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.

IV.

VOLUME IV.

THE FIRST BOOK OF THE EPISTLES OF HORACE.

THE SECOND BOOK OF THE EPISTLES OF HORACE.

HORACE HIS ART OF POETRY.

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IV. VOLUME IV.

Ex vitæ monstrata via est et gratia regum,
Pieriis tentata modis.
—Hor.

THE FIRST BOOK OF THE EPISTLES OF HORACE.

EPISTLE I. To Mæcenas.

He affirms that he now throws matter of merriment aside, and adheres only to such things as conduce to virtue.

O subject of my first essays!
Whom as in duty bound to praise,
My muse ev'n to the last persists,
Again you force me to the lists,
With freedom's rod dismiss'd the stage,
As far too much expos'd in age.

No more I have the thirst for fame,
Nor is my time of day the same.
Vejanius having fix'd his arms
Now skreens him in the ground, he farms,
That from the theatre no more,
He may the mob for life implore.
Something keeps whisp'ring in my ear,
Which purg'd can in the spirit hear,
Loose the old courser, if you're wise,
Lest, if he enter for the prize,
He may be scorn'd, as coming last,
And fetch his broken wind too fast.
Wherefore I now will throw away,
All verse and toys of idle play,
And all enquiry, thought, and care,
But what is true, and what is fair,
And hoard up maxims, and for use
Arrange them, that I may deduce.
And lest, perchance, you shou'd enquire,
What school, what master, I admire,
Know I'm addicted to no sect,
Nor swear, as other men direct,
But suit the tenor of my way,
To the complexion of the day;
Now active and officious grown,
To state contentions am I prone,
A guard and stedfast partizan
Of virtue, and th'heroic man;
With Aristippus now agree,
Not I for things, but things for me.

As tedious as the livelong night
To him, whose mistress plays the bite,
As tedious as the livelong day,
To hirelings that must work for pay;
As tedious as the livelong year,
To minors under dames severe;
So do all times and seasons go
With me, intolerably slow,
Which in the least retard the thought
Of doing all things, as we ought,
And making of that point secure,
Which gain'd is well for rich and poor,
But if neglected will destroy
Alike the hope of man and boy.
Add yet, that I myself controul,
And with these dictates sooth my soul,
Like Lynceus you cannot discern,
Yet do not wholesome eye-salve spurn.
And tho' you are not quite so stout
As matchless Glycon, walk about,
By exercise to foil the gout.
We may begin at least and strive,
Tho' to the goal we cannot drive.
Does your breast glow inflam'd with vice
By lust, or sordid avarice?
Know, there are words and charming sounds,
Whence one may sooth all mental wounds,

May mitigate the pain at least,
If not intirely calm your breast.
Are you puff'd up with love of praise,
Philosophers have wrote essays,
Which thrice read o'er your heart will chear,
If your attention be sincere.
The envious, wrathful, slow of will,
The wencher, toper, know no ill,
But may be cur'd, if they'll apply
The lectures of philosophy.
'Tis virtue first from vice to flee,
And the first wisdom to be free
From folly—are you not aware,
With how much labour, how much care
Of mind and body, 'tis your aim
Want or rejection to disclaim,
Things that you rate the greatest shame!
A merchant to the farthest shore
Of India, to be poor no more,
And with assiduous toil you brave
The rocks, the flames, the wind and wave:
Will you not hear, and learn, and trust
Those that are wiser, lest you lust,
And any more those things admire,
Which 'tis a folly to desire?
Is there a fighter for a prize
About the streets, that wou'd despise
The honour of th'Olympic crown,
Had he the hopes of such renown,

And, that he take no pains at all,
Was mention'd as conditional?
Silver is less of price than gold,
And gold than virtue, thousand fold.
Yet, O ye cits! this is the cry,
Let money be the first supply,
And then be honest by and bye.
This is at either Janus taught,
And this cant ev'n our youths have got,
This too can each old dotard charm,
With bag and ledger on his arm.
Polite, brave, eloquent, and true,
If certain sesterces be due,
Four hundred thousand to fulfil,
You must be a plebeian still.
And yet the very boys at play
Cry, he shall be the king to-day
Whoe'er behaves the best of all.
This be thy fort and brazen wall,
To have a conscience clear within,
Nor colour at the change of sin.
Say, is the Roscian edict best,
Or does the ballad stand the test,
Where the boys offer, as they sing,
The crown to him who lives a king?
Which manly Curius sung of yore,
And brave Camillus long before;
From him does better counsel come,
Who bids you scramble up a sum.

Right, if you can; but if your fate
Deny, a sum at any rate,
That you may have the foremost row,
When Puppius plays his tragic woe?
Or him who animates your fight,
And wishes you may stand upright,
With lib'ral soul to stem the tide
Of fortune, with her frowns and pride?

