains and their Crimes
Were cover'd o'er with Infamy and Rhimes?
The titled Knave he boldly made his Prize,
And durst the People Tribe by Tribe chastise;
While yet to Virtue and to Virtue's Friends,
And them alone, with Reverence he bends:
But soon as Scipio, once in Arms approv'd,
And Lælius, for his milder Wisdom lov'd,
Could from the noisy World with him retreat,
They laugh'd at all the busy Farce of State,
Enjoy'd the vacant Hour, the social Jest,
Until their Herbs, their frugal Feast, were drest.

What though with great Lucilius I disclaim
All saucy Rivalship of Birth or Fame.
Spite of herself even Envy must confess,
That I the Friendship of the Great possess,
And, if she dare attempt my honest Fame,
Shall break her Teeth against my solid Name.

135

This is my Plea: on this I rest my Cause—
What says my Council, learned in the Laws?

Treb.
Your Case is clearer; yet let me advise;
For sad Mishaps from Ignorance arise.
Behold the Pains and Penalties decreed
To Libellers—

Horace.
To Libellers indeed.
But, if with Truth his Characters he draws,
Even Cæsar shall support the Poet's Cause;
The formal Process shall be turn'd to Sport,
And you dismist with Honour by the Court.

137

Sat. II.

[What, and how great the Virtue, Friends, to live]

What, and how great the Virtue, Friends, to live
On what the Gods with frugal Bounty give
(Nor are they mine, but sage Ofellus' Rules,
Of Mother-Wit, and wise without the Schools)
Come learn with me, but learn before ye dine,
Ere with luxurious Pomp the Table shine;
Ere yet its madding Splendours are display'd,
That dull the Sense and the weak Mind mislead.
Yet why before we dine? I'll tell ye, Friends,
A Judge, when brib'd, but ill to Truth attends.

Pursue the Chace: th' unmanag'd Courser rein:
Or, if the Roman War ill-suit thy Vein
To Grecian Revels form'd, at Tennis play,
Or at the manly Discus waste the Day;
With Vigour hurl it through the yielding Air
(The Sport shall make the Labour less severe)
Then, when the Loathings, that from Surfeits rise,
Are quell'd by Toil, a frugal Meal despise;
Then the Falernian Grape with Pride disclaim,
Unless with Honey we correct its Flame.

139

Your Butler strolls abroad; the winter'd Sea
Defends its Fish; but you can well allay
The Stomach's angry Roar with Bread and Salt—
Whence can this rise, you ask; from whence the Fault?
In you consists the Pleasure of the Treat,
Not in the Price, or Flavour of the Meat.

Let the strong Toil give Relish to the Dish,
Since nor the various Luxuries of Fish,
Nor foreign Wild-fowl can delight the pale
Surfeit-swoln Guest: yet I shall ne'er prevail
To bid our Men of Taste a Pullet chuse,
And the gay Peacock with its Train refuse;
For the rare Bird at mighty Price is sold,
And lo! what Wonders from its Tail unfold!
But can these Whims a higher Gusto raise,
Unless you eat the Plumage that you praise?
Or do its Glories, when 'tis boil'd, remain?
No; 'tis th' unequal'd Beauty of his Train
Deludes your Eye and charms you to the Feast,
For Hens and Peacocks are of equal Taste.

But say, by what Discernment are you taught
To know, that this voracious Pike was caught
Where the full River's lenient Waters glide,
Or where the Bridges break the rapid Tide:
In the mid Ocean, or where Tiber pays
With broader Course his Tribute to the Seas?

141

Madly you praise the Mullet's three pound Weight,
And yet you stew it piece-meal ere you eat;
Your Eye deceives You; wherefore else dislike
The natural Greatness of a full-grown Pike,
Yet in a Mullet so much Joy express?
“Pikes are by Nature large, and Mullets less.”

Give me, the Harpy-throated Glutton cries,
In a large Dish a Mullet's mighty Size:
Descend, ye southern Winds, propitious haste,
And with unwholesome Rankness taint the Feast.
And yet it needs not; for when such Excess
Shall his o'er-jaded Appetite oppress,
The new-caught Turbot's tainted ere he eat,
And bitter Herbs are a delicious Treat.

But still some ancient Poverty remains;
An Egg and Olive yet a Place maintains
At wealthy Tables; nor, till late, the Fame
Of a whole Sturgeon damn'd a Prætor's Name.

Did Ocean then a smaller Turbot yield?
The towering Stork did once in Safety build
Her airy Nest, nor was the Turbot caught,
Till your great Prætor better Precepts taught.

143

Proclaim, that roasted Cormorants are a Feast,
Our docile Youth obey the Man of Taste;
But sage Ofellus marks a decent Mean
A sordid and a frugal Meal between;
For a profuse Expence in vain You shun,
If into sordid Avarice you run.

Avidienus, who with Surname just
Was call'd the Dog, in Filthiness of Gust
Wild Cornels, Olives five Years old, devour'd,
And with sour Wine his vile Libations pour'd.
When robe'd in white he mark'd with festal Mirth
His Day of Marriage, or his Hour of Birth,
From his one Bottle, of some two-pound Weight,
With Oil, of execrable Stench, replete,
With cautious Hand he drop'd his Cabbage o'er,
But spar'd his ancient Vinegar no more.

How shall the Wise decide, thus urg'd between
The Proverb's ravening Wolf and Dog obscene?
Let him avoid an equal Wretchedness
Of sordid Filth, or prodigal Excess;
Nor his poor Slaves like old Albucius rate,
When he gives Orders for some curious Treat;
Nor yet like Nævius, carelesly unclean,
His Guests with greasy Water entertain.

This too is vile. Now mark, what Blessings flow
From frugal Meals; and first they can bestow

145

That Prime of Blessings, Health: for you'll confess
That various Meats the Stomach must oppress,
If you reflect how light, how well you were,
When plain and simple was the chearful Fare;
But roast, and boil'd, when you promiscuous eat,
When Fowl and Shell-fish in Confusion meet,
Sweets, turn'd to Choler, with cold Phlegm engage,
And in the Stomach civil Warfare wage.

Behold how pale the sated Guests arise
From Suppers puzzled with Varieties!
The Body too, with Yesterday's Excess
Burthen'd and tir'd, shall the pure Soul depress;
Weigh down this Portion of celestial Birth,
This Breath of God, and fix it to the Earth.

Who down to sleep from a short Supper lies,
Can to the next Day's Business vigorous rise,
Or jovial wander, when the rolling Year
Brings back the festal Day, to better Cheer,
Or when his wasted Strength he would restore,
When Years approach, and Age's feeble Hour
A softer Treatment claim. But if in Prime
Of Youth and Health you take before your Time
The Luxuries of Life, where is their Aid
When Age or Sickness shall your Strength invade?

Our Fathers lov'd (and yet they had a Nose)
A tainted Boar: but I believe they chose
The mouldy Fragments with a Friend to eat,
Nor by themselves devour it whole, and sweet.
Oh! that the Earth, when vigorous and young,
Had borne me this heroic Race among!

147

Do You the Voice of Fame with Pleasure hear?
(Sweeter than Verse it charms the human Ear)
Behold, what Infamy and Ruin rise
From a large Dish, where the large Turbot lies;
Your Friends, your Neighbours all your Folly hate,
And you yourself, in vain, shall curse your Fate,
When, though You wish for Death, You want the Pelf
To purchase even a Rope to hang yourself.

“These Precepts well may wretched Trausius rate;
“But why to me? So large is my Estate,
“And such an ample Revenue it brings
“To satiate even the Avarice of Kings.”
Then why not better use this proud Excess
Of worthless Wealth? Why lives in deep Distress
A Man unworthy to be poor, or why
Our sacred Shrines in aged Ruins lie?
Why not of such a massy Treasure spare
To thy dear Country, Wretch, a moderate Share?
Shalt thou alone no Change of Fortune know?
Thou future Laughter to thy deadliest Foe!

But who, with conscious Spirit self-secure,
A Change of Fortune better shall endure?
He, who with such Variety of Food
Pampers his Follies and enflames his Blood,
Or he, contented with his frugal Store,
And wisely cautious of the future Hour,
Who in the Time of Peace with prudent Care
Shall for th' Extremities of War prepare?

But, deeper to impress this useful Truth,
I knew the sage Ofellus in my Youth,
Living, when wealthy, at no larger Rate,
Than in his present more contracted State.

149

I saw the hardy Hireling till the Ground
('Twas once his own Estate) and while around
His Cattle graz'd, and Children listening stood,
The chearful Swain his pleasing Tale pursued.

On working-days I had no idle Treat,
But a smok'd Leg of Pork and Greens I eat;
Yet when arriv'd some long-expected Guest,
Or rainy Weather gave an Hour of Rest,
If a kind Neighbour then a Visit paid,
An Entertainment more profuse I made;
Though with a Kid, or Pullet well content,
Ne'er for luxurious Fish to Rome I sent;
With Nuts and Figs I crown'd the chearful Board,
The largest that the Season could afford.
The social Glass went round with Chearfulness,
And our sole Rule was to avoid Excess.
Our due Libations were to Ceres paid,
To bless our Corn, and fill the rising Blade,
While the gay Wine dispel'd each anxious Care,
And smooth'd the wrinkled Forehead too severe.

Let Fortune rage, and new Disorders make,
From such a Life how little can she take?
Or have we liv'd at a more frugal Rate
Since this new Stranger seiz'd on our Estate?
Nature will no perpetual Heir assign,
Or make the Farm his Property or mine.
He turn'd us out; but Follies all his own,
Or Law-suits and their Knaveries yet unknown,

151

Or, all his Follies and his Law-suits past,
Some long-liv'd Heir shall turn him out at last.
The Farm, once mine, now bears Umbrenus' Name;
The Use alone, not Property we claim;
Then be not with your present Lot deprest,
And meet the future with undaunted Breast.

Sat. III. Damasippus. Horace.

Damas.
If hardly once a Quarter of a Year,
So idle grown, a single Sheet appear;
If angry at yourself, that Sleep and Wine
Enjoy your Hours, while anxious to refine
Your Labours past, no more your Voice you raise
To aught that may deserve the publick Praise,

153

What shall be done? When Saturn's jovial Feast,
Seem'd too luxuriant to your sober Taste,
Hither you fled. Then try the pleasing Strain:
Come on: begin.

Horace.
Alas! 'tis all in vain,
While I with Impotence of Rage abuse
My harmless Pens, the guiltless Walls accuse;
Walls, that seem rais'd in angry Heaven's Despite,
The Curse of peevish Poets, when they write.

Damas.
And yet you threaten'd something wonderous great,
When you should warm you in your Country-seat.
Why croud the Volumes of the Grecian Sage,
Rang'd with the Writers of the comic Stage?
Think you the Wrath of Envy to appease,
Your Virtue lost in Idleness and Ease?
Unhappy Bard, to sure Contempt you run,
Then learn the Siren Idleness to shun,
Or poorly be content to lose the Fame,
Which your past Hours of better Life might claim.

Horace.
Sage Damasippus, may the Powers divine,
For this same excellent Advice of thine,
Give thee a Barber, in their special Grace,
To nurse your Beard, that Wisdom of the Face.

155

Yet, prithee, tell me whence I'm so well known.

Damas.
When I had lost all Business of my own,
And at th' Exchange my ship-wreck'd Fortunes broke,
I minded the Affairs of other Folk.
In rare Antiques full curious was my Taste,
Here the rude Chizzel's rougher Strokes I trac'd;
In flowing Brass a vicious Hardness found,
Or bought a Statue for five hundred Pound.
A perfect Connoisseur at gainful Rate,
I purchas'd Gardens, or a Mansion-Seat.
Thus through the City was I known to Fame,
And Mercury's Favourite my public Name.

Horace.
I knew your Illness, and amaz'd beheld
Your sudden Cure.

Damas.
A new Disease expell'd
My old Distemper: as when changing Pains
Fly to the Stomach from the Head and Reins.
Thus the Lethargie, starting from his Bed
In boxing Frenzy, broke his Doctor's Head.

157

Horace.
Spare but this Frenzy, use me as you please—

Damas.

Good Sir, don't triumph in your own Disease,
For all are Fools or Mad, as well as you,
At least, if what Stertinius says, be true,
Whose wonderous Precepts I with Pleasure heard,
What Time he bad me nurse this reverend Beard,
Chearful from the Fabrician Bridge depart,
And with the Words of Comfort fill'd my Heart.

For when, my Fortunes lost, resolv'd I stood,
Covering my Head, to plunge into the Flood,
Propitious he addrest me—

Stertinius.

Friend, take heed,
Nor wrong yourself by this unworthy Deed.
'Tis but a vicious Modesty to fear
Among the Mad a Madman to appear.
But listen heedful first, while I explain
What Madness is, what Errour of the Brain;
And if in you alone appear its Power,
Then bravely perish: I shall say no more.

159

Whom vicious Passions, or whom Falshood, blind,
Are by the Stoics held of madding Kind.
All but the Wise are by this Process bound,
The subject Nations, and the Monarch crown'd,
And they, who call you Fool, with equal Claim
May plead an ample Title to the Name.

When in a Wood we leave the certain Way
One Errour fools us, though we various stray,
Some to the left, and some to t'other Side;
So he who dares thy Madness to deride,
Though you may frankly own yourself a Fool,
Behind him trails his Mark of Ridicule.
For various Follies fill the human Breast,
As, with unreal Terrours when possest,
A Wretch in superstitious Frenzy cries,
Lo! in the Plain what Rocks, what Rivers rise!
A different Madness, though not less, inspires
The Fool, who rushes wild through Streams and Fires;
His Mother, Sister, Father, Friends and Wife,
Cry out, in vain, Ah! yet preserve thy Life;
That head-long Ditch! how dreadful it appears!
That hanging Precipice! no more he hears,
Than drunken Fufius lately at a Play
Who fairly slept Ilione away,

161

While the full Pit, with clamorous thousands, cries,
Arise, dear Mother, to my Aid, arise.

Now listen while full clearly I maintain
Such is the vulgar Errour of the Brain.
Some rare Antique, suppose, your Madness buys;
Is he, who lends the Money, less unwise?
Or if the Usurer Perillius said,
Take what I ne'er expect shall be repaid,
Are you a Fool to take it, or not more
T'affront the God, who sends the shining Store

Perillius.
Ay; but I make him on a Banker draw—

Stert.

'Tis not enough: add all the Forms of Law;
The knotty Contracts of Cicuta's Brain,
This wicked Proteus shall escape the Chain:
Drag him to Justice, he's a Bird, a Stone,
And laughs, as if his Cheeks were not his own.

If bad Oeconomists are held unwise,
In good Oeconomy some Wisdom lies,
And then Perillius is of tainted Brain,
Who takes your Bond, to sue for it in vain.

Come all, whose Breasts with bad Ambition rise,
Or the pale Passion, that for Money dies,

163

With Luxury, or Superstition's Gloom,
Whate'er Disease your Health of Mind consume,
Compose your Robes; in decent Ranks draw near,
And, that ye all are mad, with Reverence hear.

Misers make whole Anticyra their own:
Its Hellebore reserv'd for them alone.
Staberius thus compell'd his Heirs t'engrave
On his proud Tomb what Legacies he gave,
Or stand condemn'd to give the Croud a Feast,
By Arrius form'd in Elegance of Taste,
And Gladiators, even an hundred Pair,
With all the Corn of Afric's fruitful Year.
Such is my Will, and whether Fool or Wise,
I scorn your Censures the Testator cries.
Wisely perceiving—

Damas.
What could he perceive,
Thus on his Tomb his Fortune to engrave?

Stert.
Long as he liv'd, he look'd on Poverty,
And shun'd it as a Crime of blackest Dye;
And had he died one Farthing less in Pelf,
Had seem'd a worthless Villain to himself;
For Virtue, Glory, Beauty, all divine
And human Powers, immortal Gold! are thine;

165

And he, who piles the shining Heap, shall rise
Noble, brave, just—

Damas.
You will not call him wise.

Stert.

Yes; any thing; a Monarch, if he please;
And thus Staberius, nobly fond of Praise,
By latest Times might hope to be admir'd,
As if his Virtue had his Wealth acquir'd.

When Aristippus, on the Lybian Waste
Commands his Slaves, because it stop'd their Haste,
To throw away his Gold, does he not seem
To be as mad, in opposite Extreme?

Damas.
By such Examples, Truth can ne'er be try'd:
They but perplex the Question, not decide.

Stert.

If a Man fill'd his Cabinet with Lyres,
Whom neither Music charms, nor Muse inspires:
Should he buy Lasts and Knives, who never made
A Shoe; or if a Wight, who hated Trade
The Sails and Tackle for a Vessel bought,
Madman or Fool he might be justly thought.
But, prithee, where's the Difference, to behold
A Wretch, who heaps and hides his darling Gold;
Unknowing how to use the massy Store,
Yet dreads to violate the sacred Ore?

167

With a long Club, and ever-open Eyes,
To guard his Corn its wretched Master lies,
Nor dares, though hungry, touch the hoarded Grain,
While bitter Herbs his frugal Life sustain;
If in his Cellar lie a thousand Flasks
(Nay, let them rise to thrice a thousand Gasks)
Of old Falernian, or of Chian Vine,
Yet if he drink meer Vinegar for Wine;
If at Fourscore of Straw he made his Bed,
While Moths upon his rotting Carpets fed,
By few, forsooth, a Madman he is thought,
For half Mankind the same Disease have caught.

Thou Dotard, cursed in the Love of Pelf,
For fear of starving, will you starve yourself?
Or do you this ill-gotten Treasure save
For a luxurious Son, or favourite Slave?
How little would thy Mass of Money waste,
Did you on better Oil and Cabbage feast;
Or on thy clotted Hair and Dandriff-Head,
A sweeter Essence more profusely shed?
If Nature wish for no immoderate Store,
Then why forswear, and rob, and steal for more?

Yet are you sound? But if your Folly raves
With Stones to kill the People or your Slaves;
Those Slaves, whom you with Pelf, how precious! buy,
A Madman, Madman, even the Children cry.
Is your Head safe, although You hang your Wife,
Or take by Poison your old Mother's Life?
What! nor in Argos you commit the Deed,
Nor did your Mother by a Dagger bleed;

169

Nor by a mad Orestes was she slain—
But was Orestes of untainted Brain,
Or was he not by Furies dire possest,
Before he plung'd the Dagger in her Breast?

Yet from the Time you hold him hurt in Mind,
His wildest Actions are of harmless Kind.
He neither stabs his Sister nor his Friend;
In a few Curses his worst Passions end;
He calls her Fury, or whatever Names
Flow from a Breast, which Choler high enflames.

Opimius, wanting even what he possest,
In earthen Cups, on some more solemn Feast,
Quaff'd the poor Juices of a meagre Vine,
On Week-Days dead and vapid was his Wine,
When with an heavy Lethargy opprest,
His Heir in Triumph ran from Chest to Chest;
Swift to his Aid his faithful Doctor flies,
And to restore him this Expedient tries;
From out his Bags he pours the shining Store,
And bids a Croud of People count it o'er;
Then plac'd the Table near his Patient's Bed,
And loud, as if he rouz'd him from the Dead,
“Awake, and guard your Wealth; this Moment wake:
“Your ravening Heir will every Shilling take.”
What! while I live? “Then, wake, that you may live;
“Here take the best Prescription I can give.
“Your bloodless Veins, your Appetite shall fail,
“Unless You raise them by a powerful Meal.

171

“Take this Ptisane—” What will it cost? Nay, hold.
“A very Trifle.” Sir, I will be told.—
“Three Pence.”—Alas! what does it signify,
Whether by Doctors, or by Thieves I die?

Damas.
Who then is sound?

Stert.
Whoever's not a Fool.

Damas.
What think you of the Miser?

Stert.
By my Rule,
Both Fool and Madman.

Damas.
Is he sound and well,
If not a Miser?

Stert.
No.

Damas.
I prithee tell,
Good Stoic, why?

Stert.

Let us suppose you heard
An able Doctor, who perchance declar'd
His Patient's Stomach good; yet shall he rise,
Or is he well? Ah! no, the Doctor cries,
Because a keen Variety of Pains
Attack the Wretch's Side, or vex his Reins.

173

You are not perjur'd, or to Gold a Slave;
Let Heaven your grateful Sacrifice receive.
But if your Breast with bold Ambition glows,
Set sail where Hellebore abundant grows.
For, prithee, say, what Difference can you find,
Whether to Scoundrels of the vilest Kind
You throw away your Wealth in lewd Excess,
Or know not to enjoy what you possess?

When rich Oppidius, as old Tales relate,
To his two Sons divided his Estate,
Two ancient Farms, he call'd them to his Bed,
And dying thus with faultering Accent said;
In your loose Robe when I have seen you bear
Your Play-things, Aulus, with an heedless Air,
Or careless give them to your Friends away,
Or with a Gamester's desperate Spirit play;
While you, Tiberius, anxious counted o'er
Your childish Wealth, and hid the little Store,
A different Madness seem'd to be your Fate,
Misers or Spendthrifts born to imitate.
Then, by our household Gods, my Sons, I charge,
That you ne'er lessen, that you ne'er enlarge
What seems sufficient to your tender Sire,
And Nature's most unbounded Wants require.

That Glory ne'er may tempt ye, hear this Oath,
By whose eternal Power I bind ye both,

175

Curs'd be the Wretch, an Object of my Hate,
Whoe'er accepts an Office in the State.
Will you in Largesses exhaust your Store,
That you may proudly stalk the Circus o'er?
Or in the Capitol embronz'd may stand,
Spoil'd of your Fortune and paternal Land?
And thus, forsooth, Agrippa's Praise engage,
Or shew, with Reynard's Tricks, the Lion's Rage?

Wherefore does Ajax thus unburied lie?

Agam.
We are a King,

Stert.
A base Plebeian I,
Shall ask no more.

Agam.
'Twas just what we decreed;
But, if you think it an unrighteous Deed,
In Safety speak. We here our Rights resign.

Stert.
Greatest of Monarchs, may the Powers divine
A safe Return permit you to enjoy,
With your victorious Fleet, from ruin'd Troy—
But may I ask, and answer without Fear?

Agam.
You may.

Stert.
Then wherefore rots great Ajax here,

177

For many a Grecian sav'd who well might claim
To brave Achilles the next Place in Fame?
Is it that Priam, and the Sires of Troy,
May view his Carcass with malignant Joy,
By whom their Sons so oft destroy'd in Fight
In their own Country want the funeral Rite?

Agam.
A thousand Sheep the Frantick kill'd, and cry'd,
“Here both Atrides; there Ulysses died.”

Stert.
When your own Child you to the Altar led,
And pour'd the salted Meal upon her Head;
When you beheld the lovely Victim slain,
Unnatural Father! were you sound of Brain?

Agam.
Why not?

Stert.
Then what did frantick Ajax do,
When in his Rage a thousand Sheep he slew?
Nor on his Wife or Son he drew his Sword,
But on your Head his Imprecations pour'd:
Nor on his Brother turn'd the vengeful Steel,
Nor did Ulysses his Resentment feel.

Agam.
But I, while adverse Winds tempestuous roar,
To loose our fated Navy from the Shore

179

Wisely with Blood the Powers divine atone—

Stret.
What! your own Blood, you Madman?

Agam.
Yes, my own;
But yet not mad.

Stret.

'Tis a disorder'd Head,
Which, by the Passions in Confusion led,
The Images of Right and Wrong mistakes,
And Rage or Folly no great Difference makes.

Was Ajax mad, when those poor Lambs he slew,
And are your Senses right, while you pursue,
With such a Crime, an empty Title's Fame?
Is the Heart pure high-swelling for a Name?

