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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
  

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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.