Now shou'd the Romans bid me say,
Why I, who walk in the same way,
Have not my sentiments the same,
Nor follow as they praise or blame?—
I make my answer in the stile
Of crafty Reynard, all the while,
Who thus unto the lion said,
When he beheld him sick, “I dread
“The footsteps all toward your throne,
“But in the home-direction none!”
Thou dost with many heads appear
A monster, where must I adhere?
Who's guide? with some it is a charm,
The public revenues to farm,
And some rich widows wou'd intice,
With fruits and sweetmeats, all the price.
And others wou'd old dotards get,
Like fish decoy'd into their net.
Many by secret us'ry thrive—
But grant that all the men alive,
With diff'rent talents are supplied,
Can they a single hour abide,

Approving their avow'd persuits?
“No place in all the world disputes
“The palm with Baiæ, sweet and gay.”
This haply shou'd a rich man say,
Anon the lake and sea must feel
The hurry of his lordly zeal.
But if caprice the hint approve—
“To-morrow, masons, all remove
“Your chissels and your iron crows,
“And at Theanum's seat dispose.”
Has he at home a genial bed?
He will advance upon this head,
The happier and the better fate
Is his, who keeps the single state.
But if he's single, he'll protest
That married men alone are blest;
What noose for Proteus shall I find,
His many-changing form to bind?
How fares the peasant?—there's the joke—
He shifts and turns like other folk;
Changes his loft, and bed of hair,
Bath, barber—when he pays his fare,
In his own barge the rich grandee
Is not more nice and sick than he.
Me, if with my hair all cut awry
By some bad barber you espy,
You laugh—and if beneath a coat
That's neat, a ragged shirt you note,
And if my gown but badly sit,
Again you laugh to show your wit.

What therefore, will you do with me
Whose soul and self cannot agree?
When now I spurn the thing I sought,
Now sigh for what I set at nought,
Disorder'd in th'unconstant tide
Of things, that vary far and wide,
Knock down, rebuild, turn square to round?
You judge me but to be unsound,
According to the gen'ral trim,
And neither ridicule the whim,
Nor think I want a doctor's aid,
Nor keeper by the Prætor paid:
Tho' you're the guard of my affairs,
And liable to real cares,
For a cut finger, if your friend's,
Who loves you, and on you depends.
In fine, the Stoics, only prove,
The wise is less, if less, than Jove,
Whom free, fam'd, king 'tis fair to call,
And in his senses after all;
Unless a sudden fit of spleen
By some mishap shou'd intervene.

A rod, or wand, given as a token of liberty, by the master of the fencing-school, to gladiators, on their dismission.

One of the Argonauts, who had such piercing eyes, that it was said, he could see through a wall.

EPISTLE II. To Lollius.

He asserts that Homer, in his poems, shews what is good more fully and better than certain philosophers. He then exhorts to the cultivation of virtue.

O pleader of the highest fame!
Whilst in the Forum you declaim,
I at Præneste re-peruse,
The battles of th'Homeric muse,
Who what is fair and what is base,
Of use, or not in any case,
Points fully, on a better plan,
Than Crantor or Crysippus can.
Whence this opinion I will shew,
Unless you've something else to do.
The argument (in which we read,
For Paris his adulterous deed,
Long war the wasted Grecians wag'd
And with barbarians were engag'd)
The broils of a mad people sings,
And their infatuated kings;
Antenor's council wou'd propose,
By fair amends, the war to close;
But Paris will not yield to this,
Jealous of safety, as of bliss.
Nestor wou'd fain make up th'affair
'Twixt Peleus' son and Atreus' heir.

One burns with love, and both with ire:
Mean time how great soe'er the fire
That's kindled by each foolish chief,
The people feel the loss and grief.
By faction, fraud, by lust, and sin,
By wrath without the walls, and in,
Much is the mischief, and the din.
Again, and in another tale,
How prudence and a heart avail,
He has with exemplary art
Explain'd in sage Ulysses' part,
Who politic from Troy's defeat
Made many cities with his fleet,
And got an insight in their ways,
And while on the great sea he strays,
Returning with himself and crew,
Had many hardships to go thro'.
And yet cross fate's severest frown
Cou'd ne'er prevail to sink him down.
The Siren's charms and Circe's cup
You know, which if he'd guzzled up,
As did with glee each foolish mate,
Base in a most disastrous state,
The slave of an imperious queen
He must a filthy cur have been,
And had the form and gross desire
Of Swines rejoicing in the mire.

We, all mere cyphers from our birth,
Consume the product of the earth;

Ev'n like Penelope's leud knaves,
Or whom Alcinous made slaves;
A youth for their complexion born,
Who us'd to sleep the livelong morn,
And so to doze away their cares,
Sooth'd by the harps composing airs.
Robbers get up and kill for pelf—
Will you not rise to save yourself?
Which if you shall not do in health
The dropsy will come on by stealth:
And if you do not call away
For book and light before the day,
And keep not all your thoughts intent
On studies and designs well-meant,
With love or envy, when awake,
Your tortur'd heart shall surely ache.
For why do you hasten to remove
Things, that your eyes cannot approve,
Yet if ought make the soul impure,
You for a year differ the cure.
One half is done if you set out,
Dare to be wise, nor longer doubt.
Whoe'er delays him to be good,
Stands like the clown upon the flood,
Expecting till the stream had done,
But that still perseveres to run,
And in eternal motion strong
Shall pass voluminous along.
Apt for the purposes of life,
And for to bear your heirs, a wife