Should a Man take a Lambkin in his Chair,
With fondling Names caress the spotless Fair;
Clothes, Maids and Gold, as for his Child, provide,
And a stout Husband for the lovely Bride,
His civil Rights the Judge would take away,
And to Trustees in Guardianship convey.
Then sure you will not call him sound of Brain,
By whom his Daughter for a Lamb was slain.

181

Blood-stain'd Bellona thunders round his Head,
Who is by glassy Fame in Triumph led.

Now try the Sons of Luxury, you'll find,
That Reason proves them Fools of madding kind
A thousand Talents yonder Youth receives,
Paternal Wealth, and streight his Orders gives,
That all the Trades of Elegance and Taste,
All who with Wit and Humour joy a Feast,
The impious Croud, that fills the Tuscan Street,
And the whole Shambles at his House should meet.
What then? they frequent his Command obey'd,
And thus his Speech the wily Pander made.
Whate'er these People have: whate'er is mine;
To-day, to-morrow send, be sure is thine.

Hear the just Youth this generous Answer make,
“In clumsy Boots, dear Hunter, for my sake,
“You sleep in wild Lucania's snowy Waste,
“That I at Night on a whole Boar may feast.
“For Fish you boldly sweep the wintry Seas,
“That I, unworthy, may enjoy my Ease.
“Let each five hundred Pounds, with Pleasure, take,
“To thee, dear Pander, I a Present make
“Of twice a thousand, that with all her Charms
“Your Wife at Night may run into my Arms.”

An Actor's Son dissolv'd a wealthy Pearl
(The precious Ear-ring of his favourite Girl)
In Vinegar, and thus luxurious quaff'd
A thousand solid Talents at a Draught.
Had he not equally his Wisdom shown,
Into the Sink or River were it thrown?

A noble Pair of Brothers, Twins, in Truth,
In all th' Excesses, Trifles, Crimes of Youth,

183

On Nightingales of monstrous Purchase din'd;
What is their Process? Are they sound of Mind?

Suppose, in childish Architecture skill'd,
A bearded Sage his Castle-Cottage build,
Play odd and even, ride his reedy Cane,
And yoke his harness'd Mice, 'tis Madness plain.
But what if Reason, powerful Reason, prove
'Tis more than equal Childishness to love?
If there's no Difference, whether in the Dust
You sport your Infant Works, or high in Lust,
An Harlot's Cruelty with Tears deplore,
Will you, like much-chang'd Polemon of yore,
Throw off the Ensigns of the dear Disease,
The Arts of Dress, and Earnestness to please?
For the gay Youth, though high with Liquor warm'd,
Was by the sober Sage's Doctrine charm'd?
Chastis'd he listen'd to th' instructive Lore,
And from his Head the breathing Garland tore.

A peevish Boy shall proffer'd Fruit despise;
“Take it, dear Puppy.” No, and yet he dies
If you refuse it. Does not this discover
The froward Soul of a discarded Lover,
Thus reasoning with himself? What! when thus slighted
Shall I return, return though uninvited?
Yes, he shall sure return and lingering wait
At the proud Doors he now presumes to hate.
“Shall I not go if she submissive send,
“Or here resolve, my Injuries shall end?

185

“Expell'd, recall'd, shall I go back again?
“No; let her kneel; for she shall kneel in vain.”
When lo! his wily Servant well reply'd,
Think not by Rule and Reason, Sir, to guide
What ne'er by Reason or by Measure move,
For Peace and War succeed by Turns in Love,
And while tempestuous these Emotions roll,
And float with blind Disorder in the Soul,
Who strives to fix them by one certain Rule,
May by right Rule and Reason play the Fool.

When from the Roof the darted Pippins bound,
Does the glad Omen prove your Senses sound?
With aged Tongue you breathe the lisping Phrases—
Is he more mad, who that Child-Cottage raises?
Then add the Murders of this fond Desire,
And with the Sword provoke the madding Fire.

When jealous Marius late his Mistress slew,
And from a Precipice himself he threw,
Was he not mad, or can you by your Rule
Condemn the Murderer, and absolve the Fool?
But though in civil Phrase you change the Name,
Madman and Fool for ever are the same.

With Hands clean wash'd, a sober, ancient Wight
Ran praying through the Streets at early Light,
“Snatch me from Death; grant me alone to live;
“No mighty Boon; with Ease the Gods can give.”
Sound were his Senses, yet if he were sold,
His Master sure this Weakness must have told,
And if not fond a Law-suit to maintain,
Must have confess'd the Slave unsound of Brain.

187

This Croud is by the Doctrine of our Schools
Enroll'd in the large Family of Fools.

Her Child beneath a Quartan Fever lies
For full five Months, when the fond Mother cries,
“Sickness and Health are thine, all powerful Jove,
“Then from my Son this dire Disease remove,
“And when your Priests thy solemn Fast proclaim,
“Naked the Boy shall stand in Tyber's Stream.”
Should Chance, or the Physician's Art up-raise
Her Infant from this desperate Disease,
The frantic Dame shall plunge her hapless Boy,
Bring back the Fever, and the Child destroy.
Tell me, what Horrours thus have turn'd her Head?
Of the good Gods a superstitious Dread.

Damas.
These Arms Stertinius gave me, our eighth Sage,
That none unpunish'd may provoke my Rage;
Who calls me mad, shall hear himself a Fool,
And know he trails his Mark of Ridicule.

Horace.
Great Stoic, so may better Bargains raise
Your ruin'd Fortune, tell me, if you please,
Since Follies are thus various in their Kind,
To what dear Madness am I most inclin'd.

189

For I, methinks, my Reason will maintain—

Damas.
What! did Agave then suspect her Brain,
When by a Bacchanalian Frenzy led
In her own Hand she carried her Son's Head?

Horace.
Since we must yield to Truth, 'tis here confest,
I am a Fool; with Madness too possest,
But since my Mind's distemper'd, if you please,
What seems the proper Kind of my Disease?

Damas.

First that you build, and scarce of two foot Height,
Mimic the mighty Stature of the Great.
While you, forsooth, a Dwarf in Arms deride,
His haughty Spirit and gigantic Stride,
Yet are you less ridiculous, who dare,
Meer Mimic, with Mæcenas to compare?

Perchance, a Mother-Frog had stroll'd abroad,
When a fell Ox upon her young ones trod;
Yet one alone escap'd, who thus exprest
The doleful News—“Ah me! a monstrous Beast
“My Brothers hath destroy'd.” How large? she cries,
And swelling forth—was this the Monster's Size?

191

Then larger grows—What! is he larger still?
When more and more she strives her Bulk to fill;
“Nay, though you burst, you ne'er shall be so great.”
No idle Image, Horace, of thy State.
Your Verses too; that Oil, which feeds the Flame;
If ever Bard was wise, be thine the Name.
That horrid Rage of Temper—

Horace.
Yet have done?

Damas.
That vast Expence—

Horace.
Good Stoic, mind your own.

Damas.
Those thousand furious Passions for the Fair—

Horace.
Thou mightier Fool, inferior Ideots spare.

193

Sat. VI. Horace. Catius.

Horace.
Whence comes, my Catius? Whither in such Haste?

Catius.
I have no Time in idle Prate to waste.
I must away to treasure in my Mind
A Set of Precepts, novel and refin'd;
Such as Pythagoras could never reach,
Nor Socrates, nor scienc'd Plato teach.

Horace.
I ask your Pardon, and confess my Crime,
To interrupt you at so cross a Time.
But yet, if aught escap'd through strange Neglect,
You shall with Ease the Wisdom recollect,
Whether you boast, from Nature or from Art,
This wonderous Gift of holding Things by Heart.

Catius.
I meant to store them total in my Head,
The Matter nice, and wrought of subtle Thread.

195

Horace.
But prithee, Catius, what's your Sage's Name:
Is he a Roman, or of foreign Fame?

Catius.

His Precepts I shall willingly reveal;
And sing his Doctrines, but his Name conceal.

Long be your Eggs, far sweeter than the round,
Cock-Eggs they are, more nourishing and sound.
In thirsty Fields a richer Colewort grows,
Than where the watry Garden overflows.
If by an evening Guest perchance surpris'd,
Lest the tough Hen (I prithee be advis'd)
Should quarrel with his Teeth, let her be drown'd
In Lees of Wine, and she'll be tender found.
Best flavour'd Mushrooms Meadow-Land supplies,
In those of Art a dangerous Poison lies.

He shall with Vigour bear the Summer's Heat,
Who after Dinner shall be sure to eat
His Mulberries, of blackest, ripest Dyes,
And gather'd ere the Morning-Sun arise.
Aufidius first, most injudicious, quaff'd
Strong Wine and Honey for his Morning Draught.

197

With lenient Beverage fill your empty Veins,
And smoother Mead shall better scour the Reins.
Sorrel and White-Wine, if you costive prove,
And Muscles, all Obstructions shall remove.
In the New Moon all Shell-Fish fill with Juice,
But not all Seas the richer Sort produce;
The largest in the Lucrine Lake we find,
But the Circæan are of sweeter Kind.
Crayfish are best on the Misenian Coasts,
And soft Tarentum broadest Scollops boasts.

Let none presume to understand a Feast,
If not exact and elegant of Taste.
'Tis not enough to buy the precious Fish,
But know what Sauce gives Flavour to the Dish,
If stew'd or roasted it shall relish best,
And to the Table rouze the languid Guest.

But if th' insipid Flesh of Boars you hate,
Let the round Dishes bend beneath the Weight
Of those with Acorns fed; though fat, indeed,
The rest are vapid from the marshy Reed.
The Vine-fed Goat's not always luscious Fare;
Wise Palates chuse the Wings of pregnant Hare.

None before me so sapient to engage
To tell the various Nature or the Age.
Of Fish and Fowl; that Secret was my own,
'Till my judicious Palate quite unknown.

In some new Pastry that Man's Genius lies,
Yet in one Art 'tis Meaness to be wise.

199

For should we not be careful lest our Oil,
Though excellent our Wine, the Fish should spoil?

The Sky serene, put out your Massic Wine;
In the Night-Air its Foulness shall refine,
And lose the Scent, unfriendly to the Nerves,
But philtrated no Flavour it preserves.
He, who with Art would pour a stronger Wine
On smooth Falernian Lees, should well refine
Th' incorporated Mass with Pigeon's Eggs;
The falling Yolk will carry down the Dregs.

Stew'd Shrimps and Afric Cockles shall excite
A jaded Drinker's languid Appetite;
For Lettuce after Wine is cold and crude,
But Ham or Sausage is provoking Food;
Perhaps he may prefer with higher Zest,
Whatever is in filthy Taverns drest.

Two Sorts of Sauce are worthy to be known;
Simple the first, of sweetest Oil alone:
The other mix'd with full and generous Wine,
With the true Pickle of Byzantian Brine;
Let it with shreded Herbs and Saffron boil,
And when it cools pour in Venafran Oil.

Picenian Fruits with juicy Flavour grow,
But Tibur's with superior Beauty glow.

201

Some Grapes have with Success in Pots been tried:
Albanian better in the Smoke are dried,
With them and Apples and the Lees of Wine,
White Pepper, common Salt, and Herring-Brine,
I first invented a delicious Treat,
And gave to every Guest a separate Plate.
Monstrous, to spend a Fortune on a Dish,
Or croud the Table with a Load of Fish.

It strongly turns the Stomach, when a Slave
Shall on your Cup the greasy Tokens leave
Of what rich Sauce the luscious Caitiff stole;
Or when vile Mould incrusts your antique Bowl.
Brooms, Mats and Saw-dust are so cheaply bought
That not to have them is a shameless Fault.
What! sweep with dirty Broom a Floor inlaid,
Or on foul Couch a Tyrian Carpet spread?

Horace.
Catius, by Friendship, by the Powers divine,
Take me to hear this learned Sage of thine:
For though his Rules you faithfully express,
This meer repeating makes the Pleasure less.
Besides, what Joy to view his Air and Mien!
Trifles to you, because full often seen.

203

Nor mean that Ardour, which my Breast enflames,
To visit Wisdom's more remoter Streams,
And by your learned, friendly Guidance led,
Quaff the pure Precept at the Fountain-Head.

Sat. V. Ulysses. Tiresias.

Ulyss.
Besides the Precepts which you gave before,
Resolve this Question, and I ask no more:
Say by what Arts and Methods I may straight
Repair the Ruins of a lost Estate.
How now, Tiresias? whence those leering Smiles?

Tires.
Already vers'd in double-dealing Wiles,
Are you not satisfied to reach again
Your native Land, and view your dear Demaine?

Ulyss.
How poor and naked I return, behold,
Unerring Prophet, as you first foretold.
The wooing Tribe, in Revellings employ'd,
My Stores have lavish'd, and my Herds destroy'd;

205

But high Descent and meritorious Deeds,
Unblest with Wealth, are viler than Sea-Weeds.

Tires.
Since, to be brief, you shudder at the Thought
Of Want, attend, how Riches may be caught.
Suppose a Thrush, or any dainty Thing
Be sent to you, dispatch it on the Wing
To some rich Dotard. What your Garden yields,
The choicest Honours of your cultur'd Fields,
To him be sacrific'd, and let him taste,
Before your Gods, the vegetable Feast.
Though he be perjur'd, and ignobly born,
Stain'd with fraternal Blood, the public Scorn,
A Runagate; yet if requir'd, abide
The Test, and dance Attendance by his Side
With low Submission.

Ulyss.
What! obey the Call
Of such a Wretch, and give a Slave the Wall?
Not thus at Troy I prov'd my lofty Mind,
Contending ever with the nobler Kind.

Tires.
Then Poverty shall be your Fate.

Ulyss.
If so,
Let me with Soul undaunted undergo
This loathsom Evil, since my valiant Heart
In greater Perils bore a manly Part.

207

But instant tell me, Prophet, how to scrape
Returning Wealth, and pile the splendid Heap.

Tires.

I told, and tell you: you may safely catch
The Wills of Dotards, if you wisely watch;
And though one Hunks or two perceive the Cheat,
Avoid the Hook, or nibble of the Bait,
Lay not aside your golden Hope of Prey,
Or drop your Art, though baffled in your Play.

Should either great, or less important Suit
In Court become the Matter of Dispute,
Espouse the Man of prosperous Affairs,
Pregnant with Wealth, if indigent in Heirs;
Though he should hamper with a wicked Cause
The juster Party, and insult the Laws.
Despise the Citizen of better Life,
If clog'd with Children, or a fruitful Wife.
Accost him thus (for he with Rapture hears
A Title tingling in his tender Ears)
Quintus, or Publius, on my Faith depend,
Your own Deserts have render'd me your Friend:
I know the mazy Doubles of the Laws,
Unty their Knots, and plead with vast Applause.
Had you a Nut, the Villain might as well
Pluck out my Eyes, as rob you of the Shell.
This is the Business of my Life profest,
That you lose nothing, nor become a Jest.
Bid him go home, of his sweet Self take Care;
Conduct his Cause, proceed, and persevere,
Should the red Dog-star infant Statues split,
Or fat-paunch'd Furius in poetic Fit
Bombastic howl, and, while the Tempest blows,
Befoam the Winter Alpes with hoary Snows.

209

Some Person then, who chances to be nigh,
Shall pull your Client by the Sleeve, and cry,
“See with what Patience he pursues your Ends!
“Was ever Man so active for his Friends?”
Thus Gudgeons daily shall swim in a-pace,
And stock your Fish-Ponds with a fresh Increase.

This Lesson also well deserves your Care,
If any Man should have a sickly Heir,
And large Estate, lest you yourself betray
By making none but Batchelors your Prey,
With weening Ease the pleasing Bane instil,
In hopes to stand the second in his Will;
And if the Boy by some Disaster hurl'd,
Should take his Journey to the nether World,
Your Name in full Reversion may supply
The Void; for seldom fails this lucky Die.

Should any Miser bid you to peruse
His Will, be sure you modestly refuse,
And push it from you; but obliquely read
The second Clause, and quick run o'er the Deed,
Collecting, whether, to reward your Toil,
You claim the whole, or must divide the Spoil.

A season'd Scrivener, bred in Office low,
Full often dupes, and mocks the gaping Crow.
Thus foil'd Nasica shall become the Sport
Of old Coranus, while he pays his Court.

Ulyss.
What! are you mad, or purpos'd to propose
Obscure Predictions, to deride my Woes?

Tires.
O Son of great Laertes, every Thing
Shall come to pass, or never, as I sing;

211

For Phœbus, Monarch of the tuneful Nine,
Informs my Soul, and gives me to divine.

Ulyss.
But, good Tiresias, if you please, reveal
What means the Sequel of that mystic Tale.

Tires.

What Time a Youth, who shall sublimely trace
From fam'd Æneas his Heroic Race,
The Parthian's Dread, triumphant shall maintain
His boundless Empire over Land and Main:
Nasica, loth to re-imburse his Coin,
His blooming Daughter shall discreetly join
To brave Coranus, who shall slily smoke
The Harpy's Aim, and turn it to a Joke.
The Son-in-Law shall gravely give the Sire
His witness'd Will, and presently desire
That he would read it: coyly he complies,
And silent cons it with attentive Eyes,
But finds, alas! to him and his forlorn
No Legacy bequeath'd—except to mourn.

Add to these Precepts, if a crafty Lass,
Or Free-man manage a delirious Ass,
Be their Ally; their Faith applaud, that you,
When absent, may receive as much in lieu;
'Tis good to take these Out-works to his Pelf,
But best to storm the Citadel itself.

Writes he vile Verses in a frantic Vein?
Augment his Madness, and approve the Strain:
Prevent his asking, if he loves a Wench,
And let your Wife his nobler Passion quench.

Ulyss.
Can you suppose, a Dame so chaste, so pure,
Could e'er be tempted to the guilty Lure,

213

Whom all the Suitors amorously strove
In vain to stagger in her plighted Love?

Tires.

The Youth too sparing of their Presents came;
They lov'd the Banquet, rather than the Dame;
And thus your prudent honourable Spouse,
It seems, was faithful to her nuptial Vows.
But had she touch'd a wealthy Dotard's Fee,
Her Cully smack'd, and shar'd the Gains with thee,
She never after could be terrified,
Sagacious Beagle, from the reeking Hide.

I'll tell a Tale, well worthy to be told,
A Fact that happen'd, and I then was old:
An Hag at Thebes, a wicked one, no doubt,
Was thus, according to her Will, lugg'd out,
Stiff to the Pile. Upon his naked Back
Her Heir sustain'd the well-anointed Pack.
She likely took this Crotchet in her Head,
That she might slip, if possible, when dead,
From him, who trudging through a filthy Road,
Had stuck too closely to the living Load.

Be cautious therefore, and advance with Art,
Nor sink beneath, nor over-act your Part.
A noisy Fellow must of course offend
The surly Temper of a sullen Friend:
Yet be not mute—like Davus in the Play
With Head inclin'd his awful Nod obey;
Creep into Favour: if a ruder Gale
Assault his Face, admonish him to veil
His precious Pate. Oppose your Shoulders, proud
To disengage him from the bustling Croud.

215

If he loved Prating, hang an Ear: should Lust
Of empty Glory be the Blockhead's Gust,
Indulge his eager Appetite, and puff
The growing Bladder with inspiring Stuff,
Till he with Hands uplifted to the Skies,
Enough! enough! in glutted Rapture cries.

When he shall free you from your servile Fear,
And tedious Toil; when broad awake, you hear:
“To good Ulysses, my right trusty Slave,
“A fourth Division of my Lands I leave.”
Is then (as void of Consolation roar)
My dearest Friend, my Dama now no more?
Where shall I find another Man so just,
Firm in his Love, and faithful to his Trust?
Squeeze out some Tears: 'tis fit in such a Case
To cloak your Joys beneath a mournful Face.
Though left to your discretionary Care,
Erect a Tomb magnificently fair,
And let your Neighbours, to proclaim abroad
Your Fame, the pompous Funeral applaud.

If any Vassal of the Will-Compeers,
With Asthma gasping, and advanc'd in Years,
Should be dispos'd to purchase House or Land,
Tell him, that he may readily command
Whatever may to your Proportion come,
And for the Value, let him name the Sum—
But I am summon'd by the Queen of Hell
Back to the Shades. Live artful, and farewell.

217

Sat. VI.

[I often wish'd, I had a Farm]

I often wish'd, I had a Farm,
A decent Dwelling, snug and warm,
A Garden, and a Spring as pure
As Crystal, running by my Door,
Besides a little ancient Grove,
Where at my Leisure I might rove.

The gracious Gods, to crown my Bliss,
Have granted this, and more than this,
I have enough in my possessing,
'Tis well: I ask no greater Blessing,
O Hermes! than remote from Strife
To have and hold them for my Life.

If I was never known to raise
My Fortune by dishonest Ways,
Nor, like the Spend-thrifts of the Times,
Shall ever sink it by my Crimes:
If thus I neither pray, nor ponder—
Oh! might I have that Angle yonder,
Which disproportions now my Field,
What Satisfaction it would yield?
Oh! that some lucky Chance but threw
A Pot of Silver in my View,
As lately to the Man, who bought
The very Land, in which he wrought!
If I am pleas'd with my Condition,
O! hear, and grant this last Petition:

219

Indulgent let my Cattle batten,
Let all Things, but my Fancy, fatten,
And thou continue still to guard,
As thou art wont, thy suppliant Bard.

Whenever therefore I retreat
From Rome into my Sabine Seat,
By Mountains fenc'd on either Side,
And in my Castle fortify'd,
What should I write with greater Pleasure,
Than Satires in familiar Measure?
Nor mad Ambition there destroys,
Nor sickly Wind my Health annoys;
Nor noxious Autumn gives me Pain,
The ruthless Undertaker's Gain.

Whatever Title please thine Ear,
Father of Morning, Janus hear,
Since mortal Men, by Heaven's Decree,
Commence their Toils, imploring thee,
Director of the busy Throng,
Be thou the Prelude of my Song.

At Rome, you press me: “Without fail
“A Friend expects you for his Bail,
“Be nimble to perform your Part,
“Lest any Rival get the Start.
“Though rapid Boreas sweep the Ground,
“Or Winter in a narrower Round
“Contract the Day, through Storm and Snow,
“At all Adventures, you must go.”

When bound beyond Equivocation,
Or any mental Reservation,
By all the Tyes of legal Traps,
And to my Ruin too, perhaps,
I still must bustle through the Croud,
And press the tardy; when aloud

221

Some wicked Fellow reimburses
This Usage with a Peal of Curses.
“What Madness hath possess'd thy Pate
“To justle People at this Rate,
“When puffing through the Streets you scour
“To meet Mæcenas at an Hour?”

This pleases me, to tell the Truth,
And is as Honey to my Tooth.
But when I breathe Esquilian Air,
I find as little Quiet there;
An hundred Men's Affairs confound
My Senses, and besiege me round.
“Roscius entreated you too meet
“At Court To-morrow before eight—
“The Secretarie have implor'd
“Your Presence at their Council-board—
“Pray, take this Patent, and prevail
“Upon your Friend to fix the Seal—”
Sir, I shall try—Replies the Man,
And urges: “If you please, you can—”

'Tis more than seven Years complete,
It hardly wants a Month of eight,
Since good Mæcenas, fond of Sport,
Receiv'd me first in friendly Sort,
Whom he might carry in his Chair,
A Mile or two, to take the Air,
And might entrust with idle Chat,
Discoursing upon this or that,
As in a free familiar Way,
“How, tell me, Horace, goes the Day?
“And can that Thracian Wight engage
“The Syrian Hector of the Stage?

223

“The Morning Air is very bad
“For them, who go but thinly clad”—

Our Conversation chiefly dwells
On these, and such like Bagatelles,
As might, without incurring Fears,
Be well repos'd in leaky Ears.

