The works of Horace, translated into verse :: :: University of Virginia Library

The works of Horace, translated into verse

With a prose interpretation, for the help of students. And occasional notes. By Christopher Smart ... In four volumes

Smart, Christopher (1722-1771)

VOLUME I.

II.

VOLUME II.

III.

VOLUME III.

THE FIRST BOOK OF THE SATIRES OF HORACE.

THE SECOND BOOK OF THE SATIRES OF HORACE.

IV.

VOLUME IV.

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III. VOLUME III.

Malé nominatis,
Parcite verbis.
—Hor.

THE FIRST BOOK OF THE SATIRES OF HORACE.

SATIRE I.

[MÆcenas, whence is this caprice]

He inveighs in the first place against the depraved practice of men, by which it happens that they are never contented in their own station, nor can please themselves by their own determinations, but always prize those of other men. He then takes occasion to be particularly severe upon avarice.

MÆcenas, whence is this caprice,
That mortals cannot live in peace?
But their own lot of life disclaim,
Whether by choice, or chance it came,
And give the rest invidious praise!—
O happy merchants! (full of days

And worn with toil the soldier cries)
To which the merchant-man replies,
His ship by the south-wind distress't,
The military life is best;
The troops engage, and in a breath
Glad triumph comes, or instant death.
The lawyer, when his clients knock,
At the first crowing of the cock,
Cries up the country squire, who raves
That all but citizens are slaves,
When from his home he's forc'd to dance
Attendance on recognizance:
So many cases of this kind
Are found, that they wou'd break the wind
Of talking Fabius to recite;
But lest I tire your patience quite—
Observe—suppose some pow'r divine
Shou'd say, I will to each assign
The part, he chuses—I decree
The soldier shall a merchant be,
And he a counsellor of late
Shall have the country squire's estate—
Do you come here to shift the scene,
And you go there—why what do you mean!
They hesitate with all their hearts
Tho' in their pow'r to change their parts.
What cause now therefore can they show,
But Jupiter shou'd puff and blow

In wrath, and for the future swear
He'll not consent to hear their pray'r.
But to go on and not to smile,
Like some who use a waggish stile.
(Tho' what forbids a man, forsooth,
At once to laugh and speak the truth)
As fondling masters treat their boys
By giving sugar-plumbs and toys,
That they the better may go on,
Their grammar-rudiments to con.
However, raillery apart,
Let us the serious matters start.
He that with ploughshare cleaves the clod,
The treach'rous lawyer doom'd to plod,
The soldier and the tars at sea,
Who boldly sail thro' each degree,
Assert th'intention of their deed,
Is that in age they may recede
To peace, and to a plenteous board,
When once they've treasur'd up their hoard.
Ev'n as the ant (whose toiling might
As most exemplary we cite)
Drags with her mouth all she can reap,
And adds to her constructed heap,
Not unappriz'd, nor unprepar'd
How future matters must be squar'd.
However, she will not appear,
When once Aquarius damps the year,

And uses in her cell immur'd
The goods her patient toil procur'd.
Whilst then no summer-heat can tire,
Nor winter, ocean, sword, nor fire,
Divert you from the quest of gain;
And you all obstacles disdain,
So you can make your point in view,
That none shall have more wealth than you.
What fruit (inform me) can it bear,
That with that tim'rous over-care
Gold, silver, in immod'rate wealth
You hide up in a hole by stealth.
You answer that a lib'ral use
Will sure to nothing all reduce—
But without use what is the rank,
Or what the beauty of the bank?
Suppose your threshing-floor supply
An hundred thousand bowls of rye,
Your belly will demand no more
Than mine, of all this mighty store;
As if, 'mongst slaves, you shou'd be sped,
Like Esop, with a load of bread,
Not one crumb more to you wou'd fall,
Than him, who carried none at all.
What does it boot to him that lives
Within the prescript nature gives,
Whether he till an hundred rood,
Or thousand acres for his food.
But 'tis a pretty thing you say
With a great capitol to play—

If we from little funds can take
Such things, as for our purpose make,
Our garrets why shou'd you despise
Compar'd with your great granaries!
As if desirous, when a dry,
Of but a jug or glass, you cry;
I'd rather on the river's brink
Than from this little fountain drink.
Hence they, that Aufidus approach,
Too large a quantity to broach,
Are hurried down the rapid fall
By him, that swallows banks and all.
While they that want not unto waste
Will free from mud their water taste;
Nor, as a needless draught they crave,
Will lose their lives within the wave.
But most thro' false desires unwise
Urge, no finances will suffice;
For wealth is character and name,
And, as your riches, such your fame.
What can one do with such as these?
Let them be wretched, if they please;
According as the tale is told—
A churl of Athens, full of gold,
Was wont to scorn the people thus—
The world may hiss and make a fuss,
But I applaud myself the more,
Whilst I at home my bags explore.
When thirsty Tantalus wou'd quaff,
The stream eludes his lips—you laugh—

And yet, if we but change the name,
The story of your life's the same.
O'er bags, which from all hands you scrape,
You cannot sleep, but stare and gape,
Compell'd the plenty to refuse,
As tho' 'twere sacrilege to use;
Nor can they other joy supply,
Than pictures to amuse the eye.
What know you not the real worth
Of money is, its help on earth—
Buy bread, buy herbs, a flask of wine,
To which you likewise may subjoin
Such other articles beside,
As nature grieves to be denied.
But to keep watching and half-dead,
Both night and day to be in dread,
Of thieves, and fire, and slaves, lest they
Shou'd rob the house, and run away.
Such wealth with such a life endure,
O rather keep me ever poor!
—But if one's body shou'd be seiz'd
With cold, or any way diseas'd,
So that you cannot stir about,
You have a friend to help you out,
To bring you medicines, to call in
The doctor, that your loving kin
And children may again enjoy
Your company—nor wife, nor boy
Desire your life—both small and great,
Male, female, all your neighbours hate

Your very name—and is it strange
That no one should good-will exchange,
With one so worthless as to prize
His pelf, above all social ties.
But wou'd you gain and keep your friends,
Whom nature without labour sends,
You'd lose your toil in that respect
By their refractory neglect:
As who shou'd take an ass to grace
The field, and enter for the race.
Put then a period to pursuit,
And how much more abundant fruit,
You from your diligence possess,
Dread want and poverty the less;
And cease from all this toil of thought,
That being found, for which you sought:
Nor do with your ill-gotten store
As one Umidius did of yore,
Who was (the tale will soon be told)
So rich, as ev'n to measure gold;
And yet for fear that he shou'd fast,
Clad, like a slave, unto his last.
But him, the flow'r of Tyndar's breed,
A woman he had lately freed,
With a good cleaver split in twain—
What part must then a man sustain!

Wou'd you of me a Mænius make,
Shall I like Nomentanus rake?—
Now you are going on to fight
With things, by nature opposite—
Commanded not to be a sneak,
You're not enjoin'd all bounds to break;
There is a medium to be had,
No doubt, 'twixt staring and stark mad.
To all things there's a mean assign'd,
And certain bounderies defin'd,
From which remov'd on either hand,
True rectitude can never stand.
But to return—what are there none
Dislike their lot, but churls alone?
Nor for another's calling votes,
Nor grutches of his neighbour's goats,
And scruples to compare his state
With thousands more unfortunate!
But still is anxious to amass
What one or other may surpass:
When from the goal the coursers clear
The whirling car—the charioteer
Rushes on him that foremost speeds,
But scorns what he himself precedes.
And hence it is we rarely find
A man so perfectly resign'd,
As to declare this life he leaves,
A guest, that to the full receives:

Now tis enough—and lest you think
I've dipt in blear-eyed Crispin's ink,
And stol'n my work from his 'scrutore,
I will not add a sentence more.

A woman, who was in the spirit of Clytemnestra, the daughter of Tyndarus, who killed Agamemnon with an axe.

SATIRE II.

[Each minstrel, quack, and strolling play'r]

By examples he confirms the adage: “while fools avoid vices, they run into the opposite extreams.”

Each minstrel, quack, and strolling play'r,
Each mine, and scrub is in despair,
And with their ragged race deplore,
Tigellius now can sing no more.
The truth is, he was very good,
And lib'ral to the brother-hood.
Another, lest he comes to shame,
Dreads such a spendthrift's very name;
So close, he will not give a friend
What cold and hunger may defend.
Another, if you ask him why
His grandsire's, father's fortunes fly,
While cash he borrows but to waste,
And gratify his dainty taste,
He answers, he wou'd not be deem'd
Mean-spirited—which is esteem'd
By some as matter worthy fame,
By some of obloquy and blame.
Fufidius, rich in free-hold land,
And money lent at the best hand,
Wou'd not be call'd a thief or rake.—
He from the capital will take

Some five per cent. upon the nail,
And the more desperate and frail
A man in circumstance is found,
Or life, the more he will be ground.
He hunts for names, and lies in wait
For youths arriv'd at man's estate,
Who just from rigid guardians came—
At this what man will not exclaim,
O sov'reign Jove!—But he we'll say,
Speeds in proportion to his pay,
While it is out of human creed
How much himself he will not heed;
So that the father, whom we see
Presented in the comedy,
And tortur'd at his booby's flight
Was not in such a wretched plight.
Now if you wou'd inquire, my friends,
To what this dissertation tends—
“Why fools by ill concerted schemes,
“Shun vice for opposite extremes!”

SATIRE III.

[This is the fault of all the quire]

First he calls those to account, who while they wink at their own vices, are quick-sighted at discovering those of others—He then shews, that, after the example of lovers and parents, in friendship small failings shou'd be cover'd. To conclude, he digresses to a refutation of that stoic paradox, in which all defaults are said to be equal.

This is the fault of all the quire,
They will not sing at your desire,
But, if you never beg a song
They'll keep a quav'ring all day long.
Tigellius, that Sardinian spark,
Was a great proof of this remark,
Had Cæsar, whose undoubted sway
Might have compell'd him to obey,
Pleaded, to make him shew his tone,
His father's friendship and his own,
He wou'd not yet with all have sped—
But did he take it in his head,
A bacchanalian catch he'd grace,
From highest pitch to lowest bass;
Or every note to every string,
From egg to apple wou'd he ring.
This man had not the least degree
Of stedfast uniformity.

Now wou'd he run as from a foe,
And now with solemn pace and slow,
As Juno's sacrifice he bore—
Now with two hundred slaves or more
He liv'd, and now with hardly ten—
One while of kings and mighty men
Was all his talk—another while
Submissive in this humble stile—
“A three leg'd stool let me procure,
“A little salt that's clean and pure,
“A gown too, which tho' coarse and old,
“May serve to keep me from the cold;
A million had you giv'n outright
To this same philosophic wight,
So full of thrift and of content,
In five days every festerce went.
Each night he sat up, till 'twas day,
And snored the sunshine all the way,
Never was heard of such an elf,
So much at variance with himself.
But here a friend his voice exalts,
And asks me if I have no faults—
“Why yes I have, and, if you please,
“At least about as bad as these”—
At absent Novius Mænius rail'd,
When thus a chap his ear assail'd,
To your own failings are you blind,
Or wou'd you cozen all mankind!
Cries Mænius, I can soon excuse
Myself for all my selfish views—

This is a foolish vicious love,
Whose partial way we should reprove,
Since you wou'd wink with both your eyes
On all your own impurities,
Why when your neighbours mis-demean,
As eagle or as dragon keen
Do you inspect.—You may depend
That in his turn each injur'd friend
Will like to do the same by you,
As sharp and as censorious too.

A certain man's too prone to rage,
Not well adapted to engage
With the shrewd witlings of the town,
And may be laugh'd at, that his gown
On his rough person losely flows,
With shoes scarce cleaving to his toes.
But he is good to that degree,
There is no better man than he,
Your friend, and under this disguise
A most stupendous genius lies.
Then fift yourself, and make essay,
If nature, or an evil way,
Have sown no undiscover'd seeds
Of vice, for 'mongst the other weeds,
The fern, that shou'd be burnt, will yield
His crop, in each uncultur'd field.

But to forearm in some respects—
E'en as a mistress's defects
Deceive at least, if not delight
The lover—or (a case to cite)

Balbinus doats upon the wen
Of his dear Agna—O that men
Wou'd thus in friendship be to blame,
Till Virtue found an honest name
For such a fault—let us be mild
To friends, as parents to a child;
And not for blemishes annoy—
The father calls his squinting boy
A leering archer full of fun,
And if a man has got a son,
Like Sisyphus, but two-feet tall,
Why him his bantam will he call.
One crooked leg'd, with fondling whine,
He ranks as of the Vari-line;
And if club-footed, then he smiles,
And of the house of Scaurus stiles.
One lives too thrifty, let him be
Your fav'rite for frugality:
Another's light and apt to boast,
He of his humour makes the most
To entertain—another's rude
To take large freedom, and intrude,
Let him be call'd sincere and brave—
Another's hot, and giv'n to rave,
But he's a man of spirit still—
For such ways gain and keep good-will—
But we the virtues ev'n invert,
On purest vessels throwing dirt.
A man of probity we find
As guilty of an abject mind;

If one amongst us too is slow,
On him the blockhead we bestow.
Another's cautious of a snare,
Nor ever lays his bosom bare
To bad men (as he lives in times
With envy fraught and thriving crimes)
Him stead of prudent and discrete
We term a man of dark deceit.
If one is unreserv'd and free
To such familiarity,
As I with you, Mæcenas, use,
And interrupt you, when you muse,
Or read—with any kind of prate
Intrusive or importunate—
At such a guest they take offence
And swear the man wants common sense.
How injudiciously, alas!
A law against ourselves we pass;
For no one without faults is bred,
Who has the fewest, is the head.
When my dear friend (as justice pleads)
Weighs 'gainst my bad my better deeds,
Let him, if he wou'd win my heart,
Incline unto the major part,
If such indeed my virtues prove,
Then in requital of his love,
The self-same scale shall be applied,
Whene'er he's summon'd to be tried.

He that requires his humpt-back shape
Shou'd his friends ridicule escape,
May certainly himself exhort
To wink upon his neighbour's wart.
'Tis equal, who for pardon sues
Shou'd not in turn, that grace refuse.

In fine, since wrath amongst the rest
Of crimes, that foolish men infest,
Cannot be totally suppress'd;
Why does not human reason rate
Things by its measure and its weight,
And only punish faults, as far
As guilt or provocation are.
If any one his slave shou'd slay,
Who when he's bid to take away,
Sequesters one half-eaten fish,
Or licks warm broth from out the dish,
His madness wou'd give more offence,
Than Labeo, with all men of sense.
But greater still 'gainst reason's laws
Are follies play'd without a cause.
Your friend has done some slight affair,
Which if you don't forgive and spare,
You shou'd be call'd severe and sour,
And yet you from his presence scow'r,
With equal hatred and dismay
As Druso's debtor on the day,
Who when the cruel Calends come,
If neither int'rest nor the sum

He can procure, by hook or crook,
Must hear him read his doom's-day-book,
His servile throat in posture put,
As if preferring to be cut.

Suppose my friend has by his ale
Been forc'd upon my couch to stale,
Or at my board a dish has broke
Which for Evander was bespoke.
For this—or when the servants bring
A chicken, shou'd devour a wing,
Which to my seat was rather near,
Shall he for this be held less dear?
What can I do, if he should steal,
Or things of secrecy reveal,
Or break his word?—They who decry
All crimes as of an equal die,
Are gravel'd, when you come to facts—
For other laws good sense enacts,
Sound morals, and convenience too,
Source of all justice, that we do.
When first upon the new-form'd earth
Poor mortals crawl'd out from their birth,
A race but just remov'd from brutes,
For caves and caverns their disputes
They did with nails and fists decide,
But by degrees their clubs they plied,

And at the last with arms they fought,
Which long experience forg'd and taught,
Till words at length, and names they found,
To ascertain their thoughts by sound.
Hence they began from war to pause,
To wall in towns, and 'stablish laws,
That theft should not unpunish'd be,
Nor rapine, nor adultery,
For long before fair Helen's charms
Had woman set the world in arms,
But all those savages are fled,
And all without memorial dead,
Who, like the tenants of the wild,
With vagrant lust themselves defil'd,
As still the strong the weaker slew,
And did as bulls for heifers do.
Now laws were a preventive aid
For fear of man's injustice made,
This all must evidence, who mind
Each age, and hist'ry of mankind:
Nor can mere nature sep'rate right
From wrong, by as distinct a light,
As she can sever good from ill,
Or what shou'd check, or tempt the will:
Nor e'er can reason make it plain,
That he's as much a rogue in grain,

Who breaks for sprouts his neigbour's hedge,
As he that does a sacrilege.
Some certain rule then let us state
To make chastisement adequate,
Lest him you scourge severe and rash,
Who scarce deserves a single lash,
For I do not the least surmise,
That you will with the rod chastise
Him that deserves more dreadful doom,
Since your assertions so presume,
That theft is of as great a die
In guilt, as high-way robbery,
And threaten you wou'd cut off all
Defaults alike, both great and small,
If man wou'd give you sov'reign sway—
So much for what the Stoicks say.