Is sought—the woodland wild is fell'd,
That there th'improving plough be held.
Yet he that has enough in store
Ought by no means to sigh for more.
Nor house, nor farm, nor brass nor gold,
From his sick body can withold
The raging fever of their lord,
Or care's unseen attacks award.
The rich possessor must have health,
Or there's no joy in hoarded wealth.
He, on whom lust or terror wait
Enjoys his seat and his estate,
As pictures for the blind are meet,
And poultices for gouty feet,
Or all the harping of the spheres,
To those that have obstructed ears.
Unless the vessel is sweet, you pour
The wine therein, to make it sour:
Despise all pleasures light and vain,
For pleasure's noxious bought with pain:
The churl a beggar is and seems,
Then set due limits to your schemes:
A pining takes th'invidious sneak,
When'er he sees his neighbour sleek.
Sicilian tyrants ne'er cou'd find
A torture like an envious mind.
The man whose passion is not curb'd
Will wish, what in a mind disturb'd
He did, was totally undone,
As too great lengths his malice run.

Wrath is short madness, that restrain
At once, by bridle and by chain,
Or what shou'd serve, will always reign.
The groom is wont the colt to check,
While teachable with pliant neck,
To go the road the riders please.
The puppy from the time he sees
The buckskin in the hall, and barks,
Adventures in the woods and parks.
Now, child, my words in your pure breast
Imbibe; now offer for the best.
That cask the scent will long retain,
Which it receiv'd, when new, in grain;
But if you loiter in the race,
Or urge too much the rapid pace,
I wait not for the slow and speed,
Nor push on them that take the lead.

N. B. All these precepts are drawn from examples in Homer; a thing (I believe) not understood by any other editor of Horace. Otherwise, there would not have been such a complaint of a want of connection, between the former and the latter part of this Epistle.

EPISTLE III. To Julius Florus.

He interrogates him concerning Claudius Nero, and of the writings of certain of his friends. He then exhorts Florus himself to the study of wisdom, and to be reconciled to his brother.

Fain, Florus, would I understand,
Where Claudius now has got command,
Ev'n Cæsar's gallant son-in-law.
Does Thrace, or snows, that never thaw
In Hebrus, now detain your pow'rs,
Or seas that run between the tow'rs,
Or in those Asiatic plains
And hills, where such abundance reigns,
Are you compell'd to take your rout?
What are the courtly wits about?
For this I'm anxious too to ask—
Who dares to undertake the task
Great Cæsar's history to write,
And eternize each glorious sight,
And happy peace?—Is Titius there?
For whom all Rome their praise prepare;
Who fills his cup devoid of dread
At the Pindaric fountain-head,
Lakes, streams, and all the rural scene
Disdaining, as for him too mean.

Is he in perfect health, and kind
Enough to bear me in his mind?
Does he the Theban lays aspire
To render on the Roman lyre,
Or rants he with the Muse, his guide,
In all the tragic pomp and pride?
On Celsus does my council gain,
So often urg'd, and urg'd in vain,
To strike out matter of his own
And by all means to let alone
Such books as have arrang'd themselves
On Palantine Apollo's shelves:
Lest if the feather'd flock come there,
And each demand his proper share,
The vain jack-daw shou'd cause a roar,
Strip'd of the borrow'd plumes he wore;
What heights do you attempt to climb,
And active on the flowery thyme,
Whence balmy sweetness do you cull?
For far from mean, and far from dull
Your cultivated genius tow'rs:
Whether in keen rhetoric pow'rs
You at the bar attention draw,
Or answer in the civil law,
Or in sweet verse you build renown,
And conquer for the ivy crown.
Now cou'd you find it in your heart,
From care's cold comforts to depart,
Then you divinely shou'd proceed
Where'er philosophy wou'd lead.

This work, this way shou'd be embrac'd
By great and small, with eager haste,
If we wou'd pass our season here
Or to ourselves, or country dear.

Of this too you must write me word,
Whether Munatius is preferr'd
To such degree of your esteem
As I most necessary deem,
Or, if the wound ill set to rights,
For little purpose re-unites,
And is at point to gape again—
Now whether madness of the brain,
Or ignorance of things disturb
Your minds, like colts no skill can curb,
Where'er you live, it is most true
No brothers ought to love like you.
However by these presents learn,
I feed with tenderest concern,
A votive runt for your return.

EPISTLE IV. To Albius Tibullus.

He addresses Albius Tibullus, to whom he seems to commend the study of Philosophy, and recount the talents with which he was adorned from heaven.

Tibullus, whom I love and praise,
Mild judge of my prosaic lays,
Can I account for your odd turn,
Who in Pedanian groves sojourn:
Are you now writing to out-please
The works of Cassius, or at ease,
And silence, range the healthy wood,
Studious of all things wise and good?
Thou 'rt not a form without a heart,
For heav'n was gracious to impart
A goodly person, fine estate,
Made for fruition, fortunate.
What more for her most fav'rite boy,
Cou'd a nurse image, to enjoy,
Than to be wise, and ably taught,
To speak aloud his noble thought,
To whom grace, fame, and body sound,
Might to pre-eminence abound,
With table of ingenious fare,
And purse with money still to spare?