But since this Freedom first began,
And I was thought a lucky Man,
The more each Day, the more each Hour
I find myself in Envy's Power.
“Our Son of Fortune (with a Pox)
“Sate with Mæcenas in the Box,
“Just by the Stage: You might remark,
“They play'd together in the Park.”

Sould any Rumour, without Head
Or Tail, about the Streets be spread,
Whoever meets me gravely nods,
And says, “As you approach the Gods,
“It is no Mystery to you,
“What do the Dacians mean to do?”
Indeed I know not—“How you joke,
“And love to sneer at simple Folk!”
But Vengeance seize this Head of mine,
If I have heard or can divine—
“Then, prithee, where are Cæsar's Bands
“Allotted their Debenture-Lands?”
Although I swear, I know no more
Of that, than what was ask'd before,
They stand amaz'd, and think me then
The most reserv'd of mortal Men.

Bewilder'd thus amidst a Maze,
I lose the Sun-shine of my Days,

225

And often wish: “Oh! when again
“Shall I behold the rural Plain?
“And when with Books of Sages deep,
“Sequester'd Ease, and gentle Sleep,
“In sweet Oblivion, blissful Balm,
“The busy Cares of Life becalm;
“Oh! when shall Pythagoric Beans,
“With wholesome Juice enrich my Veins?
“And Bacon-Ham and savoury Pottage
“Be serv'd beneath my simple Cottage?
“O Nights, that furnish such a Feast
“As even Gods themselves might taste!”
Thus fare my Friends, thus feed my Slaves,
Alert, on what their Master leaves!

Each Person there may drink, and fill
As much, or little, as he will,
Exempted from the Bedlam-Rules
Of roaring Prodigals and Fools:
Whether, in merry Mood or Whim
He takes a Bumper to the Brim,
Or, better pleas'd to let it pass,
Grows mellow with a scanty Glass.

Nor this Man's House, nor that's Estate
Becomes the Subject of Debate;
Nor whether Lepos, the Buffoon,
Can dance, or not, a Riggadoon;
But what concerns us more, I trow,
And were a Scandal not to know;
If Happiness consist in Store
Of Riches, or in Virtue more:
Whether Esteem, or private Ends
Direct us in the Choice of Friends:

227

What's real Good without Disguise,
And where its great Perfection lies.
While thus we spend the social Night,
Still mixing Profit with Delight,
My Neighbour Cervius never fails
To club his Part in pithy Tales:
Suppose Arellius, one should praise
Your anxious Opulence: he says—

A Country-Mouse, as Authors tell,
Of old invited to her Cell
A City-Mouse, and with her best
Would entertain the courtly Guest.
Thrifty she was, and full of Cares
To make the most of her Affairs,
Yet in the midst of her Frugality
Would give a Loose to Hospitality.
In short, she goes, and freely fetches
Whole Ears of hoarded Oats, and Vetches,
Dry Grapes and Raisins cross her Chaps,
And dainty Bacon, but in Scraps,
If Delicacies could invite
My squeamish Lady's Appetite,
Who turn'd her Nose at ev'ry Dish,
And saucy piddled, with a—Pish!

The Matron of the House, reclin'd
On downy Chaff, discreetly din'd
On Wheat, and Darnel from a Manger,
And left the Dainties for the Stranger.

The Cit, displeas'd at this Repast,
Attacks our simple Host at last.
“What Pleasure can you find, alack!
“To live behind a Mountain's Back?

229

“Would you prefer the Town, and Men,
“To this unsocial dreary Den,
“No longer, moaping, loiter here,
“But come with me to better Chear.

“Since Animals but draw their Breath,
“And have no Being after Death;
“Nor yet the Little, nor the Great,
“Can shun the Rigour of their Fate;
“At least be merry while you may,
“The Life of Mice is but a Day;
“Reflect on this, maturely live,
“And all that Day to Pleasure give.”
Encourag'd thus, the nimble Mouse,
Transported, sallies from her House:
They both set out, in hopes to crawl
At Night beneath the City-Wall;
And now the Night, elaps'd Eleven,
Possess'd the middle Space of Heaven,
When, harass'd with a Length of Road,
They came beneath a grand Abode,
Where Ivory Couches, overspread
With Tyrian Carpets, glowing, fed
The dazled Eye. To lure the Taste,
The Trophies of a costly Feast,
Remaining, fresh but Yesterday,
In Baskets, pil'd on Baskets, lay.

When Madam on a purple Seat
Had plac'd her rustic Friend in State,
She bustles, like a busy Host,
Supplying Dishes boil'd and rost,
Nor yet omits the Courtier's Duty
Of tasting, ere she brings the Booty.

231

The Country-Mouse, with Rapture strange,
Rejoices in her fair Exchange,
And lolling like an easy Guest,
Enjoys the Chear, and cracks her Jest.
When, on a sudden, opening Gates,
Loud-jarring, shook them from their Seats.

They ran, affrighted, through the Room,
And, apprehensive of their Doom,
Now trembled more and more; when, hark!
The Mastiff-Dogs began to bark,
The Dome, to raise the Tumult more,
Resounded to the surly Roar.

The Bumpkin then concludes, Adieu!
This Life, perhaps, agrees with you:
My Grove, and Cave, secure from Snares,
Shall comfort me with Chaff and Tares.

Sat. VII. Davus. Horace.

Davus.
I'll hear no more, and with Impatience burn,
Slave as I am, to answer in my Turn;
And yet I fear—

Horace.
What! Davus, is it you?

Davus.
Yes. Davus, Sir, the faithful and the true.

233

With Wit enough no sudden Death to fear—

Horace.
Well. Since this jovial Season of the Year
Permits it, and our Ancestors ordain,
No more the dear Impertinence restrain.

Davus.

Among Mankind, while some with steady View
One constant Course of darling Vice pursue,
Most others float along the changing Tide,
And now to Virtue, now to Vice they glide.
Lo! from three Rings how Priscus plays the Light;
Now shews his naked Hand—The various Wight
With every Hour a different Habit wears:
Now in a Palace haughtily appears,
Then hides him in some vile and filthy Place,
Where a clean Slave would blush to shew his Face.
Now rakes at Rome, and now to Athens flies;
Intensely studies with the Learn'd and Wise.
Sure all the Gods, who rule this varying Earth,
In deep Despite presided at his Birth.

Old Volanerius, once that Man of Joke,
When the just Gout his crippled Fingers broke,
Maintain'd a Slave to gather up the Dice,
So constant was he to his darling Vice.
Yet less a Wretch than he, who now maintains
A steady Course, now drives with looser Reins.

235

Horace.
Tell me, thou tedious Varlet, whither tends
This wretched Stuff?

Davus.
At you direct it bends.

Horace.
At me, you Scoundrel?

Davus.

When with lavish Praise
You vaunt the Happiness of ancient Days,
Suppose some God should take you at your Word,
Would you not scorn the Blessing you implor'd?
Whether not yet convinc'd, as you pretend,
Or weak the Cause of Virtue to defend;
Or, sinking in the Mire, you strive in vain,
Too deeply plung'd, to free your Foot again.

While you're at Rome, the Country has your Sighs;
A Rustic grown, you vaunt into the Skies
The absent Town. Perchance, if uninvited
To sup abroad, Oh! then you're so delighted
With your own homely Meal, that one would think,
That he, who next engages you to drink,
Must tie you Neck and Heels; you seem so blest,
When with no Bumper-Invitation prest.

But should Mæcenas bid his Poet wait
(Great Folks, like him, can never sup, 'till late)
Sputtering with idle Rage the House you rend,
“Where is my Essence? Rogues, what, none attend?”
While the Buffoons, you promis'd to have treated,
Sneak off with Curses—not to be repeated.

I own to some a Belly-slave I seem;
I throw my Nose up to a favoury Steam:

237

Or Folks may call me, careless, idle Sot,
Or say I pledge too oft the other Pot:
But shall the Man of deeper Vice like you,
With Malice unprovok'd my Faults pursue,
Because with specious Phrase, and Terms of Art,
You clothe, forsooth, the Vices of your Heart?

What if a greater Fool your Worship's found,
Than the poor Slave you bought for twenty Pound?
Think not to fright me with that threatening Air,
Nay keep your Temper, Sir, your Fingers spare,
While I the Maxims, sage and wise, repeat,
Taught me by Crispin's Porter at his Gate.

You tempt your Neighbour's Wife; an humble Harlot
Contents poor Davus—Who's the greater Varlet?
When Nature fires my Veins, I quench the Flame,
And leave the Wanton with uninjur'd Fame,
Nor shall one jealous Care disturb my Breast,
By whom the Fair-one shall be next possest.
When you throw off those Ensigns of your Pride,
Your Ring, your Judge's Robe, and basely hide,
Beneath a Slave's vile Cap, your essenc'd Hair,
Say, are you not the Wretch, whose Clothes you wear?
And where's the Difference, whether you engage
Through Scourges, Wounds and Death, to mount the Stage,
Or by the conscious Chamber-Maid are prest
Quite double, Neck and Heels, into a Chest?

Does not the Husband's Power o'er both extend?
Yet shall his juster Wrath on you descend;
For she ne'er stroles abroad in vile Disguise,
And when her lewder Wishes highest rise,
She dares but half indulge the Sin; afraid,
Even by the Man she loves, to be betray'd.

239

You take the Yoke, and to the Husband's Rage
Your Fortune, Person, Life and Fame engage.
Have you escap'd? Methinks, your future Care
Might wisely teach You to avoid the Snare.
No, you with Ardour to the Danger run,
And dare a second Time to be undone.
Repeated Slave! What Beast, that breaks his Chain,
In love with Bondage would return again?

But you, it seems, ne'er touch the wedded Dame—
Then, by the Son of Jove, I here disclaim
The Name of Thief, when, though with backward Eye,
I wisely pass the silver Goblet by.
But take the Danger, and the Shame away,
And vagrant Nature bounds upon her Prey,
Spurning the Reins. But say, shall you pretend
O'er me to lord it, who thus tamely bend
To each proud Master; to each changing Hour
A very Slave? Not even the Prætor's Power,
With thrice-repeated Rites, thy Fears controul,
Or vindicate the Freedom of thy Soul.

But as the Slave, who lords it o'er the rest,
Is but a Slave, a Master-Slave at best,
So art thou, insolent, by me obey'd;
Thou Thing of Wood and Wires, by others play'd.

Horace.
Who then is free?

Davus.

The Wise, who well maintains
An Empire o'er himself: whom neither Chains,

241

Nor Want, nor Death, with slavish Fear inspire,
Who boldly answers to his warm Desire,
Who can Ambition's vainest Gifts despise,
Firm in himself who on himself relies,
Polish'd and round who runs his proper Course,
And breaks Misfortune with superior Force.

What is there here, that you can justly claim,
Or call your own? When an imperious Dame
Demands her Price, with Insults vile pursues thee;
Driven out of Doors with Water well bedews thee,
Then calls you back; for shame, shake off her Chain,
And boldly tell her you are free—In vain;
A Tyrant-Lord thy better Will restrains,
And spurs thee hard, and breaks thee to his Reins.

If some fam'd Piece the Painter's Art displays,
Transfix'd you stand, with Admiration gaze;
But is your Worship's Folly less than mine,
When I with Wonder view some rude Design
In Crayons or in Charcoal, to invite
The Croud, to see the Gladiators fight?
Methinks, in very Deed they mount the Stage,
And seem in real Combat to engage;
Now in strong Attitude they dreadful bend;
Wounded they wound; they parry and defend:
Yet Davus is with Rogue and Rascal grac'd,
But you're a Critic, and a Man of Taste.

I am, forsooth, a good-for-nothing Knave,
When by a smoking Pasty made a Slave:
In you it shews a Soul erect and great,
If you refuse even one luxurious Treat.
Why may not I, like you, my Guts obey?—
My Shoulders for the dear Indulgence pay.

243

But should not you with heavier Stripes be taught,
Who search for Luxuries, how dearly bought?
For soon this endless, this repeated Feast,
Its Relish lost, shall pall upon the Taste;
Then shall your trembling Limbs refuse the Weight
Of a vile Carcass with Disease replete.

How seldom from the Lash a Slave escapes,
Who trucks some Trifle, that he stole, for Grapes?
And shall we not the servile Glutton rate,
To please his Throat who sells a good Estate?
You cannot spend one vacant Hour alone;
You cannot make that vacant Hour your own.
A Self-Deserter from yourself you stray,
And now with Wine, and now with Sleep allay
Your Cares; in vain; Companions black as Night,
Thy pressing Cares arrest thee in thy Flight.

Horace.
Is there no Stone?

Davus.
At whom, good Sir, to throw it?

Horace.
Have I no Dart?

Davus.
What Mischief ails our Poet?
He's mad or making Verses.

Horace.
Hence, you Knave,
Or to my Farm I'll send a ninth vile Slave.

245

Sat. VIII. Horace. Fundanius.

Horace.
They told me, that you spent the jovial Night
With Nasidienus, that same happy Wight,
From early Day, or you had been my Guest;
But, prithee, tell me how you lik'd the Feast.

Fund.
Sure never better.

Horace.
Tell me, if you please,
How did you first your Appetite appease.

Fund.

First a Lucanian Boar, of tender Kind,
Caught, says our Host, in a soft southern Wind.
Around him lay whatever could excite,
With pungent Force, the jaded Appetite,
Rapes, Lettuce, Radishes, Anchovy-Brine,
With Skerrets, and the Lees of Coan Wine.

This Dish remov'd, a Slave expert and able
With purple Napkin wip'd a maple Table.
Another sweeps the Fragments of the Feast,
That nothing useless might offend the Guest.

247

At Ceres' Feast as Attic Virgin walks
Solemn and slow, so black Hydaspes stalks
With right Cæcubian and the Wines of Greece—
Of foreign Growth, that never cross'd the Seas.
If Alban or Falernian please you more,
So says our Host, you may have both good Store;
Poor Wealth indeed—

Horace.
But tell me who were there,
Thus happy to enjoy such luscious Fare?

Fund.

In the first Bed I haply lay between
Viscus and Varius, if aright I ween;
Servilius and Vibidius both were there,
Brought by Mæcenas, and with him they share
The middle Bed. Our Master of the Feast
On the third Couch, in Seat of Honour plac'd,
Porcius betwixt and Nomentanus lies;
Porcius, who archly swallows Custard-pies.

Whate'er of curious Relish lay unknown
Is by Nomentane with his Finger shown,
For we, poor Folk, unknowing of our Feast,
Eat Fish and Wild-Fowl—of no common Taste.
But he, to prove how luscious was the Treat,
With a broil'd Flounder's Entrails crouds my Plate,

249

Then told me, Apples are more ruddy bright,
If gather'd by fair Luna's waning Light.
He best can tell you where the Difference lies—
But here Servilius to Vibidius cries,
“Sure to be poison'd, unreveng'd we die,
“Unless we drink the wretched Miser dry.
“Slave, give us larger Glasses.”—Struck with Dread,
A fearful Pale our Landlord's Face o'erspread;
Great were his Terrours of such drinking Folk,
Because with too much Bitterness they joke,
Or that hot Wines, dishonouring his Feast,
Deafen the subtle Judgement of the Taste.

When our two Champions had their Facers crown'd,
We did them Justice, and the Glass went round;
His Parasites alone his Anger fear'd,
And the full Flask unwillingly they spar'd.

In a large Dish an outstretch'd Lamprey lies,
With Shrimps all floating round: The Master cries,
This Fish, Mæcenas, big with Spawn was caught,
For after spawning-time its Flesh is naught.
The Sauce is mix'd with Olive-Oil; the best,
And purest from the Vats Venafran prest,
And, as it boil'd, we pour'd in Spanish Brine,
Nor less than five-year-old Italian Wine.
A little Chian's better when 'tis boil'd,
By any other it is often spoil'd.
Then was white Pepper o'er it gently pour'd,
And Vinegar, of Lesbian Vintage sour'd.

I first among the Men of Sapience knew
Roquets and Herbs in Cockle-Brine to stew,
Though in the same rich Pickle, 'tis confest,
His unwash'd Cray-fish sage Curtillus drest.

251

But lo! the Canopy, that o'er us spreads,
Tumbled, in hideous Ruin, on our Heads,
With Dust, how black! not such the Clouds arise
When o'er the Plain a Northern Tempest flies.
Some Horrours, yet more horrible, we dread,
But raise us, when we found the Danger fled.

Poor Rufus droop'd his Head, and sadly cried,
As if his only Son untimely died.
Sure he had wept, till weeping ne'er had End,
But wise Nomentane thus up-rais'd his Friend;
“Fortune, thou cruelest of Powers divine,
“To joke poor Mortals is a Joke of thine.”
While Varius with a Napkin scarce supprest
His Laughter, Balatro, who loves a Jest,
Cries, such the Lot of Life, nor must you claim,
For all your Toils, a fair Return of Fame.
While you are tortur'd thus, and torn with Pain,
A Guest like me, polite to entertain
With Bread well bak'd, with Sauces season'd right,
With Slaves in waiting elegantly tight,
Down rush the Canopies, a Trick of Fate,
Or a Groom-Footman stumbling breaks a Plate.
Good Fortune hides, Adversity calls forth,
A Landlord's Genius, and a Leader's Worth.

To this mine Host; “Thou ever-gentle Guest,
“May all thy Wishes by the Gods be blest,
“Thou best good Man”—But when we saw him rise,
From Bed to Bed the spreading Whisper flies.

253

No Play was half so fine.

Horace.
But, prithee, say,
How afterwards you laugh'd the Time away.

Fund.

Slaves, cries Vibidius, have you broke the Cask?
How often must I call for t'other Flask?
With some pretended Joke our Laugh was drest,
Servilius ever seconding the Jest,
When you, great Host, return'd with alter'd Face,
As if to mend with Art your late Disgrace.

The Slaves behind in mighty Charger bore
A Crane in Pieces torn, and powder'd o'er
With Salt and Flower; and a white Gander's Liver,
Stuff'd fat with Figs, bespoke the curious Giver;
Besides the Wings of Hares, for, so it seems,
No Man of Luxury the Back esteems.

Then saw we Black-birds with o'er-roasted Breast,
And lo! without the Rumps the Ring-Doves drest,
Delicious Fare! did not our Host explain
Their various Qualities in endless Strain,
Their various Natures; but we fled the Feast,
Resolv'd in Vengeance nothing more to taste,
As if Canidia, with empoison'd Breath,
Worse than a Serpent's, blasted it with Death.

End of the Satires.

255

THE EPISTLES OF HORACE.

257

THE FIRST BOOK OF THE EPISTLES of HORACE.

Epistle I. To Mæcenas.

O thou, to whom the Muse first tun'd her Lyre,
Whose Friendship shall her latest Song inspire,
Wherefore, Mæcenas, would You thus engage
Your Bard, dismist with Honour from the Stage,
Again to venture in the Lists of Fame,
His Youth, his Genius, now no more the same?

Secure in his Retreat Vejanius lies,
Hangs up his Arms, nor courts the doubtful Prize;
Wisely resolv'd to tempt his Fate no more,
Or the light Croud for his Discharge implore.

259

The Voice of Reason cries with piercing Force,
Loose from the rapid Car your aged Horse,
Lest in the Race derided, left behind,
He drag his jaded Limbs, and burst his Wind.

Then farewel all th' Amusements of my Youth,
Farewel to Verses, for the Search of Truth
And moral Decency hath fill'd my Breast,
Hath every Thought, and Faculty possest;
And now I form my Philosophic Lore,
For all my future Life a treasur'd Store.

You ask, perhaps, what Sect, what Chief I own;
I'm of all Sects, but blindly sworn to none;
For as the Tempest drives I shape my Way,
Now active plunge into the World's wide Sea:
Now Virtue's Precepts rigidly defend,
Nor to the World—the World to me shall bend:
Then make a looser Moralist my Guide,
And to a School less rigid smoothly glide.

261

As Night seems tedious to th' expecting Youth,
Whose Fair-one breaks her Assignation-Truth;
As to a Slave appears the lengthen'd Day,
Who owes his Task—for he receiv'd his Pay;
As, when the Guardian Mother's too severe,
Impatient Minors waste their last, long Year;
So sadly slow the Time ungrateful flows,
Which breaks th' important Systems I propose;
Systems, whose useful Precepts might engage
Both Rich and Poor; both Infancy and Age;
But meaner Precepts now my Life must rule,
These, the first Principles of Wisdom's School.

What though you cannot hope for Eagle's Eyes,
Will you a lenient, strengthening Salve despise?
Though matchless Glycon's Limbs You cannot gain,
Will you not cure the Gout's decrepid Pain?
Though of exact Perfection you despair,
Yet every Step to Virtue's worth your Care.

Even while You fear to use your present Store,
Yet glows your Bosom with a Lust of more?
The Power of Words, and soothing Sounds appease
The raging Pain, and lessen the Disease.
Is Fame your Passion? Wisdom's powerful Charm,
If thrice read over, shall its Force disarm.

263

The Slave to Envy, Anger, Wine or Love,
The Wretch of Sloth, its Excellence shall prove:
Fierceness itself shall bear its Rage away,
When listening calmly to th' instructive Lay.
Even in our Flight from Vice some Virtue lies,
And free from Folly, we to Wisdom rise.
A little Fortune, and the foul Disgrace,
To urge in vain your Interest for a Place;
These are the Ills you shun with deepest Dread;
With how much Labour both of Heart and Head?
To distant Climes, that burn with other Suns,
Through Seas, and Rocks, th' undaunted Merchant runs
In search of Wealth, yet heedless to attend
To the calm Lectures of some wiser Friend,
Who bids him scorn, what now he most desires,
And with an Idiot's Ignorance admires.

What stroling Gladiator would engage
For vile Applause to mount a Country-Stage,
Who at th' Olympic Games could gain Renown,
And without Danger bear away the Crown?

Silver to Gold, we own, must yield the Prize,
And Gold to Virtue; louder Folly cries,
Ye Sons of Rome, let Money first be sought;
Virtue is only worth a second Thought.

265

This Maxim echoes through the Banker's Street,
While Young and Old, the pleasing Strain repeat:
For though you boast a larger Fund of Sense,
Untainted Morals, Honour, Eloquence,
Yet want a little of the Sum, that buys
The titled Honour, and you ne'er shall rise
Above the Croud: yet Boys, at play, proclaim,
IF you do well, be Monarch of the Game.

Be this thy brazen Bulwark of Defence,
Still to preserve thy conscious Innocence,
Nor e'er turn pale with Guilt. But prithee tell,
Shall Otho's Law the Children's Song excel?
The Sons of ancient Rome first sung the Strain,
Which bids the Wise, the Brave, the Virtuous reign.

My Friend, get Money; get a large Estate,
By honest Means; but get, at any Rate,
That You may rise distinguish'd in the Pit,
And view the weeping Scenes that Pupius writ.
But is He not a Friend of nobler Kind,
Who wisely fashions, and informs thy Mind,
To answer, with a Soul erect and brave,
To Fortune's Pride, and scorn to be her Slave

267

But should the People ask me, while I use
The publick Converse, wherefore I refuse
To join the publick Judgement, and approve,
Or fly whatever they dislike, or love;
Mine be the Answer prudent Reynard made
To the sick Lion—Truly I'm afraid,
When I behold the Steps, that to thy Den
Look forward all, but none return again.

But what a many-headed Beast is Rome?
For what Opinion shall I chuse, or whom?
Some joy the public Revenues to farm;
By Presents some the ravening Widow charm;
Others their Nets for dying Dotards lay,
And make the childless Batchelor their Prey;
By dark Extortion some their Fortunes raise;
Thus every Man some different Passion sways:
But where is He, who can with steady View
Even for an Hour his favourite Scheme pursue?