If he is rich who's wise withall,
Tho' but a cobler in his stall,
The beauty of the world alone,
And king upon an endless throne,
Why pray for what is in your hand?
You do not, surely, understand,
What he, the sire of all our sect,
Crysippus says in this respect,
“The wise-man makes himself no sole,
“Yet is a cobler on the whole.”
How's this—Hermogenes, tho' dumb,
His voice can raise and harp can thrum,

Alfenus thus, in lawyer's gown,
His awl, and implements laid down.
Himself a cobler still affirms—
The stoick on no other terms
Is jack-of-all-trades and a king—
The boys, that round you form a ring,
Will pluck your beard, and by the press
You shall be brought to last distress,
And snarl and burst your lungs in vain
Unless your staff the mob restrain
Supreme of monarchs—but to wave
Prolixity—while you shall lave
Your body in the farthing bath,
Crysippus following your path,
And my dear friends shall set aside
The things, in which my feet shall slide,
Why in return I shall enlarge
My heart, to give them their discharge.
In private life for more the thing,
Than your imaginary king.

Of such valuable antiquity that it might be supposed to have belonged to Evander, who entertained Æneas upon his landing in Italy.

The understanding of Horace was so benighted, that he supposed language to be gradual, and of human invention—nevertheless The Lord is the Word, and all good words proceed from him, as sure nonsense and cant are derivable from the Adversary.

SATIRE IV.

[Cratinus, Eupolis, with these]

He asserts that Lucillius was particularly tart, by following the ancient comedy amongst the Grecians— However he shews his own writings are not to be read in the same view, since (as they were satirical in the general) the most part of mankind conscious of some vice or other, understand themselves to be hinted at therein. Otherwise he professes himself clear of virulence, and to deter men from vice with pleasantry, and by a fatherly kind of chastisement.

Cratinus, Eupolis, with these
And others Aristophanes,
Who made their comedies of yore
If any man on any score,
Was worthy of a shameful note
They branded him, in what they wrote,
With perfect freedom and by name,
As thief, adult'rous son of shame,
Cut-throat, or any otherwise
Disgrac'd—with them Lucillius vies,
On them depends upon the whole
By changing feet, and measure droll;
Keen—but still making verses halt,
For this was his peculiar fault,
Two hundred verses in an hour
(As a great work to shew his pow'r)

Oft wou'd he dictate to his guest,
Still standing hip-hop for a jest.
Mean-time, while muddy was his lay,
There was, what one wou'd wish away—
Verbose—too indolent to bear
The toil of writing and the care,
That is the care of writing clean,
For much is not the thing I mean.
But here Crispinus' wrath I whet
To challenge me at any bet.
“Your tablets take, this instant take,
“A trial if you choose to make,
“Appoint your umpires, hour and place,
“To see who writes the greatest pace”—
The gods have done the best of all
To make my spirit poor and small,
Who seldom speak and then but spare,
While you may imitate the air,
That's in the leathern bellows pent,
There puffs and blows and is not spent,
Until the iron's soft and red—
The happy Fannius sure is sped,
Who in the library has thrust
Unbid, both manuscripts and bust.
While not a soul will read my verse
Who am too tim'rous to rehearse,
My works in publick—now the cause
Why few will give, this kind applause
Is that the major part are wrong—
Take whom you will from out the throng;

Or avarice perverts his ways,
Or desperate ambition sways.
One's mad upon his neighbour's wives,
In other filth some waste their lives.
This on his silver side-board glotes,
Albius on brazen statues doats:
One with his merchandize will run,
From eastern to the western sun,
Thro' every ill with sails unfurl'd,
Like dust that in the wind is whirl'd,
Rush headlong, lest a want should come
To take a farthing from his sum,
Or to enlarge his stock—all these
The muse alarms, the bards displease.
“There's hay upon his horn—fly, fly,
“Can he but raise a laugh, they cry,
“He'll not his father's failings brook,
“And, what's once enter'd in his book,
“To young and old he'll publick make
“Who come from bake house or the lake.”

But come my refutation hear,
As I in my behalf appear.
First then I will myself reject
From men of the poetic sect;
'Tis not sufficient for the name,
That merely metre we can frame.
Now if a fellow writes like me
As near to prose, as verse can be,

You must not think he has the vein—
But one of a diviner strain,
Who has a genius and a tongue,
By which eternal things are sung;
On him this glorious praise confer—
Hence things of comic character
If fairly they can be giv'n out
As poems some have made a doubt:
Because both words, and things of course,
Have neither spirit, fire, or force;
Men talk, or, if from talk disjoin'd,
By measure of prosaic kind.
But yet you'll say the sire's in rage
Because his son the whores engage,
Who for their sakes neglects a wife,
And all the wealth and sweets of life,
A drunkard and (O shame to say)
With flambeaus in the blaze of day.
What? wou'd the loose Pomponius hear
One word less grand, and less severe,
Granting his father were alive
Hence 'twill not answer to contrive,
The verses in a style compleat,
All which, if you displace the feet,
A peasant in his wrath might say,
As well as Demea in the play,
If from those lines I now indite,
Or those Lucillius us'd to write,

The measure and the pause you take,
And the last words the former make,
You cou'd not find, but wholly lose
The members of the mangled muse
Not so if Ennius thus you use.
What time dire discord burst the bars,
And forc'd their iron ports of Mars.
So far of this—another place
Shall be reserv'd by me to trace
If comedy's by scene and plot
A poem fairly term'd or not.
But now I only shall debate,
Whether this kind you justly hate.
Sharp Salcius and Caprius hoarse,
As their indictment they enforce
Both to the gang great terror give,
But if a man discretely live,
He may contemn them both—Tho' you
Like Cœlus, and like Birrus too,
Upon the road have made full free,
I am not Caprius—fear not me.
To shop, nor stall my volumes come,
There for the sweaty mob to thumb,
Nor for Hermogenes to hum.
I never but to friends repeat,
Nor that, but when they much intreat;
Not any where to any croud—
Many there are, that read aloud

Ev'n in the market, or the springs
Where people bathe—when he that sings
May by the closeness of the place
Give to his voice a finer grace.
To coxcombs this a grateful task,
Who never have the sense to ask
About the purpose, or the time—
But here they brand me with the crime
Of hurting with a bad intent—
From whence can this 'gainst me be meant?
Is any then your voncher, say,
With whom I've liv'd unto this day?
He, who backbites his absent friend,
Nay more, who does not still defend
His fame, and stands on his behalf;
He, who wou'd raise a spiteful laugh,
Who no loquacity forbears,
And what he never saw declares,
And he, whose tongue is not controul'd
By what in confidence is told,
That fellow is a black in grain,
From him, O Roman youth, refrain.
You'll often see twelve guests repose
Upon three couches—one of those
Ere he has sup'd must needs asperse
All beings of the universe,
Except the man, that rules the roast,
And him, ev'n him he'll lash the most,

When Bacchus, who the truth reveals,
From his free heart all secrets steals.
This man to you, who hate a black,
Seems witty with a pretty knack.
If I one time upon a prank
Have said too frolicksome and frank
That while Rufillus clogs the sense,
Gorgonius has the goat's offence;
Is churlish envy, then my vice?
If any mention shou'd arise
Of things Petillus stole away,
Made in your presence—you wou'd say
The man thro' habit, to defend
Petillus, always was my friend,
And from a child we were as one,
Much for my asking has he done,
And I rejoice he lives in peace,
Because it was a strange release
He from the gallows lately had—
This is rank poyson very bad,
Sheer envy, which shall have no part
Or in my writings, or my heart,
If I can promise once for all
Or understand myself at all.
If ought too freely I have spoke,
Or been, perhaps, too much in joke,
Your kind indulgence you'll allow,
For that I shall inform you now.
The best of fathers taught me this,
That I shou'd keep from things amiss,

By certain shrewd remarks, he made—
Me, when he wanted to persuade
To thrift, and frugally to live,
Content with what he had to give;
“Do you not see (he wou'd observe)
“How Albius' son is like to starve,
“And Barrus too reduc'd and low—
“These are great documents to show
“The mis'ry of a substance spent.”
Whenever it was his intent
To fright me from loose girls (he cry'd)
“Let not Sectanus be your guide,”
Lest I should seek the wedded dame,
When I might have a lawful flame:
“Trebonius, hamper'd in the fact,
“Has not his character compact:
“Philosophy (says he) my son,
“May teach you what to seek and shun,
“And render reasons more than I,
“Let it suffice me to apply
“Old rules, traditionally gain'd,
“And keep your life and fame unstain'd,
“As long as you a tutor need;
“The riper age will soon succeed
“To strengthen every thought and limb,
“And then without your corks you'll swim.”
'Twas thus he form'd my tender mind,
And if he any thing enjoin'd,
“For this affair you have (says he)
“A laudable authority;”

Then wou'd he cite, the point to clench,
One of the sages of the bench.
But did he any thing restrain?—
“Can you (says he) a doubt maintain,
“But such a thing, in such a case,
“Is vain, and nothing but disgrace,
“Since He, or they are come to shame
“For doing of the very same!—
“As ev'ry neighbour's funeral frights
“Sick men with greedy appetites,
“And makes them spare themselves, for fear
“Their own interment should be near:
“So tender minds are often warn'd
“While others for their vice are scorn'd.”

Thus instituted I am free
From vices of the first degree,
That post a mortal to his grave,
But small and venial faults I have;
And these, perhaps, maturer years,
Sincere advice of my compeers,
And due reflexions on the past
May totally reduce at last:
And in my bed, and when I stir,
I am not wanting to confer
Thus with myself, “this thing is well—
“By doing this I shall excell—
“By aiming at some certain end
“I shall be better with my friend—
“Such a transaction was oblique,
“Shall I then ever do the like?”—

All this unto myself I say—
When idle with my pen I play:
This is amongst those faults I class't
But as of an inferiour cast;
Which if you will not freely own
As pardonable, be it known,
That all the vast poetic band,
Now, more than ever, is at hand,
And like the Pharisee and Scribe
We'll force you to embrace our tribe.

SATIRE V.

[Arriv'd from all the pomp and din]

He describes his journey from Rome to Brundusium, after the pattern of Lucillius, who had given an account of a party of his to the same place. He likewise gives a narrative what laughable matters had occurred in that expedition, amongst which the squabble between the two buffoons, Sarmentus and Messius, obtain the first place.

Arriv'd from all the pomp and din
Of Rome, Aricia took me in,
A guest but sorrily bestow'd;
But my companion on the road
Was Heliodorus, that fam'd Greek
Who teaches youth the art to speak.
To Apii-Forum thence we hied,
Where landlords sour and tars reside.
This journey which is but a day
For those that expedite their way,
Finding so many things to do
With idleness we split in two.
For them, that often choose to call,
The Appian way is best of all,
And here the water was so vile
I mortified my gut, the while

The company sat down to meat
And not without vexation eat.
Now night was bringing on the shade,
And all the signs of heav'n display'd;
Then with the tars our slaves begun,
A spice of their vociferous fun,
Which soon was answered by the crew—
“Why here, you sorry knaves bring to—
“You're cramming in the folks too fast,
“Three hundred are enough—avast!”
Now while their money they demand,
And mule is fasten'd to a stand,
An hour elaps'd—the plaguy gnats,
And frogs, that crowd the fenny flats,
Drive off repose—the muleteer
And waterman combin'd to clear
Their pipes, and on the charms enlarg'd
Of their dear girls, with drink o'ercharg'd,
Till the tir'd muleteer began
To sleep—the lazy waterman
Tyed the mule's tackle to a stone,
And sent her out to graze alone!
Then snored upon his back—the day
Now sprung, and we had made no way.
Then one more hot-brain'd than the rest
Leapt out, and being first possest
From willows of a sturdy tool,
Bang'd head and back of man and mule;
Till the fourth hour was more than past,
When we were set ashore at last.

Feronia, in thy marble vase
Each of us wash'd his hands and face,
And having din'd, three miles we creep
Beneath white Anxur's rocky steep.
Here both Mæcenas, and the great
Cocceius, were to come in state,
As they ambassadors were sent,
On an affair of high event,
Us'd separate friends to reunite.—
Here, I disorder'd in my sight,
With my black salve my eyes besmear'd—
Mæcenas during this appear'd,
Cocceius too, and Capito,
The most accomplish'd man I know,
And Antony's especial friend—
From hence our course we trav'lers bend,
And Fundi pass with much good will,
Where Luscus was the Prætor still,
Not without laughing at the tribe
Attending on this crazy scribe,
His robe, and laticlave withal,
And pan of incense in his hall;
From thence to Formiæ we roam,
Murena finding us an home,
And gen'rous Capito his cook;
Next day the brightest in the book

Arose, for Plotius, Varius came,
And Virgil of eternal name:
At Sinuessa these we met,
Of spirits so select a set,
Than which earth ne'er did bear or see,
More candid, or more dear to me.
Oh! what embraces all around,
What joy was at this meeting found;
There's nothing I would recommend,
In pref'rence to a pleasant friend.
With lodging next, the place that's nigh
Campania's bridge did us supply.
Purveyors brought us wood and salt,
For fear of suff'ring, on default:
From hence the mules their packs dispose
At Capua, e'er the damps arose.
Mæcenas goes to fives (as I
And Virgil on our couches lie)
For balls are bad things for the blind,
And those that are to coughs inclin'd.
Thence for Cocceius' seat we bear,
Where all good things abound, and where
The Caudian Inns are likewise built.—
Now, muse, deliver if thou wilt,
In a few words the war, enrag'd
Sarmentus and Cicerrus wag'd,

And from what ancestors in pride
These heroes with each other vied:
Cicerrus of grand Oscian race,
Sarmentus is not out of place,
On such illustrious pretence,
The gallant combat they commence:
Sarmentus first, “you seem disturb'd,
“Like a mad horse, that should be curb'd.”
We laugh'd, and Messius, “'Tis well said,”
Replied, and shook his furious head.
“O (says Sarmentus) what, if now
“Your horn was extant on your brow,
“Wou'd you atchieve—since ev'n thus maim'd
“You have at such distortions aim'd?”
Now a most lamentable scar
Did Messius' grisled forehead mar;
Then pelting him with jests apace,
Upon his rubicund grimace,
Where many a carbuncle and wart
Grew of the right Campanian sort;
“Pray for a dance, Sir, let me ask,
“The Cyclops jig—you need no mask,
“Nor can for buskins be concern'd.”—
To this Cicerrus much return'd.
Ask'd if his houshold Gods had got,
The chain he vow'd shou'd be there lot,
That, tho' by trade a scribbling knave,
He was not less his lady's slave;

He kindly beg'd to know for why
He took it in his head to fly,
Since that for one so lank and spare,
A pound of bread was plenteous fare.
In short this humorous event,
Prolong'd our meal in merriment.