—'Twixt hope and care, 'twixt fear and strife,
Think every day the last of life.
Beyond your wish some happy day,
Shall come your grief to over-pay.
Me sleek and fat, as fat can be,
I hope you'll shortly come to see:
When you've a mind to laugh indeed
At pigs of the Lucretian breed.

EPISTLE V. To Torquatus.

He invites him to a supper, which he assures him shall be a frugal one.

If, as a guest, you think it meet
To sit on an old-fashion'd seat,
And on a mod'rate dish to sup,
Where herbs make all the banquet up,
At home I'll tarry for my friend
Just as the ev'ning rays descend.
Wine you shall drink in casks prepar'd
When Taurus was again declar'd;
Betwixt Minturnian fens 'twas press'd,
And where Petrinum's vines are dress'd,
But, if you've better, send for me,
Or else with these commands agree:
Bright shines my hearth, and, to be seen
By you, my furniture is clean.
From airy hopes and Moschus' cause,
And broils concerning riches pause:
The festal time of Cæsar's birth
Shall give to-morrow peace and mirth;
It shall be lawful to prolong
The summer night in social song.
What's Fortune, if I must forbear
To use it?—he that lives to spare

For his successor, self-severe,
Is raving mad, or very near.
I will begin to booze and straw
Sweet flow'rs, by no means kept in awe,
Tho' held a rake-shame for my pains—
How drinking whets th'inventive brains,
Discloses secrets, strengthens hope,
Makes dastards with the valiant cope,
The burthen lifts from anxious hearts,
Adapts a man to learn the arts!
Whose eloquence is not sublime,
That takes off bumpers at a time?
And who so poor and who so bare,
But in his cups is free from care?
These 'tis my duty to provide,
Both with propriety and pride,
And willingly I shall attend,
Lest dirty counterpanes offend,
That no foul napkin discompose,
To wrinkles, your discerning nose;
And that the cup and dish, we place,
Shall shine until you see your face,
That there be none to hear and spread,
What amongst faithful friends is said.
And that hale fellows be well met,
Brutus shall come to join the set,
Septimius and Sabinus too.
Unless h'as better cheer in view,
And prettier maids. There is to boot
Room for such danglers, as shall suit.

But guests you know, too great a throng,
Are apt, like goats, to smell too strong.
Write back what number you wou'd be,
And from all other business free,
Tho' clients in your court-yard wait,
Deceive them at the postern gate.

EPISTLE VI. To Numicius.

To hold nothing in too high admiration, is a thing which he asserts to be almost solely effectual for the happiness of life.

Of nothing to be over-fond,
Numicius, is contentment's bond;
This makes and keeps the bed of rest—
There are, who with unanxious breast,
Can view the sun, and starry pole,
And seasons, which by periods roll.
What think you of earth's golden mine,
And wealth, on either side the line,
With which the wafting ocean stores
The Arabs, and the Indian shores?
Then as for plays, and shows of state,
The people's favours to the great,
In what light are they to be view'd,
And what from thence must sense conclude?
Who dreads the contrary of these,
Not so the wond'ring fondness flees,
Stupidity o'er each prevails,
If fortune lift, or load the scales:
Rejoice, or grieve, desire, or fear,
What matters it?—shou'd things appear
Or better far, or worse than hope,
If man and mind become a mope,

Let Wise-men bear the name of fools,
The jest of those, that break all rules;
If Virtue's self they shall pursue,
Beyond the laws, and limits due.

Look now on plate with wond'ring eye,
For ancient busts, and bronzes sigh!
To all politer arts aspire,
And gems and Tyrian dies admire;
Rejoice that when you make harrangue,
On thee ten thousand gazers hang,
Seek to the bar by morning light,
And come not home till late at night,
Lest Mucius from his lady's dow'r,
Shou'd reap more corn than in your pow'r,
Still holding it in highest scorn,
That he of meaner parents born,
Shou'd rather show himself than you,
More admirable of the two.
Whatever up in earth they lay,
Time shall expose to open day,
And things shall bury deep, and hide,
What now shine in the greatest pride.
Tho' in the Appian way you go,
And still yourself with grandeur show,
Beneath Agrippa's Portico;
Yet thither must your course be bent,
Where Numa, and where Ancus went.

If any virulent disease;
Your reins, or either side shou'd seize,

Seek remedy—wou'd you excel
In life, as who wou'd not do well;
If worth alone can this atchieve;
For virtue then your pleasures leave.
Virtue, perhaps, is understood
As made of words, like trees, of wood.
If so, then make the port with speed,
See, no one your own ship precede,
Lest you perchance shou'd lose the fair,
And selling of your foreign ware:
At once a thousand talents sweep,
An equal sum to crown the heap,
A third to widen the amount,
A fourth to square the whole account;
For money, monarch of this life,
Gains you a portion with your wife,
Gives credit, friends—will heralds buy,
To blaze you of a family,
Gives beauty and when wealth is great,
There Venus and Suadela wait.
The Cappadocian king, they say,
Has slaves, but has no cash to pay;
Not so your own affairs dispose—
Lucullus, as the story goes,
Ask'd by some persons on the stage,
If he could possibly engage,
An hundred cloaks at once to lend.—
Cried, how can I so many send?