If a rich Lord in wanton Rapture, cries,
What Place on Earth with charming Baiæ vies!
Soon the broad Lake and spreading Sea shall prove
Th' impatient Whims of his impetuous Love;
But if his Fancy point some other Way
(Which like a Sign from Heaven he must obey)

269

Instant, ye Builders, to Teanum haste,
An inland Country is his Lordship's Taste.
Knows he the genial Bed, and fruitful Wife?
“How happy then is an unmarried Life!”
Is he a Batchelor? the only blest,
He swears, are of the bridal Joy possest.
Say, while he changes thus, what Chains can bind
These various Forms; this Proteus of the Mind?

But now to lower Objects turn your Eyes,
And lo! what Scenes of Ridicule arise.
The Poor, in mimickry of Heart, presumes
To change his Barbers, Baths, and Beds and Rooms,
And, since the Rich in their own Barges ride,
He hires a Boat and pukes with mimic Pride.

If some unlucky Barber notch my Hair,
Or if my Robes of different Length I wear;
If my worn Vest a tatter'd Shirt confess,
You laugh to see such Quarrels in my Dress:
But if my Judgement, with itself at Strife,
Should contradict my general Course of Life;
Should now despise, what it with Warmth pursu'd,
And earnest wish for what with Scorn it view'd;
Float like the Tide; now high the Building raise;
Now pull it down; nor round, nor square can please;
You call it Madness of the usual Kind,
Nor laugh, nor think Trustees should be assign'd
To manage my Estate; nor seem afraid
That I shall want the kind Physician's Aid,

271

While yet, my great Protector and my Friend,
On whom my Fortune and my Hopes depend,
An ill-par'd Nail you with Resentment see
In one, who loves and honours You like me.

In short, the Wise is only less than Jove,
Rich, free, and handsome; nay a King above
All earthly Kings; with Health supremely blest—
Except when driveling Phlegm disturbs his Rest.

Epist. II. To Lollius.

While You, my Lollius, on some chosen Theme,
With youthful Eloquence at Rome declaim,
I read the Grecian Poet o'er again,
Whose Works the Beautiful and Base contain;
Of Vice and Virtue more instructive Rules,
Than all the sober Sages of the Schools.
Why thus I think, if not engag'd, attend,
And, Lollius, hear the Reasons of your Friend.

273

The well-wrought Fable, that sublimely shows
The Loves of Paris, and the lengthen'd Woes
Of Greece in Arms, presents, as on a Stage,
The giddy Tumults, and the foolish Rage
Of Kings and People. Hear Antenor's Scheme;
“Cut off the Cause of War; restore the Dame:”
But Paris treats this Counsel with Disdain,
Nor will be forc'd in Happiness to reign,
While hoary Nestor, by Experience wise,
To reconcile the angry Monarchs tries.
His injur'd Love the Son of Peleus fires,
And equal Passion, equal Rage inspires
The Breasts of both. When doating Monarchs urge
Unsound Resolves, their Subjects feel the Scourge.
Trojans and Greeks, seditious, base, unjust,
Offend alike in Violence and Lust.
To shew what pious Wisdom's Power can do,
The Poet sets Ulysses in our View,
Who conquer'd Troy, and with sagacious Ken
Saw various Towns and Policies of Men;
While for himself, and for his native Train,
He seeks a Passage through the boundless Main,
In Perils plung'd, the patient Hero braves
His adverse Fate, and buoys above the Waves.

The Siren-Songs and Circe's Cups you know,
Which with his Mates, voracious of their Woe,

275

If he had blindly tasted, he had been
A brutal Vassal to a lustful Queen;
Had liv'd a Dog, debas'd to vile Desire,
Or loathsome Swine, and grovel'd in the Mire.
But we, mere Cyphers in the Book of Life,
Like those, who boldly woo'd our Hero's Wife,
Born to consume the Fruits of Earth; in Truth,
As vain and idle, as Phæacia's Youth;
Mere Outside all, to fill the mighty Void
Of Life, in Dress and Equipage employ'd,
Who sleep till Mid-day, and with melting Airs
Of empty Music sooth away our Cares.

Rogues nightly rise to murder Men for Pelf,
Will you not rouse you to preserve yourself?
But though in Health you doze away your Days,
You run, when puff'd with dropsical Disease.
Unless you light your early Lamp, to find
A moral Book; unless you form your Mind
To nobler Studies, you shall forfeit Rest,
And Love or Envy shall distract your Breast.
For the hurt Eye an instant Cure you find;
Then why neglect, for Years, the sickening Mind?

Who sets about hath half perform'd his Deed;
Dare to be wise, and, if you would succeed,
Begin. The Man, who has it in his Power
To practise Virtue, and protracts the Hour,
Waits till the River pass away: but lo!
Ceaseless it flows, and will for ever flow.

277

At Wealth, and Wives of Fruitfulness we aim,
We stub the Forest, and the Soil reclaim;
Who hath sufficient, should not covet more:
Nor House, nor Lands, nor Heaps of labour'd Ore
Can give the feverish Lord one Moment's Rest,
Or drive one Sorrow from his anxious Breast;
The fond Possessor must be bless'd with Health,
To reap the Comforts of his hoarded Wealth.

Demaine and Fortune gratify the Breast,
For Lucre lusting, or with Fear deprest;
As Pictures, glowing with a vivid Light,
Afford Amusement to a blemish'd Sight;
As chasing quells the Gout, or Music chears
The tingling Organs of imposthum'd Ears.
For tainted Vessels sour what they contain;
Then fly from Pleasures, dearly bought with Pain.
He wants for ever, who would more acquire,
Set certain Limits to your wild Desire.

The Man, who envies, must behold with Pain
Another's Joys, and sicken at his Gain:
Nor could Sicilia's Tyrants ever find
A greater Torment, than an envious Mind.

The Man, unable to controul his Ire,
Shall wish undone, what Hate and Wrath inspire:
To sate his Rage, præcipitate he flies,
Yet in his Breast th' unsated Vengeance lies.
Anger's a shorter Frenzy: then subdue
Your Passion, or your Passion conquers You.
Let lordly Reason hold the guiding Reins,
And bind the Tyrant with coercive Chains,

The Jockey forms the tender Steed with Skill,
To move obedient to the Rider's Will.

279

Since first the home-taught Hound began to bay
The Buck-skin trail'd, he challenges his Prey
Through woody Wilds. Now pliantly inure
Your Mind to Virtue, while your Heart is pure;
Now suck in Wisdom; for the Vessel, well
With Liquor season'd, long retains the Smell.
But if you lag, or run a-head, my Friend,
I leave the Slow, nor with the Swift contend.

Epist. III. To Julius Florus.

Florus, I long to know where Claudius leads
The distant Rage of War: whether he spreads
His conquering Banners o'er the Thracian Plains,
Or freezing Hebrus bound in snowy Chains.
Or does the Hellespont's high-tower'd Sea,
Or Asia's fertile Soil his Course delay?
What Works of Genius do the Youth prepare,
Who guard his sacred Person? Who shall dare
To sing the Glories of Augustu's Name,
And give his peaceful Honours down to Fame?
How fares my Titius? Say, when he intends
To publish? Does he not forget his Friends?

281

He, who disdains the Springs of common Fame,
And dauntless quaffs the deep Pindaric Stream,
Does he design, while all the Muse inspires,
To tune to Theban Sounds the Roman Lyres;
Or, with the Transports of Theatric Rage,
And its sonorous Language, shake the Stage?

Let Celsus be admonish'd, o'er and o'er,
To search the Treasures of his native Store,
Nor touch what Phœbus consecrates to Fame,
Lest, when the Birds their various Colours claim,
Stripp'd of his stolen Pride, the Crow forlorn
Should stand the Laughter of the public Scorn.

What do You dare? who float with active Wing
Around the thymy Fragrance of the Spring.
Not yours the Genius of a lowly Strain,
Nor of uncultur'd, or unpolish'd Vein,
Whether You plead with Eloquence his Cause;
Or to your Client clear the doubtful Laws;
Then sure to gain, for amatorious Lays,
The Wreaths of Ivy, with unenvied Praise.

Could You the Passions, in their Rage, controul,
That damp the nobler Purpose of the Soul;
Could You these soothing Discontents allay,
Soon should You rise where Wisdom points the Way;
Wisdom heaven-born, at which we all should aim,
The little Vulgar, and the known to Fame,

283

If we would live, within our proper Sphere,,
Dear to ourselves, and to our Country dear.

Now tell me, whether Plancus holds a Part
(For sure he well deserves it) in your Heart?
Or was the Reconcilement made in vain,
Which like an ill-cur'd Wound breaks forth again,
While inexperienc'd Youth, and Blood enflam'd,
Drive you, like Coursers, to the Yoke untam'd?

Where-e'er Ye are, too excellent to prove
The broken Union of fraternal Love,
A votive Heifer gratefully I feed,
For your Return in Sacrifice to bleed.

Epist. IV. To Albius Tibullus.

Albius, in whom my Satires find
A candid Critic, and a kind,
Do you, while at your Country-Seat,
Some rhiming Labours meditate,
That shall in volum'd Bulk arise,
And even from Cassius bear the Prize,

285

Or, sauntering through the silent Wood,
Think what befits the wise and good?

Thou art not form'd of lifeless Mould,
With Breast, inanimate and cold;
To thee the Gods a Form complete,
To thee the Gods a large Estate
In Bounty gave, with Skill to know
How to enjoy what they bestow.

Can a fond Nurse one Blessing more
Even for her favourite Boy implore,
With Sense and clear Expression blest,
Of Friendship, Honour, Health possest,
A Table, elegantly plain,
And a poetic, easy Vein?

By Hope inspir'd, deprest with Fear,
By Passion warm'd, perplex'd with Care,
Believe, that every Morning's Ray,
Hath lighted up thy latest Day;
Then, if To-morrow's Sun be thine,
With double Lustre shall it shine.

Such are the Maxims I embrace,
And here, in sleek and joyous Case,
You'll find, for Laughter fitly bred,
An Hog by Epicurus fed.

287

Epist. V. To Torquatus.

If, dear Torquatus, you can kindly deign
To lie on Beds, of simple Form and plain,
Where Herbs alone shall be your frugal Feast,
At Evening I expect you for my Guest.
Nor old, I own, nor excellent, my Wine,
Of five Years Vintage, and a marshy Vine;
If you have better, bring th' enlivening Chear,
Or, from an humble Friend, this Summons bear.

Bright shines my Hearth, my Furniture is clean,
With Joy my courtly Guest to entertain:
Then leave the Hope, that, wing'd with Folly, flies;
Leave the mean Quarrels, that from Wealth arise;
Leave the litigious Bar, for Cæsar's Birth
Proclaims the festal Hour of Ease and Mirth,

289

While social Converse, and sincere Delight,
Shall stretch, beyond its Length, the Summer's Night.
Say, what are Fortune's Gifts, if I'm denied
Their chearful Use? for nearly are allied
The Madman, and the Fool, whose sordid Care
Makes himself poor, but to enrich his Heir.
Give me to drink, and, crown'd with Flowers, despise
The grave Disgrace of being thought unwise.

What cannot Wine perform? It brings to Light
The secret Soul; it bids the Coward fight;
Gives Being to our Hopes, and from our Hearts
Drives the dull Sorrow, and inspires new Arts.
Whom hath not an inspiring Bumper taught
A Flow of Words, and Loftiness of Thought?
Even in th' oppressive Grasp of Poverty
It can enlarge, and bid the Wretch be free.

Chearful my usual Task I undertake
(Nor a mean Figure in my Office make)
That no foul Linen wrinkle up the Nose,
That every Plate with bright Reflexion shows
My Guest his Face; that none, when Life grows gay,
The social Hour of Confidence betray.

That all in equal Friendship may unite,
Your Butra and Septicius I'll invite,
And, if he's not engag'd to better Chear,
Or a kind Girl, Sabinus shall be here.

291

Still there is Room, and yet the Summer's Heat
May prove offensive, if the Croud be great:
But write me word, how many you desire,
Then instant from the busy World retire,
And while your studious Clients fill the Hall,
Slip out at the Back-door, and bilk them all.

Epist. VI. To Numicius.

Not to admire is of all Means the best,
The only Means, to make, and keep us blest.
There are, untainted with the Thoughts of Fear,
Who see the certain Changes of the Year
Unerring roll; who see this glorious Sun,
And these fair Stars, their annual Progress run:
But with what different Eye do they behold
The Gifts of Earth; or Diamonds or Gold;
Old Ocean's Treasures, and the pearly Stores,
Wafted to farthest India's wealthy Shores?
Or with what Sense, what Language, should we gaze
On Shows, Employments, or the People's Praise?

Whoever dreads the opposite Extreme,
Or Disappointment, Poverty, or Shame,

293

Is raptur'd with almost the same Desires,
As he, who doats on what the World admires;
Equal their Terrours, equal their Surprise,
When accidental Dangers round them rise:
Nor matters it, what Passions fill his Breast,
With Joy or Grief, Desire or Fear opprest,
With down-fix'd Eyes who views the varying Scene,
Whose Soul grows stiff, and stupified his Brain.
Even Virtue, when pursued with Warmth extreme,
Turns into Vice, and fools the Sage's Fame.

Now go, Numicius, and with higher Gust
Admire thy treasur'd Gold, the Marble Bust,
Or bronze Antique, the Purple's various Glow,
And lustred Gem; those Works, which Arts bestow.
Let gazing Crouds your Eloquence admire,
At early Morn to Court, at Night retire,
Lest Mutus wed a Wife of large Estate,
While, deeper your Dishonour to compleat,
The low-born Wretch to You no Honour pays,
Though You on Him with Admiration gaze.

But Time shall bring the latent Birth to Light,
And hide the present glorious Race in Night;
For though Agrippa's awful Collonade,
Or Appian Way, thy passing Pomp survey'd,
It yet remains to tread the drear Descent,
Where good Pompilius, and great Ancus went.

Would You not wish to cure th' acuter Pains,
That rack thy tortur'd Side, or vex thy Reins?
Would You, and who would not, with Pleasure live?
If Virtue can alone the Blessing give,

295

With ardent Spirit Her alone pursue,
And with Contempt all other Pleasures view.
Yet if you think, that Virtue's but a Name:
That Groves are Groves, nor from Religion claim
A sacred Awe; fly to the distant Coast,
Nor let the rich Bithynian Trade be lost.
A thousand Talents be the rounded Sum,
You first design'd; then raise a second Plumb;
A third successive be your earnest Care,
And add a fourth to make the Mass a Square;
For Gold, the sovereign Queen of all below,
Friends, Honour, Birth and Beauty can bestow:
The Goddess of Persuasion forms her Train,
And Venus decks the well-bemoney'd Swain.

The Cappadocian King, though rich in Slaves,
Yet wanting Money, was but rich by halves.
Be not like him. Lucullus, as they say,
Once being ask'd to furnish for a Play
An hundred martial Vests, in Wonder cried,
Whence can so vast a Number be supplied?
But yet, whate'er my Wardrobe can afford,
You shall command; then instant wrote him Word,
Five thousand Vests were ready at his Call,
He might have Part, or, if he pleas'd, take all.
Poor House! where no superfluous Wealth's unknown
To its rich Lord, that Thieves may make their own.

Well, then if Wealth alone our Bliss insure,
Our first, our latest Toil should Wealth secure:
If Pride, and public Pomp the Blessing claim,
Let's buy a Slave to tell each Voter's Name,

297

And give the Hint, and through the crouded Street
To stretch the civil Hand to all we meet,
“The Fabian Tribe his Interest largely sways;
“This the Velinian; there a third, with Ease,
“Can give or take the Honours of the State,
“The Consul's Fasces, and the Prætor's Seat.
“According to their Age adopt them all,
“And Brother, Father, most facetious call.

If he lives well, who revels out the Night,
Be Gluttony our Guide; away; 'tis Light.
Let's fish, or hunt, and then, at early Day,
Across the crouded Forum take our Way,
Or to the Campus Martius change the Scene,
And let our Slaves display our hunting Train,
That gazing Crouds by one pure Mule be taught,
At what a Price the mighty Boar was bought.
Then let us bathe while th' indigested Food
Lies in the swelling Stomach raw and crude,
Forgetting all of Decency and Shame,
From the fair Book of Freedom strike our Name,
And like th' abandon'd Ulyssean Crew,
Our Ithaca forgot, forbidden Joys pursue.

If Life's insipid without Mirth and Love,
Let Love and Mirth insipid Life improve.

299

Farewel, and if a better System's thine,
Impart it frankly, or make use of mine.

Epist. VII. To Mæcenas.

I promis'd at my Country-Farm to stay
But a few Days; yet August roll'd away,
And left your Loiterer here: But kind forgive
(In chearful Health if you would have me live)
And to my Fears the same Indulgence show,
As to my real Illness You bestow.

The purpled Fig now paints the sickly Year,
And Undertakers in black Pomp appear;
The Father, and, with softer Passions warm'd,
The tender Mother for her Son's alarm'd;
The crouded Levee with a Fever kills,
And the long Lawyer's Plea unseals our Wills;
But when the Snows on Alba's Mountain lie,
To some warm Sea-port Town your Bard shall fly,

301

There o'er a Book not too severely bend;
Resolv'd to visit his illustrious Friend,
When western Winds, and the first Swallows bring
The welcome Tidings of returning Spring.

In other Taste to me your Bounty flow'd,
Than to his Guest the rough Calabrian show'd—
“These Pears are excellent, then prithee feed”—
I've eaten quite enough—“Well. You indeed
“Shall take some home—as many as You please,
“For Children love such little Gifts as these.”
I thank you, Sir, as if they all were mine—
“Nay! if You leave, You leave them for the Swine.”
Thus Fools and Spendthrifts give what they despise,
And hence such thankless Crops for ever rise.
The Wise and Good with better Choice bestow,
And real Gold from Play-house Counters know.
But thus much Merit let me boldly claim,
No base Ingratitude shall stain my Name;
And yet if I must never leave You more,
Give me my former Vigour, and restore
The Hair, that on the youthful Forehead plays;
Give me to prate with Joy, to laugh with Ease,
And o'er the flowing Bowl, in sighing Strain,
To talk of wanton Cinera's Disdain.

303

Into a wicker Cask, where Corn was kept,
Perchance of meagre Corps a Field-mouse crept,
But when she fill'd her Paunch, and sleek'd her Hide,
How to get out again, in vain she try'd.
A Weezel, who beheld her thus distrest,
In friendly sort the luckless Mouse addrest,
“Would you escape, You must be poor and thin,
“To pass the Hole through which you ventur'd in.”

If in this Tale th' unlucky Picture's mine,
Chearful the Gifts of Fortune I resign;
Nor, with a Load of Luxury opprest,
Applaud the Sleep, that purer Meals digest.
Nor would exchange, for blest Arabia's Gold,
My native Ease, and Freedom uncontroul'd.

You oft have prais'd me, that no bold Request,
A modest Poet! on Your Friendship prest;
My grateful Language ever was the same,
I call'd you every tender, awful Name;
However try me, whether I can part
From all your Bounty, with a chearful Heart.

The Youth, whose Sire such various Woes had try'd,
To Menelaus, not unwise, reply'd,
“Our Island hath no rich and fertile Plain,
“No wide-extended Course, in which to train
“The generous Horse; then grant me to refuse
“A Present, that You better know to use.”
For little Folks become their little Fate,
And, at my Age, not Rome's imperial Seat,

305

But soft Tarentum's more delicious Ease,
Or Tibur's Solitude my Taste can please.

Philip, whose Youth was spent in Feats of War,
Nor grown a famous Lawyer at the Bar,
Returning home from Court one sultry Day,
Complain'd, how tedious was the lengthen'd Way
To Folks in Years; then wistfully survey'd
A new trim'd Spark, who, joying in the Shade,
Loll'd in a Barber's Shop, with Ease reclin'd,
And par'd his Nails, full indolent of Mind.
“Demetrius (so was call'd his favourite Slave,
“For such Commissions a right trusty Knave)
“Run and inquire of yonder Fellow straight,
“His Name, Friends, Country, Patron and Estate.”
He goes, returns—“Vulteius is his Name;
“Of little Fortune, but of honest Fame;
“A public Crier, who a thousand Ways
“Bustles to get what he enjoys with Ease.
“A boon Companion 'mongst his Equals known,
“And the small House he lives in is his own.
“His Business over, to the public Shows,
“Or to the Field of Mars he sauntering goes.”

Methinks, I long to see this wonderous Wight;
Bid him be sure to sup with me to-night.
Menas, with aukward Wonder, scarce believes
The courteous Invitation he receives:
At last, politely begs to be excus'd—
“And am I then with Insolence refus'd?
“Whether from too much Fear, or too much Pride,
“I know not, but he flatly has denied.”

Philip next Morn our honest Pedlar found
Dealing his iron Merchandise around

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To his small Chaps;—the first Good-morrow gave;
Menas confus'd—“Behold a very Slave,
“To Business chain'd, or I should surely wait
“An early Client at your Worship's Gate;
“Or had I first perceiv'd You—as I live”—
Well, sup with me to-night, and I forgive
All past Neglect. Be punctual to your Hour;
Remember I expect You just at Four.
'Till then farewel; your growing Fortunes mend,
And know me for your Servant and your Friend.

Behold him now at Supper, where he said,
Or right or wrong, what came into his Head.
When Philip saw his eager Gudgeon bite,
At Morn an early Client, and at Night
A certain Guest, his Project to compleat,
He takes him with him to his Country-Seat.
On Horse-back now he ambles at his Ease,
The Soil, the Climate his incessant Praise.

Philip, who well observ'd our simple Guest,
Laughs in his Sleeve, resolv'd to have his Jest
At any Rate; then lends him fifty Pound,
And promis'd more, to buy a Spot of Ground.

But, that our Tale no longer be delay'd,
Bought is the Ground, and our spruce Merchant made
A very Rustic; while at endless Rate,
Vineyards and Furrows are his constant Prate.
He plants his Elms for future Vines to rise,
Grows old with Care, and on the Prospect dies.
But when his Goats by Sickness, and by Thieves
His Sheep are lost, his Crop his Hope deceives,
And his one Ox is kill'd beneath the Yoke,
Such various Losses his best Spirits broke.

309

At Midnight dragging out his only Horse,
He drives to Philip's House his desperate Course;
Who, when he saw him rough, deform'd with Hair
“Your ardent Love of Pelf, your too much Care
“Hath surely brought You to this dismal Plight”—
Oh! call me Wretch, if You would call me right,
The Caitiff cries; but let this Wretch implore,
By your good Genius—all that You adore,
By that right Hand, sure never pledg'd in vain,
Restore me to my former Life again.

To his first State let him return with Speed,
Who sees how far the Joys he left exceed
His present Choice: for all should be confin'd
Within the Bounds, which Nature hath assign'd.

Epist. VIII. To Celsus Albinovanus.

To Celsus, Muse, my warmest Wishes bear,
And if he kindly ask you how I fare,
Say, though I threaten many a vast Design,
Nor Happiness, nor Wisdom, yet are mine.

311

Not that the driving Hail my Vineyards beat;
Not that my Olives are destroy'd with Heat;
Not that my Cattle pine in foreign Plains—
More in my Mind than Body lie my Pains.
Reading I hate, and with unwilling Ear
The Voice of Comfort, or of Health I hear.
Friends or Physicians I with Pain endure,
Who strive this Langour of my Soul to cure.
Whate'er may hurt me, I with Joy pursue;
Whate'er may do me good, with Horrour view.
Inconstant as the Wind, I various rove;
At Tibur, Rome: at Rome, I Tibur love.

