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.

[dedication]

THE ODES OF HORACE.

THE FIRST BOOK OF THE ODES of HORACE.

Ode I. To Mæcenas.

II.

Ode II. To Augustus.

III.

Ode III. To the Ship in which Virgil sailed to Athens.

IV.

Ode IV. To Sestius.

Ode V. To Pyrrha.

VI.

Ode VI. To Agrippa.

VII.

Ode VII. To Munatius Plancus.

VIII.

Ode VIII. To Lydia.

IX.

Ode IX. To Thaliarchus.

Ode X. Hymn to Mercury.

XI.

Ode XI. To Leuconoe.

XII.

Ode XII. Hymn to Jove.

XIII.

Ode XIII. To Lydia.

XIV.

Ode XIV. To the Republic.

XV.

Ode XV. The Prophecy of Nereus.

XVI.

Ode XVI. To Tyndaris.

XVII.

Ode XVII. To Tyndaris.

XVIII.

Ode XVIII. To Varus.

XIX.

Ode XIX. On Glycera.

XX.

Ode XX. To Mæcenas.

XXII.

Ode XXII. To Aristius Fuscus.

XXIII.

Ode XXIII. To Chloe.

XXIV.

Ode XXIV. To Virgil.

XXV.

Ode XXV. To Lydia.

XXVI.

Ode XXVI. To his Muse.

XXVII.

Ode XXVII. To his Companions.

XXVIII.

Ode XXVIII. A Mariner and the Ghost of Archytas.

XXIX.

Ode XXIX. To Iccius.

XXX.

Ode XXX. To Venus.

XXXI.

Ode XXXI. To Apollo.

XXXII.

Ode XXXII. To his Lyre.

XXXIII.

Ode XXXIII. To Albius Tibullus.

XXXIV.

Ode XXXIV.

XXXV.

Ode XXXV. To Fortune.

XXXVI.

Ode XXXVI.

XXXVII.

Ode XXXVII. To his Companions.

XXXVIII.

Ode XXXVIII. To his Slave.

THE SECOND BOOK OF THE ODES of HORACE.

Ode I. To Asinius Pollio.

II.

Ode II. To Crispus Sallustius.

III.

Ode III. To Dellius.

IV.

Ode IV. To Xanthias Phoceus.

Ode V.

VI.

Ode VI. To Septimius.

VII.

Ode VII. To Pompeius Varus.

VIII.

Ode VIII. To Barine.

IX.

Ode IX. To Valgius.

Ode X. To Licinius Murena.

XI.

Ode XI. To Quintius Hirpinus.

XII.

Ode XII. To Mæcenas.

XIII.

Ode XIII.

XIV.

Ode XIV. To Postumus.

XV.

Ode XV.

XVI.

Ode XVI. To Pompeius Grosphus.

XVII.

Ode XVII. To Mæcenas.

XVIII.

Ode XVIII.

XIX.

Ode XIX. To Bacchus.

XX.

Ode XX. To Mæcenas.

THE THIRD BOOK OF THE ODES of HORACE.

Ode I.

II.

Ode II. To his Friends.

III.

Ode III.

IV.

Ode IV. To Calliope.

Ode V. The Praises of Augustus.

VI.

Ode VI. To the Romans.

VII.

Ode VII. To Asterie.

VIII.

Ode VIII. To Mæcenas.

IX.

Ode IX. A Dialogue between Horace and Lydia.

Ode X. To Lyce.

XI.

Ode XI. To Mercury.

XII.

Ode XII. To Neobule.

XIII.

Ode XIII. To the Fountain Bandusia.

XIV.

Ode XIV. On the Return of Augustus from Spain.

XV.

Ode XV. To Chloris.

XVI.

Ode XVI. To Mæcenas.

XVII.

Ode XVII. To Ælius Lamia.

XVIII.

Ode XVIII. To Faunus.

XIX.

Ode XIX. To Telephus.

XX.

Ode XX. To Pyrrhus.

XXI.

Ode XXI. To his Cask.

XXII.

Ode XXII. To Diana.

XXIII.

Ode XXIII. To Phidyle.

XXIV.

Ode XXIV. Against Misers.

XXV.

Ode XXV. To Bacchus.

XXVI.

Ode XXVI. To Venus.

XXVII.

Ode XXVII. To Galatea.

XXVIII.

Ode XXVIII. To Lyde.

XXIX.

Ode XXIX. To Mæcenas.

XXX.

Ode XXX. To Melpomene.

THE FOURTH BOOK OF THE ODES of HORACE.

Ode I. To Venus.

II.

Ode II. To Antonius Julus.

III.

Ode III. To Melpomene.

IV.

Ode IV. The Praises of Drusus.

Ode V. To Augustus.

VII.

Ode VII. To Torquatus.

VIII.

Ode VIII. To Censorinus.

IX.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

Ode XIV. To Augustus.

XV.

Ode XV. To Augustus.

THE BOOK OF THE EPODES of HORACE.

Epode I. To Mæcenas.

II.

Epode II. The Praises of a Country-Life.

III.

Epode III. To Mæcenas.

IV.

Epode IV.

Epode V: On the Witch Canidia.

VI.

Epode VI. To Cassius Severus.

VII.

Epode VII. To the Roman People.

IX.

Epode IX. To Mæcenas.

Epode X. To Mævius.

XI.

Epode XI. To Pettius.

XIII.

Epode XIII. To a Friend.

XV.

Epode XV. To Neæra.

XVI.

Epode XVI. To the Romans.

XVII.

Epode XVII. To Canidia.

Canidia's Answer.

THE SECULAR POEM.

The Poet to the People.

To the Chorus of Youths and Virgins.

First Concert. HYMN TO APOLLO.

Second Concert.

Third Concert. TO APOLLO AND DIANA.

II.

VOL. II.

THE SATIRES OF HORACE.

THE FIRST BOOK OF THE SATIRES of HORACE.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

THE SECOND BOOK OF THE SATIRES of HORACE.

Sat. I. Horace. Trebatius.

II.

Sat. II.

III.

Sat. III. Damasippus. Horace.

VI.

Sat. VI. Horace. Catius.

Sat. V. Ulysses. Tiresias.

VI.

Sat. VI.

VII.

Sat. VII. Davus. Horace.

VIII.

Sat. VIII. Horace. Fundanius.

THE EPISTLES OF HORACE.

THE FIRST BOOK OF THE EPISTLES of HORACE.

Epistle I. To Mæcenas.

II.

Epist. II. To Lollius.

III.

Epist. III. To Julius Florus.

IV.

Epist. IV. To Albius Tibullus.

Epist. V. To Torquatus.

VI.

Epist. VI. To Numicius.

VII.

Epist. VII. To Mæcenas.

VIII.

Epist. VIII. To Celsus Albinovanus.

IX.

Epist. IX. To Tiberius Nero.

Epist. X. To Aristius Fuscus.

XI.

Epist. XI. To Bullatius.

XII.

Epist. XII. To Iccius.

XIII.

Epist. XIII. To Vinius Asella.

XIV.

Epist. XIV. To His Steward in the Country.

XV.

Epist. XV. To Vala.

XVI.

Epist. XVI. To Quintius.

XVII.

Epist. XVII. To Scæva.

XVIII.

Epist. XVIII. To Lollius.

XIX.

Epist. XIX. To Mæcenas.

XX.

Epist. XX. To His Book.

THE SECOND BOOK OF THE EPISTLES of HORACE.

Epist. I. To Augustus.

II.

Epist. II. To Julius Florus.

HORACE's ART of POETRY.

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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.