But I will look amongst my ware,
And furnish what there is to spare.
Anon, he writes them word, to call
For full five thousand, part, or all.
'Tis a mean house, that has not got
Redundant wealth, which profits not
The rich possessor, but deceives,
And is the bait, and gain of thieves.

Wherefore, if wealth alone increase,
Means and duration for our peace,
Be first this business to atchieve,
And be the last of all to leave:
Besides, if fortune's minions are,
The splendid and the popular,
Then some shrewd servant let us buy,
The names of voters to supply,
Jog our left-side, and give a tread
Upon our toes, the hands to spread,
In token of our profer'd grace,
Spite of all obstacle and place.
“This man has interest to bribe
“The Fabian, or the Veline tribe,
“That bustler gives the consulate,
“Or takes away the chair of state.”
Then with appellatives endear
With father, brother, in their ear,
According to their sev'ral age,
Adopt them to your patronage.

If he lives happiest, who feeds
The daintiest, where the gullet leads

Let us set out at early day
To fish, to hunt, as was the way
Gargilius chose not long ago,
Who nets, poles, servants, for a show
Made thro' the thickest croud to pass,
That one boar thrown a cross an ass,
Might to the populace appear
When taken with the silver spear.

Let us with loaded stomachs swim,
Confounding decency and whim,
As lawless as Ulysses' crew,
Who were determined to pursue
All vice and pleasures contraband,
Rather than make their native land.

If with Mimnermus you agree,
That there is no felicity
But what is found in love and jest,
Then rake and rally with the best.—

Health and long life, my friend, await!
Be candid—and communicate,
If better rules of life you've got,
But practise these with me, if not.

This fellow, probably, had the cloathing of a legion.

EPISTLE VII. To Mæcenas.

He excuses himself to Mæcenas, that he did not stand to his word, and commemorates and extols his patron's liberality towards him; but asserts that liberty and peace of mind ought to be preferred to the benefactions of our friends, and all manner of riches.

False to the promise that I made,
Here for all August have I stay'd,
Altho' my honour was at stake
In five days my return to make.
But if, Mæcenas, you regard
The health and spirits of your bard,
The kind indulgence, which you show
To me, when sick; you will bestow
When I'm in fear of being so.
While early figs and sultry heat
Make fun'rals blacken all the street,
While parents tremble for their boys,
And all the business and the noise
Of canvassing, and law appeals
Bring illness, which the will unseals.

But if on Alban fields the snows
Shou'd come, away your poet goes
Down to the sea his brains to spare,
And read in snug composure there.

Him, my dear friend, you shall receive,
If you will deign to give him leave,
When the warm sky the Zephyrs clear
With the first swallow of the year.
You've give me opulence to boast,
But not like the Calabrian host,
Who presses you his pears to eat,
“I do it, friend—enough's a treat”
—But fill your pockets, if you chuse—
“Good sir, your bounty's too profuse”—
By doing so you'll bear away
Fit presents for your boys at play—
“The offer has as much bestow'd,
“As if I bore away a load”—
Do as you please, but, by the bye,
You leave them only for the stye.
The fool's blunt bounty on this plan
Procures no thank, nor ever can.
The wise and good themselves profess,
Ready for merit in distress,
But know, not easy to be bit,
The medal from the counterfeit.
I also will present a heart
Of worth to act a thankful part,
But if attach'd, as heretofore,
You'd have me, sir, you must restore
My constitution strong and hale,
And those black locks that grew to veil
My narrow forehead, and renew
My pleasantry in converse too:

You must revive my easy smiles,
And jeopardy for Cynara's wiles,
As maudlin I was want to cry
That jilts their faithful swains shou'd fly.

A female fox, exceeding thin,
Seeing a narrow pass crept in,
As leading to a tub of meal—
There having eat a wondrous deal,
She strove to make her way in vain
With her big belly, out again:
To whom a weasel not far off,
Cried out in most sarsastic scoff,
If you wou'd fairly make escape,
Resume the fineness of your shape.

If in particular with me
This cited image shou'd agree,
I give up all, nor do I praise
The pleasure of the rural ways,
From rank repletion of the town,
Nor yet shall eastern wealth go down,
Nam'd with the liberty and ease,
Of where I will and what I please.

You often have commended me
For diffidence and modesty;
And in return have had your due,
“My sov'reign and my father too”
Behind your back my speech affirms
Your merit in the self-same terms;
Judge then, if I without regret
Cou'd give up all again, as yet.

Telemachus, the genuine heir
Of all his Father's patient care,
Well answer'd in a certain case—
“Our Ithaca is not a place
“For horses, where no plains abound
“Of much extent, nor grass is found:
“Atrides, I those gifts resign
“Which suit your country more than mine.”
The little folk shou'd not presume,
But choose small things—imperial Rome
No longer can have pow'r to please
Like Tibur's peace, Tarentum's ease.