To Beneventum thence next day,
Straight as a line, we made our way,
Where, while the meagre thrushes roast,
The flames nigh burnt our bustling host,
For thro' th'old kitchen widely spread,
Th'ascending flakes were making head:
Then trembling slaves you might have view'd,
Eager to have the fire subdued,
And guests, each greedy of his claim,
Snatching their supper from the flame.
From hence Apulia 'gan to show
The mountains I was born to know,
Which by Atabulus are swept,
And whence we never shou'd have crept,
Unless Trivicum's little sheds
Had found us where to lay our heads,
But not without such clouds of smoke,
As did the very tears provoke,
The hearth within a certain house,
Burning both leaves and wet green boughs.
Miles twenty-four from hence we ran
Bowl'd in post-chariots, for our plan

Was at a place to make our stay,
Whose name in verse we cannot say;
But 'tis describable when told,
By signs, for here the water's sold,
Water the cheapest thing elsewhere,
And here the worst—their bread is fair,
And good, so that upon the road
The trav'lers choose to take a load,
For full of grit Canusium sells
Her loaves, nor has she better wells:
Tho' Diomede of brave renown,
Chose this same place to build a town.
Here pensive Varius takes his leave
Of friends, that likewise weep and grieve.
To Rubi next we were convey'd,
All tir'd to death, as we had made
A longer journey thro' bad ways,
More tedious for the rainy days.
The morning was a little fair,
But then the ways more dirty were,
As far as Barium's fishy coast—
To Gnatia from this place we post,
Which is a city that arose
With all the water-nymphs its foes:
But here they much diversion made,
When us they wanted to persuade,
That incense in their sacred shrine
Melts without heating—I decline

All credit to the tale, the Jews
May think it genuine, if they choose.
For I then learnt the pow'rs above
Dwell in security and love;
Nor if a miracle be told
Of Nature, will it therefore hold
The Gods have sent it from the sky
By their profound anxiety—
Brundusium, which at length we gain,
Ends the long journey, and the strain.

This is the place where the Jews, residing at Rome, met St. Paul. Acts xxviii. v. 15.

A little proud magistrate of a petty place, taking upon him the state of the Prætor, who was Lord Mayor of Rome.

They were obliged to do this for all persons sent upon public business. Horace therefore availed himself of Mæcenas his embassy.

The Osci was esteemed the meanest people in all Italy.

A wind particularly noxious to Apulia.

Equotutium, which will not stand in an hexameter.

The miracle of the liquefaction of St. Januerius's blood is such another.

SATIRE VI. To Mæcenas.

He finds fault with the futile opinion of the Romans, in regard to Nobility, which they estimated by antiquity of family, rather than merit, and did not willingly admit any one to the great offices of state without that qualification. That no one could envy him the friendship of Mæcenas, upon the same principle they envied the post of Tribune, since that was not a matter of chance, but obtained by the recommendation of virtue. And finally, he demonstrates that his lot in private life, is far happier than it could be in the magistracy.

Tho' of the Lydians, that came o'er
To settle on th'Etrurian shore,
Not one is of more rank than you,
And tho' your sire and grandsire too,
Reckon'd on either parent's side,
Did o'er such mighty hosts preside;
Yet, friend, the manners of the great
In this you do not imitate,
At low-born men to toss the nose,
Like me who from a free'd-man rose.
Because you will not grant that birth,
Tho' mean, can cancel real worth.
This is a truth that you maintain,
That long before the servile reign,

And pow'r of Tullius, many a one,
That merely from themselves begun,
Have both been held of good repute,
And the first honours gain'd to boot:
Whereas Lævinus, tho' the seed
Of great Poplicola, who freed
The Romans from proud Tarquin's sway,
Was not a jot the more in play.
Ev'n with that judge, so well you know,
The mob, who oftentimes bestow
Their honours on a worthless name,
And are the dupes of vulgar fame,
Amaz'd at titles, and a bust—
But how shall we ourselves adjust,
Rais'd from all vulgar thoughts so high?
For granting that the pop'lar cry,
Had rais'd Lævinus to the chair,
Rather than plac'd new Decius there,
Or granted that the Appian frown,
Had from the senate turn'd me down
As not of parents nobly born.
(And well I had deserv'd his scorn,
While not content in my own dress)
Yet, after all, we must confess,
Glory's gilt chariot drags along
The gen'rous, as the vulgar throng.
What profit, Tullius, wou'd you have
Shou'd you resume your laticlave;
And be a tribune, in that state
The public envy, public hate

Was greater than they could have been
In your reserv'd domestic scene.
For soon as an ambitious sot,
Has on his legs black buskins got,
With purple robe upon his back,
Such sounds as these his ears attack—
“Who's that, and who's his father, speak?”
As if a fellow shou'd be weak,
Like Barrus, whose desire and plan,
Is to be held a pretty man:
That he may tempt the ladies fair,
Still to enquire with anxious care,
What face, leg, foot, what teeth, and hair?
So he, that promises and swears
That Rome, and all the world's affairs,
That Italy, the public fanes,
Shall be protected by his pains,
Drives all mankind to be concern'd,
“Who's this, the man that is return'd!
“What is his father? was the dame
“That bore him of a virtuous fame?
“Shall Syrus, you, or Dama's heir,
“Or Dionysius' offspring dare,
“From the Tarpeian, men of Rome
“Throw down, or unto Cadmus doom
“My colleague—Nevius tho' must sit
“One step behind me, as if fit,

“For he was of my father's class—”
But do you therefore think to pass,
As Paulus or Messala may—
But here your colleague will huzza;
As if three funerals in the street,
Should with two hundred waggons meet,
And horns and trumpets too outvie,
His gift our choice to justify.

Now I return to my own case,
By all still reckon'd in disgrace;
Born of a free'd-man is their scorn,
And I am of a free'd-man born—
And this, Mæcenas, now they do,
Because I am a guest with you;
This too some years ago they said,
When me the Roman band obey'd.
The first is diff'rent from the last,
Because the honour that is past,
No man can envy in degree,
As that I am so well with thee,
So cautious to select such friends,
As unambitious worth commends.
I cannot think it merely chance,
That did me to this rank advance;
For it was not a lucky throw,
But Virgil, Varius, long ago;
Those flow'rs of friendship were the cause,
By fairly saying what I was.
When first into your presence led,
Some interrupted words I said;

For stiffled by an aukward shame,
Few words in broken accents came.
I did not at that time aspire,
To be the son of some great sire,
Nor drawn by Satureian steeds,
To traverse thro' my native meads;
But, what indeed I was, report—
You, as your custom is, was short
In what you answered—I retir'd;
And e'er the year was quite expir'd,
You call'd me to your gates again,
And bade me rank amongst your train.
'Tis a great honour I confess,
That I could have so much address,
With such a person to find grace,
Who picks the best, and spurns the base,
Preferring moral men, and sage,
To those of glorious parentage.
But if my nature has a spice,
Of here and there a little vice,
And otherwise is quite direct;
(Or if a critic should detect,
In some fair body certain flaws)
Yet if the crimes against the laws,
Or avarice or dirty ways,
No man can urge to my dispraise;
If with clean hands and conscience clear,
(That I may for myself appear)
I live, and to my friends am dear:

All this was from my father's hand,
Who poor, and with a little land,
Yet cou'd not bear to have me brought
To the low school, that Flavius taught;
Where hulking lads in clumsy gaite,
Bearing their satchel and their slate,
Sprung from tall soldiers, to a day
Went duly with their quarter's pay;
But dar'd to trust his boy of parts
At Rome, to learn those lib'ral arts,
Which every senator, or knight,
Prescribes his children—at the sight
Of all my slaves, and decent gown,
In such a great and populous town,
They might have thought that all this show,
Did from some patrimony flow.
Himself the wariest guard and spy,
Still to my masters had an eye:
In short, he kept me chaste and free,
(Which is fair virtue's first degree)
Both from all guilt, and obloquy.
Nor did he for his own part care
About the blame, that he might bear,
Shou'd I be forc'd to get my bread
As auctioneer, or even be sped
Like him upon the tax to go,
Nor had I murmur'd, were it so.
For this upon the whole you see,
More praise from all to him shou'd be,
And far more gratitude from me.

As long as I've my wits intire,
I can't repent of such a sire.
Wherefore I shall not act like some,
Who did not from good parents come,
And plead the fault was not their own—
Far wide of all such useless moan
Are both my language and my heart;
For could we from our years depart,
And reach the past of life, and choose
Our parents by ambitious views,
Content with mine, I'd not desire
Those, that to higher posts aspire.
For this, by all the revel rout,
I shou'd be deem'd as mad, no doubt;
But you, perhaps, wou'd hold me sane,
That from a burthen I refrain,
Which I'm unable to sustain.
For in that case, without debate
Things must be had in greater state,
More ceremonies than before,
With two or three companions more,
For fear I shou'd at home remain,
Or go abroad without a train.
Men slaves, with coaches and a stand
Of horses too, I must command.
Now can I go serene and cool,
More pleasant on my bob-tail mule,
E'en to Tarentum, if it suit,
With cloak-bag, and myself to boot.

Yet none alive in this respect,
Will stingyness to me object;
In such as Tullius, is thy due,
When five slaves only follow you,
A mighty prætor, as you are,
With wine, and necessary jar.
Sage senator, on this account,
Thee, and ten thousand I surmount.
Where'er I will is in my pow'r
To walk, and cheapen greens and flow'r.
The Circus, where they trick and thieve,
And Forum I frequent at eve.
The temples duly I attend,
Then homewards make my journey's end;
And take my supper at my ease,
Of onions, pancakes, or of pease.
Three slaves the supper serve—at hand
Two large mugs, and a tumbler stand
Upon a marble slab, with ew'r
And bowl, and cruet mean and poor.
I go to sleep, without dismay,
That I must rise betimes next day,
And in my rambles stand the shock
Of Marsya's phiz, who tho' a block,
Still signifies with hideous stare,
That he cannot young Novius bear.
To the fourth hour I lay me down,
Then take a walk about the town;
Or my still privacy delight
By reading, or by what I write.

Then I take oil—but better chuse,
Then Natta robs the lamps to use.
But when the sun with fiercer beam
Warns me to seek the cooling stream,
I foil the dog-star's heat, and swim.
Next after dining in such wise,
As with an appetite to rise;
I lounge at home—such are the days
Of men, whom no ambition sways.
With these few comforts I console
Myself, more happy on the whole,
Than if my sire and grandsire both,
Had fairly took the Questor's oath.

The public executioner.

SATIRE VII.

[How Persius, ev'n that mongrel thing]

He describes a squabble between Rupilius, sirnamed King, with one Persius, a Grecian of mean account.

How Persius, ev'n that mongrel thing,
Aveng'd himself against one King,
Who by Octavius was proscrib'd,
He had such spite and gall imbib'd,
I make no doubt but long ago,
All Barbers and their patients know.
This Persius was compell'd to be
On business at Clazomenae,
Because his bulk of wealth was there,
With King too a perplex'd affair.
This man was harsh, and of such hate,
That even King's was not so great,
Full of all confidence and vain,
And still in such abusive strain,
That he cou'd distance and out do,
The Barri and Sisennæ too.
But now return we to this King,
When they cou'd to no issue bring
Their contest, (for when war breaks out,
Its longer, as the men are stout;

101

Thus to such lengths did Priam's son
And spirited Achilles run,
That their intolerable rage,
Cou'd nought but death itself assuage.
And this too was the very cause,
Since each deserv'd so great applause;
And if there shou'd begin a fight
'Twixt heroes of unequal might,
The worst by presents must recede,
As Glaucus did by Diomede)
When Brutus was the prætor chose
Of Asia, these intrepid foes
Like Bacchius with Bithus match'd,
Hasted to have th'affair dispatch'd,
With vehemence they both proceed,
And were a curious sight indeed:
Persius the first the case expounds,
Till laughter from all sides rebounds;
He praises Brutus and his band,
“The sun of Asia for command,”
And all that follow'd him to fight,
He calls his satellites of light,
Except this King, who all things mars,
Curs'd as the Dog amongst the stars.
Made of precipitance and mud,
He rush'd on like a wintry flood;
The King then on his running on,
Wou'd have attack'd him pro and con,

103

According to the cant express
Of clowns, who're sent the vines to dress,
For all the passengers gave out,
When he cried cuckold, thief, or lout—
But this same Grecian dipt in gall,
From Italy began to bawl—
“By all th'immortal Gods, O Brute,
“To thee I make my fervent suit,
“Thou that are wont all kings to kill,
“Use this King also as you will,
“For take my word, it is the task
“Of him that bears both ax and mask.”

This is one of the meanest productions in all Horace, and seems to have been written for the sake of a sorry pun upon the word Rex.

A pair of gladiators.

105

SATIRE VIII.

[Cut from the bastard-fig of yore]

He introduces the god Priapus, keeper of the gardens, complaining of the witches Canidia and Sagana, and describing what was done by them in secret.

Cut from the bastard-fig of yore,
A lumpish useless form I bore,
When the pos'd joiner was in doubt,
What in the end I shou'd turn out,
A God, or chopping block—at last
My lot was for Priapus cast.
Hence as a pow'r divine, I stand
To scare the thieves and birds—my hand
The former checks, but for the crows
A reed is fix'd above my nose,
Which still forbids them to parade
In these fine gardens, newly made.
Here sometime since the fellow-slave,
Brought out dead corpses to the grave,
From all their narrow cells thrown out,
And in vile coffins borne about.
This was the common burying place,
For wretches of Plebeian race,
Where fool Pantolabus they bore,
And Nomentanus rakes no more.
A pillar here inscrib'd, assign'd
A thousand feet in front—behind
Three hundred tow'rds the fields adjoin'd;

107

A fixt memorial, to assert
It could not to the heir revert.
But now so good th'Esquilian air,
That one may like a lodging there,
And on a sunny terras stalk,
Where grieved spectators us'd to walk,
And view with lamentable groans,
The place deform'd with human bones.
Tho' both the thieves and ev'ry brute,
That us'd to haunt this place to boot,
Gave me not half the plague and care,
As these old hags that here repair,
And with their magic drugs and charms
Turn people's brains—by no alarms
These can I quell or drive away,
When the vague beauteous moon-beams play.
But that both bones they will collect,
And simples of a curs'd effect,
I saw Canidia in black gown
Succinct, and walking up and down
With naked feet, dishevell'd hair,
And howling to the midnight air;
With Sagana that elder scold—
They both were ghastly to behold.
Then they began with nails to scratch
The earth, and with their teeth dispatch
A black ewe-lamb alive and crude,
His blood into a ditch they spew'd,

109

That so they might the ghosts compel,
To give them answers out of hell.
A woollen effigy they bring,
And one of wax—the former thing
Was largest, and in act express,
As if 'twas punishing the less.
The waxen was in suppliant mood,
As bound to perish on the rood.
This hag did Hecate invoke,
That fell Tisiphone bespoke;
While serpents and infernal curs,
And moon behind the sepulchres
You might have seen to blush for shame,
Lest she, forsooth, should bear the blame.
Now if one lie defile my tongue,
May all the crows my form bedung!
Why should I mention every fact,
And tell each circumstance exact?
How Sagana to a spectre speaks,
The one by grumbling, one by shrieks,
And how in earth, with wolf's grim beard,
They teeth of spotted snake interr'd.
How from the image made of wax,
A rousing fire awakes and cracks.
How at these furies I was shock'd,
But not intirely foil'd and mock'd;
For as a bladder sounds, when broke,
I from my fig-posteriors spoke.
They scar'd, into the city hied,
With laughter then you might have died.

111

Canidia's artificial bones
For teeth, came tumbling on the stones:
And what the jest shou'd not abate,
Old Sagana soon lost her tete,
With magic herbs upon the ground,
And bracelet from her arm unbound.

113

SATIRE IX.

[A saunt'ring on the sacred way]

He describes the impertinence and persevering garrulity of a certain person whom he happened on by chance.

A saunt'ring on the sacred way,
(As is my custom every day)
Upon some trivial thing intent,
With all my thoughts engag'd, I went.
When, lo! a chap, whom by his name
I barely knew, abruptly came,
And grasping hard my hand in his,
“How does the dearest man, that is?”
The times consider'd, I can do,
With my best wishes, Sir, for you.
But finding that he still kept on,
I ask'd him, what he was upon?
He answer'd, “Sir, you must know me,
“A scholar of the first degree.”—
I told him on that very score,
He must of me be priz'd the more.
Now in the last distress my pace
I mend, and sometime for a space
Stand still—and whisper to my lad,
Sweating from head to foot, like-mad:
O blest Bollanus! in my heart
I said, ev'n blockhead as thou art!