Ask how he does; what happy Arts support
His Prince's Favour, nor offend the Court;
If all be well, say. first, that we rejoice,
And then, remember, with a gentle Voice
Instill this Precept at his listening Ear,
“As You your Fortune, we shall Celsus bear.”

313

Epist. IX. To Tiberius Nero.

Septimius only knows, at least, would seem
To know, the Share I hold in your Esteem,
For when he asks, and would by Prayer prevail,
That I present him with my warmest Zeal,
Worthy of Nero's Family, and Heart,
Where only Men of Merit claim a Part;
When fondly he persuades himself I hold
A Place among your nearer Friends enrol'd,
Much better than myself he sees and knows
How far my Interest with Tiberius goes.

A thousand Things I urg'd to be excus'd,
Though fearful, if too warmly I refus'd,
I might, perhaps, a mean Dissembler seem,
To make a Property of your Esteem.

Thus have I with a Friend's Request complied,
And on the Confidence of Courts relied:

315

If you forgive me, to your Heart receive
The Man I love, and know him good and brave.

Epist. X. To Aristius Fuscus.

To Fuscus, who in City-sports delights,
A Country-Bard with gentle Greeting writes;
In this we differ, but in all beside,
Like twin-born Brothers, are our Souls allied;
And, as a Pair of fondly-constant Doves,
What one dislikes the other disapproves.
You keep the Nest, I love the rural Mead,
The Brook, the mossy Rock and woody Glade;
In short, I live and reign, whene'er I fly
The Joys, You vaunt with Rapture to the Sky,
And like a Slave, from the Priest's Service fled,
I nauseate honey'd Cakes, and long for Bread.

Would you to Nature's Laws Obedience yield,
Would you a House for Health or Pleasure build,
Where is there such a Situation found,
As where the Country spreads its Blessings round?
Where is the temperate Winter less severe?
Or, when the Sun ascending fires the Year,

317

Where breathes a milder Zephyr to asswage
The Dogstar's Fury, or the Lion's Rage?
Where do less envious Cares disturb our Rest?
Or are the Fields, in Nature's Colours drest,
Less grateful to the Smell, or to the Sight,
Than the rich Floor, with inlaid Marble bright?
Is Water purer from the bursting Lead,
Than gently murmuring down its native Bed?
Among your Columns, rich with various Dyes,
Unnatural Woods with aukward Art arise:
You praise the House, whose Situation yields
An open Prospect to the distant Fields.
Though Nature's driven out with proud Disdain,
The powerful Goddess will return again;
Return in silent Triumph to deride
The weak Attempts of Luxury and Pride.

The Man, who cannot with judicious Eye
Compare the Fleece, that drinks the Tyrian Dye,
With the pale Latian, yet shall ne'er sustain
A Loss so touching, of such heart-self Pain,
As he, who can't, with Sense of happier Kind,
Distinguish Truth from Falshood in the Mind.

They, who in Fortune's Smiles too much delight,
Shall tremble when the Goddess takes her Flight,
For if her Gifts our fonder Passions gain,
The frail Possession we resign with Pain.

Then leave the gaudy Blessings of the Great,
The Cottage offers a secure Retreat,
Where You may make a solid Bliss your own,
To Kings, and Favourites of Kings, unknown.

319

A lordly Stag, arm'd with superior Force,
Drove from their common Field a vanquish'd Horse,
Who for Revenge to Man his Strength enslav'd,
Took up his Rider, and the Bitt receiv'd:
But, when he saw his Foe with Triumph slain,
In vain He strove his Freedom to regain,
He felt the Weight and yielded to the Rein.
So he, who Poverty with Horrour views,
Nor frugal Nature's Bounty knows to use;
Who sells his Freedom in Exchange for Gold
(Freedom for Mines of Wealth too cheaply sold)
Shall make eternal Servitude his Fate,
And feel a haughty Master's galling Weight.

Our Fortunes and our Shoes are near allied;
We're pinch'd in strait, and stumble in the wide.
Then learn thy present Fortune to enjoy,
And on my Head thy just Reproach employ,
If e'er, forgetful of my former Self,
I toil to raise unnecessary Pelf,
For Gold will either govern or obey,
But better shall the Slave, than Tyrant play.

This near the Shrine of Idleness I pen'd,
Sincerely blest, but that I want my Friend.

321

Epist. XI. To Bullatius.

Do the fam'd Islands of th' Ionian Seas,
Lesbos, or Chios, my Bullatius please?
Or Sardis, where great Crœsus held his Court?
Say, are they less, or greater than Report?
Does Samos, Colophon, or Smyrna, yield
Compar'd to Tybur, or to Mars's Field?
Would you, fatigu'd with Toils of Land and Seas,
In Lebedus, or Asia, spend your Days?

You tell me, Lebedus is now become
More desart, than our Villages at home,
Yet there you gladly fix your future Lot,
Your Friends forgetting, by your Friends forgot;
Enjoy the Calm of Life, and safe on Shore,
At Distance hear the raging Tempest roar.

A Traveller, though wet with Dirt and Rain,
Would not for ever at an Inn remain,
Or pierc'd with Cold, and joying in the Heat
Of a warm Bath, believe his Joys complete.
Though by strong Winds your Bark were Tempest-tost,
Say, would you sell it on a distant Coast?

323

Believe me, at delicious Rhodes to live,
To a sound Mind no greater Bliss can give,
Than a thick Coat in Summer's burning Ray,
Or a light Mantle on a snowy Day,
Or to a Swimmer Tiber's freezing Stream,
Or sunny Rooms in August's mid-day Flame.
While yet 'tis in your Power; while Fortune smiles,
At Rome with Rapture vaunt those happy Isles,
And with a grateful Hand the Bliss receive,
If Heaven an Hour more fortunate shall give.
Seize on the present Joy, and thus possess,
Where-e'er you live, an inward Happiness.

If Reason only can our Cares allay,
Not the bold Site, that wide commands the Sea;
If they, who through the venturous Ocean range,
Not their own Passions, but the Climate change;
Anxious through Seas and Land to search for Rest
Is but laborious Idleness at best.
In desart Ulubræ the Bliss you'll find,
If you preserve a firm, and equal Mind.

Epist. XII. To Iccius.

While Iccius farms Agrippa's large Estate,
If he with Wisdom can enjoy his Fate,
No greater Riches Jove himself can give;
Then cease complaining, Friend, and learn to live.

325

He is not poor to whom kind Fortune grants,
Even with a frugal Hand, what Nature wants.

Are you with Food, and Warmth, and Raiment blest?
Not royal Treasures are of more possest;
And if, for Herbs and Shell-fish at a Feast,
You leave the various Luxuries of Taste,
Should Fate enrich you with a Golden Stream,
Your Life and Manners shall be still the same;
Whether meer Money cannot change the Soul,
Or Virtue should our Appetites controul.

That vagrant Herds, in Days of Yore, should eat
The Sage's Harvest, while without its Weight
His Spirit rov'd abroad, shall ne'er be told
As wonderful; since, not debas'd by Gold,
And its Infection, Iccius bravely wise
Spurns this vile Earth, and soars into the Skies.

Curious you search what bounds old Ocean's Tides;
What through the various Year the Seasons guides:
Whether the Stars, by their own proper Force
Or foreign Power, pursue their vagrant Course:
Why Shadows darken the pale Queen of Night:
Whence she renews her Orb, and spreads her Light:
What Nature's jarring Sympathy can mean,
And who, among the Wise, their Systems best maintain.

327

But whether slaughter'd Onions crown your Board,
Or murder'd Fish an impious Feast afford,
Receive Pompeius Grosphus to your Heart,
And, ere he asks, your willing Aid impart;
He ne'er shall make a bold, unjust Request,
And Friendship's cheap, when good Men are distrest.

Now condescend to hear the public News:
Agrippa's War the Sons of Spain subdues.
The fierce Armenian Nero's Virtue feels:
Short by the Knees the haughty Parthian kneels:
Again the Monarch is by Cæsar crown'd,
And Golden plenty pours her Blessings round.

Epist. XIII. To Vinius Asella.

Vinius, I oft desir'd you, ere you went,
Well seal'd my rhiming Volumes to present,
If Cæsar's high in Health, in Spirits Gay,
Or if he ask'd to read th' unoffer'd Lay,
Lest you offend with too officious Zeal,
And my poor Works his just Resentment feel,
Throw down the Burden, if it gall your Back,
Nor at the Palace fiercely break the Pack,

329

Lest my dear Ass become the laughing Sport,
The quibling Fable of the Wits at Court.

Through Rivers, Steeps, and Fens, exert your Force,
Nor, when you're Victor of the destin'd Course,
Under your Arm the letter'd Bundle bear,
As Rustics do their Lambs, with aukward Air;
As Pyrrhia, reeling from the drunken Bowl,
Conveys away the Ball of Wool she stole;
Or in his Pride, a Tribe-invited Guest
Carries his Cap and Slippers to a Feast;
Nor loud proclaim, with how much Toil you bear
Such Verse, as may detain, even Cæsar's Ear.
Farewel, make haste; and special Caution take,
Lest you should stumble, and my Orders break.

Epist. XIV. To His Steward in the Country.

Thou Steward of the Woods and Country-Seat,
That give me to myself: whose small Estate,
Which you despise, five worthy Fathers sent,
One from each House, to Varia's Parliament:
Let us enquire, if You, with happier Toil,
Root out the Thorns and Thistles of the Soil,
Than Horace tears his Follies from his Breast;
Whether my Farm or I be cultur'd best.

331

Though Lamia's pious Tears, that ceaseless mourn
A Brother lost, have hinder'd my Return,
Thither my warmest Wishes bend their Force,
Start from the Goal, and beat the distant Course.
Rome is your Rapture, mine the rural Seat;
Pleas'd with each other's Lot, our own we hate;
But both are Fools, and Fools in like Extreme;
Guiltless the Place, that we unjustly blame,
For in the Mind alone our Follies lie,
The Mind, that never from itself can fly.

A Slave at Rome, and discontented there,
A Country-Life was then your silent Prayer:
A Rustic grown, your first Desires return,
For Rome, her public Games and Baths you burn.
More constant to myself, I leave with Pain,
By hateful Business forc'd, the rural Scene.
From different Objects our Desires arise,
And thence the Distance, that between us lies;
For what you call inhospitably drear
To me with Beauty and Delight appear,
For well I know, a Tavern's greasy Steam
And a vile Stews with Joy your Heart enflame,
While my small Farm yields rather Herbs than Vines,
Nor there a neighbouring Tavern pours its Wines,
Nor Harlot-Minstrel sings, when the rude Sound
Tempts You with heavy Heels to thump the Ground.

But you complain, that with unceasing Toil,
You break, alas! the long unbroken Soil,
Or loose the wearied Oxen from the Plow,
And feed with Leaves new-gather'd from the Bough.
Then feels your Laziness an added Pain,
If e'er the Rivulet be swollen with Rain;

333

What mighty Mounds against its Force You rear
To teach its Rage the sunny Mead to spare!

Now hear, from whence our Sentiments divide;
In Youth, perhaps with not ungraceful Pride,
I wore a silken Robe, perfum'd my Hair,
And without Presents charm'd the venal Fair:
From early Morning quaff'd the flowing Glass;
Now a short Supper charms, or on the Grass
To lay me down at some fair River's Side,
And sweetly slumber as the Waters glide;
Nor do I blush to own my Follies past,
But own those Follies should no longer last.

None there with Eye askance my Pleasures views,
With Hatred dark, or poison'd Spite pursues;
My Neighbours laugh to see with how much Toil
I carry Stones, or break the stubborn Soil.
You with my City-Slaves would gladly join,
And on their daily Pittance hardly dine;
While more refin'd they view with envious Eye
The Gardens, Horses, Fires, that You enjoy.

Thus the slow Ox would gaudy Trappings claim;
The sprightly Horse would plough amidst the Team;
By my Advice, let each with chearful Heart,
As best he understands, employ his Art.

335

Epist. XV. To Vala.

By my Physician's learn'd Advice I fly
From Baia's Waters, yet with angry Eye
The Village views me, when I mean to bathe
The middle Winter's freezing Wave beneath;
Loudly complaining that their Myrtle Groves
Are now neglected; their sulfureous Stoves,
Of ancient Fame our feeble Nerves to raise,
And dissipate the lingering cold Disease,
While the sick Folks in Clusium's Fountains dare
Plunge the bold Head, or seek a colder Air.

The Road we now must alter, and engage
Th' unwilling Horse to pass his usual Stage:

337

Ho! whither now? his angry Rider Cries,
And to the left the restive Bridle plies.
We go no more to Baiæ prithee hear—
But in his Bridle lies an Horse's Ear.

Dear Vala, say, how temperate, how severe,
Are Velia's Winters, and Salernum's Air:
The Genius of the Folks, the Roads how good:
Which eats the better Bread, and when a Flood
Of Rain descends, which quaffs the gather'd Shower,
Or do their Fountains purer Water pour?
Their Country-Vintage is not worth my Care,
For though at home, whatever Wine, I bear,
At Sea-port Towns I shall expect to find
My Wines of generous and of smoother Kind,
To drive away my Cares, and to the Soul,
Through the full Veins, with golden Hopes to roll;
With flowing Language to inspire my Tongue,
And make the listening Fair-one think me young.

With Hares or Boars which Country's best supplied?
Which Seas their better Fish luxurious hide?
That I may home return in luscious Plight—
'Tis ours to credit, as 'tis yours to write.

When Mænius had consum'd, with gallant Heart,
A large Estate, he took the Jester's Art:
A vagrant Zany, of no certain Manger,
Who knew not, ere he din'd, or Friend or Stranger:
Cruel, and scurrilous to all, his Jest;
The ruin'd Butcher's Gulph, a Storm, a Pest.
Whate'er he got his ravening Guts receive,
And when or Friend or Foe no longer gave,

339

A Lamb's fat Paunch was a delicious Treat,
As much as three voracious Bears could eat;
Then like Reformer Bestius would he tell ye,
That Gluttons should be branded on the Belly.

But if, perchance, he found some richer Fare,
Instant it vanish'd into Smoke and Air—
“By Jove I wonder not, that Folks should eat,
“At one delicious Meal, a whole Estate,
“For a fat Thrush is most delightful Food,
“And a Swine's Paunch superlatively good.”

Thus I, when better Entertainments fail,
Bravely commend a plain and frugal Meal;
On cheaper Suppers shew myself full wise,
But if some Dainties more luxurious rise—
“Right sage and happy they alone, whose Fate
“Gives them a splendid House, and large Estate.”

Epist. XVI. To Quintius.

Ask not, dear Quintius, if my Farm maintain
With Fruits, or Meadows, or abundant Grain,
Its wealthy Master; ask not if the Vine
Around its Bridegroom-Elm luxuriant twine,
For I'll describe, and in loquacious Strain,
The Site and Figure of the pleasing Scene.

A Chain of Mountains with a Vale divide,
Whose Shades receive the Sun on either Side:
The right wide opening to the rising Day,
The left is warm'd beneath his setting Ray.

341

How mild the Clime, where Sloes luxurious grow,
And blushing Cornels on the Hawthorn glow;
With plenteous Acorns are my Cattle fed,
Whose various Oaks around their Master spread;
For you might say, that here Tarentum waves
Its dusky Shade, and pours forth all its Leaves.
A Fountain to a Rivulet gives its Name,
Cooler and purer than a Thracian Stream,
Useful to ease an aching Head it flows,
Or when with burning Pains the Stomach glows.

This pleasing, this delicious soft Retreat
In Safety guards me from September's Heat.

Would you be happy, be the Thing you seem,
And sure you now possess the World's Esteem;
Nor yet to others too much Credit give,
But in your own Opinion learn to live;
For know the Bliss in our own Judgement lies,
And none are happy, but the Good and Wise.
Nor, though the Croud pronounce your Health is good,
Disguise the Fever lurking in your Blood,
'Till trembling seize you at th' unfinish'd Meal,
For Fools alone their ulcer'd Ills conceal.

If some bold Flatterer sooth your listening Ears,
“The conquer'd World, dread Sir, thy Name reveres,
“And Jove, our Guardian God, with Power divine,
“Who watches o'er Rome's Happiness and thine,

343

“Yet holds it doubtful, whether Rome or You,
“With greater Warmth, each other's Good pursue.”
This Praise, you own, is sacred Cæsar's Fame;
But can you answer to your proper Name,
When you are call'd th' Accomplish'd or the Wise,
Names which we all with equal Ardour prize?
Yet he, who gives to-day this heedless Praise,
Shall take it back to-morrow, if he please,
As when the People from some worthless Knave
Can tear away the Consulship they gave;
“Lay down the Name of Wisdom, Sir, 'tis mine;”
Confus'd I leave him and his Gift resign.
What if he say I hang'd my aged Sire,
Call me a Thief, a Slave to lewd Desire,
Shall I be tortur'd with unjust Disgrace,
Or change the guilty Colours of my Face?
False Praise can charm, unreal Shame controul—
Whom, but a vicious or a sickly Soul?
Who then is good?

Quintius.
Who carefully observes
The Senate's wise Decrees, nor ever swerves
From the known Rules of Justice and the Laws:
Whose Bail secures, whose Oath decides a Cause.

345

Horace.

Yet his own House, his Neighbours, through his Art
Behold an inward Baseness in his Heart.
Suppose a Slave should say, I never steal,
I never ran away—“nor do you feel
“The flagrant Lash”—No human Blood I shed—
“Nor on the Cross the ravening Crows have fed”—
But Sir, I am an honest Slave, and wise—
“My Sabine Neighbour there the Fact denies.
“For wily Wolves the fatal Pit-fall fear;
“Kites fly the Bait, and Hawks the latent Snare;
“But virtuous Minds a Love of Virtue charms:
“The Fear of Chastisement thy Guilt alarms.
“When from my Stores you steal one Grain of Wheat,
“My Loss indeed is less, your Crime as great.”

Your honest Man, on whom with awful Praise
The Forum and the Courts of Justice gaze,
If e'er he make a public Sacrifice,
Dread Janus, Phœbus, clear and loud he cries;
But when his Prayer in earnest is prefer'd,
Scarce moves his Lips, afraid of being heard,
“Beauteous Laverna, my Petition hear;
“Let me with Truth and Sanctity appear:

347

“Oh! give me to deceive, and, with a Veil
“Of Darkness and of Night, my Crimes conceal.”

Behold the Miser bending down to Earth
For a poor Farthing, which the Boys in Mirth
Fix'd to the Ground; and shall the Caitiff dare
In honest Freedom with a Slave compare?

Whoever wishes is with Fear possest,
And he, who holds that Passion in his Breast,
Is in my Sense a Slave; hath left the Post
Where Virtue plac'd him, and his Arms hath lost:
To purchase hasty Wealth his Force applies,
And overwhelm'd beneath his Burden lies.

Say, is not this a very worthless Knave?
But if You have the most untoward Slave,
Yet kill him not, he may some Profit yield,
Of Strength to guard your Flocks and plow your Field,
Or let him winter in the stormy Main,
By Imports to reduce the Price of Grain.

The Good, and Wise, like Bacchus in the Play,
Dare, to the King of Thebes, undaunted say,
What can thy Power? Thy Threatenings I disdain.

Pentheus.
I'll take away thy Goods.

Bacchus.
Perhaps, you mean
My Cattle, Money, Moveables or Land;
Then take them all.

Pentheus.
But, Slave, if I command,

349

A cruel Jailor shall thy Freedom seize.

Bacchus.
A God shall set me free, whene'er I please.

Horace.
Death is that God, the Poet here intends,
That utmost Course, where human Sorrow ends.

Epist. XVII. To Scæva.

Although my Scæva knows with Art complete,
How to converse familiar with the Great,
Yet to th' Instruction of an humble Friend,
Who would himself be better taught, attend:
Though blind your Guide, some Precepts yet unknown
He may disclose, which you may make your own.

Are you with tranquil, quiet Pleasure blest,
Or after Sun-rise love an Hour of Rest;
If dusty Streets; the ratling Chariot's Noise,
Or if the neighbouring Tavern's mid-night Joys,
Delight you not, by my Advice retreat
To the calm Raptures of a rural Seat:

351

For Pleasure's not confin'd to Wealth alone,
Nor ill he lives, who lives and dies unknown;
But would you serve your Friends and joyous waste
The bounteous Hour, perfume you for the Feast.

His patient Herbs could Aristippus eat,
He had disdain'd the Tables of the Great;
And He, who censures me, the Sage replies,
If he could live with Kings, would Herbs despise.

Tell me, which likes you best, or, younger, hear,
Why Aristippus' Maxims best appear;
For with the snarling Cynic well he play'd,
“I am my own Buffoon, You take the Trade
“To please the Croud; yet sure 'tis better Pride,
“Maintain'd by Monarchs, on my Horse to ride.
“And while at Court observant I attend,
“For Things of Vileness You submissive bend;
“Own a Superior, and yet proudly vaunt,
“Imperious Cynic, that you nothing want.”

Yet Aristippus every Dress became:
In every various Change of Life the same;
And though he aim'd at Things of higher Kind,
Yet to the present held an equal Mind.
But that a Man, whom Patience taught to wear
A double Coat, should ever learn to bear
A Change of Life, with Decency and Ease,
May justly, I confess, our Wonder raise.

353

Yet Aristippus, though but meanly drest,
Nor wants, nor wishes for, a purple Vest;
He walks, regardless of the public Gaze,
And knows in every Character to please;
But neither Dog's, nor Snake's envenom'd Bite
Can, like a silken Robe, the Cynic fright.
“Give him his Mantle, or he dies with Cold”—
“Nay give it, let the Fool his Blessing hold.”

In glorious War a Triumph to obtain,
Cœlestial Honours, and a Seat shall gain
Fast by the Throne of Jove; nor mean the Praise
These Deities of human Kind to please.

“But, midst the Storms and Tempests of a Court,
“Not every one shall reach the wish'd-for Port;
“And sure the Man, who doubts of his Success,
“Wisely declines th' Attempt”—Then you confess,
That who succeeds, thus difficult his Part,
Gives the best Proof of Courage, as of Art.

Then, here, or no where, we the Truth shall find;
Conscious how weak in Body or in Mind,
When we behold the Burden with Despair,
Which others boldly try, with Spirit bear,
If Virtue's aught beyond an empty Name,
Rewards and Honours they with Justice claim.

355

In Silence who their Poverty conceal,
More than th' importunate, with Kings prevail:
And whether we with modest Action take,
Or snatch the Favour, may some Difference make.

From this fair Fountain our best Profits rise,
For when with plaintive Tone a Suppliant cries,
My Sister lies unportion'd on my Hands:
My Mother's poor, nor can I sell my Lands,
Or they maintain me; might he not have said,
Give me, ah! give me, Sir, my daily Bread?
While he, who hears him, chaunts on t'other Side,
With me your Bounty, ah! with me divide;
But had the Crow his Food in Silence eat,
Less had his Quarrels been, and more his Meat.

A Jaunt of Pleasure should my Lord intend,
And with him deign to take an humble Friend,
To talk of broken Roads, of Cold and Rain,
Or of his plunder'd Baggage to complain,
Is but the Trick, which wily Harlots try,
Who for a Girdle, or a Necklace, cry;
So oft they weep, that we believe no more,
When they with Tears a real Loss deplore.
He, whom a lying Lameness once deceives,
No more the falling Vagabond believes,
And though with streaming Tears the Caitiff cries,
Help me, Ah! Cruel! help a Wretch to rise;
Though loud he swear, “my Leg is really broke;
“By great Osiris I no longer joke;”

357

Yet the hoarse Village answers to his Cries,
Go find a Stranger to believe your Lyes.

Epist. XVIII. To Lollius.