Brave, active, of the highest fame
For pleading, as Philippus came
Near the eight hour from forth the bar;
Complaining ship-street was too far
For him at such a time of day,
Beheld a person, as they say;
Just from the barber shaven clean,
Paring his nails with easy mien,
“Demetrius (speaking to his slave”
Quite apt, when his commands he gave)
“Go make enquiry and bring word,
“Where this man lives and how preferr'd,
“Whose son, to whom he pays his court?”
The lad returns and makes report—
“He's a poor man, Mena's his name,
“By trade a cryer, free from blame,
“One that can bustle, or unbend
“His mind, and free to get or spend;

“For chronies make up his delight,
“Besides a certain home at night,
“At even, when he's done his trade,
“Is at the play or the parade.”

I wou'd that he himself explain
The things you mention, go again,
And bid him come to sup at eve—
Poor Mena scarcely cou'd believe,
With silent wonder, and in short
Made answer in a civil sort.
“What does the scrub deny—'tis clear
“He is indifferent or in fear”—
Next day as he was at his job
Of selling trump'ry to the mob,
Philippus takes him unawares
And first salutes him—he prepares
For business his excuse to beg,
Tyed, as he sees him, by the leg,
Or he that morning had address'd,
And been before hand with his guest.
“Think that I make the matter up
“If you to-night will come and sup.”
—Content—“then after nine arrive—
“Go now and may your business thrive”—
When supper came discourse they had
Of sundry matters good and bad,
At length he's suffer'd to withdraw.
This gudgeon when he often saw
Advancing to the cover'd hook,
Untill the bait unseen he took,

A client by the morning's light,
A never-failing guest at night,
He is commanded to attend
Unto his seat his noble friend,
Just at the Latin festivals;
Mounted on horse-back he extols
The Sabine air and pleasant ways
Thro' fields, nor ceases in his praise—
Philippus laughs, and while he seeks
Fit objects for his fun and freaks,
And while he gives him to possess
Sev'n thousand sesterces—no less—
And promises by way of loan
Sev'n thousand more, besides his own,
He urges him a farm to buy—
He buys one—(not to be too dry
And tedious with this story) know
He turns a rustic from a beau,
And all his conversation now
Is of the vineyard or the plough,
Fatigues himself to death with care,
And like an old man lives to spare.
But when his sheep he lost by theft,
By murrain of his goats bereft,
His acres to no purpose till'd,
His oxen with hard labour kill'd,
Vex'd with his loss he takes his steed,
And ev'n at midnight hies with speed,
And in a passion makes his way
To Philip's house before the day;

Whom soon as Philip chanc'd to see,
Rough and untrim'd to that degree,
(Says he) my Mena, you appear
By much too harsh and too severe—
“O Patron! Mena then rejoin'd
“If I in truth must be defin'd,
“Wretch is my title to be sure—
“And by thy genius, I conjure,
“By your right hand and Gods, I pray,
“Restore me to my former way”—
As soon as any man perceives
That he the better option leaves,
Let him return before too late
Unto his abdicated state.

'Tis just each person shou'd be clear,
What is the compass of his sphere.

EPISTLE VIII. To Celsus Albinovanus.

Writing to Celsus he wou'd have him admonished by the Muse to bear his good fortune with moderation and decency.

To Celsus, Muse, that I address,
Wish thou all joy and good success,
Who now with Nero has found grace,
And got his secretary's place.
Shou'd he enquire about my state,
Tell him my threats are fair and great;
But for performance on my plan
Am not a good nor happy man—
Not that the hail my vines has marr'd,
Or frosts destroy'd my olive-yard,
Nor dies my heifer, or my goat
With murrain out in fields remote,
But that diseas'd with more defect
Of mind, than body, I object
To hear or learn things for my ease,
And faithful doctors salves displease;
I'm angry with the friends that strive
To make this drowsy corpse alive;

I seek the hurtful, good things fly,
At Rome I still for Tibur sigh,
At Tibur sickle, as the wind,
I for the city am inclin'd.
Next mind to ask him, how he wears,
How goes himself and his affairs:
How with the noble youth he stands,
And with the cohort, he commands:
Give him much joy, if all be well,
Then in his ear this precept tell—
“Bear thou good luck with meekness due;
“And so your friends shall bear with you.”

These, and the subsequent lines, are all ironical, and a dry rub upon Celsus, and particularly justify those lines of Persius, viz.

Omne vafer vitium ridenti Flaccus amico
Tangit, et admissus circum præcordia ludit.

EPISTLE IX. To Claudius Nero.

He recommends Septimius to him, and requests that he wou'd receive into a place in his friendship.

Septimius, sure, of all mankind
Best knows what grace with you I find;
For when he prays in such a way,
As to compel me to obey,
That I in such a point of view
Wou'd place him as to come to you,
One worthy to be lov'd and hous'd,
By him, who merit has espous'd,
When he supposes that my fate
Is nearer to your intimate
Than I can possibly descry,
He knows my secrets more than I.
Much did I urge to be excus'd,
But was in a degree confus'd,
Lest I shou'd seem to act a part,
And to dissemble in my heart,
Pretending that my pow'r was none
Quite bent on serving number one.
Thus to avoid a worse offence
I fly to town-bred confidence.

But if assurance in the cause
Of friendship merit your applause,
The bearer in your list enroll,
A brave good fellow and a soul.

EPISTLE X. To Fuscus Aristius.

He extols a country life, with which he is captivated, to Fuscus, a lover of the town.