115

Still he went on my ears to greet,
“A noble town! a glorious street!”
Whatever came into his head;
But when he found I nothing said,
Says he, “I know you are in pain
“To get away, 'tis very plain.
“But you are ne'er the near, good friend!
“I'll still keep up, and still attend—
“And pray, Sir, which way is your route?”
—You need not go so much about.
It is upon a man to wait,
You do not know at any rate,
Across the Tiber, and as far
Almost, as Cæsar's gardens are.
“Brisk, and quite disengaged, I'll cleave
“Unto your honour, by your leave.”
Here brought to such a sorry pass,
I hang my ears, like some poor ass,
Whose grudging spirit cannot bear
A heavier burthen, than is fair.
Again his tongue began to run,
“Me, if you knew, you wou'd not shun,
“Nor wou'd ev'n Viscus close ally,
“Or Varius be more dear than I.
“For who's a better bard than me,
“Or writes so fast, or flows so free?”

117

“Who dances with an easier grace?
“Then for your treble and your base,
“I raise with voice so tun'd to please,
“The envy of Hermogenes.”—
Here was a respite, to thrust in
A word or two—Have you no kin,
Are you no mother's darling hope,
Who would not wish you to elope!—
“—No not a soul—I've buried all.”—
Thrice blessed in their funeral.
Alas! now I alone survive,
Dispatch and havock me alive.
For now the hour is come, foretold
By Sabine sorceress of old,
When for my fate her urn she shook—
This child (I read it in his look)
Nor poison, nor the hostile spear,
Nor pleurisy, nor cough need fear—
Nor shall the gout affect his brain;
Born by a babbler to be slain;
Such he'll avoid, if he is sage,
Shou'd he but live, and come of age.—
To Vesta's now (one fourth of day
Quite gone and spent) we made our way.
And he, by a most lucky chance,
Was call'd upon recognizance,
Which if he shou'd neglect to do,
An instant non-suit must ensue.
“Step in (says he) my dearest bard,
“If you retain the least regard.”—

119

'Sdeath! Sir, I scarce can stand or go,
And hurry to the place, you know—
Nor am I vers'd in civil law.
Says he, “Now whether to withdraw
“From you, or to desert my cause,
“Is that on which I needs must pause.”—
Me, Sir, I beg you would forbear—
“I cannot do it, Sir, I swear.”—
Then he began to take the lead;
I (for no parley can succeed
Against the victor) creep behind.
“Mæcenas, how is he inclin'd?”
Cries he, continuing his prate—
Few men with him are intimate;
A man of excellent good sense,
No one man has greater eminence,
By fairly pushing of success.”—
—“Here is your man, whose clean address
“Cou'd much assist you, hand and heart,
“And finely play an underpart;
“Of all the rest you'd soon dispose.”—
—We are not on such terms as those;
Nor is there any house in Rome
More free from that, which you presume.
My circumstance is not concern'd,
Tho' one's more rich, and one's more learn'd,
All have their special ranks and cares.—
—“You tell me marvellous affairs,
“Scarce credible!”—'Tis even so.—
—“Now you inflame me more to know,

121

“And to be near him;”—To desire
A thing from him is to acquire;
Such is your merit, 'twill be done,
And he is easy to be won;
Wherefore he's apt to keep on guard,
And make his first approaches hard.—
—“I'll not be wanting to my plan,
“But bribe his servants, man by man.
“And if I am repuls'd to-day—
“I'll not desist—I'll mark his way,
“I will for all occasions wait,
“I'll see his honour home in state.
“The lot of human life is such,
“Nought's done but by endeavouring much.”—
Thus while he rattled without end,
Aristius Fuscus, my dear friend,
One who full well this fellow knew,
Came up and met us—how do you do,
And whether bound, each ask'd and told—
I twitch his sleeve, and strive to hold
His arms reluctant—from this scrape,
Nodding and winking to escape.
He laugh'd, and scrupled by the dint
Of ill-tim'd jest to take the hint—
I, with my vitals all inflam'd,
Cry “sure you lately something nam'd,
“That you in secret had for me.”—
O! I remember it (says he)
But I a fitter time shall choose,
'Tis a great sabbath with the Jews,

123

When surely you wou'd not offend—
“I'm not so scrupulous, dear friend.”
But pardon him of weaker turn,
One of the many—we'll adjourn—
Another day—and I'll advise—
(O that so black a sun shou'd rise!)
Away the traitor runs for life,
And leaves my throat beneath the knife—
By happiest chance the plaintiff came,
And “where away, thou son of shame;”
He roar'd aloud—then me addrest—
“Sir, will you witness this arrest.”—
I yield—he's hurried to the hall—
Both parties make a grievous bawl—
The concourse on all sides is great—
Thus Phœbus stav'd his poet's fate.

There is a very pleasant equivocation in the proper name Viscus, which likewise signifies bird-lime.

125

SATIRE X.

[Well, I did say Lucilius penn'd]

This Satire is an answer to those who had taken offence at the Fourth, in which he finds fault with the verses of Lucillius;—and he renders a reason for such reprehension, and shews it to be just.

Well, I did say Lucilius penn'd
Lame verses—who's so much his friend,
And fawning dupe, to praise amiss,
As not at least to grant me this?
But that he smartly lash'd the age,
I praise him in the self-same page.
Yet, tho' I this one truth attest,
I cannot grant you all the rest.
For so I might admire each mime,
Laberius wrote, as true sublime.
Wherefore 'tis not enough to win
The hearer's ear, and make him grin,
(Tho' this is merit in degree)
But that the period may run free,
Nor with vain words the ear be tir'd—
There is a brevity requir'd.
The stile too sometimes shou'd of right
Be grave, and often arch and light,
As acting now the poet's part,
And now the pleader to the heart;
And sometime lower'd, to acquit
The part of a familiar wit,

127

Who will his strength and skill neglect,
The more to heighten the effect.
By satire in a pleasant vein,
A weighty point we oft'ner gain,
Than talking in severer strain.
The writers of the Comic cast,
Who wrote their plays some ages past,
Their works on this foundation rear,
And all are imitable here.
But these Hermogenes the beau,
And ape Demetrius did not know,
Which last, not learning better things,
Still Calvus and Catullus sings.—

But this Lucillius cou'd atchieve
A mighty feat, and interweave
His Latin with a deal of Greek.—
O ye late-learn'd, and still to seek—
To think ought wonderful or hard,
Performed ev'n by the Rhodian bard!—
But yet, they cry, the stile combin'd
Of diff'rent tongues is more refin'd;
As Chian wine is always best,
Well mixt with the Falernian zest.

Now let me fairly ask your muse,
If for your subject you shou'd choose
Petillus his intangled case,
Wou'd you forget your native place
And Roman sire, to inter-lard
Words taken from a foreign bard?

129

And ape the Canusinian folk,
Where only broken Latin's spoke,
Tho' Pedius and Corvinus sweat
With zeal, and a great pattern set.

To me one time about to speak,
And write my verses all in Greek,
Tho' born upon th'Italian coast
At midnight Romulus his ghost
Appear'd, the hour that dreams are true,
My scheme forbidding to pursue:
“The plan wou'd be as wise and good,
“To carry timber to the wood,
“As to augment th'enormous throng
“Of Grecian books in prose and song.”
While puff't Alpinus blows his blast,
And butchers Memnon in bombast,
Or Rhine with muddy head displays,
I sport with these satiric lays;
Which nor in Phœbus' temple dare
Be shewn, if Tarpa shou'd be there,
Nor in the play-house give delight,
Nor have a run from night to night.

You, O Fundanius! far surpass
All moderns of the comic class,
While you th'arch dialogue repeat,
How Davus and the doxy cheat
That old huncks Chremes—Pollio sings
In lively verse the deeds of kings;
Varius is masterly and strong,
Unrival'd in th'heroic song ;

131

While all the Muses of the field,
The delicate and pleasant yield
To Virgil—writings of this strain,
Which Varro cou'd attempt in vain,
And certain others, I pretend
In some degree to recommend,
But of inferior rank in Rome
To him, th' original, from whom
I shall not dare to pluck the bays,
That crown his head with so much praise.—

But I objected that his song,
Flow'd oft so muddily along,
That the more part of what he said
Shou'd rather be eras'd, than read.
Well! well! do you so great a clerk,
No fault in Homer's self remark?
Does not Lucillius revise
In wagg'ry Accius' comedies?
And laugh at Ennius as too free,
With his poetic gravity,
When ev'n his noble self he names
No better, than the men he blames?—

What in like manner can impede
But I, who this Lucillius read,
May make enquiry, as I go,
Which was the real cause, to know,
His subject's nature, or his own,
That he no better skill has shown,

133

Nor lets his numbers smoother glide,
Than if a man shou'd take a pride
The measure with six feet to close,
And lines by hundreds to compose,
Before he sits him down to eat,
And then as many after meat.
Such was the Tuscan poet's trade,
With genius fierce as a cascade,
Whose works gave fuel for the fire,
Upon his own funereal pyre.

But grant Lucillius form'd to write,
At once the hum'rous and polite,
More learn'd than Ennius every piece,
The sire of verse unknown to Greece,
And more correct in ev'ry page,
Than poets of the earlier age—
Yet he (continued to our day)
Much from himself had par'd away,
And prun'd off every useless shoot,
On which was neither song nor fruit;
And in the tuning of his wit,
Had often scratch'd his head, and bit
His nails, in an extatic fit.

You that wou'd write a taking strain,
And worthy to be read again,
Oft turn your style in act to blot,
Nor care if crouds admire, or not,

135

Content with readers more select—
What wou'd you foolishly affect,
To have your verses taught in schools,
To shew poor boys the grammar-rules?
Not I—for whom it will suffice,
If knights allow my works the prize;
As in contempt of all the rest,
The hiss'd Arbuscula profess'd.
Me shall the gnat Pantilius fret,
Or shall I feel a thought's regret,
That by Demetrius I am spurn'd,
As soon as e'er my back is turn'd.
Or that Hermogenes's friend,
Weak Fannius loves to discommend—
May Plotius, Varius, and the Knight
Of Tuscany, praise what I write?
And Virgil, Valgius, and that best
Of men Octavius, with the rest;
And Fuscus I cou'd wish indeed,
And either Viscus wou'd accede!
And here with no ambitious view,
O Pollio! I cou'd mention you,
Messala, and his brother too;
On Servius, Bibulus insist,
And candid Furnius in my list:
With many more, whom learn'd and dear,
I wittingly insert not here.
These only, and the like of these,
I do desire my works shou'd please,

137

Such as they are, and shall be griev'd,
If my fond hope shou'd be deceiv'd.
Avaunt Demetrius, and the fool
Tigellius to the singing-school,
There snivel 'midst your female tribe—
Ho! quick, my boy, these lines transcribe.

Virgil had not then published the Æneid.

Lucillius.

Cassius (not Severus) but another poet of that name.

An actress.

139

THE SECOND BOOK OF THE SATIRES OF HORACE.

141

SATIRE I.

[There are to whom my lines appear]

He sets forth the advice given him by Trebatius, in respect to writing the atchievements of Augustus, rather than Satires, and gives his reasons why he cannot follow it.

There are to whom my lines appear
Far too satiric and severe,
As driving things too great a length—
Others conceive there is no strength
In any thing I sing or say,
And that a thousand lines a day
May be spun out, if such as mine—
Trebatius, what do you opine?—

143

Be quiet—you advise, I see,
That I shou'd leave off poetry—
—Aye—may I make a sorry end,
If you are not my worthiest friend,
But then I cannot rest, but start
A nights—why, if your sleep depart,
Good oiling is the best advice,
And then to swim cross Tiber thrice,
Or take strong liquor in your head,
Some hours before you go to bed.
But if so great an itch to write
Infect you—stand forth to recite
Augustus an unconquer'd Lord,
Sure to acquire a vast reward—
Old boy—tho' fervent be my zeal,
Yet I inferior skill must feel;
Nor can a common pen presume
To draw the troops, which horrors plume,
And Gauls from shiver'd darts, that bleed,
And Parthian dying off his steed.
—Yet you might paint him just and brave,
The character Lucillius gave
To Scipio, and was therefore wise—
I'll not be hindmost for the prize,
Cou'd I bring things to have a face:
Unless in proper time and place
The words of Horace will not speed,
To make a mighty chief give heed,

145

Who like a horse, when strok'd too hard
Will kick, at all times on his guard.—
—Yet better this—than to defame
Pantolabus of merry name,
And Nomentanus, son of shame;
While all men fear you and detest,
Ev'n those, not yet the public jest.—
What shall I do? the dance is led
By brisk Milonius, when his head
Is hot, and all the lights augment;
Castor with horses is content,
But he that sprung from the same shell,
Prefers to box, or wrestle well.
For many men of many minds—
My spirit consolation finds
To scribble verses, on the plan
Lucillius chose, a better man
Than you or I can boast to be,
Whether in genius or degree.
He, as to faithful friends, he chose,
Did to his books his mind disclose,
And this was his amusement still,
If his affairs went well or ill.
Whence the whole tenor of his days,
His own descriptive page displays,
As if, enjoy'd or undergone,
His life were in a picture drawn.
Him follow I—no matter whom
You're please to call me here in Rome,

147

Lucanian, or Apulian wight,
For all Venusium has a right
The borders of them both to plough;
A race (as old records allow)
Were sent, and this same country held,
What time the Sabines were expell'd,
To such intent, that station'd here,
They might keep guard on this frontier,
If an Apulian disobey'd,
Or fierce Lucanian shou'd invade.

But this same pointed style of mine,
Shall not hurt any by design,
And like a scabbard-loving sword,
Mere personal defence afford;
For why shou'd I my weapon draw,
Secure from knaves against the law!
O sire and sov'reign Jove on high,
Grant this my steel in rust may lie,
Nor any person make a breach,
Upon the peace I love and teach!
But he, who such a deed shall dare,
(I give due warning to forbear)
Shall rue, and be a song and jest
Thro' all the city in request.—

If Cervius you to wrath inflame,
He threats to take the law—the dame,
Albucius keeps, with poison fights:
Judge Turius all his foes affrights,
Who can such damages denounce—
Thus how all creatures crack and bounce

149

Against their foes with all their force,
As nature orders in her course,
Observe with me—The wolf with fangs,
The bull with horns will give you pangs,
Whence but by instinct?—to the care
Of rakish Scæva, who is heir,
Shou'd you his long-liv'd mother lend,
His pious hand will not offend.
Strange! but upon the very plan,
That wolves will never kick a man,
Nor bullock bite you, if he can:
He'll only take th'old lady off
With honey'd hemlock for her cough.
But to make short with our debate,
Whether a tranquil age await,
Or death already be my doom,
Poor, wealthy, shou'd I live in Rome,
Or be expell'd for God knows what,
Whate'er the colour of my lot,
I'll still write on—O youth! I fear,
You cannot long continue here,
But that some favourite bustling slave
Of state, will send you to your grave:—
What if the bold Lucillius durst,
To make these kind of verses first,
And all that borrow'd skin to bare,
Which make th'external man seem fair,
Tho' foul within—Did Lælius blame,
Or who from Afric won his name!

151

Griev'd they at what Metellus hurt,
Or Lupus tumbl'd in the dirt.
But he cou'd at the great ones gibe,
And lash the people tribe by tribe;
As he profess'd to favour none,
But Virtue and her friends alone.
With him when Scipio brave and great,
And Lælius gentle and sedate,
Retir'd into the rural scene,
And went to sport upon the green,
And strip'd them of their robes, and toil'd
At tennis, till the sallad boil'd.
Whate'er I am, tho' something worse
Than him in genius and in purse,
Envy must own, till she be griev'd,
That with the great I am receiv'd,
And aiming with the file to deal,
Will break her teeth against the steel,
Unless, learn'd Sir, you should dissent—
—No, on the whole I am content.
But that you may be upon guard,
And lest you push your fun too hard,
Thro' inexperience in the laws,
You must observe there is a clause,
“If any man bad verse devise,
“His neighbour's fame to scandalize,
“He may be cast—an action lies.”—
Granted—bad verse—but if my pen
Shou'd only write good verse—what then?