Lollius, if well I know your Heart,
Your Frankness can disdain an Art,
That will to sordid Flattery bend,
And basely counterfeit the Friend;
For such the Difference, I ween,
The Flatterer and Friend between,
As is betwixt a virtuous Dame,
And Prostitute of common Fame.

Behold, in opposite Excess,
A different Vice, though nothing less;
Rustic, inelegant, uncouth,
With shaggy Beard, and nasty Tooth,
That fondly would be thought to be
Fair Virtue, and pure Liberty:
But Virtue in a Medium lies,
From whence these different Follies rise.

Another, with Devotion fervent,
Is more than your obsequious Servant;
Admitted as an humble Guest,
Where Men of Money break their Jest,

359

He waits the Nod, with Awe profound,
And catches, ere it reach the Ground,
The falling Joke, and echoes back the Sound.
A School-boy thus with humble Air,
Repeats to Pedagogue severe;
Thus Players act an Under-part,
And fear to put forth all their Art.

Another in Dispute engages,
With Nonsense arm'd for Nothing rages,
“Shall not my Word be first receiv'd?
“My Word of Honour not believ'd?
“And shall I, whether right or wrong,
“Be forc'd, forsooth, to hold my Tongue?
“No—, at a Price so base and mean,
“I would a thousand Lives disdain.”

But what provokes the dire Contest?
Which Gladiator fences best,
Or to which Road You best may turn Ye,
If to Brundusium lies your Journey.

Now, Lollius, mark the Wretch's Fate,
Who lives dependant on the Great.
If the præcipitating Dice,
If Venus be his darling Vice,
If Vanity his Wealth consumes
In Dressing, Feasting, and Perfumes,
If Thirst of Gold his Bosom sways,
A Thirst, which nothing can appease,
If Poverty with Shame he views,
And Wealth with every Vice pursues,
My Lord, more vicious as more great,
Views him with Horrour, or with Hate;
At least, shall o'er him tyrannise,
And like a fond Mamma advise,

361

Who bids her darling Daughter shun
The Paths of Folly she had run.
Think not, he cries, to live like me;
My Wealth supports my Vanity;
Your Folly should be moderate,
Proportion'd to a small Estate.

Eutrapelus, in merry Mood,
The Objects of his Wrath pursued,
And where he deepest Vengeance meant,
Fine Clothes, with cruel Bounty, sent;
For when the happy Coxcomb's drest,
Strange Hopes and Projects fill his Breast;
He sleeps 'till Noon, nor will the Varlet,
For Fame or Fortune, leave his Harlot.
Lavish he feeds the Usurer's Store,
And when the Miser lends no more,
He learns the Gladiator's Art,
Or humbly drives a Gardiner's Cart.

Strive not with mean unhandsome Lore,
Your Patron's Bosom to explore,
And let not Wine, or Anger wrest
Th' intrusted Secret from your Breast.

Nor blame the Pleasures of your Friend,
Nor to your own too earnest bend;
Nor idly court the froward Muse,
While He the vigorous Chace pursues.
Humours like these could fatal prove
To Zethus' and Amphion's Love,
Until Amphion kind complied,
And laid th' offensive Lyre aside.
So to your Patron's Will give Way,
His gentle Insolence obey,

363

And when he pours into the Plain
His Horses, Dogs, and Hunting-Train,
Break from the peevish Muse away,
Divide the Toils, and share the Prey.

The Chace was by our Sires esteem'd,
Healthful and honourable deem'd.
Thy Swiftness far the Hound's exceeds;
The Boar beneath thy Javelin bleeds,
And who, like Thee, with Grace can wield
The Weapons of the martial Field,
Or with such loud Applause as thine,
Amidst the youthful Battle shine?

In the destructive War of Spain
Early you made your first Campaign,
Beneath a Leader, who regains
Our Eagles from the Parthian Fanes,
And boundless now extends his Sway,
And bids a willing World obey.

Lollius, though all your Actions rise
From Judgement regularly wise,
Yet oft at home you can unbend,
And even to trifling Sports descend.
Your little Boats, with mimic Rage,
Like Actium's mighty Fleets engage;
Your Lake, like Adria's Ocean spreads,
The adverse War your Brother leads,
'Till Victory her Wings display,
And crown the Conqueror of the Day.
Cæsar, who finds that you approve
His Taste, shall your Diversions love.

365

If my Advice regard may claim,
Be tender of another's Fame,
And be the Man with Caution try'd,
In whose Discretion You confide.
Th' Impertinent be sure to hate;
Who loves to ask, will love to prate.
Ears, that unfold to every Tale,
Intrusted Secrets ill conceal,
And You shall wish, but wish in vain,
To call the fleeting Words again.

Be not by foolish Love betray'd
To tempt your Patron's favourite Maid,
For, if he grant your fond Request,
He now believes You fully blest;
If he refuse, You sure must prove
The Tortures of despairing Love.

With cautious Judgement, o'er and o'er,
The Man you recommend explore,
Lest, when the Scoundrel's better known,
You blush for Errours not your own.
Then frankly give him up to Shame,
But boldly guard the injur'd Fame
Of a well-known, and valued Friend,
And with your utmost Power defend;
For, be assur'd, when he's defam'd,
At You the envenom'd Shaft is aim'd.
When Flames your Neighbour's Dwelling seize,
Your own with instant Rage shall blaze,
Then haste to stop the spreading Fire,
Which, if neglected, rises higher.

367

Untry'd, how sweet a Court-Attendance!
When try'd, how dreadful the Dependance!
Yet, while your Vessel's under Sail,
Be sure to catch the flying Gale,
Lest adverse Winds, with rapid Force,
Should bear You from your destin'd Course.

The Grave, a gay Companion, shun;
Far from the Sad the Jovial run;
The Gay, the Witty, and Sedate,
Are Objects of each other's Hate,
And they, who quaff their midnight Glass,
Scorn them, who dare a Bumper pass,
Although they loudly swear, they dread
A sick Debauch and aching Head.

Be every Look serenely gay,
And drive all cloudy Cares away.
The Modest oft too dark appear,
The Silent thoughtfully severe.

Consult the Wisdom of each Page,
Inquire of every scienc'd Sage,
How you may glide with gentle Ease
Adown the Current of your Days,
Nor vex'd by mean and low Desires,
Nor warm'd by wild Ambition's Fires,
By Hope alarm'd, deprest by Fear,
For things but little worth your Care.

Enquire if Virtue's hallow'd Rules
Proceed from Nature, or the Schools;
What may the Force of Care suspend,
And make You to your-self a Friend;
Whether the tranquil Mind and pure,
Honours or Wealth our Bliss insure,
Or down through Life unknown to stray,
Where lonely leads the silent Way.

369

When happy in my rural Scene,
Whose Fountain chills the shuddering Swain,
Such is my Prayer—Let me possess
My present Wealth, or even less,
And if the bounteous Gods design
A longer Life, that Life be mine.
Give me of Books the mental Chear,
Of Wealth, sufficient for a Year,
Nor Let me float in Fortune's Power,
Dependant on the future Hour.
To Jove for Life and Wealth I pray,
These Jove may give, or take away,
But, for a firm and tranquil Mind,
That Blessing in myself I'll find.

Epist. XIX. To Mæcenas.

To sage Cratinus if You Credit give,
No Water-drinker's Verses long shall live,
Or long shall please. Among his motley Fold,
Satyrs and Fawns, when Bacchus had enrol'd
The brain-sick Rhimer, soon the tuneful Nine
At Morning breath'd, and not too sweet, of Wine.
When Homer sings the Joys of Wine, 'tis plain,
Great Homer was not of a sober Strain,

371

And Father Ennius, 'till with drinking fir'd,
Was never to the martial Song inspir'd.
Let thirsty Spirits make the Bar their Choice,
Nor dare in chearful Song to raise their Voice.

Soon as I spoke, our rival Bards engage,
And o'er their Wine eternal Warfare wage.
What! If with naked Feet, and savage Air,
Cato's short Coat some mimic Coxcomb wear,
Say, shall his Habit and affected Gloom,
Great Cato's Virtues, or his Worth assume?

When yonder Moor was well resolv'd to please
With well-bred Raillery, and talking Ease,
To rival gay Timagenes he try'd,
Yet burst with disappointed Spleen and Pride;
By such Examples many a Coxcomb's caught,
Whose utmost Art can imitate a Fault.

Should I by chance grow pale, our Bardlings think,
That bloodless Cumin's the true rhiming Drink.
Ye wretched Mimics, whose fond Heats have been,
How oft! the Objects of my Mirth and Spleen.

Through open Worlds of Rhime I dar'd to tread
In Paths unknown, by no bold Footsteps led;
And he, who knows himself with conscious Pride,
Most certainly the buzzing Hive shall guide.
To keen Iambics I first tun'd the Lyre,
And warm'd with great Archilochus's Fire
His rapid Numbers chose, but shun'd with Care
The Style, that drove Lycambes to Despair.

373

I fear'd to change the Structure of his Line,
And shall a short-liv'd Wreath be therefore mine?
Sappho, whose Verse with manly Spirit glows,
And great Alcæus his Iambics chose
In different Stanza though he forms his Lines,
And to a Theme more merciful inclines;
No perjur'd Sire with blood-stain'd Verse pursues,
Nor tyes, in damning Rhime, his Fair-one's Noose.
I first attempted in the Lyric Tone
His Numbers, to the Roman Lyre, unknown,
And joy, that Works of such unheard-of Taste
By Men of Worth and Genius were embrac'd.

But would You know, why some condemn abroad,
Thankless, unjust, what they at home applaud?
I never hunt th' inconstant People's Vote
With costly Suppers, or a thread-bare Coat;
The Works of titled Wits I never hear,
Nor vengeful in my Turn assault their Ear.

375

The Tribe of Grammar-Pedants I despise,
And hence their Tears of Spleen and Anger rise.
I blush in grand Assemblies to repeat
My worthless Works, and give such Trifles Weight;
Yet these Professions they with Wonder hear—
“No. You reserve them for dread Cæsar's Ear;
“With your own Beauties charm'd, you surely know
“Your Verses with a honey'd Sweetness flow.”
Nor dare I railly with such dangerous Folk,
Lest I be torn in pieces for a Joke,
Yet beg, they would appoint another Day,
A Place more proper to decide the Fray,
For Jests a fearful Strife and Anger breed,
Whence Quarrels fierce, and funeral Wars proceed.

Epist. XX. To His Book.

The Shops of Rome impatient to behold,
And, elegantly polish'd, to be sold,
You hate the tender Seal, and guardian Keys,
Which modest Volumes love, and fondly praise
The public World, even sighing to be read,—
Unhappy Book! to other Manners bred.
Indulge the fond Desire, with which You burn,
Pursue thy Flight, yet think not to return.

373

But, when insulted by the Critic's Scorn,
How often shall You cry, Ah! me forlorn?
When he shall throw the tedious Volume by,
Nor longer view thee with a Lover's Eye.

If Rage pervert not my prophetic Truth,
Rome shall admire, while you can charm with Youth,
But soon as vulgar Hands thy Beauty soil,
The Moth shall batten on the silent Spoil;
Then fly to Afric, or be sent to Spain,
Our Colonies of Wits to entertain.
This shall thy fond Adviser laughing see,
As, when his Ass was obstinate like thee,
The Clown in Vengeance push'd him down the Hill:
For who would save an Ass against his Will?

At last thy stammering Age in Suburb-Schools
Shall toil in teaching Boys their Grammar-Rules:
But when in Evening mild the listening Tribe
Around thee throng, thy Master thus describe;
A Free-man's Son, with moderate Fortune blest,
Who boldly spread his Wings beyond his Nest;
What from my Birth you take, to Virtue give,
And say, with Ease and Happiness I live,

375

With all that Rome in Peace and War calls great:
Of lowly Stature: fond of Summer's Heat:
Early turn'd gray; to Passion quickly rais'd,
But of Good-nature and with Ease appeas'd.
Let them, who ask my Age, be frankly told,
That I was forty-four Decembers old,
When Lollius chose with Lepidus to share
The Power and Honours of the Consul's Chair.

End of the First Book of Epistles.

377

THE SECOND BOOK OF THE EPISTLES of HORACE.

Epist. I. To Augustus.

While You alone sustain th' important Weight
Of Rome's Affairs, so various and so great:
While You the public Weal with Arms defend,
Adorn with Morals, and with Laws amend:
Shall not the tedious Letter prove a Crime,
That steals one Moment of our Cæsar's Time?

Rome's Founder, Leda's Twins, the God of Wine,
By human Virtues rais'd to Power divine,
While they with pious Cares improv'd Mankind,
To various States their proper Bounds assign'd,
Commanded War's destroying Rage to cease,
And bless'd their Cities with the Arts of Peace,

379

Complain'd their Virtues and their Toils could raise
But slight Returns of Gratitude and Praise.

Who crush'd the Hydra, when to Life renew'd,
And Monsters dire with fated Toil subdu'd,
Found that the Monster Envy never dies,
'Till low in equal Death her Conqueror lies;
For he, who soars to an unusual Height,
Oppressive dazles, with Excess of Light,
The Arts beneath him: yet, when dead, shall prove
An Object worthy of Esteem and Love.

Yet Rome to Thee her living Honours pays,
By Thee we swear, to Thee our Altars raise,
While we confess no Prince so great, so wise,
Hath ever risen, or shall ever rise.

But that your People raise their Cæsar's Name
Above the Greek and Roman Chiefs in Fame,
Proves them, in this, indeed, most just and wise,
Yet other Things they view with other Eyes;
With cold Contempt they treat the living Bard;
The Dead alone can merit their Regard.

To elder Bards so lavish of Applause,
They love the Language of our ancient Laws:
On Numa's Hymns with holy Rapture pore,
And turn our mouldy Records o'er and o'er,
Then swear transported, that the sacred Nine
Pronounc'd, on Alba's Top, each hallow'd Line.

381

But if, because the World with Justice pays
To the first Bards of Greece its grateful Praise,
In the same Scale our Poets must be weigh'd,
To such Disputes what Answer can be made?
Since we have gain'd the Height of martial Fame,
Let us in peaceful Arts assert our Claim;
The Sons of Greece no longer shall excel:
They neither wrestle, sing, or paint so well.

But let me ask, since Poetry, like Wine,
Is taught by Time to mellow and refine,
When shall th' immortal Bard begin to live?
Say, shall a hundred Years completely give
Among your Ancients a full Right of Claim,
Or with the wretched Moderns fix his Name?
Some certain Point should finish the Debate.
“Then let him live an hundred Years complete.”

What if we take a Year, a Month, a Day,
From this judicious Sum of Fame away,
Shall he among the Ancients rise to Fame,
Or sink with Moderns to Contempt and Shame?

383

“Among the Ancients let the Bard appear,
“Though younger by a Month, or even a Year.”
I take the Grant, and by Degrees prevail
(For Hair by Hair I pull the Horse's Tail)
And while I take them Year by Year away,
Their subtle Heaps of Arguments decay,
Who judge by Annals, nor approve a Line,
'Till Death has made the Poetry divine.

“Ennius, the brave, the lofty, and the wise,
“Another Homer in the Critic's Eyes,
“Forgets his Promise, now secure of Fame,
“And heeds no more his Pythagoric Dream.
“No longer Nævius, or his Plays remain,
“Yet we remember every pleasing Scene;
“So much can Time its awful Sanction give
“In sacred Fame to bid a Poem live.

“Whate'er Disputes of ancient Poets rise,
“In some one Excellence their Merit lies:
“What Depth of Learning old Pacuvius shows!
“With strong Sublime the Page of Accius glows;
“Menander's comic Robe Afranius wears;
“Plautus as rapid in his Plots appears,
“As Epicharmus; Terence charms with Art,
“And grave Cæcilius sinks into the Heart.
“These are the Plays to which our People croud,
“Till the throng'd Play-house crack with the dull Load.
“These are esteem'd the Glories of the Stage,
“From the first Drama to the present Age.”

385

Sometimes the Croud a proper Judgement makes,
But oft they labour under gross Mistakes,
As when their Ancients lavishly they raise
Above all modern Rivalship of Praise.
But that sometimes their Style uncouth appears,
Or their harsh Numbers rudely hurt our Ears,
Or that full flatly flows the languid Line—
He, who owns this, hath Jove's Assent and mine.

Think not I mean, in Vengeance, to destroy
The Works for which I smarted when a Boy.
But when as perfect Models they are prais'd,
Correct and chaste, I own I stand amaz'd.
And if some better Phrase or happier Line,
With sudden Lustre, unexpected shine,
However harsh the rugged Numbers roll,
It stamps a Price, and Merit on the whole.

I feel my honest Indignation rise,
When, with affected Air, a Coxcomb cries,
The Work, I own, has Elegance and Ease,
But sure no Modern should presume to please:
Then for his favourite Ancients dares to claim
Not Pardon only, but Rewards and Fame.

When Flowers o'erspread the Stage and Sweets perfume
The crouded Theatre, should I presume
The just Success of Atta's Plays to blame,
The Senate would pronounce me lost to Shame.

387

What! criticise the Scenes, that charm'd the Age
When Æsop, and when Roscius trod the Stage!

Whether too fond of their peculiar Taste,
Or that they think their Age may be disgrac'd,
Should they, with aukward Modesty, submit
To younger Judges in the Cause of Wit,
Or own that it were best, provoking Truth!
In Age to unlearn the Learning of their Youth.
He, to whom Numa's Hymns appear divine,
Although his Ignorance be great as mine,
Not to th' illustrious Dead his Homage pays,
But envious robs the Living of their Praise.
Did Greece, like us, her Moderns disregard,
How had we now possest one ancient Bard?

When Greece beheld her Wars in Triumph cease,
She soon grew wanton in the Arms of Peace,
Now she with Rapture views th' Olympic Games,
And now the Sculptor's Power her Breast enflames;
Sometimes, with ravish'd Soul and ardent Gaze,
The Painter's Art intensely she surveys;
Now hears, transported, Music's pleasing Charms,
And now the tragic Muse her Passions warms.

Thus a fond Girl, the Nurse's darling Joy,
Now seeks impatient, and now spurns her Toy.

389

For what can long our Pain, or Pleasure raise?
Such are th' Effects of Happiness and Ease.

For many an Age our Fathers entertain'd
Their early Clients, and the Laws explain'd:
Wisely they knew their cautious Wealth to lend,
While Youth was taught with Reverence to attend,
And hear the Old point out the prudent Ways
To calm their Passions, and their Fortunes raise.

Now the light People bend to other Aims;
A Lust of scribling every Breast enflames;
Our Youth, our Senators, with Bays are crown'd,
And at our Feasts eternal Rhimes go round.
Even I, who Verse, and all its Works deny,
Can faithless Parthia's lying Sons out-lye,
And, ere the rising Sun displays his Light,
I call for Tablets, Paper, Pens, and write.

A Pilot only dares a Vessel steer;
A doubtful Drug unlicens'd Doctors fear;
Musicians are to Sounds alone confin'd,
And every Artist hath his Trade assign'd;
But every desperate Blockhead dares to write:
Verse is the Trade of every living Wight.

And yet, this wandering Levity of Brain
Hath many a gentle Virtue in its Train.
No Cares of Wealth a Poet's Heart controul;
Verse is the only Passion of his Soul.

391

He laughs at Losses, Flight of Slaves, or Fires;
No wicked Scheme his honest Breast inspires
To hurt his Pupil, or his Friend betray;
Brown Bread and Roots his Appetite allay;
And though unfit for War's tumultuous Trade,
In Peace his gentle Talents are display'd,
If you allow, that Things of trivial Weight
May yet support the Grandeur of a State.

He forms the Infant's Tongue to firmer Sound,
Nor suffers vile Obscenity to wound
His tender Ears, but with the Words of Truth
Corrects the Passions, and the Pride of Youth.
Th' illustrious Dead, who fill his sacred Page,
Shine forth Examples to each rising Age;
The languid Hour of Poverty he chears,
And the sick Wretch his Voice of Comfort hears.

Did not the Muse inspire the Poet's Lays,
How could the youthful Choir their Voices raise
In Prayer harmonious, while the Gods attend,
And gracious bid the fruitful Shower descend;
Avert their Plagues, dispel each hostile Fear,
And with glad Harvests crown the wealthy Year?
Thus can the Sound of all-melodious Lays
Th' offended Powers of Heaven and Hell appease.

393

Our ancient Swains, of hardy, vigorous Kind,
At Harvest-home us'd to unbend the Mind
With festal Sports; those Sports, that bad them bear,
With chearful Hopes, the Labours of the Year.
Their Wives and Children shar'd their Hours of Mirth,
Who shar'd their Toils; when to the Goddess Earth
Grateful they sacrific'd a teeming Swine,
And pour'd the milky Bowl at Sylvan's Shrine.
Then to the Genius of their fleeting Hours,
Mindful of Life's short Date, they offer'd Wine and Flowers.

Here, in alternate Verse, with rustic Jest
The Clowns their aukward Raillery exprest,
And as the Year brought back the jovial Day,
Freely they sported, innocently gay,
Till cruel Wit was turn'd to open Rage,
And dar'd the noblest Families engage.
When some, who, by its Tooth envenom'd, bled,
Complain'd aloud; others were struck with Dread,
Though yet untouch'd, and, in the public Cause,
Implor'd the just Protection of the Laws,

395

Which from injurious Libels wisely guard
Our Neighbour's Fame; and now the prudent Bard,
Whom the just Terrours of the Lash restrain,
To Pleasure and Instruction turns his Vein.

When conquer'd Greece brought in her captive Arts,
She triumph'd o'er her savage Conquerors' Hearts;
Taught our rough Verse its Numbers to refine,
And our rude Style with Elegance to shine.
And yet some Marks of our first, rustic Strain
Continued long, and even 'till now remain.
For it was late before our Bards inquir'd
How the Dramatic Muse her Greeks inspir'd;
How Æschylus and Thespis form'd the Stage,
And what improv'd the Sophoclean Page.
Then to their favourite Pieces we applied,
Proud to translate, nor unsuccessful tried,
For high and ardent is our native Vein,
It breathes the Spirit of the tragic Scene,
And dares successful; but the Roman Muse
Disdains, or fears the painful File to use.

Because the comic Poet forms his Plays
On common Life, they seem a Work of Ease;
But, since we less Indulgence must expect,
Sure we should labour to be more correct.
Even Plautus ill sustains a Lover's Part,
A frugal Sire's or wily Pander's Art.

397

Dossennus slip-shod shambles o'er the Scene,
Buffoons, with hungry Jests, his constant Train;
For Gold was all their Aim, and then the Play
Might stand or fall—indifferent were they.

He, who on Glory's airy Chariot tries
To mount the Stage, full often lives and dies.
A cold Spectator chills the Bard to Death,
But one warm Look recalls his fleeting Breath.
Such light, such trivial Things depress or raise
A Soul impassion'd with a Lust of Praise.

Farewel the Stage; for humbly I disclaim
Such fond Pursuits of Pleasure, or of Fame,
If I must sink in Shame, or swell with Pride,
As the gay Palm is granted or denied.
For sure the Bard, though resolutely bold,
Must quit the Stage, or tremble to behold
The little Vulgar of the clamorous Pit,
Though void of Honour, Virtue, Sense or Wit,
When his most interesting Scenes appear,
Call for a Prize-fight, or a baited Bear;
And should the Knights forbid their dear Delight,
They rise tumultuous, and prepare for Fight.

But even our Knights from Wit and Genius fly
To pageant Shows, that charm the wandering Eye.
Clos'd are the Scenes, and lo! for many an Hour
Wide o'er the Stage the flying Squadrons pour.
Then Kings in Chains confess the Fate of War,
And weeping Queens attend the Victor's Car.

399

Chairs, Coaches, Carts, in ratling Rout are roll'd,
And Ships of mighty Bulk their Sails unfold.
At last the Model of some captive Towns,
In Ivory built, the splendid Triumph crowns.

