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.

THE FIRST BOOK OF THE EPISTLES of HORACE.

THE SECOND BOOK OF THE EPISTLES of HORACE.

HORACE's ART of POETRY.

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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)

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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,

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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.

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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,

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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.

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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,

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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,

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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.

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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.”

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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,

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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.

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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,

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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;

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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,

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“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.