153

Shou'd a man send such lines abroad,
Judicious Cæsar will applaud,
And shou'd he bring a wretch to shame,
Himself the while exempt from blame?—
The cause will drop—the judges scoff—
And you may decently walk off.

There is a passage in Cicero which mentions Trebatius as extravagantly fond of swimming; his advice to Horace is therefore very natural.

155

SATIRE II.

[What and how great it is to be]

Under the person of Ofellus he inveighs against persons given to luxury: and as he recounts the inconveniencies that attend this high way of living, so he likewise enumerates the benefits which are in a moderate and frugal diet.

What and how great it is to be
A pattern of œconomy;
(Nor is this doctrine fairly mine,
But what Ofellus wou'd injoin,
A rustic without learning taught,
And wise by downright strength of thought)
Learn, my good friends, while I debate,
But not amongst a glare of plate,
When the maz'd eye is at a loss,
And mind mis-judges, dup'd by gloss,
But here, while fasting, let us weigh—
Why so?—I'll tell you, if I may—
A judge corrupted with a fee,
Cannot the truth so clearly see;
If after hunting of the hare,
Or gall'd by some unruly mare,
Or Roman Manual make you weak,
As you are us'd to play the Greek,

157

Or while the rapid ball recoils,
The heat of contest cheat your toils,
Or if your pleasure is the quoit,
You smite the air in that exploit;
When exercise has cur'd your squeam,
And drougth and hunger are extream,
Then let me see you scorn plain fare,
Nor for the best Falernian care,
Unless there's honey in the wine—
Your butler is gone out to dine,
And the tempestuous ocean saves
The fish, by his black wintry waves,
Why then a bit of bread and cheese,
The barking stomach will appease.
From whence do you think this wisdom's gain'd?
Whence this philosophy obtain'd?
Not the rich flavour gives delight,
The relish is your appetite;
Seek, and you'll not be at a loss,
By downright exercise for sauce;
Nor fowls that fly, nor fish that swim,
Can give the least content to him,
Who's bloated with th'effects of vice—
Yet I might fail, shou'd I intice
Your palate to an humble chick,
A peacock ent'ring in the nick,
Struck by appearance, you regale
Upon th'idea of his tail;
Scarce bird! that cost the lord knows what,
As if that signified a jot.

159

What do you eat those gaudy dies,
Which you so much extol and prize,
And is the bird as much possess'd
Of beauty, when 'tis pluck'd and dress'd.
Yet as there is no odds betwixt
Their several tastes, the truth is fix'd,
That you're deceiv'd by outward shew—
Yet grant in this it were not so—
By what conjecture can you dive,
Whether this pike that gapes alive,
Was in main ocean trepann'd
Or Tiber, and was thrown to land
Between the bridges, or the head
From whence the Tuscan river's fed—
You ninny, you are apt to praise
A mullet that full three pound weighs,
Which you must mangle, as a dupe
To stupid custom in your soupe.
I see appearance is your guide;
Why are the pikes so much decried?
Because they're of a longer sort,
And mullets naturally short.
An appetite with hunger keen,
Will seldom loath the coarse and clean.—
O cou'd I see a banging fish,
Extended in a swinging dish,
A rav'nous glutton cries aloud,
Whose maw might make a harpy proud!
But, O ye blasts! that taint the air,
Come blow upon their luscious fare;

161

Tho' there's no mighty need of you,
Since both the boar and turbot too,
First taken are offence to them,
Whose stomach now o'ercharg'd with phlegm
Prefer the rising food to curb,
The turnip, and the acid herb.
Yet still at sumptuous boards we see
Some traits of old oeconomy;
Ev'n to this day eggs first appear,
And the black olives in the rear—
But now the table of the Cry'r,
Did most notoriously aspire,
Exhibiting a sturgeon whole—
Had sea no turbot, nor a sole?
The turbot late was undistress'd,
And safe the stork within her nest,
Until th'exploded Prætor taught,
That they might be devour'd and caught;
Wherefore if any fool shou'd boast,
That cormorants were good to roast,
So fond of lies, the Roman youth
Wou'd all receive it as a truth.

But if Ofellus we retain
As judge, there's difference again,
Betwixt the sordid and the plain.
For pomp and pride in vain you shun,
If you to downright meanness run.

163

Avidienus, whom they call
A cur, in justice after all,
Eats olives, which have fairly stood
Five years, and cornels of the wood,
And even spares his wine to pour
Into the cup, till chang'd and sour:
Then for his oil, you cannot bear
The scent, (tho' 'tis some great affair
He celebrates in white array,
His birth, perhaps, or wedding-day)
By his own hand it is distill'd,
From horn that holds two pounds when fill'd,
Upon the cabbage—but for tart
He is no niggard, and can part
From vinegar with all his heart!

What food then shall a wise man use,
And which of this examples choose!
For difficulties press around,
And here's the wolf, and there's the hound.
He shall be neat who does not sin
In nastiness, and keeps within
Due bounds, no wretch on either side,
Who will not imitate the pride
Of old Albucius, who raves,
When'er he's tasking of his slaves—
Nor will he bear for want of thought,
That greasy water shou'd be brought,
As noodle Nævius serves his guest,
Which is as bad as all the rest.

165

Now hear how many and how great
The comforts that spare meals await—
First then there is your health preserv'd,
For various things, when they are serv'd,
You well may think can do no good,
When you reflect upon the food,
So well digested when a boy,
Too simple to offend or cloy.
But when you once begin your tricks,
And boil'd and roast together mix,
And fish and foul—the sweetest juice
Will turn to bile by gross abuse,
And the tough phlegm, that forms and stays,
Will tumults in your stomach raise.
Observe how pale the guests arise
From courses of varieties;
Besides the body overpower'd
With what you yesternight devour'd,
Afflicts the mind, and brings to shame,
Your portion of th'etherial flame.
Another, who but plainly fed
Springs active to his early bed,
Betimes arises fresh and gay,
For all the duties of the day.
But he sometimes may have recourse
To better cheer without remorse,
At some great festal revolution,
Or on defect of constitution,
When weakness comes, and years implore
More tender usage than before.

167

But as for you, if sickness come,
Or creeping old-age shou'd benumb,
What kind indulgence can be lent,
Which you in youth and strength prevent.
A rancid boar our fathers chose,
And yet these Romans had a nose.
But I presume this was their view,
That for a visitor or two,
At times they'd take it from their shelves,
Rather than eat it all themselves.
O that I had been born and nurst,
Amongst such heroes at the first!
Come are your ears for fame inclin'd,
The more than music of the mind,
Plate, turbots, e'en such show and cheer
Are scandalous as well as dear:
To all these items you may add,
Your uncle, and your neighbours mad,
Desp'rate yourself, and without hope
Of death, or credit for a rope.—

That Trasius, (you'll be apt to urge)
With these invectives you may scourge,
But I have very great estates,
Enough to keep three potentates.
Why therefore do you not prepare
A fund of what you have to spare?
Why shou'd one good man be distress'd,
While you are of such wealth possess'd?
Why do the holy temples fall,
Ingrate! have you no love at all

169

For native Rome? but she may reap
A little, from your monst'rous heap.—
Must thou alone be still exempt,
O object of your foes contempt
Hereafter—which shall best confide
In his own heart, when he is tried,
He who has us'd to more than due,
His pamper'd mind and body too,
Or who with meaner things content,
Prepar'd and cautious of event,
In wisdom knows what peace is for,
And hoards supplies against a war.

But that my doctrine may appear
More acceptable, you shall hear—
I knew Ofellus, when a boy,
Who did not formerly enjoy
With more expence his lands intire,
Than now oblig'd those lands to hire.
There may you see him walk about
In fields with elegance laid out,
Stout farmer, tho' his rent be large,
With wife and children, all his charge,
Having such things as these to say:
“I never on a common day,
“Ought more than herbs and bacon eat,
“But when compell'd a friend to treat,
“After long interval receiv'd,
“Or when from all our toils reliev'd,
“A neighbour, whom the tempest drives,
“Most acceptable guest arrives—

171

“Then we liv'd well, but not so high,
“As fishes ev'n from Rome to buy:
“But pullets, or a kid was caught;
“And for the second course they brought
“Some grapes, for raisins, hung and dried,
“With nuts, and a few figs beside.
“After this fare we had a play,
“To take our glass in turn, or pay.
“Then Ceres by our vows ador'd,
“A plenteous harvest to afford,
“Smil'd on our jovial cup, to chace
“The wrinkles of each serious face.
“Let fortune rage, new broils foment,
“What more 'gainst me can she invent?
“Have I my boys more sparing been,
“Or have we gone less tight and clean,
“Since the new lord has here been seen?
“For nature has appointed none,
“To call an earthly thing his own,
“Nor him, nor me, nor any third—
“He drove us out by war preferr'd;
“To him his conduct past all shame,
“Or quirks in law shall do the same,
“Or heir surviving after all—
“This field Umbrenus's they call,
“Which lately did to me pertain,
“For none long while shall it remain—

173

“But still be ceded to the plea
“Of any person, you or me—
“Wherefore act bravely, and oppose
“A manly heart to worldly woes.”

The manual exercise of the sword and spear.

To be effeminate.

Gallonius, an infamous gutler, of whom see Cic. lib. ii. de finibus.

A game like snip, snap, snorum.

175

SATIRE III.

[Your works so seldom now appear]

He introduces Damasippus accusing him, that he wrote nothing; and then under the same person he handles that paradox of the Stoics, viz. that all fools are mad.

Your works so seldom now appear,
You scarcely wrote four times a year;
Employ'd your poems to retouch,
And wroth you have indulg'd so much
In wine and sleep, till all your lays
Are far beneath the public praise.
What now? you come here with a view,
The feast of Saturn to eschew—
So now you're sober, drive your trade,
And keep the promise that you made.
Begin—there is no let at all,
In vain you blame your pen, and scrawl
Upon the harmless, helpless wall.
And yet your features were intent,
As pregnant with some huge event,
If once you compass'd your retreat
To leisure, and your country-seat,
What boots it to make such ado
With Plato and Menander too,
To bring down Eupolis to us,
And that great bard Archilochus;

177

If you shall think to silence spite,
By quitting valour and the fight,
They'll call you a most wretched wight.
That siren indolence divorce,
Or you must lose all fame of course,
You gain'd in better days of yore—
—O Damasippus! I implore
All male and female pow'rs above,
For your good council and your love,
A shaver for your beard to send;
But whence are you so much my friend,
And see so deep in my affairs?—
To other men I give my cares,
By no concerns of self controul'd,
E'er since my goods were 'prais'd and sold;
For formerly my chief employ,
Was to be curious in a toy,
And at th'identic vase I guess'd,
Corinthian Sisyphus possess'd.
What cut without the master's hand,
And what too roughly cast, I scan'd,
As connoisseur for such a head,
Some thousand sesterces I bled.
I was the only man, that knew
To buy fine seat and gardens too,
And that to such advantage, Sir,
That I was call'd the Manager,
Both in the streets and at the 'change—
I know it, and to me 'tis strange,

179

So frantic you shou'd e'er get well—
Some new disorders came t'expel
The old, which sometimes is the case,
When pain and sickness shift their place,
And from the head and sides depart,
To make advances on the heart.
Or as it is when from his bed
The dull lethargic lifts his head,
And beats the doctor for his fee—
So that you do not this to me,
Be things as you wou'd have them be.
—Do not deceive yourself, good sir,
You're mad, and so are all that err
From wisdom mad, or nearly so,
If truth our great Stertinius know,
From whom these admirable rules
I have deriv'd, concerning fools,
What time he order'd me to save
A sapient beard, and never shave,
And speed without concern and pain,
From that Fabrician bridge again.
For when, as all my wealth was spent,
I there for self-destruction went,
He very happily stood near,
And have a care (says he) for fear
You thro' false shame are on a plan,
Which is unworthy of a man,
Since born amongst the mad-brain'd race,
You dread a personal disgrace.

181

First then I will inquire to see
What's madness? if alone in thee,
I will not add a word, not I
But you may bravely plunge and die.

Crysippus both his school and sect,
Do madness to all men object.
For fools of a malicious mind,
While ignorant of truth, and blind,
Are madmen properly defin'd.
In this we comprehend you all
Both king and people, great and small,
Except the stoic great and wise,
Who bade us thus philosophize.
Now hear how those, that give to you
The name of madman, are so too.
As in the woods when people stray,
Driv'n by some blunder from the way,
If right or left their route's oblique,
The error ends to each alike.
In such conceive yourself insane,
So that another, who is vain,
And laughs at you is no less mad,
And hangs his hamper'd tail as bad.
One kind of folly is to fear
All peril, when no hurt is near:
So that upon the open lea
Fires, rivers, rocks, they seem to see.
Another opposite direct,
Nor wiser in the least respect:

183

That is thro' floods and flames to fly,
Let mistress, mother, sister cry,
With all his kindred, and his wife:
“This ditch is dreadful—save your life—
“This precipice is monstrous steep,
“From headlong death your footsteps keep.”
He wou'd not hear or be controul'd,
Better than Fusius did of old,
When he was drunk to that degree,
He overslept Ilione,
The while two hundred thousand roar,
“Hear, mother, hear thy Polydore.”

Now I shall shew you, that the case,
Is parallel with all our race.
If Damasippus is unwise,
For ancient bustos, that he buys,
Are they that lend him money sane?
Well be it so—but to explain.
Here, sir, receive, if I shou'd say,
That which you never can repay,
Is't mad to take me at my word,
Or wou'd you not be more absurd,
To spare the purse and its contents,
Which lucky Mercury presents.
Grant that to Nerius there are due
Ten thousand pieces—'twill not do.

185

Add then a million forms and ties,
That quaint Cicuta can devise:
Yet Proteus shifting off his shape,
Shall all these chains and bars escape,
And when you drag him into court,
With your misfortunes making sport,
At pleasure boar, or bird, or rock,
Or oak he'll be to stand the shock.
Misconduct if his want of sense,
And care to wisdom claims pretence.
Perillius forward to advance
The sum, for which he stands no chance,
Is of a head by far more weak
Than thee, if I my mind may speak.

Whome'er ambitious thoughts assail,
Who are with watching money pale,
Who for luxurious viands pants,
Or sour with superstition cants,
Or finds his intellectual man
At all impair'd, come rear and van
To me, your most especial friend;
Adjust your garments and attend,
While I demonstrate to your face,
That madness is your common case.

First to the avaritious tribe,
Most hellebore I must prescribe:
Perhaps, these wretches with their hoards,
Claim all Anticyra affords.