Sure, if Democritus were yet on Earth,
Whether a Beast of mix'd and monstrous Birth
Bid them with gaping Admiration gaze,
Or a white Elephant their Wonder raise,
The Croud would more delight the laughing Sage,
Than all the Farce, and Follies of the Stage;
To think that Asses should in Judgement sit,
In solid Deafness, on the Works of Wit.
For where's the Voice so strong as to confound
The Shouts, with which our Theatres resound?
Loud as when Surges lash the Tuscan Shore,
Or Mountain-Forests with a Tempest roar,
So loud the People's Cries, when they behold
The foreign Arts of Luxury and Gold;
And if an Actor be but richly drest,
Their Joy is in repeated Claps exprest.
But has he spoken? No. Then whence arose
That loud Applause? His Robe with Purple glows.

Though I attempt not the dramatic Muse,
Let me not seem in Envy to refuse
The Praises due to those, who with Success
Have try'd this Way to Fame, for I confess,
He gives a desperate Trial of his Art,
With Passions, not my own, who warms my Heart;

401

Who with unreal Terrours fills my Breast,
As with a magic Influence possest.

But let the Bards some little Care engage,
Who dare not trust the rough, contemptuous Stage,
Yet to the Reader's Judgement would submit,
If You would offer to the God of Wit,
Such Volumes, as his best Protection claim;
Or would You warm them in Pursuit of Fame,
Bid them the Hills of Helicon ascend,
Where ever-green the flowery Lawns extend.

Yet into sad Mishaps we Poets fall
(I own the Folly's common to us all)
When, to present the Labours of our Muse,
Your Hours of Business, or Repose we chuse;
When even the manly Freedom of our Friends,
Who blame one Verse, our Tenderness offends;
When we, unask'd, some favourite Lines repeat,
Complaining that our Toils, how wonderous great!
Are unobserv'd—that Subtlety of Thought,
That fine-spun Thread, with which our Poem's wrought:
Or when we hope, that soon as Cæsar knows,
That we can Rhimes abundantly compose,
Our Fortune's made; He shall to Court invite
Our bashful Muse, compelling us to write.

Yet is it thine, O Cæsar, to enquire
How far thy Virtue can her Priests inspire,

403

In Peace or War, to sing her Hero's Fame,
Nor trust to worthless Bards the sacred Theme.

Dan Chœrilus was Poet-Laureat made
By Philip's conquering Son, who bounteous paid
The Gold, on which his Father's Image shines,
For misbegotten and unshapen Lines;
And yet as Ink the spotless Hand defiles,
So our fair Fame a wretched Scribler soils.

Yet the same Monarch, who thus lavish paid
For worthless Rhimes, a solemn Edict made,
That none but fam'd Apelles dare to trace,
In desperate Colours, his imperial Face;
And that Lysippus should presume alone
To mould great Ammon's Son in Brass or Stone.
Yet take this Critic in the Arts, that lie
Beneath the Power and Judgement of the Eye,
Take him to Books, and Poetry, you'll swear,
This King was born in thick Bœotian Air.

But never, Sir, shall your judicious Taste
By Virgil, or by Varius be disgrac'd,
For to your Bounty they shall grateful raise
A deathless Monument of Fame and Praise.

405

Nor form'd in Brass, with more Expression shines
The Hero's Face, than in the Poet's Lines
His Life and Manners; nor would Horace chuse
These low and groveling Numbers, could his Muse
The rapid Progress of your Arms pursue:
Paint distant Lands, and Rivers to the View:
Up the steep Mountain with thy War ascend,
Storm the proud Fort, and bid the Nations bend;
Or bid sell War's destructive Horrours cease,
And shut up Janus in eternal Peace,
While Parthia bows beneath the Roman Name,
And yields her Glories to our Prince's Fame.

But Cæsar's Majesty would sure refuse
The feeble Praises of an humble Muse,
Nor I, with conscious Modesty, should dare
Attempt a Subject, I want Strength to bear;
For sure a foolish Fondness of the Heart,
At least, in rhiming and the Muse's Art,
Hurts whom it loves; for quickly we discern,
With Ease remember, and with Pleasure learn,
Whate'er may Ridicule and Laughter move,
Not what deserves our best Esteem and Love.

All such provoking Fondness I disclaim,
Nor would I stand expos'd to public Shame
In Wax-work form'd, with horrible Grimace,
Or in vile Panegyric shew my Face;

407

Blushing the fulsome Present to receive,
And with my Author be condemn'd to live;
Perhaps, in the same open Basket laid,
Down to the Street together be convey'd,
Where Pepper, Odours, Frankincense are sold,
And all small Wares in wretched Rhimes enroll'd.

Epist. II. To Julius Florus.

Dear Florus, faithful to the Good and Brave,
If any Person, who would sell a Slave,
Should thus treat with you, “Sir, this Boy's compleat
“From Head to Foot, and elegantly neat:
“He shall be yours for fifty Pounds. He plays
“The Vassal's Part, and at a Nod obeys
“His Master's Will—then for the Grecian Tongue,
“He has a Relish—pliable and young,
“Like Clay, well-temper'd with informing Skill,
“He may be moulded to what Shape you will.
“His Notes are artless, but his Air is fine,
“To entertain you o'er a Glass of Wine.
“He sinks in Credit, who attempts to raise
“His venal Wares with over-rating Praise,
“To put them off his Hands. My Wants are none,
“My Stock is little, but that Stock my own.

409

“No common Dealer would resign a Slave
“On equal Terms, nor should another have
“So good a Bargain. Guilty of one Slip,
“It seems, and fearful of the pendent Whip,
“I own he loiter'd once. The Money pay;
“The Lad is only apt to run away.”
I think, he safely may the Sum enjoy:
You knew his Failing, and would buy the Boy:
The Form was legal, yet you still dispute
The Sale, and plague him with an endless Suit.

At your Departure I declar'd, my Vein
Was lull'd asleep, unable to sustain
The Task of Writing, lest I should offend
In corresponding never with my Friend.
But what avails whatever I can say,
If you demur against so just a Plea?
Besides you murmur, that my Muse betrays
Your Expectations in her promis'd Lays.

A common Soldier, who by various Toils
And Perils gain'd a Competence in Spoils,
At Night fatigu'd while he supinely snor'd,
Lost to a Farthing his collected Hoard.
This rous'd his Rage, in Vengeance for his Pelf,
Against the Foe, nor less against himself.
A very Wolf, with empty craving Maw,
Now whetting keen his wide-devouring Jaw,
He charg'd with Fury, as the Folks report,
Scal'd the high Wall, and sack'd a royal Fort,
Replete with various Wealth: for this renown'd,
His Name is honour'd, and his Courage crown'd:

411

Besides, in Money he receives a Meed,
A Sum proportion'd to the glorious Deed.

His Chief soon after purposing to form
Another Siege, and take a Town by Storm,
Began to rouse this Desperado's Fire
With Words, that might a Coward's Heart inspire.
“Go whither your heroic Spirit calls,
“Go, my brave Friend, propitious mount the Walls,
“And reap fresh Honours with an ample Prize:—
“What stops your Course?” The Rustic shrewd replies:
“An't please you, Captain, let another trudge it,
“The Man may venture, who has lost his Budget.”

It was my Fortune to be bred and taught
At Rome, what Woes enrag'd Achilles wrought
To Greece: kind Athens yet improv'd my Parts
With some small Tincture of ingenuous Arts,
To learn a right Line from a Curve, and rove
In search of Wisdom through the museful Grove.
But lo! the Times, destructive to my Peace,
Me rudely ravish'd from the charming Place;
The rapid Tide of civil War a-main
Swept into Arms, unequal to sustain
The Might of Cæsar. Dread Philippi's Field
First clipt my Wings, and taught my Pride to yield.
My Fortune ruin'd, blasted all my Views,
Bold Hunger edg'd, and Want inspir'd my Muse.

413

But say, what Dose could purify me, blest
With Store sufficient, should I break my Rest,
To scribble Verse? The waning Years apace
Steal off our Thoughts, and rifle every Grace;
Alas! already have they snatch'd away
My Jokes, my Love, my Revellings, and Play.
They strive to wrest my Poems from me too:
Instruct me then what Method to pursue.
In short, the Race of various Men admire
As various Numbers: thee the softer Lyre
Delights: This Man approves the tragic Strain;
That joys in Bion's keen satiric Vein.

Three Guests I have, dissenting at my Feast,
Requiring each to gratify his Taste
With different Food. What Courses must I chuse?
What not? What both would order, you refuse;
What you commend, offensive to their Sight
Would marr their Meal, and pall their Appetite.

But think you, thus amidst a World of Cares
And Toils, that I can write harmonious Airs?
One bids me be his Bail: another prays,
That I would only listen to his Lays,
And leave all Business; more to raise your Wonder,
Although they live the length of Rome asunder,

415

Yet both must be obey'd: and here you see
A special Distance—“But the Streets are free,
“And, while you move with flowing Fancy fraught,
“Nothing occurs to disconcert your Thought.”

A Builder hastens with his loaded Team,
His Porters: now a Stone, and now a Beam
Nods cumbrous Ruin: justling Waggons jar
With mournful Herses in tumultuous War:
Hence runs a madding Dog with baneful Ire:
Thence a vile Pig polluted with the Mire.
Go then, and bustle through the noisy Throng,
Invoke the Muse, and meditate the Song.

The Tribe of Writers to a Man admire
The peaceful Grove, and from the Town retire,
Devote to Bacchus, indolently laid,
Court soft Repose, and triumph in the Shade,
How then in Noise unceasing tune the Lay,
Or tread where others hardly find their Way.

A manly Genius, who, long wont to chuse
The calm Retreat of Athens for his Muse,
Seven Years hath studied, and with meagre Looks
Hath waxen old in Discipline, and Books,
Dumb as a Statue slowly stalks along,
And yields Diversion to the gaping Throng.

Plung'd in a Tide of Business, through the Town
Toss'd by the noisy Tempest up and down,
How can my Muse with animating Fire
Adapt her Numbers to the sounding Lyre?

A Rhetorician, and a Lawyer once,
Brothers, and each in his Profession Dunce,

417

Dispens'd the Palms between themselves alone,
And this a Gracchus, that a Mucius shone.
What milder Frenzy goads the rhiming Train?
I deal in Lyric, he in mournful Strain:
How grand the Diction, copious the Design!
A wonderous Work, and polish'd by the Nine!
See, with what Air of magisterial Pride
And high Disdain we view from Side to Side
Apollo's Temple, as if we ourselves,
And none but we, supply'd the vacant Shelves!
Then follow farther, if your Time admits,
And at a Distance hear these mighty Wits;
How far entitled to his Blast of Praise,
Each freely gives, and arrogates the Bays.
Like Gladiators, who with bloodless Toils
Prolong the Combat, and engage with Foils,
With mimic Rage we rush upon the Foe,
Divide the Palm, and measure Blow for Blow.
Alcæus I in his Opinion shine,
He soars a new Callimachus in mine,
Or if Mimnermus more excite his Flame,
He struts and glories in the darling Name.

Much I endure, when writing I would bribe
The public Voice, and sooth the fretful Tribe
Of rival Poets: Now my rhiming Heat
Is cool'd, and Reason reassumes her Seat,
I boldly bar mine Ears against the Breed
Of babbling Bards, who without Mercy read.

419

Bad Poets ever are a standing Jest,
But they rejoice, and, in their Folly blest,
Admire themselves; nay, though you silent sit,
Extort Applause, and wanton in their Wit.
But he, who studies masterly to frame
A finish'd Piece, and build an honest Fame,
Shall with his Papers, faithful to his Trust,
Assume the Spirit of a Censor just,
Boldly blot out whatever seems obscure,
Or lightly mean, unworthy to procure
Immortal Honour, though the Words give way
With warm Reluctance, and by Force obey;
Though yet enshrin'd within his Desk they stand,
And claim a Sanction from his Parent Hand.
As from the Treasure of a latent Mine,
Long darken'd Words he shall with Art refine;
Full into Light, to dignify his Page,
Shall bring the Beauties of a former Age,
Once by the Catoes, and Cethegi told,
But now deform'd, and obsolete with Mould.
New Words he shall endenizen, which Use
Shall authorise, and currently produce;
Then, brightly smooth, and yet sublimely strong,
Like a pure River, through his flowing Song
Shall pour the Riches of his Fancy wide,
And bless his Latium with a vocal Tide.

421

Luxuriant Phrases, under due Command
He shall restrain with wholesom, forming Hand;
Polish the rude, and sever from its Place
Whatever wants an Elegance or Grace.
He seems with Freedom, what with Pain he proves,
And now a Satyr, now a Cyclops moves.
I, for my part, would rather fairly pass
For Dotard, Scribbler, stupid Dolt, or Ass,
Could I but please, or dupe myself in short,
Than write good Sense, and smart severely for't.

At Argos liv'd a Citizen, well known,
Who long imagin'd, that he heard the Tone
Of deep Tragedians on an empty Stage,
And sat applauding in extatic Rage:
In other Points a Person, who maintain'd
A due Decorum, and a Life unstain'd,
Whose real Virtues you might well commend,
A worthy Neighbour, hospitable Friend,
Of easy Humour and of Heart sincere,
Fond of his Wife, nor to a Slave severe,
Nor prone to Rage, although the Felon's Fork
Defac'd the Signet of a Bottle-Cork;
A Man, who shun'd (well knowing which was which)
The Rock high pendent, and the yawning Ditch;
He, when his Friends, at much Expence and Pains,
Had amply purg'd with Ellebore his Brains,
Wrought off his Madness, and the Man return'd
Full to himself, their Operation spurn'd.
“My Friends, 'twere better you had stopp'd my Breath;
“Your Love was Rancour, and your Cure was Death,

423

“To rob me thus of Pleasure so refin'd,
“The dear Delusion of a raptur'd Mind.

'Tis Wisdom's part to bid adieu to Toys,
And yield Amusements to the Taste of Boys,
Not the soft Sound of empty Words admire,
And model Measures to the Roman Lyre,
But learn such Strains and Rhapsodies, as roll
Tuneful through Life, and harmonise the Soul.

If no Repletion from the limpid Stream
Allay'd the Cravings of your thirsty Flame,
You strait would tell the Doctor your Distress,
And is there none, to whom you dare confess,
That, in proportion to your growing Store,
Your Lust of Lucre is inflam'd the more?
If you were wounded, and your Sores imbib'd
No soothing Ease from Roots or Herbs prescrib'd,
You would avoid such Medicines, besure,
As Roots and Herbs, that could effect no Cure.
But you have heard, that Folly flies apace
From him, whom Heaven hath gifted with the Grace
Of happy Wealth, and though you have aspir'd
Not more to Wisdom, since you first acquir'd
A Fund, yet will you listen to no Rule,
But that from Fortune's insufficient School?
Could Riches add but Prudence to your Years,
Restrain your Wishes, and abate your Fears,
You then might blush with Reason, if you knew
One Man on Earth more covetous than you.

If that be yours, for which you fairly told
The Price concluded, (and, as Lawyers hold,

425

In some things Use a Property secures)
The Land, which feeds you, must of course be Yours.
Your Neighbour's Bailiff, who manures the Fields,
And sows the Corn, which your Provision yields,
Finds in effect, that he is but your Slave:
You give your Coin, and in Return receive
Fowls, Eggs, and Wine; and thus it will be found,
That you have bought insensibly the Ground,
The Fee of which to Purchasers before
Perhaps, had been two thousand Pounds, or more;
For what avails it in a Life well past,
At first to pay the Purchase, or at last?
The frugal Man, who purchas'd two Estates,
Yet buys the Pot-herbs, which his Worship eats,
Though he thinks not: this Tyrant of the Soil
Buys the mere Wood, which makes his Kettle boil;
And yet he calls that Length of Land his own,
From which the Poplar, fix'd to Limits known,
Cuts off Disputes, as if he had the Power
Of that, which in the Moment of an Hour
By Favour, Purchase, Force, or Fate's Commands
May change its Lord, and fall to other Hands.

Since thus no Mortal properly can have
A lasting Tenure; and, as Wave o'er Wave,
Heir comes o'er Heir, what Pleasure can afford
Thy peopled Manors, and encreasing Hoard?
Or what avails it, that your Fancy roves
To join Lucanian to Calabrian Groves,
If Death, to Gold inflexible, must mow
Down Great and Small together at a Blow?

427

The gaudy Splendour, and the costly State
Of Jewels, Marble, Tuscan Medals, Plate,
Pure Ivory Statues, Pictures hung on high,
And Garments tinctur'd with Sidonian Dye,
There are, who never could pretend to share,
And some who never thought them worth their Care.

One Brother, fond of sauntering and Perfume,
Prefers his Pleasure to the wealthy Bloom
Of Herod's Gardens; while in quest of Wealth,
Though rich, another shall forego his Health,
From dawning Day till shady Night with Toil
Burn the thick Copse, and tame the savage Soil.
But whence these Turns of Inclination rose,
The Genius this, the God of Nature knows:
That mystic Power, which our Actions guides,
Attends our Stars, and o'er our Lives presides:
This we may trace, propitious, or malign,
Stamp'd on each Face, and vary'd through each Line.

I from a Fortune moderate shall grant
Myself enough to satisfy my Want,
Nor fear the Censure of my thankless Heir,
That I have left too little to his Share;
And yet the wide Distinction would I scan
Between an open, hospitable Man,
And Prodigal; the Frugalist secure,
And Miser, pinch'd with Penury; for sure
It differs whether you profusely spend
Your Wealth, or never entertain a Friend;
Or, wanting Prudence, like a Play-day Boy
Blindly rush on, to catch the flying Joy.

429

Avert, ye Gods, avert the loathsome Load
Of Want inglorious, and a vile Abode.
To me are equal, so they bear their Charge,
The little Pinnace and the lofty Barge.
Nor am I wafted by the swelling Gales
Of Winds propitious, with expanded Sails,
Nor yet expos'd to Tempest-bearing Strife,
Adrift to struggle through the Waves of Life,
Last of the first, first of the last in Weight,
Parts, Vigour, Person, Virtue, Birth, Estate.

You are not covetous: be satisfy'd.
But are you tainted with no Vice beside?
From vain Ambition, Dread of Death's Decree,
And fell Resentment, is thy Bosom free?
Say, can you laugh indignant at the Schemes
Of magic Terrours, visionary Dreams,
Portentous Wonders, witching Imps of Hell,
The nightly Goblin, and enchanting Spell?
Dost thou recount with Gratitude and Mirth
The Day revolv'd, that gave thy Being birth?
Indulge the Failings of thy Friends, and grow
More mild and virtuous, as thy Seasons flow?

Pluck out one Thorn to mitigate thy Pain,
What boots it thee, while many more remain?

431

Or act with just Propriety your Part,
Or yield to those of Elegance and Art.
Already glutted with a Farce of Age,
'Tis Time for thee to quit the wanton Stage,
Lest Youth, more decent in their Follies, scoff
The nauseous Scene, and hiss thee reeling off.

433

HORACE's ART of POETRY.

Suppose a Painter to an human Head
Should join an Horse's Neck, and wildly spread
The various Plumage of the feather'd Kind
O'er Limbs of different Beasts, absurdly join'd;
Or if he gave to View a beauteous Maid
Above the Waist with every Charm array'd,
Should a foul Fish her lower Parts infold,
Would you not laugh such Pictures to behold?
Such is the Book, that like a sick Man's Dreams,
Varies all Shapes, and mixes all Extremes.

435

“Painters and Poets our Indulgence claim,
“Their Daring equal, and their Art the same.”
I own th' Indulgence—Such I give and take;
But not through Nature's sacred Rules to break,
Monstrous to mix the Cruel and the Kind,
Serpents with Birds, and Lambs with Tygers join'd.

Your Opening promises some grand Design,
And Shreds of Purple with broad Lustre shine
Sew'd on the Poem. Here in labour'd Strain
A sacred Grove, or fair Diana's Fane
Rises to View; there through delicious Meads
A murmuring Stream its winding Water leads;
Here pours the rapid Rhine; the watry Bow
There bends its Colours, and with Pride they glow.
Beauties they are; but Beauties out of Place;
For though your Talent be to paint with Grace
A mournful Cypress, would You pour its Shade
O'er the tempestuous Deep, if You were paid
To paint a Sailor 'midst the Winds and Waves,
When on a broken Plank his Life he saves?

Why will you thus a mighty Vase intend,
If in a worthless Bowl your Labours end?
Then learn this wandering Humour to controul,
And keep one equal Tenour through the Whole.

437

But oft, our greatest Errours take their Rise
From our best Views. I strive to be concise;
I prove obscure. My Strength, my Fire decays,
When in Pursuit of Elegance and Ease.
Aiming at Greatness some to Fustian soar;
Some in cold Safety creep along the Shore,
Too much afraid of Storms; while he, who tries
With ever-varying Wonders to surprise,
In the broad Forest bids his Dolphins play,
And paints his Boars disporting in the Sea.
Thus, injudicious, while one Fault we shun,
Into its opposite Extreme we run.

One happier Artist of th' Æmilian Square,
Who graves the Nails, and forms the flowing Hair,
Though he excels in every separate Part,
Yet fails of just Perfection in his Art,
In one grand Whole unknowing to unite
Those different Parts, and I no more would write
Like Him, than with a Nose of hideous Size
Be gaz'd at for the finest Hair and Eyes.

Examine well, ye Writers, weigh with Care,
What suits your Genius; what your Strength can bear.
To Him, who shall a Theme with Judgement chuse,
Nor Words, nor Method shall their Aid refuse.
In this, or I mistake, consists the Grace,
And Force of Method, to assign a Place

439

For what with present Judgement we should say,
And for some happier Time the rest delay.

Would You to Fame a promis'd Work produce,
Be delicate and cautious in the Use
And Choice of Words: nor shall You fail of Praise,
When nicely joining two known Words You raise
A third unknown. A new-discover'd Theme
For those, unheard in ancient Times, may claim
A just and ample Licence, which, if us'd
With fair Discretion, never is refus'd.

New Words, and lately made, shall Credit claim,
If from a Grecian Source they gently stream,
For Virgil sure, and Varius may receive
That kind Indulgence, which the Romans give
To Plautus and Cæcilius: or shall I
Be envied, if my little Fund supply
Its frugal Wealth of Words, since Bards, who sung
In ancient Days, enrich'd their native Tongue
With large Increase? An undisputed Power
Of coining Money from the rugged Ore,

441

Nor less of coining Words, is still confest,
If with a legal, public Stamp imprest.

As when the Forest, with the bending Year,
First sheds the Leaves, which earliest appear,
So an old Race of Words maturely dies,
And some new-born in Youth and Vigour rise.

We and our noblest Works to Fate must yield,
Even Cæsar's Mole, which regal Pride might build,
Where Neptune far into the Land extends,
And from the raging North our Fleet defends;
That barren Marsh, whose cultivated Plain
Now gives the neighbouring Towns its various Grain;
Tiber, who, taught a better Current, yields
To Cæsar's Power, nor deluges our Fields!
All these must perish, and shall Words presume
To hold their Honours and immortal Bloom?
Many shall rise, that now forgotten lie;
Others, in present Credit, soon shall die,
If Custom will, whose arbitrary Sway,
Words, and the Forms of Language, must obey.

By Homer taught the modern Poet sings,
In Epic Strains, of Heroes, Wars, and Kings.
Unequal Measures first were tun'd to flow
Sadly expressive of the Lover's Woe;

443

But now, to gayer Subjects form'd, they move
In Sounds of Pleasure, and the Joys of Love:
By whom invented, Critics yet contend,
And of their vain Disputings find no End.