I, that the country best approve,
To Fuscus, recommend my love;
Who places in the town his bliss,
At wond'rous odds, alone in this,
We in all other things agree,
As loving-like, as twins can be.
With spirits of fraternal kind,
Each is, or pleas'd, or disinclin'd,
Each nods to each, in constant mood,
Like two old pidgeons of the wood—
You keep the nest—but Horace roves
To streams and moss-grown rocks and groves.
Do you ask why?—I live and reign,
Er'e since I treated with disdain
Those very scenes, which with such cries,
You're all extolling to the skies;
And like the slave, that flies the priest,
As sick of a perpetual feast;
I want the bread the country bakes
Much rather than your honey'd cakes.
Agreeably to nature's call
If we must live, then first of all,

You shou'd select a pleasant spot,
Where you may build your little cot;
And can you know a better place,
Than that which rural beauties grace?
Are warmer summers found elsewhere,
Or is there any milder air
To which a man may have recourse,
What time the Dog-star is in force,
Or when the Lion, in his turn,
Does by the Sun's intenseness burn?
Is there a place, where envious spleen,
Breaks less upon your sleep serene?
Say, do the Lybian stones excel
The grass in sightliness or smell;
Or does your water, while it strives
To burst the pipes e'er it arrives,
Run purer in the street, than those,
Whose rapid current murmuring flows?
Nay, wood is rais'd to please the eyes,
Where variegated pillars rise,
And for applause those buildings stand,
Which have a prospect of the land.
Expel dame nature, how you will,
She must herself recover still,
Breaking thro' fashion by degrees
And vain caprice with her decrees.
He that has not discerning sense,
To see how far in excellence,
The tinctures of Aquinum vie,
With purple of Sidonian die,

More loss can never undergo
Than those, who have not wit to know
The truth from that which is not so.
Whom wealth and power too joyful make
At a reverse of things will quake;
Of ought if you are over-fond,
On resignation you'll despond:
One in a cot, for bliss indeed,
Kings and their fav'rites may exceed:

The stag, more warlike than the steed,
Expell'd him from the common mead,
Till long time worsted in the end
He call'd on man to stand his friend,
And took the bit—but when he came
Stern conq'ror from the field of fame;
He cou'd not of the rider quit
His back, nor mouth from out the bit.

Thus he that fears he shall be poor,
Must loss of liberty endure,
More precious far than gold, must bear
A master, and such fetters wear
As shall eternally enthrall,
Because his income is too small.

A man's concerns that will not do,
May be resembled to a shoe,
Which made too large will soon subvert
Your feet, and if too small will hurt.

If you're contented with good cheer,
My Fuscus, then your wisdom's clear,

And me your old ally chastise,
Appearing busy in your eyes,
To gather more than shou'd suffice.
That money, which we scrape and crave,
To all's a tyrant, or a slave,
And yet 'tis easy to decide,
It shou'd be guided, and not guide.

These lines I wrote in idle vein,
Behind Vacuna's mould'ring fane,
Happy in every point of view,
Except the joy to be with you.

EPISTLE XI. To Bullatius returned from Asia.

He asserts that it is of no consequence to the happiness of life, in what place any man dwells, since this depends upon peace of mind.

Bullatius, how does Chios seem,
And Lesbos of such high esteem?
How Samos, that is built so neat,
And Sardis, Crœsus' royal seat:
Is Colophon, or Smyrna's fort,
Nobler or meaner than report?
Or are they each a paltry scene
To Tibur, and his meadows green?
Wou'd it your utmost wishes crown,
To have some rich Attalic town,
Or do you Lebedus admire,
While land and sea the trav'ler tire,
Tho' Lebedus be more obscure
Than Gabii, or Fidenæ, sure;
Yet cou'd I live in such a spot,
Forgetting all, of all forgot,
Rather than not command the sea
To bluster far enough from me—
But they, that come from Capua here,
Whom rain, and muck, and dirt besmear,

Wou'd not keep always in a hold;
Nor when a man contracts a cold,
The stoves and bagnios will he praise,
So as to love them all his days.
Nor tho' the Southern tempests reign,
Wou'd that the merchant-man constrain
To sell his ship, across the main.
With one that's well, and wise to boot,
Rhodes and fair Mitylene will suit,
As a thick cloak, when summer glows,
Or linnen draw'rs in piercing snows,
Or Tiber, when the winter roars,
Or in Mid-August grates and blow'rs.
While yet you may, and fortune's smile
Attends you, in th'applauding stile
The praise of absent Rhodes resume,
Of Samos, Chios, here at Rome.
Whatever pros'prous hour below,
The hands of providence bestow,
Let gratitude confirm your own,
Nor for the livelong year postpone,
To use such things as best can please,
That you may say, I've liv'd at ease,
Whatever region you possess:
For if right reason and address,
And not a place that over-bears
Wide ocean, can remove our cares,
They change their climate, not their soul,
Who go in ships from pole to pole.

In strenuous idleness we strive,
We launch our ships, and chariots drive
In order for a happy lot;
But that you seek is on the spot,
And ev'n at Ulubræ might be,
For men of equanimity.

A paltry forlorn place in Cambania.

EPISTLE XII. To Iccius.