Staberius' heirs were forc'd to write,
The sum he left in black and white

187

Upon his tomb, for on neglect
They were injoin'd to this affect:
That they shou'd to the mob bestow
An hundred fencers, for a show,
With a grand banqueting beside,
Ev'n such as Arrius shou'd provide,
With as much corn as in a year,
The fields of fertile Afric bear:
“Whether you deem that this my will
“Be right or wrong, yet pray fulfill,
“Nor on my mem'ry be too hard.”
The man, I think, was on his guard.
What therefore do you think he dreamt,
When he commanded on contempt,
His heirs upon his tomb shou'd grave
The money he was said to have.
Know then, while yet alive, he sneer'd
At want, as vice, which most he fear'd,
So that he all wou'd self deny,
Lest one mite poorer he shou'd die.
For all things, virtue, fame, and grace,
Divine and human must give place
To wealth, which if one can acquire,
He's just, fam'd, brave, and sov'reign sire,
With all things else he can desire.
These heaps, as if for merits gain
He thought wou'd to his land remain.—
With him, how little of a piece,
Was Aristippus sprung from Greece,

189

Who made his slaves by his commands,
Disperse his gold on Lybian sands?
As going slowly on the road,
Encumber'd with so great a load.
Which is the madder of the two—
—An instance here will little do,
Which strives to help a question out,
By bringing up another doubt.—
If any man shou'd buy guittars,
And keep them up with locks and bars,
Unskill'd the lyre or lute to use,
And wholly inscious of the muse;
Or be worth many a last and awl,
That is no shoemaker at all;
Or sails and ropes a fool shou'd hoard,
Who never dar'd to go aboard,
Why sure delirious and unsound,
He wou'd by all his peers be found.
And now I wou'd be told is he
From such-like imputations free,
Who dreads to use his hoarded plate,
And money, as if consecrate.
Shou'd any person stand before,
A heap of corn upon his floor,
And arm'd upon the watch remain,
Yet dare not take a single grain,
And tho' his heart with hunger grieves,
Had rather fare upon dry leaves—
Or shou'd a thousand casks possess,
From Chian or Falernian press,

191

Nay more, three hundred thousand say,
And yet drink vinegar all day.
Again, shou'd one of sev'nty-nine,
Lie down on straw, tho' on his line
The bedding rot, and in his chest
The food of moths and worms at best,
Yet few wou'd hold him as possest.
Because the bulk of all mankind,
Are equally absurd and blind.
Thou dotard scorn'd in heav'n and here,
Do you still watch your wealth, for fear
Of want yourself, when in the end,
Your son and servant all shall spend?
For what a trifle wou'd each day,
Take from your capital away,
Shou'd you once venture to produce,
Some better oil from out your cruise;
Both for your cabbage and your hair,
Uncomb'd, and scurf'd for want of care?
If any pittance will suffice,
For what are all your oaths and lies,
Why do your frauds and thefts abound
In ev'ry quarter? are you sound?
If you shou'd be so indiscreet,
To pelt the mob along the streets,
Or use, the slaves you bought, as bad,
Each boy and girl wou'd call you mad.
You hang your wife, and in despight
Your mother poison, are you right?

193

For why? because you did not do
The fact at the same place, nor drew
The sword to perpetrate your shame,
As mad Orestes slew the dame?
Think you his madness did proceed,
Merely from this flagitious deed,
Or that he was not rather wrought
By furies, e'er he ev'n in thought
Cou'd cut his mother's throat—but stay—
Ev'n from the time that you wou'd say,
A dang'rous fit had seiz'd her son,
Nought reprehensible was done.
He did not dare Electra seize,
Nor draw his sword on Pylades,
He only his hot wrath to vend,
Call'd her a fury, and his friend
Some other most outrageous name,
Which from his indignation came.

Opimius, who amidst his hoard,
Cou'd nothing to himself afford,
Who us'd to drink from potter's clay
Veientan, on a holiday,
While dregs, or any kind of stuff,
Were for a work-day well enough,
Was lately seiz'd, and like to die
Of a prodigious lethargy,
In such that his triumphant heir,
With eager joy already there,

195

About his keys and coffers ran—
His doctor, a most active man,
And faithful too, did thus contrive
The means his patient to revive,
He bade them bring the table out,
And throw the money bags about,
Then certain came to count the pelf—
Which, rais'd at once, he did himself.
Then thus the doctor spake, “beware,
“Or all goes to your greedy heir;”
What, while I am living?—“if you chuse
“To live, you must the methods use,
“Watch—bustle,” what wou'd you persuade?
“Why your poor body's so decay'd,
“Unless your stomach is renew'd,
“Your veins will fail for lack of food—
“Why do you hesitate, th'advice
“Is good, here take this bowl of rice:”
What cost it? “never mind the price;”
But what I say? “three farthings;” oh!
What signifies which way I go,
Whether I die of my disease,
Or rapine, theft, and doctor's fees.—

Who therefore is quite sane and cool?
Why ev'ry man, that's not a fool,
What is the churl? give him his due,
He is both fool and madman too.
But say a person is not near,
Are therefore his conceptions clear?

197

By no means in the world—why so,
Good master Stoic?—you shall know;
Suppose that Craterus shou'd tell
This patient, that his heart is well.
Is he then right, and shall he rise?
The doctor certainly denies,
If in his reins, or either side,
The poignant symptoms still abide.

This person is quite clear of both,
The miser's crime, and breach of oath.
Let him then sacrifice a swine,
In honour to the pow'rs divine—
But he is vain and bold—away
Conduct him to Anticyra.
For what's the diff'rence in th'abuse,
Whether you waste your wealth profuse,
Or let it have no end or use?
Opidius Servius, rich and great,
In an old family estate
Divided (as the story runs)
Two of his farms betwixt his sons,
And when upon his dying bed
He call'd his sons, and thus he said—
“Aulus, when thee a little lad,
“I saw so free with what you had,
“And bear more losely than the rest
“Your nuts, and play-things in your breast,

199

“Which you wou'd give or game away—
“Thee too, Tiberius, when at play,
“I mark'd to count your toys, and hide;
“I fear'd lest both there shou'd betide
“A phrenzy, of a diff'rent cast,
“Lest he shou'd learn to live too fast
“Of Nomentanus, and that you
“Might, like the scrub Cicuta, do;
“Wherefore, by all the Gods adjur'd,
“Let me have each of you secur'd;
“Aulus, lest all by you be spent—
“Tiberius, or that you augment
“Too much, what in your father's sense
“And nature, is a competence.
“Besides lest glory with its glare
“Beguile you, both of you shall swear,
“That he who shall be Edile first,
“Or Prætor, be cut off and curst.
“Wou'd you destroy your wealth and ease,
“By largesses of beans and pease,
“That in the Circus you may strut
“At large, or have your statue cut,
“And there in brazen dulness stand,
“A dupe depriv'd of cash and land?
“Yes, you wou'd have Agrippa's praise—
“A silly fox that over-plays
“His cunning, nor can have the heart
“To act the lion's noble part.”

201

Atrides, whence the royal word,
That Ajax shou'd not be interr'd?
“I am a king,”—as you think fit,
Born a plebeian I submit.
“And just was the severe decree,
“Which if you do not clearly see,
“You have my leave to speak your mind.”
Great king, may all the gods combin'd,
Grant you from conquer'd Troy to make
A happy voy'ge—so I may take
The liberty of pro and con,
To ask and to reply—“Go on.”—
Then why does Ajax so renown'd,
And only to Achilles found
Inferior, rot above the ground?
Oft fam'd for faving yours and you,
That Priam, and his people too,
May triumph in his fate and shame,
That made their youths endure the same.
“So great the phrenzy of his brain,
“By him a thousand sheep were slain,
“Which at the time he thought to be
“My brother, and my friends and me.”
When thou humanity's disgrace,
At Aulis didst thy daughter place
Before the shrine, and on her head
The consecrated salt you shed,
Cou'd you a man of sense be said?
“Why not?”—why what did Ajax do.
“Who without cause the mutton slew.”—

203

Why he abstain'd from wife and child,
Tho' each Atrides he revil'd:
He hurt not Teucer in his rage,
Nor with Ulysses did engage.
“To loose my fleet from th'hostile shore
“Wise I appeas'd the gods with gore.”—
What with your own, thou madman?—“yea—
“But mad not in the least degree.”
Who'er false images has built,
Form'd in the hurry of his guilt,
Will be esteem'd disturb'd in mind,
Nor does it boot what he's defin'd,
Or fool or furious—Ajax doats,
Who harmless sheep to death devotes:
He who for empty fame commits
An horror, is he in his wits?
And is your wicked heart allied,
To purity, when swoln with pride?
If any man shou'd in his chair,
Conduct a lamb to take the air,
And for her maids, gold, garments get,
And call it bantling or pusette,
And ev'n design her for the bed
Of some stout youth, to such a head,
The Prætor wou'd without delay,
All conduct of itself gainsay;
And give up to his friends and heirs,
The management of his affairs.
What if a sire his girl depute,
A victim for the bleating mute,
Are his brains right?—no, 'twill not suit.

205

Wherefore whenever in one mind
Are folly and perverseness join'd,
There's rank insanity, for sin
And raving madness are a-kin.
Fond of frail fame, the warrior's pains,
End in the cracking of his brains.

Come on—let Nomentanus bear
The lash, that is the squand'rer's share:
For reason this conclusion makes,
None are more mad than foolish rakes.
This fellow, after he was paid
A thousand talents, instant made
An edict, that next morn for state,
The fruit'rer, fishmonger shou'd wait,
The poult'rer and perfumer too,
The play'rs, with that indecent crew
That traffic in the Tuscan street,
With all that dealt in oil or meat.
Well what was the event?—they came.

The bawd the first began to frame
His speech, “whatever I or these
“Possess at home, is, if you please
“Your own, which you may take away,
“Alike to-morrow, or to-day.”

Now hear with what benign concern,
The youth bespeaks them in his turn.

“In boots upon Lucanian snows,
“You take a comfortless repose,

207

“That I may sup upon a boar,
“You fish upon the wintry shore.
“I pass my time without employ,
“This wealth unworthy to enjoy.
“Here take ye, every one your due—
“A million sesterces for you;
“For you as much; for you twice-told,
“With whose fair spouse I make so bold,
“When to my call at midnight sold.
Æsopus' son by folly taught,
To waste a million at a draught,
Dissolv'd in vinegar a pearl,
He ravish'd from his fav'rite girl;
Not one jot wiser to be sure,
Than if he'd thrown it in the sew'r.

The boys of Arrius, curious twins,
In trifles as enormous sins,
Were wont on nightingales to feed
At any price—say, was their deed
Of sense or fondness, and of right,
To be put down in black or white?

If once you see a grey-beard take
To toys, and baby-houses make,
Yoke mice to go-carts, pebbles hide,
To play at odd and even, ride
About the house upon a cane,
You'd think his phrenzy very plain.
If it's as childish as all this
In reason's eye, to love a miss,

209

And that it matters not, if you
Play in the dust, as wont to do
When three years old, or shou'd deplore
Your fate in fondness to a whore.
I ask you if you will behave
Like Polemo reform'd, and wave
The ensigns of your fond disease,
Your mantle, garters below knees,
And lac'd cravat, as it is said
He did with liquor in his head,
And took by stealth his chaplet off,
Converted by th'abstemious soph.

If to a boy that's cross in grain
You offer apples, he'll refrain—
“Here take them, little rogue.”—Not I—
But if they are not giv'n he'll cry.
A whining lover in disgrace,
Barr'd out is in the self-same case.
When with himself he argues so,
Whether he shall, or shall not go,
Unto the place for which he steers,
Altho', unsent for, and adheres
Ev'n to the hated threshold—“What!
“When dunn'd to see her, shall I not?

211

“Or shall I not myself befriend,
“And rather all my sorrows end?
“Shut out—recall'd—shall I repeat
“My suit—no—shou'd she at my feet
“Implore me;”—lo! the servant here,
Whose head's a thousand times more clear—
“O Sir, in things that have no mean,
“Our conduct cannot be foreseen,
“And govern'd by a rule and form:
“In love these contradictions swarm—
“War—peace anon, which as they veer
“Like fortune or the atmosphere,
“If any one to fix shou'd try,
“He'd do no better, by the bye,
“Than if he rav'd and play'd the fool
“By gamut, or by grammar-rule.”

When taking from Picenian fruit,
The seeds you to the cieling shoot,
It gives you joy—are you yourself?
Or when you act a fondling elf
In impotence, and lisp, and toy,
Are you then wiser than a boy
Who builds dirt-houses, as he plays?
How think you too of bloody frays,
And stirr'd by swords how fire will blaze!
When Marius, who had Hellas smote,
Did death unto himself devote,
Was he then mad, or will you free
The culprit from his lunacy,

213

And so condemn him for the fact
By being in your terms exact?
A wretch in years, a freedman's son,
Was seen about the streets to run
With washen hands, at early day,
And “me alone, (for that I pray,
“Is no great thing for pow'rs like you,
“Ye Gods, which all with ease can do)
“Save me alone from death and hell.”
This man in eyes and ears was well,
But him if e'er his lord should sell,
He must his intellects exclude,
Unless he wanted to be sued.
Such (says Chrysippus) must be clast
'Mongst numbers of Menenian cast.

“O thou! that giv'st, or canst remove
“The worst afflictions, sov'reign Jove!”
(Cries the fond mother of a lad,
Bed-rid five weeks and very bad)
“If this cold quartan shall recede
“The first day, that a fast's decreed,
“In Tiber naked shall he stand.”—
Shou'd luck, or some physician's hand,
From dang'rous case restore the boy,
The mother will herself destroy,
By stripping him in frantic vein,
And bringing back the fit again.
How driv'n to such a foolish freak?
Why superstition makes her weak.

215

These instances, attacks to stave,
That eighth wise man Stertinius gave
In friendship, that some future day
I might the Cavillers repay.
Whoever calls me mad, shall hear
The same re-echoed in his ear,
And be compell'd to turn his mind,
Upon the bag, that hangs behind.

Stoic (so may you re-imburse
Your damages and make a purse)
Of what infatuation, pray,
(Since there are many kinds you say)
Am I by thee as guilty found
For to myself I seem quite sound.

When mad Agave bears the head
Of her unhappy son, that bled
By her own hands, does she conceive
Herself a fury?—give me leave,
I'll own the truth, I am a fool,
And in my senses not quite cool,
Only speak out, and tell me all
That I particularly ail—I shall—
First you're a builder, that's to vie
With giants, tho' but two feet high.
Yet you the self same dwarf deride
When little Turbo's strut and pride

217

In armour far too big you see—
Pray are you less a jest than he?
What if Mæcenas built in Rome,
Must such a chap as you presume
'Gainst all propriety, so small,
And so dissimilar withal?
The young ones of an absent frog,
Crush'd by a bull-calf in the bog,
The mother was inform'd by one
That 'scap'd what an huge beast had done.
She asks him of the monster's size,
And puffing up herself she cries,
“Was he so great?” as great again—
Then after many a grievous strain,
“Was he as big as this?” indeed
You wou'd not, shou'd you burst, succeed.
This little piece, that Esop drew,
Bears a strong likeness, sir, to you.
Now introduce your odes and lyre,
That is, add fewel to the fire,
The verses, which from men of sense
If e're they come, you've some pretence.
I do not name your desp'rate wrath—
Have done—and greater than your cloth
Your coat—my philosophic friend,
Pray to your own affairs attend,
And those that nearer reason rave
Thou maddest of all mad-men wave.

Catienus performed Polydore, and Fusius Ilione, in a tragedy of that name written by Pacuvius. Fusius was only to have shammed to be asleep, which being drunk, he was in earnest.

An exceeding bad wine.

An eminent physician.

A place famous for the growth of hellebore.

Distributed by way of bribery to the populace on elections.

Much such another place as Drury-lane.

Polemo, when drunken and crowned with chaplets, went into the school of Xenocrates, who happened to be upon the topic of temperance, to which the young rake gave such attention, that he became perfectly reformed, insomuch, that he lived to succeed the philosopher in his school.

A crazy person of a numerous family.

Alluding to a fable of Æsop, where Jupiter is feigned to have put bags upon every man, the one filled with his neighbour's faults before, the other filled with his own behind, so that he sees the former, but not the latter.

219

SATIRE IV.

[From whence arriv'd, and where away]

Under the person of one Catius, an Epicurean philosopher, he derides the precepts of that sect, so far as they relate to the culinary art.

From whence arriv'd, and where away
Good Catius?—Sir, I cannot stay—
In haste some maxims to set down,
Form'd to out-rival the renown
And works of Plato's learned ease,
Pythagoras and Socrates—
I own myself a little rude,
At such a juncture to intrude
With interruptions indiscreet;
But pardon me, I do intreat.
If any thought you lost, you'll find,
So great the presence of your mind,
Whether 'tis nature, or mere skill,
You're great in both, a wit at will.
—But I am lab'ring might and main,
How I might every thing retain,
As matters to refinement wrought,
Both in the diction and the thought—
The name of him you thus applaud,
Is he of Rome, or from abroad?—
The author's rules shall be reveal'd,
Which I can do; his name conceal'd.