Archilochus, with fierce Resentment warm'd,
Was with his own severe Iambics arm'd,
Whose rapid Numbers, suited to the Stage,
In comic Humour, or in tragic Rage,
With sweet Variety were found to please,
And taught the Dialogue to flow with Ease;
Their numerous Cadence was for Action fit,
And form'd to quell the Clamours of the Pit.

The Muse to nobler Subjects tunes her Lyre;
Gods, and the Sons of Gods her Song inspire,
Wrestler and Steed, who gain'd th' Olympic Prize:
Love's pleasing Cares, and Wine's unbounded Joys.

But if, through Weakness, or my want of Art,
I can't to every different Style impart
The proper Strokes and Colours it may claim,
Why am I honour'd with a Poet's Name?
Absurdly modest, why my Fault discern,
Yet rather burst in Ignorance, than learn?

Nor will the Genius of the comic Muse
Sublimer Tones, or tragic Numbers use;
Nor will the direful Thyestean Feast
In comic Phrase and Language be debas'd.

445

Then let your Style be suited to the Scene,
And its peculiar Character maintain.

Yet Comedy sometimes her Voice may raise,
And angry Chremes rail in swelling Phrase:
As oft the tragic Language humbly flows,
For Telephus or Peleus, 'midst the Woes
Of Poverty or Exile, must complain
In prose-like Style; must quit the swelling Strain,
And Words gigantic, if with Nature's Art
They hope to touch their melting Hearer's Heart.

'Tis not enough, ye Writers, that ye charm
With Ease and Elegance; a Play should warm
With soft Concernment; should possess the Soul,
And, as it wills, the listening Croud controul.

With them, who laugh, our social Joy appears;
With them, who mourn, we sympathise in Tears;
If you would have me weep, begin the Strain,
Then I shall feel your Sorrows, feel your Pain;
But if your Heroes act not what they say,
I sleep or laugh the lifeless Scene away.

The varying Face should every Passion show,
And Words of Sorrow wear the Look of Woe;
Let it in Joy assume a vivid Air;
Fierce when in Rage; in Seriousness severe:
For Nature to each Change of Fortune forms
The secret Soul, and all its Passions warms:
Transports to Rage, dilates the Heart with Mirth,
Wrings the sad Soul, and bends it down to Earth.
The Tongue these various Movements must express,
But, if ill-suited to the deep Distress

447

His Language prove, the Sons of Rome engage
To laugh th' unhappy Actor off the Stage.

Your Style should an important Difference make
When Heroes, Gods, or awful Sages speak;
A florid Youth, whom gay Desires enflame;
A busy Servant, or a wealthy Dame,
A Merchant, wandering with incessant Toil,
Or He, who cultivates the verdant Soil;
But if in foreign Realms You fix your Scene,
Their Genius, Customs, Dialects maintain.

Or follow Fame, or in th' invented Tale
Let seeming, well-united Truth prevail:
If Homer's great Achilles tread the Stage,
Intrepid, fierce, of unforgiving Rage,
Like Homer's Hero, let him spurn all Law,
And by the Sword alone assert his Cause.
With untam'd Fury let Medea glow,
And Ino's Tears in ceaseless Anguish flow.
From Realm to Realm her Griefs let Iö bear,
And sad Orestes rave in deep Despair.
But if You venture on an untry'd Theme,
And form a Person yet unknown to Fame,
From his first Entrance to the closing Scene,
Let him one equal Character maintain.

'Tis hard a new-form'd Fable to express,
And make it seem your own. With more Success
You may from Homer take the Tale of Troy,
Than on an untry'd Plot your Strength employ.

449

Yet would You make a common Theme your own,
Dwell not on Incidents already known;
Nor Word for Word translate with painful Care,
Nor be confin'd in such a narrow Sphere,
From whence (while You shou'd only imitate)
Shame and the Rules forbid You to retreat.

Begin your Work with modest Grace and plain,
Nor like the Bard of everlasting Strain,
I Sing the glorious War and Priam's Fate—
How will the Boaster hold this yawning Rate?
The Mountain labour'd with prodigious Throes,
And lo! a Mouse ridiculous arose.
Far better He, who ne'er attempts in vain,
Opening his Poem in this humble Strain,
Muse, sing the Man, who, after Troy subdu'd,
Manners and Towns of various Nations view'd.
He does not lavish at a Blaze his Fire,
Sudden to glare, and in a Smoke expire;
But from a Cloud of Smoke he breaks to Light,
And pours his specious Miracles to Sight;
Antiphates his hideous Feast devours,
Charybdis barks, and Polyphemus roars.

He would not, like our modern Poet, date
His Hero's Wanderings from his Uncle's Fate;

451

Nor sing ill-fated Ilium's various Woes,
From Helen's Birth, from whom the War arose.
But to the grand Event he speeds his Course,
And bears his Readers, with impetuous Force,
Into the midst of Things, while every Line
Opens, by just Degrees, his whole Design.
Artful he knows each Circumstance to leave,
Which will not Grace and Ornament receive,
Then Truth and Fiction with such Skill he blends,
That equal he begins, proceeds, and ends.

Mine and the public Judgement are the same;
Then mark what I, and what your Audience claim.
If you would keep us 'till the Curtain fall,
And the last Chorus for a Plaudit call,
The Manners must your strictest Care engage,
The Levities of Youth and Strength of Age.

The Child, who now with firmer Footing walks,
And with unfaultering, well-form'd Accents talks,
Loves childish Sports; with causeless Anger burns,
And idly pleas'd with every Moment turns.

The Youth, whose Will no froward Tutor bounds,
Joys in the sunny Field, his Horse and Hounds;
Yielding like Wax, th' impressive Folly bears;
Rough to Reproof, and slow to future Cares;
Profuse and vain; with every Passion warm'd,
And swift to leave, what late his Fancy charm'd.

453

With Strength improv'd, the manly Spirit bends
To different Aims, in search of Wealth and Friends;
Boldly ambitious in Pursuit of Fame,
And wisely cautious in the doubtful Scheme.

A thousand Ills the aged World surround,
Anxious in search of Wealth, and when 'tis found,
Fearful to use, what they with Fear possess,
While Doubt and Dread their Faculties depress.
Fond of Delay, they trust in Hope no more,
Listless, and fearful of th' approaching Hour;
Morose, complaining, and with tedious Praise,
Talking the Manners of their youthful Days;
Severe to censure; earnest to advise,
And with old Saws the present Race chastise.

The Blessings flowing in with Life's full Tide,
Down with our Ebb of Life decreasing glide;
Then let not Youth, or Infancy engage
To play the Parts of Manhood, or of Age:
For where the proper Characters prevail,
We dwell with Pleasure on the well-wrought Tale.

The Business of the Drama must appear
In Action or Description. What we hear
With weaker Passion must affect the Heart,
Than when the faithful Eye beholds the Part.
But let not such upon the Stage be brought,
Which better should behind the Scenes be wrought;
Nor force th' unwilling Audience to behold
What may with Grace and Eloquence be told.

455

Let not Medea, with unnatural Rage,
Slaughter her mangled Infants on the Stage:
Nor Atreus his detested Feast prepare,
Nor Cadmus roll a Snake, nor Progne wing the Air.
For while upon such monstrous Scenes we gaze,
They shock our Faith, our Indignation raise.

If you would have your Play deserve Success,
Give it five Acts complete; nor more, nor less:
Nor let a God in Person stand display'd,
Unless the labouring Plot deserve his Aid:
Nor a fourth Actor, on the crouded Scene,
A broken, tedious Dialogue maintain.

The Chorus must support an Actor's Part;
Defend the Virtuous, and advise with Art;
Govern the Choleric, the Proud appease,
And the short Feasts of frugal Tables praise;
Applaud the Justice of well-govern'd States,
And Peace triumphant with her open Gates.
Intrusted Secrets let them ne'er betray,
But to the righteous Gods with Ardour pray,
That Fortune with returning Smiles may bless
Afflicted Worth, and impious Pride depress;
Yet let their Songs with apt Coherence join;
Promote the Plot, and aid the main Design.

457

Nor was the Flute at first with Silver bound,
Nor rival'd emulous the Trumpet's Sound:
Few were its Notes, its Form was simply plain,
Yet not unuseful was its feeble Strain
To aid the Chorus, and their Songs to raise,
Filling the little Theatre with Ease,
To which a thin and pious Audience came,
Of frugal Manners, and unsullied Fame.

But when victorious Rome enlarg'd her State,
And broader Walls inclos'd th' imperial Seat,
Soon as with Wine grown dissolutely gay
Without Restraint she chear'd the festal Day,
Then Poesy in looser Numbers mov'd,
And Music in licentious Tones improv'd;
Such ever is the Taste, when Clown and Wit,
Rustic and Critic, fill the crouded Pit.

He, who before with modest Art had play'd,
Now call'd in wanton Movements to his Aid,
Fill'd with luxurious Tones the pleasing Strain,
And drew along the Stage a Length of Train:
And thus the Lyre, once awfully severe,
Increas'd the Strings, and sweeter charm'd the Ear:
Thus Poetry precipitately flow'd,
And with unwonted Elocution glow'd;
Pour'd forth prophetic Truths in awful Strain,
Dark as the Language of the Delphic Fane.

459

The tragic Bard, who for a worthless Prize
Bid naked Satyrs in his Chorus rise;
Though rude his Mirth, yet labour'd to maintain
The solemn Grandeur of the tragic Scene;
For Novelty alone he knew could charm
A lawless Croud, with Wine and Feasting warm.

And yet this laughing, prating Tribe may raise
Our Mirth, nor shall their Ridicule displease;
But let the Hero, or the Power divine,
Whom late we saw with Gold and Purple shine,
Stoop not in vulgar Phrase, nor yet despise
The Words of Earth, and soar into the Skies.
For as a Matron, on our festal Days
Oblig'd to dance, with modest Grace obeys,
So should the Muse her Dignity maintain,
Amidst the Satyrs and their wanton Train.

If e'er I write, no Words too grosly vile
Shall shame my Satyrs and pollute my Style.
Nor would I yet the tragic Style forsake
So far, as not some Difference to make
Between a Slave, or Wench too pertly bold,
Who wipes the Miser of his darling Gold,

461

And grave Silenus, with instructive Nod
Giving wise Lectures to his pupil God.

From well-known Tales such Fiction would I raise
As all might hope to imitate with Ease;
Yet while they strive the same Success to gain,
Should find their Labour, and their Hopes are vain:
Such Grace can Order and Connexion give;
Such Beauties common Subjects may receive.

Let not the Wood-born Satyr fondly sport
With amorous Verses, as if bred at Court;
Nor yet with wanton Jests, in mirthful Vein,
Debase the Language and pollute the Scene,
For what the Croud with lavish Rapture praise,
In better Judges cold Contempt shall raise.

463

Rome to her Poets too much Licence gives,
Nor the rough Cadence of their Verse perceives;
But shall I then with careless Spirit write?
No—let me think my Faults shall rise to Light,
And then a kind Indulgence will excuse
The less important Errours of the Muse.
Thus, though perhaps I may not merit Fame,
I stand secure from Censure and from Shame.

Make the Greek Authors your supreme Delight;
Read them by Day, and study them by Night.—
“And yet our Sires with Joy could Plautus hear,
“Gay were his Jests, his Numbers charm'd their Ear.”
Let me not say too lavishly they prais'd,
But sure their Judgement was full cheaply pleas'd:

465

If You, or I, with Taste are haply blest,
To know a clownish from a courtly Jest;
If skillful to discern when form'd with Ease
Each modulated Line is taught to please.

Thespis, Inventor of the tragic Art,
Carried his vagrant Players in a Cart:
High o'er the Croud the mimic Tribe appear'd,
And play'd and sung with Lees of Wine besmear'd.

Then Æschylus a decent Vizard us'd,
Built a low Stage; the flowing Robe diffus'd:
In Language more sublime his Actors rage,
And in the graceful Buskin tread the Stage.

And now the comic Muse again appear'd,
Nor without Pleasure and Applause was heard;
But soon, her Freedom rising to Excess,
The Laws were forc'd her Boldness to suppress,
And, when no longer licens'd to defame,
She sunk to Silence with Contempt and Shame.

No Path to Fame our Poets left untry'd;
Nor small their Merit, when with conscious Pride
They scorn'd to take from Greece the storied Theme,
And dar'd to sing their own domestic Fame,
With Roman Heroes fill the tragic Scene,
Or sport with Humour in the comic Vein.

467

Nor had the Mistress of the World appear'd
More fam'd for Conquest, than for Wit rever'd,
But that we hate the necessary Toil
Of slow Correction, and the painful File.

Illustrious Youth, with just Contempt receive,
Nor let the hardy Poem hope to live,
Where Time and full Correction don't refine
The finish'd Work, and polish every Line.

Because Democritus in Rapture cries—
Poems of Genius always bear the Prize
From wretched Works of Art, and thinks that none
But brain-sick Bards can taste of Helicon;
So far his Doctrine o'er the Tribe prevails,
They dare not shave their Heads, or pare their Nails;
To dark Retreats and Solitude they run,
The Baths avoid, and public Converse shun:
A Poet's Fame and Fortune sure to gain,
If long their Beards, incurable their Brain.

Ah! luckless I! who purge in Spring my Spleen—
Else sure the first of Bards had Horace been.
But shall I then, in mad Pursuit of Fame,
Resign my Reason for a Poet's Name?
No; let me sharpen others, as the Hone
Gives Edge to Razors, though itself has none.
Let me the Poet's Worth and Office show,
And whence his true poetic Riches flow;
What forms his Genius, and improves his Vein;
What well or ill becomes each different Scene;
How high the Knowledge of his Art ascends,
And to what Faults his Ignorance extends.

469

Good Sense, the Fountain of the Muse's Art,
Let the strong Page of Socrates impart,
For if the Mind with clear Conceptions glow,
The willing Words in just Expressions flow.

The Poet, who with nice Discernment knows
What to his Country and his Friends he owes;
How various Nature warms the human Breast,
To love the Parent, Brother, Friend or Guest;
What the great Office of our Judges are,
Of Senators, of Generals sent to War;
He surely knows, with nice, well-judging Art,
The Strokes, peculiar to each different Part.

Keep Nature's great Original in View,
And thence the living Images pursue;
For when the Sentiments and Manners please,
And all the Characters are wrought with Ease,
Your Play, though void of Beauty, Force and Art,
More strongly shall delight, and warm the Heart,
Than where a lifeless Pomp of Verse appears,
And with sonorous Trifles charms our Ears.

To her lov'd Greeks the Muse indulgent gave,
To her lov'd Greeks, with Greatness to conceive,
And in sublimer Tone their Language raise;
Her Greeks were only covetous of Praise.
Our Youth, Proficients in a nobler Art,
Divide a Farthing to the hundredth Part;

471

Well done, my Boy, the joyful Father cries,
Addition and Subtraction make us wise.

But when the Rust of Wealth pollutes the Soul,
And money'd Cares the Genius thus controul,
How shall we dare to hope, that distant Times
With Honour should preserve the lifeless Rhimes?

Poets would profit or delight Mankind,
And with the Pleasing have th' Instructive join'd.
Short be the Precept, which with Ease is gain'd
By docile Minds, and faithfully retain'd.
If in dull Length your Moral is exprest,
The tedious Wisdom overflows the Breast.
Would you divert? the Probable maintain,
Nor force us to believe the monstrous Scene,
Which shews a Child, by a fell Witch devour'd,
Drag'd from her Entrails, and to Life restor'd.

Grave Age approves the Solid and the Wise;
Gay Youth from too austere a Drama flies;
Profit and Pleasure, then, to mix with Art,
T'inform the Judgement, nor offend the Heart,
Shall gain all Votes; to Booksellers shall raise
No trivial Fortune, and across the Seas
To distant Nations spread the Writer's Fame,
And with immortal Honours crown his Name.

473

Yet there are Faults, that we may well excuse,
For oft the Strings th' intended Sound refuse;
In vain his tuneful Hand the Master tries,
He asks a Flat, and hears a Sharp arise;
Nor always will the Bow, though fam'd for Art,
With Speed unerring wing the threatening Dart.

But where the Beauties more in Number shine,
I am not angry, when a casual Line
(That with some trivial Faults unequal flows)
A careless Hand, or human Frailty shows.
But as we ne'er those Scribes with Mercy treat,
Who, though advis'd, the same Mistakes repeat;
Or as we laugh at him, who constant brings
The same rude Discord from the jarring Strings;
So, if strange Chance a Chœrilus inspire
With some good Lines, with Laughter I admire;
Yet hold it for a Fault I can't excuse,
If honest Homer slumber o'er his Muse;
And yet, perhaps, a kind indulgent Sleep
O'er Works of Length allowably may creep.

Poems like Pictures are; some charm when nigh,
Others at Distance more delight your Eye;
That loves the Shade, this tempts a stronger Light,
And challenges the Critic's piercing Sight:
That gives us Pleasure for a single View;
And this, ten times repeated, still is new.

475

Although your Father's Precepts form your Youth,
And add Experience to your Taste of Truth,
Of this one Maxim, Piso, be assur'd,
In many Things a Medium is endur'd:
Who tries Messala's Eloquence in vain,
Nor can a knotty Point of Law explain
Like learn'd Cascellius, yet may justly claim,
For Pleading or Advice, some Right to Fame;
But God, and Man, and letter'd Post denies,
That Poets ever are of middling Size.

As jarring Music at a jovial Feast,
Or muddy Essence, or th' ungrateful Taste
Of bitter Honey, shall the Guests displease,
Because they want not Luxuries like these;
So Poems, form'd alone to give Delight,
Are deep Disgust, or Pleasure to the Height.

The Man, who knows not how with Art to wield
The sportive Weapons of the martial Field,
The bounding Ball, round Quoit, or whirling Troque;
Will not the Laughter of the Croud provoke:
But every desperate Blockhead dares to write—
Why not? His Fortune's large to make a Knight;
The Man's free-born; perhaps, of gentle Strain;
His Character and Manners pure from Stain.

But Thou, dear Piso, never tempt the Muse,
If Wisdom's Goddess shall her Aid refuse;

477

And when you write, let candid Metius hear,
Or try your Labours on your Father's Ear,
Or even on mine; but let them not come forth,
'Till the ninth ripening Year mature their Worth.
You may correct what in your Closet lies:
The Word, once spoke, irrevocably flies.

The wood-born Race of Men when Orpheus tam'd,
From Acorns and from mutual Blood reclaim'd,
This Priest divine was fabled to assuage
The Tiger's Fierceness, and the Lion's Rage.
Thus rose the Theban Wall; Amphion's Lyre,
And soothing Voice the listening Stones inspire.
Poetic Wisdom mark'd, with happy Mean,
Public and private; sacred and profane;
Of lawless Love the wandering Guilt supprest;
With equal Rites the wedded Couple blest;
Plan'd future Towns, and instituted Laws:
Verse grew divine, and Poets gain'd Applause.

Homer, Tyrtæus, by the Muse inspir'd,
To Deeds of Arms the martial Spirit fir'd.
In Verse the Oracles divine were heard,
And Nature's secret Laws in Verse declar'd;
Monarchs were courted in Pierian Strain,
And comic Sports reliev'd the wearied Swain;
Apollo sings, the Muses tune the Lyre,
Then blush not for an Art, which they inspire.

479

'Tis long disputed, whether Poets claim
From Art or Nature their best Right to Fame;
But Art, if not enrich'd by Nature's Vein,
And a rude Genius, of uncultur'd Strain,
Are useless both; but when in Friendship join'd,
A mutual Succour in each other find.

A Youth, who hopes th' Olympic Prize to gain,
All Arts must try, and every Toil sustain;
Th' Extremes of Heat and Cold must often prove,
And shun the weakening Joys of Wine and Love.
Who sings the Pythic Song, first learn'd to raise
Each Note distinct, and a stern Master please;
But now—Since I can write the true Sublime,
Curse catch the hindmost, cries the Man of Rhime.
What! in the Science own myself a Fool,
Because, forsooth, I learn'd it not by Rule.

As artful Criers, at a public Fair,
Gather the passing Croud to buy their Ware,
So wealthy Poets, when they deign to write,
To all clear Gains the Flatterer invite.
But if the Feast of Luxury they give,
Bail a poor Wretch, or from Distress relieve,
When the black Fangs of Law around him bend,
How shall they know a Flatterer from a Friend?

If e'er you make a Present, or propose
To grant a Favour; while his Bosom glows
With grateful Sentiments of Joy and Praise,
Never, ah! never let him hear your Lays;
Loud shall he cry, How elegant! how fine!
Turn pale with Wonder at some happier Line;

481

Distil the civil Dew from either Eye,
And leap and beat the Ground in Extacy.

As Hirelings, paid for their funereal Tear,
Outweep the Sorrows of a Friend sincere;
So the false Raptures of a Flatterer's Art
Exceed the Praises of an honest Heart.

Monarchs, 'tis said, with many a flowing Bowl
Search through the deep Recesses of his Soul
Whom for their future Friendship they design,
And put him to the Torture in his Wine;
So try, when-e'er you write, the deep Disguise,
Beneath whose flattering Smiles a Renard lies.

Read to Quinctilius, and at every Line—
“Correct this Passage, Friend, and that refine.”
Tell him, you tried it twice or thrice in vain—
“Haste to an Anvil with your ill-form'd Strain,
“Or blot it out.” But if you will defend
The favourite Folly, rather than amend,
He'll say no more, no idle Toil employ—
“Yourself unrival'd, and your Works enjoy”

A friendly Critic, when dull Lines move slow,
Or harshly rude, will his Resentment show:
Will mark the blotted Pages, and efface
What is not polish'd to its highest Grace:
Will prune th' ambitious Ornaments away,
And teach you on th' Obscure to pour the Day:
Will mark the doubtful Phrase with Hand severe,
Like Aristarchus candid and sincere:
Nor say, for Trifles why should I displease
The Man I love? for, Trifles such as these

483

To serious Mischiefs lead the Man I love,
If once the Flatterer's Ridicule he prove.

From a mad Poet, whosoe'er is wise
As from a Leprosy or Jaundice flies;
Religious Madness in its zealous Strain,
Nor the wild Frenzy of a moon-struck Brain,
Are half so dreadful; yet the Boys pursue him,
And Fools, unknowing of their Danger, view him.

But heedless wandering if our Man of Rhime,
Bursting with Verses of the true Sublime,
Like Fowler earnest at his Game, should fall
Into a Well or Ditch, and loudly call,
Good Fellow-Citizens and Neighbours dear,
Help a poor Bard—not one of them will hear;
Or if, perchance, a saving Rope they throw,
I will be there and—“Sirs, you do not know
“But he fell in on purpose, and, I doubt,
“Will hardly thank you, if you pull him out.”

Then will I tell Empedocles's Story,
Who nobly fond of more than mortal Glory,
Fond to be deem'd a God, in madding Fit
Plung'd frigid into Ætna's fiery Pit.
Let Bards be licens'd then themselves to kill;
'Tis Murder to preserve them 'gainst their Will.
But more than once this Frolic he hath play'd,
Nor, taken out, will he be wiser made,
Content to be a Man; nor will his Pride
Lay such a glorious Love of Death aside.

Nor is it plain for what more horrid Crime
The Gods have plagu'd him with this Curse of Rhime;

485

Whether his Father's Ashes he disdain'd,
Or hallow'd Ground with Sacrilege prophan'd:
Certain he raves, and like a baited Bear,
If he hath Strength enough his Den to tear,
With all the Horrours of a desperate Muse
The Learned and Unlearned he pursues.
But if he seize you, then the Torture dread,
He fastens on you 'till he reads you dead,
And like a Leech, voracious of his Food,
Quits not his cruel Hold 'till gorg'd with Blood.

END of the Second Volume.