221

Eggs that are oblong, pray observe,
Are better at a feast to serve,
As being more delicious found,
And likewise whiter than the round;
Besides the toughness of the skin,
Premises a male-yolk within.
The greens that grew in drier land,
Are sweeter far than those at hand.
In over-water'd gardens shoot
The flashy and insipid root.
If on the even-tide a guest
Comes unawares—why then 'tis best
(Lest the tough hen for want of youth
Offend his palate and his tooth)
Live in mix'd wine her body steep—
All this is learning very deep.
The meadow mushroons are the best:
I cannot warrant all the rest.
His summers he in health shall spend,
Who of his dinner makes an end,
With mulberries of blacker die,
Gather'd before the sun's too high.
Aufidius with Falernian wine
Mix'd honey—wrong—as I opine:
Because on empty veins 'tis fit
Th'emollient only we commit.
With more propriety indeed
You'll wash your stomach with soft mead.
If you are costive, in that case
Limpins and cockles shou'd have place,

223

With sorrel leaves of smaller make,
Which with white Coan you shou'd take.
The waxing moons, to th'utmost wish,
Fill out the lubricating fish.
But every sea is not alike
Productive of the sorts that strike.
The Lucrine muscles far exceed
The burret of the Baian breed.
Circean oysters win the prize;
Crabs at Misenum best arise:
But your escallops spreading wide,
Are soft Tarentum's boast and pride.
Let none presumptuously suppose,
The table-decking art he knows,
Unless he weigh with previous care
The laws of taste—a nice affair.
Nor is't enough to clear the stall
Of high-pric'd fishes great and small,
Unskill'd which sort to stew is right,
And which when roasted will invite
The gutler, that has over-eat
Himself, to re-assume his seat.
The Umbrian boar with acrons fed,
Which from the scarlet oak are shed,
The dishes of that person bend,
Whose palate flabby meats offend.
For poorly the Laurentian feeds,
As fatted up with flags and reeds.
A connoisseur will be aware,
To chuse the wings of pregnant hare.

225

Of foul and fish the sorts and age,
Tho' studied much by many a sage,
Has not as yet been fully known,
But by my skill and taste alone.
Some men exhaust their time and taste
In new inventions upon paste.
'Tis not worth labour to discuss
Upon a single point, as thus,
Shou'd a man merely rest on this,
That his wine may not drink amiss,
Careless what oil she shou'd supply,
When he has any fish to fry.
Shou'd you put out the Massic wine,
(The weather being very fine)
If it be foul, the air by night
Will make it clear, and banish quite
That smell bad for the nerves—but drawn
And filtred thro' a sieve of lawn,
'Twill all its zest intirely lose.
He, who shall skillfully infuse
To wine of Surrentinian kind,
The right Falernian lees, will find
That he can best collect the dregs,
By making use of pidgeons eggs;
Because the yolks, as they descend,
Will make the grosser parts attend.
With roasted shrimps, and cockles live
From Afric's coast you may revive
The weary toper—for when sour'd
With too much wine, and over-pow'r'd,

227

Lettuce will on the stomach rise,
Which seeks the rather for supplies
From sausage, ham, or any thing
Which from the slattern-shops they bring.
You'll find 'tis far from any loss
Of time, to learn two kinds of sauce.
The plain is made of oil intire,
Which to improve and render high'r,
Add wine and pickles, best by far
When taken from Byzantian jar.
This mixt with shredded greens, and brought
From Corycus, with saffron fraught,
When it has boil'd and stood—then squeeze
The olives of Venafran trees.
The apples of Picenum beat,
What Tibur bears, as good to eat,
But for their colour these excel,
Venutian grapes for jars are well.
Yet for preserving in the smoke
Th'Albanian fitter are bespoke.
Th'invention was intirely mine,
This grape with apples to combine,
And vinous lees with herring brine.
I was the first who had the knack
White pepper with the salt that's black
Finely to mix, and serve up all
In dishes very neat, tho' small.
'Tis a grand fault to throw away
Vast sums upon a market day,

229

And yet to cramp the spraggling fish
By using of a scanty dish.
'Twill turn your stomach very much,
If waiters take with greasy touch
The glass, as they their fingers lick,
Or grime to your old goblet stick.
In saw-dust, napkins, and in brooms,
How small th'expence about your rooms?
Yet if these things you quite neglect,
'Tis a most horrible defect.
Shou'd you Mosaic pavements sweep,
With dirty palm-brooms, as they're cheap,
And tho' he is in purple drest,
Bring out foul cushions for your guest,
Forgetting in such things the less
Of care and cost, the greater stress
Is still on the defaulter laid,
Nor are they in the ballance weigh'd
With things of vast expence and state,
Pertaining only to the great.—
—Learn'd Catius, by the pow'rs divine,
That love with which I call you mine,
Where'er you shall an audience share
With this great man, let me be there,
For tho' your mem'ry be so good,
That I have most things understood:
Yet by mere narrative in brief,
You cannot please me like the chief.
Then add the manner and the dress,
And countenance besides express,

231

Which strike you not in that degree
As always in your pow'r to see,
But I by vehement desire
Up to the fountain-head aspire,
And make myself adept compleat
In precepts of a life so sweet.

233

SATIRE V.

[Besides the things that you have told]

Under the person of Ulysses, consulting the ghost of Tiresias, the poet describes the wou'd-be-heirs and will-hunters.

Besides the things that you have told,
Tiresias, let me be so bold,
As your opinion to demand
How I the loss of house and land
May be enabled to repair
By what expedient, art, or care?
Why do you laugh?—O fam'd for tricks!
Is't not enough your route to fix,
That you may Ithaca regain,
And in your native country reign?
—O thou that never spoke a lie,
You see how stript, how poor am I,
Returning by your prophecy.
Where my wife's suitors I shall find,
Nor wealth nor flocks have left behind:
But race and virtue without cash,
And property are errant trash—
—Since poverty so much you dread
There is no further to be said:
Learn how to flourish in a trice.
If any thing that's scarce and nice,
A thrush for your own private snack
Be sent you, presto! in a crack,

235

The spoil to some old dupe convey,
Who lives in the most splendid way,
What'er your garden, or your field,
Of fruit, or other dainties yield,
Let him taste first, a guest by far
More venerable than the Lar.
And tho' a wretch of upstart pride,
A fugitive for laws defied,
By perjury or fratricide:
Yet if he chuses at his call
You must attend, and give the wall—
—What cheek by jole, shall I be caught
With a vile Dama, filthy thought?
Not so still arm'd above my match
At Troy I did myself attach—
—The sequel, is you must be poor—
—This my brave spirit shall endure—
And oftentimes I've underwent
Fatigues of greater hardiment,
Yet prithee, prophet, tell me plain,
How I shall cash and substance gain.—
—In troth I told you, and repeat
The lesson, practise your deceit,
To coax old men to make their will,
And put you in a codicile.
Nor if a cunning knave or two,
Shou'd see the hook and bite it thro',
Or from your hope recede dismay'd,
Or for one blank relinquish trade.

237

If any matter great or small,
Be canvass'd in the judgment-hall,
Which'er be rich without a child,
Tho' he his betters has revil'd,
Be you the fav'rer of his cause,
And one of honour or applause
Despise, and more so, if he house
A hopeful son, or breeding spouse.
“My Lord—your Grace”—(a title suits
And in a drunken ear dilutes)
“Me has your virtue made a friend;
“I know the law, can points defend.
“And they shall rather have my eyes,
“Than your great dignity despise,
“And with a deaf-nut fob you off:
“That you shall have nor loss nor scoff,
“Is ever my peculiar care.”
Then bid him to his home repair,
And cocker up his carcase there.
Persist—hold out—your stumps bestir,
And be yourself sollicitor.
Whether the Dog stars fiery feat
Crack poor dumb statues with his heat,
Or fat-gut Furius puff and blow,
And on the Alpine hills below,
Shall disembogue the hoary snow.
“Sir, dont you see” (some one will cry
Jogging his elbow by the bye)

239

“Your indefatigable friend
“So clean the case to comprehend.”
With baits like these your plan pursue,
More fish will come to stock the stew.
Again, if any man shou'd rear
(Worth you some hundred pounds a year)
An ailing son—left you shou'd seem
Too open in your courteous scheme,
As batchelor—by slow degrees
Creep in and gradual offices,
And for the second heir apply
So haply, if the lad shou'd die,
To all you may yourself advance—
This is an admirable chance.

Whoever puts into your hand
His will to read: at first withstand,
And push the parchment rolls aside;
Yet let it be obliquely ey'd
So as to catch a glance of that,
The second item wou'd be at,
Whether with many you're coheir,
Or come into the whole affair.
Full oft some scriv'ner or old fox
The gaping crow deludes and mocks,
And tho' he's shrewder than the rest
Nasica be Coranus' jest—
— What are you mad, or by design
Do you obscurities divine—

241

—Ulysses all that I foresee
Of surety shall, or shall not be,
For from Apollo wise and great,
I have obtain'd this skill in fate.
—Then, if you please, pray, sir, unveil
The mystic meaning of your tale.—
What time that youth of race divine,
Who from Eneas draws his line,
The Parthian's terror shall be crown'd,
And both by sea and land renown'd.
Nasica known for sneaking ways,
Who loves deduction when he pays,
Shall have his stately girl allied
To stout Coranus, as his bride,
The son-in-law shall then proceed
To the old churl to give the deed,
Which, first, he'll frequently refuse,
But, being closely press'd, peruse.
And while in silent mood he hums,
He'll find there's neither sum nor sums,
And nothing left for him and his,
But leave to make a rueful phiz.

To things which we've been led to name,
Add also—if a subtle dame
Or freed-slave manage an old man,
Make one amongst them, if you can.

243

Praise them, that in the self-same strain,
You absent may be prais'd again:
This helps—but it is best of all
By far to storm the Capitol.
Does he write verses? sorry stuff?
Be sure to praise them well enough.
Is he a wencher? do not wait
For him to be importunate;
But forward of your own accord
Your wife to him you call your lord.
—What wou'd you intimate that she,
The chaste and sage Penelope
Can be seduc'd, whom from her course
So many suitors cou'd not force?—
—The reason is, that youths of thrift
Were there still grudging of a gift,
A race that chose with stomachs keen
The cubbard, rather than the queen.
Thus your Penelope is chaste,
Who if she once had got a taste
Of one old dotard, with a view
To share the perquisite with you,
No more wou'd startle from her aim,
Than a staunch hound will quit his game.

The fact that I'm about to tell,
When I was old, at Thebes befell.
Thus by her will an old hag there
Was carried to her grave—the heir
With corpse upon his shoulders went
Naked and oil'd, to this intent,

245

That she might give the slip at last
Tho' dead, to him who stuck so fast.
Wherefore be cautious, nothing spare,
Likewise by no means over-bear.
The splenetic and the morose
Will hate the babler as too gross;
Nor keep too silent by the bye;
Be Davus in the comedy,
Stand with your most obsequious head
Aside, as in a state of dread.
Ply him with complaisant grimace;
Pray him to veil his precious face,
If once you find the air too brisk,
And from the croud at any risk
Shoulder him out—and if inclin'd
To talk, stick to him ear and mind.
If he love praising to excess,
Have at him, keep him up and press,
Till with his hands to heav'n with wrath
He cries, “O 'tis too much in troth.”
But keep it up as at the first,
Until his tumid bladder burst.
When he at last by his decease,
Shall give your service full release,
And you shall fairly look on this,
In certainty of waking bliss,
“Ulysses is the heir I name,
“To the fourth part of all I claim.”
What has my Dama run his race—
O where shall I that man replace?

247

Likewise appearances to save,
Urge now and then how great and brave!
Then cry a little if you will,
'Tis exultation's utmost skill.
Nor be, to your direction left,
His tomb of elegance bereft.
The funeral a concourse draws,
With all the neighbourhood's applause.
Mean time if one of your coheirs
Shou'd think of settling his affairs,
As lab'ring with a dang'rous cough,
Tell him your ready to cut off
Whatever house and farm he likes,
And any sum the bargain strikes.—

But Proserpine, so stern to drive
The Ghosts, recals me—live and thrive.

These lines are citations from one Furius Bibaculus, and another bombastic poet.

Ulysses speaks again.

They sometimes had a dowry for their daughters, instead of giving a portion with them; so Nasica expected a handsome legacy at least, from a man most probably advanced in years.

249

SATIRE VI.

[This was the summit of my views]

He declares himself to be content with such things as he is possessed of, and that he wishes for no more.

This was the summit of my views,
A little piece of land to use,
Where was a garden and a well,
Near to the house in which I dwell,
And something of a wood above,
The Gods in their paternal love
Have more and better sent than these,
And, Mercury, I rest at ease,
Nor ask I any thing beside,
But that these blessings may abide.
If I cannot my conscience charge,
That I by fraud my wealth enlarge,
Nor am about by fond excess
To make my little matters less;
If I am not a fool in grain,
To make such wishes weak and vain,
“O that I cou'd that nook command
“That mars the beauty of my land!
“O where there lies a pot of gold,
“Might I by some good God be told!
“Like him who having treasure found,
“No longer till'd, but bought the ground!
“With Hercules so much his friend!”—
If for what I possess, or spend,

251

No mean unthankful mind I bear,
I supplicate you with this pray'r:
May every thing I have be fat,
My servants, cattle, dog, and cat,
All but my genius—and be still
My guardian, if it is your will!
Wherefore, when I from town retreat
To these my mounts, and lofty seat,
How can I of my time dispose
Better than in this measur'd prose?
Here neither worldly pride destroys,
Nor pressure of South wind annoys,
Or sickly Autumn, still the gain
Of Libitina's baleful reign.
O early sire, or Janus hight,
(If that name more your ears delight)
With whom men all their toils commence
In life (for so the Gods dispense)
Do thou thyself begin the song—
At Rome you hurry me along
To give in bail—dispatch me there
Lest some one else shou'd do th'affair.
Well—tho' aground the North wind blow,
Or winter brings the days of snow
To shorter compass—I must go—
About myself to over-reach—
When I in form have made my speech,
At once determinate and loud,
Why I must bustle in the croud,

253

Sure all slow-walkers to offend—
What are you mad? what mean you, friend?
(Some swearing fellow's apt to say)
You jostle all things in your way,
While in post-haste you must be sped,
With great Mæcenas in your head—
This does, and is too by the bye—
A sugar-plumb—I will not lye—
But e'er I reach th'Esquilian gloom,
I'm charg'd with all th'affairs of Rome.
“Roscius desires you, as a friend,
“The court-house early to attend;
“The clerks beseech you wou'd return,
“Upon a thing of vast concern;
“Take care Mæcenas seal and sign,
“To this same instrument of mine.
I will endeavour, shou'd one say,
They'll answer, if you will, you may,
And still keep urging, as before—
'Tis now the seventh year or more,
Since to Mæcenas I was known,
And freely number'd as his own,
So far as one he chose to raise
Just to the honour of his chaise,
Conversing as he took his tour,
About such trifles—What's the hour?
Say is Gallina, who's from Thrace,
A match for Syrus face to face?

255

These morning frosts are very bad
For those who are but thinly clad,
Or any thing, that comes in play,
Which one to leaky ears may say.
E'er since this fortunate event,
Th'invidious sons of discontent
Daily increase—“This friend of ours,
“On whom her favours fortune show'rs;
“A place with great Mæcenas claims,
“With him was present at the games,
“Plays in the field with him at ball.”—
Ah, lucky rogue! cries one and all—
Does any bad disheart'ning news,
Its influence thro' the streets diffuse:
Whoe'er I meet consults with me.
“Good Sir, (for sure you must be he,
“Who all th'affairs of state must know,
“As nearer to the gods below)
“Ought do you of the Dacians hear?”
No—not a syllable—“you jeer:”
May all the gods afflict my heart,
If I know either whole or part.—
“Well—then will Cæsar give the lands,
“He promis'd to his chosen bands,
“In Sicily or here, I pray?”
The more I swear, I cannot say—
The more they stare, they cannot sound
A man so close and so profound!—
Thus do I lose my time and ease,
Not without wishes such as these—

257

O rural scenes! when shall I see
Your beauties, and again be free
Now with those ancient books, I chose
With leisure now, and soft repose,
In grateful thoughtlessness to drown
The anxious business of the town?
When shall Pythagoras his beans,
With bacon, and well-larded greens
Be plac'd before me? O ye nights!
Of suppers and divine delights,
In which within my proper pale
I and my bosom friends regale;
And make ev'n saucy slaves partake
Of those libations that I make.
Each guest according as it suits
May take the glass, no one disputes,
Whether the strong the bumper chuse,
Or weaker chearfully refuse.
A conversation then begins
Not on our neighbours wealth or sins,
Or whether Lepos preference claim
For dancing?—but what's more our aim,
And what 'tis evil not to know—
If happiness from riches flow,
Or be not rather virtues prize,
And which it is cement the ties
Of friendship—rectitude or gain,
And what is real good in grain,
And how perfection to attain?

259

Mean time my neighbour Cervius prates
Old tales, that rise from our debates;
For if a man who does not know
The world, his elogy bestow
On great Arillius cumbrous store
He instantly sets off—“Of yore
“A country mouse, as it befel,
“Received a cit into his cell,
“One chrony to another kind
“As intimate time out of mind,
“This mouse was blunt and giv'n to thrift,
“But now and then cou'd make a shift
“(However rigid or recluse)
“With open heart to give a loose:
“In short he wou'd not grudge his guest
“Or oats or vetches of the best:
“And bringing in some berries dried,
“With nibbled scrap of ham beside,
“Hop'd he variety might plead
“To make his daintiness recede,
“For our grandee wou'd scarcely touch
“The things, his squeamishness was such.—
“Mean time the master of the treat
“Extended on clean straw wou'd eat
“Nothing but tares and crusts, to spare
“For his good friend the nobler fare.
“At length the citizen made free
“To speak his mind—my friend, (said he)
“How can your mouse-ship hold it good,
“To live here on a rugged wood,

261

“And how have patience with the place!
“Will you not rather turn your face
“To view mankind, the town prefer
“To these rough scenes that here occur?
“Come take my counsel and agree
“To make a tour along with me.
“Since mortal lives must have an end,
“And death all earthly things attend,
“Nor is there an escape at all
“For man or mouse, for great or small;
“Wherefore, good friend, these matters weigh,
“And let us for our time be gay,
“Let life's contracted period teach
“Mice to live jollily”—This speech
“Soon as it on the peasant wrought,
“He nimbly springs from forth his grot,
“Then both the distin'd journey take
“By midnight gloom their jaunt to make:
“And now about that time each mouse
“Took refuge in a wealthy house,
“Where gorgeous carpets crimson-red
“Look'd splendid on each ivory bed:
“Where many a bit, in many a tray,
“Was left from feast of yesterday.
“He having then the peasant set
“Upon a purple coverlet,
“Run like my landord here and there—
“Dish after dish with dainty fare,
“And like a handy footman serves,
“First tasting every thing he carves.

263

“The clown by no means making strange
“Begins to chuckle at the change,
“And lying on the couch at ease
“Lives merrily on all he sees.
“But on a sudden, with a roar,
“Bang open flies the folding door,
“And fright our gutlers from their cheer—
“Now round the room half-dead with fear,
“They scout—new terrors still abound,
“With barking dogs the roofs resound.
“Then (quoth the clown) I have no call
“For such a life as this at all;
“My cave and wood be still my share,
“There rather let me skulk from care,
“And live upon a single tare.”

Gallina and Syrus, two great gladiators.

265

SATIRE VII.

[Long while a list'ner, I wou'd speak]

Horace introduces his slave, rating him soundly for living a different life from that which he had promised.

Long while a list'ner, I wou'd speak,
But somewhat dread my mind to break,
As but a slave—What, is it you?
Is't Davus?—Davus good and true:
That is so far as to give hope
There's no occasion for a rope.—
Well, use the right the Roman sire
Allows you by the winter fire,
And since December's come about,
Come let us fairly have it out.

There is a portion of mankind
Who're constantly to vice inclin'd,
And let their faults take root and grow.
Many there are that ebb and flow,
One while a sideling to the right,
One while to sin obnoxious quite,
Priscus, observ'd at times to wear
Three rings, at times his left-hand bare,
Liv'd so irregular, his way
Was still to shift ten times a day.
Sometimes from a most sumptuous scene
He'd seek a place so poor and mean,

267

From whence a servant just made free
Wou'd scarce appear with decency:
One while a rake at Rome, one while
A scholar in th'Athenian style,
Born, when Vertumnus and his airs
Prevail'd the most on man's affairs.

When Volanerius got the gout
His hands deserv'd his life throughout,
The stay'd buffoon hir'd at a price
A substitute to throw the dice:
One, who to sin the more in chains
Was much less wretched for his pains,
Than he who plays at fast and loose,
All abstinence, or all abuse.—
Thou varlet canst thou ever shew
To what this trash pertains?—To you—
How scoundrel?—You are apt to praise
The peace and forms of ancient days,
To which shou'd any God reduce
Your manners, you wou'd beg excuse;
Because you have not that at heart
Which you so clamorously assert,
Or too irresolute and light
To stand by what is just and right
You hesitate with vain desire
To get your foot from out the mire:
In town you for the country sigh,
But Rome's extoll'd up to the sky,
When to your villa you're confin'd
Such is your sickleness of mind,

269

If uninvited by a friend,
Your peace and sallad you commend,
And hug yourself at home and bless
That you shall share no man's excess,
As if by force alone you stirr'd—
But shou'd Mæcenas send you word
Late as the lighting of the rooms.
“Ho! quick, who brings me these perfumes?
“What no one hear a man?”—you cry,
As loud as you can bawl—and fly.
Milvius and play'rs, that hop'd to stay,
In wrath go supperless away,
And leaving many a backward pray'r
Too gross for your nice ears to bear.
Some one may say, nor I deny,
That I with appetite comply,
Snuff up my nose at sav'ry food,
Am weak and dull, and to conclude
A sot—but seeing, sir, you are
As bad as I am, and to spare,
Why do you call me to account,
As if your virtues did surmount,
And veil the error of your ways,
In all the art of specious phrase.
But what, and if you shou'd be found
More fool than him, that cost ten pound,
Why then refrain each threatning look,
The hand and wrath I cannot brook,
While I into your ears relate
The things I learnt at Crispin's gate.

271

You with your robes all thrown aside,
Your ring and your Equestrian pride,
From a grave magistrate evade,
As Dama in a masquerade,
Still in suspence about your fate,
Art not the thing you personate!
And dreading danger for the nonce,
Are trembling in your honour's bones.
What differs it, once bound an oath
For scourge, or broad-sword, or for both,
Or shut within a filthy chest,
Where of the lady's sins possess'd
A maid has cramm'd you neck and heels!
Does not the husband hold the seals,
So far as a just power to claim
Against both whoring rogue and dame!
A juster with regard to you,
For she nor changes place nor hue:
Besides the woman acts in dread,
Nor trusts a word of all you said.
Yet to the yoke you needs must stoop,
The raging husband's destin'd dupe;
Life, body, fortune, soul and all
In a most lamentable thrall,
You have escap'd and will beware—
No, no, you'll seek another snare
Again to fear, again to die,
O wav'rer for servility!
What beast so fond as to obtrude
Upon the snares it cou'd elude?

273

Your'e no adulterer, you will say,
Nor I a felon by my fay,
When prudent I pass by the plate,
But if from Tyburn you'll abate,
Nature, when left unto herself,
Will clear the closet and the shelf.
Inferior then in deed and word
Will you pretend to be my lord,
Who punish'd twice and twice again,
Will never from your sins refrain?

Add we yet more to what we've said
Of equal weight upon this head.
Whether a man, whom slaves obey
Be freeman, or a slave, as they,
(For this sometimes is a dispute)
Are you or I of most repute?
For you, o'er me who domineer
To others are in servile fear,
And like a poppet wir'd and shown
Have not a motion of your own;
Who then is free of all mankind?
One wise and master of his mind
Whom neither want nor death nor bonds
Can terrify—who corresponds
With heav'n and virtue to defy
All lust and fame beneath the sky;
At once by gift and conduct too
As finely turn'd, as polish'd true;
So that no rub or outward force
Retard him in his level course;

275

'Gainst when dame fortune is at fault,
When'er she makes her worst assault!
From all these attributes of fame
Have you a single thing to claim?
A woman of the town demands
Five talents of your honour's hands,
And after your'e turn'd out of bed
Throws down cold water on your head.
Anon she calls you—break the chain,
And say, that “I am free again,”
You are not able for that scourge
And sov'reign of your soul will urge,
And as he calls himself desire
Will spur the more, the more you tire.

When you, in folly so far gone,
Admire a piece by Pausias drawn,
Are you the less to blame than me,
Who, when the prize-fighters I see,
Stare at the men or brown'd and black't
In coal or oaker—“'tis the fact,
“The very thing, the martial strife
“They strike and parry life and life.”
Davus is idle, to be sure,
And you a vet'ran connoisseur.
I, if I smell when people bake,
Am call'd to nothing for a cake,
Does your great virtue, godlike soul,
Resist the ven'son and the jole?
My fondness for my paunch is wrong:
Why so?—I rue it by the thong.

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But are you of all smarting clear,
Who buy your things so plaguy dear;
Then those titbits, which you repeat
So oft, your palled stomach heat,
And for your body you provide,
Mis-judging feet your steps to guide.

Shou'd any boy a strigil take
By night, and pawn it for plumb-cake,
Is he to blame? and are not you,
Who sell your farms for dainties too?
Besides, you never can command
An hour yourself, nor understand
How you your leisure shou'd amuse,
And self to self wou'd fain excuse
A vagabond from thought, who pine
To banish care by sleep or wine,
In vain—for sticking to your back
He is your constant friend in black.
—A stone where is there to be had?
A dart?—How now, the man is mad,
Or making verse—restrain your speech,
Or quick you go to hedge and ditch.

A scrapter, or flesh-brush, that they used at the baths.

279

SATIRE VIII.

[How far'd you at the miser's feast]

Horace interrogates his friend Fundanius, concerning the supper of Nasidienus, at which he was present.

How far'd you at the miser's feast,
For there, from yester-noon at least,
You plied the glass, as it was clear
By one I sent to bid you here?—
—So well our time we pass'd away,
I never had a merrier day.—
Say, if 'tis not against the law,
What first appeas'd your rav'nous maw?—
—First a Lucanian boar was brought,
Which (as our host affirm'd) was caught,
When the South gently blew—the dish
Was garnish'd with both herbs and fish,
Anchovies, lettuce, skirret too,
Such as the appetite renew,
With vinegar from Coan lees,
Which all dispos'd of by degrees,
One brisk lad wipes, with purple clout,
The maple table round about;
Another clears off all the rest,
Irksome or useless to the guest.
The moor Hydaspes makes parade,
(As with grave rites th' Athenian maid)
Bringing the Cæcuban along;
Alcon comes in with Chian strong,

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To which no sea had damage done—
Here our good host his speech begun:
“Mæcenas, if you chuse to dine
“With Alban or Falernian wine,
“Rather than any thing you see,
“Straight you may both command of me.”—
O wretched wealth!—but, prithee show,
Fundanius, for I burst to know,
Who was there with you at this treat,
Where all things were so grand and neat.

Well, I was in the highest place
With Viscus, and a little space
Was Varius (as I think) below
Vibidius too and Balatro,
Which last Mæcenas brought to wait
Merely as danglers on his state.
Then Nomentatus took his post,
Upon the right hand of our host,
Porcius beneath—despis'd and hiss'd,
For gorging pan-cakes at a twist.

For this was Nomentanus bid,
If ought was unobserv'd or hid,
To point it out—as for the rest,
I, and each undiscerning guest,
We fish and fowl at random took,
Nor saw th'invention of the cook,
Which shortly I was giv'n to know,
When he did on my plate bestow
Some turbot-guts, and eels, and plaice,
Such as no other table grace.

283

Then, willing I shou'd learn, he said,
That honey-apples look'd most red,
Pluck'd when th'moon begins to wane;
Our host himself will best explain
How vast the odds—Vibidius here
Thus whispers in his neighbour's ear—
“Unless we tipple to his cost,
“All hopes of vengeance will be lost;
“Put more capacious tumblers on.”—
On which our host grew wond'rous wan,
As dreading nothing with such hate,
As them that drink inordinate;
Whether because they jest too free,
Or swilling to extreme degree,
They blunt the judgment of the taste—
And now whole casks are drank in waste,
Both by Vibidius and his friend,
And strangers at the lower end:
Mæcenas, and the guests select,
To decency had more respect.

A lamprey next was usher'd in,
With floating prawns in a turrenne.
This (says our host) was caught with spawn,
As tasteless when the row is gone,
For these a sauce of oil was dress'd,
From choice Venufran berries press'd,
With pickle from th'Iberian fry,
Wine five years old—but by the bye
Not made beyond sea—all these three,
While it is stewing best agree,

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But when once stew'd the Chian wine,
No better thing you can divine,
With pepper white, and not without
Such vinegar, as will turn out
By souring Methymnean juice—
“I was the first that brought in use,
“With these the bitter herb to shred,
“And first cut rockets from the bed;
“Tho' 'twas Curtillus, I must say,
“That to sea-urchins gave the day,
“Which in their native salt excel
“Ought you can get from any shell.”

Mean time the tap'stry hung on high
Fell down upon the company,
Bringing black dust, a greater load
Than winds on the Campanian road.
We, frighten'd at the first alarm,
Soon as we found 'twas no great harm,
Return each person to his post—
But with his head reclin'd our host
Began to snivel in despair,
As if he'd lost his son and heir.
What must have been the end—unless
Sage Nomentanus with address,
Had undertook his friend to cheer.
“O Fortune! which is more severe,
“Of all the immortal powr's than thee,
“With what an everlasting glee,
“You love our projects to distress!”
Here Varius, who cou'd not suppress

287

His laugh, was forc'd the cloth to cram.—
Servilius, ever apt to bam,
Cries out with sanctity of face,
“Such are the terms of human race,
“Wherefore there's no degree of fame
“Can answer your right noble aim,
“That you shou'd torture and distract
“Yourself, so anxiously exact,
“That I shou'd be thus well receiv'd!
“How, lest the rowls shou'd burn, you griev'd!
“Or broth ill-season'd be serv'd up,
“Or lads in waiting, while we sup,
“Neglect the necessary care
“Of neat apparel, well-comb'd hair,
“Besides, your terror to inhance,
“Lo! all these accidents of chance,
“If hangings shou'd come down, as now,
“Or footman taken from the plough,
“Shou'd tumble with a dish upstairs—
“But with a noble host it fares,
“As with great captains in the field;
“In thriving times their skill's conceal'd,
“Which in adversity breaks out,
“And brings stupendous things about.”
Our Host to this—pray heav'n may grant,
Both all you wish and all you want;
Consid'ring that you are the best
Of men, and most diverting guest—
And for his sandals he applied
In act to take a turn aside.

289

Then round the table you might hear
A gen'ral buzzing, mouth to ear
I wou'd not choose a farce, or play,
In preference to such a day.—
—But let me have it in a word,
What next to raise the laugh occurr'd?—
Vibidius with the waiters spoke,
Ask'd if the flaggon too was broke?
Because to his incessant call,
They ministred no wine at all.
And while the laughter is immense,
Kept up on many a false pretence,
With Balatro to help us on—
Re-enter host—no longer wan,
As by an happy after-clap
To remedy his dire mishap.
Him follow servants, which sustain
The sever'd members of a crane,
In a large charger, sprinkled o'er
With salt and flour, a plenteous store,
A gander's liver next he brings,
Fatted with figs, and jointed wings
Of hare, as more the taste to suit
Than if you eat the back to boot.
Then over-roasted mearles appear,
And ring-doves without rumps—fine cheer!
Had not their dull loquacious lord
Plac'd all their hist'ries on record,
And on their natures lectures read,
Whom we in indignation fled,

291

Nor tasted of his dainty fare,
As if Canidia had been there,
And with her fetid breath had blown,
In spite to Afric snakes unknown.

End of the Third Volume.