That he is rich alone, who makes good use of his finances. He writes also of the present state of the Roman affairs.

If, as you take Agrippa's dues,
Sicilian wealth you rightly use,
A greater affluence, my friend,
From Jove himself cou'd not descend.
Cease murm'ring, for you cannot plead
You're poor, and have the things you need,
If well with belly, and with back,
And for your feet you nothing lack,
I do not see to make you glad,
How ev'n imperial wealth wou'd add.
If midst such plenty and such sums
You starve, on herbs and miller's thumbs,
So very near you'll skin the flint,
That you will raise at least a mint,
And fortune shortly shalt behold,
A pow'ring in a flood of gold,
Because, mere money, it is plain,
Can ne'er avail to change the grain,
Or that it is your thought and tone,
That all things yield to worth alone.

What wonder, if his neighbours cows,
Upon his fields and meadows brouze,
If the old sophist's active mind
Be wandring from the man disjoin'd;
When you a scrambler, and a sneak,
Will after nothing trivial seek,
But still to things exalted strain,
As how the shores the floods contain,
What rules the year, if on the pole
The stars self-mov'd, or guided roll,
What cause the Lunar orb benights,
And what again her beauty lights,
What is the pow'r, and what th'intent
Of all this dissonant consent?
Who most with reason disagrees,
Stertinius, or Empedocles?

But whether butchering of a rough,
Or leeks and chives, your plate you stuff,
Use Grosphus as a friend, and give
With freedom what he will receive:
I'll warrant Grosphus, that his pray'r
Shall only be for what is fair.

One vast benevolence may reap,
When good men want, true friends are cheap.

Now that you may not be in doubt,
How our affairs at Rome turn out,
The Spanish and Armenian bands,
By Nero and Agrippa's hands,

Are fall'n—Phraates on his knee,
Does to great Cæsar's terms agree;
And golden plenty all around
Full-horn'd, th'Italian crops has crown'd.

EPISTLE XIII. To Vinnius Asella.

He requires of Vinnius that in presenting his books to Augustus he wou'd have a due respect to the timing and decency of doing it.

Just as the whole direction stands,
By frequent and by full commands,
Upon your setting out reveal'd,
Deliver up these volumes seal'd,
To Cæsar—that is—shou'd you find,
He's well, in spirits and inclin'd
To ask for trifles of this kind.
Lest zealous for my works and me
You shou'd be thought to make too free,
And bring an odium, if you press
With ill-advis'd officiousness.
But if my budget gall your back,
Rather demolish all the pack,
Than on the pavement rudely throw
Before Augustus, when you go,
To bring a jest in the event,
Upon your Asinine descent,
And be the talk of all the town—
Use your best efforts up and down,
Through sloughs and rivers, dale and hill,
And when your purpose you fulfil,

Thus bear the parcel, lest, perchance,
You with my volume shou'd advance
As country boobies hug a lamb,
Or Pyrrhia, after many a dram,
Stol'n yarn, or routed from his nap,
The drunken cit his fudling-cap.
Lest by a blunder you shou'd say,
How much you sweated all the way
In bringing verse, which may succeed
To make great Cæsar hear and read.
Intreated by the poet's pray'r,
Proceed—good-bye—be well aware,
Lest you shou'd stumble with your load,
And break my orders on the road.

101

EPISTLE XIV. To his Steward in the Country.

He reprehends his Steward's desire to live in the city, and in the mean time capriciously despising the country, which aforetime he secretly longed for.

O steward! of my small estate,
Whose woods and fields new life create
In me, tho' scorn'd by you thro' pride,
Where five good families reside;
And which in days of old sent down
Five Senators to Baria's town:
Let's try, if I the best succeed,
In plucking up each thorn and weed,
That in the inward man is found,
Or you in clearing of the ground;
And which the least offence has got,
Or Horace, or his Sabine spot?

Albeit the piety and woe
Of Lamia, which no bounds will know,
For his lost brother still severe,
Detain me for a season here;
Yet all my heart, and all my mind,
Are solely thither-wards inclin'd,
And fondly longs to break abrupt,
On all barriers that interrupt.
I say the country-life is best;
You for the citizen contest;

103

They with their own are in disgust,
Who for another's portion lust,
And each of us all sense disclaims,
Who either place unjustly blames;
The mind's in fault, which cannot shape
It's flight from it's own self to 'scape.
When you was drudge, for country air
You sigh'd with many a secret pray'r;
But now you're to a steward rais'd,
The town, the stews, and baths, are prais'd:
I have a more consistent heart,
And always pensively depart,
Whenever back to Rome my fate
Drags me to business that I hate.
From different bents we disagree,
For what appears to such as thee,
All horrid scenes, and desart waste,
Are pleasant to a man of taste,
Who thinks with me, and must despise
Things that are charming in your eyes.
The greasy taverns, and the stews,
I know, make you the city chuse.
Besides, I rear within my fence,
The pepper, and the frankinsence;
Nor yield my rocks the grape so quick,
Nor have you there a tavern tick,
Nor minstrel harlot, to whose sound
You gambol cumb'rous to the ground.
And yet you plough with might and main
The fallows, that too long have lain,

105

And finely tend the unyok'd beeves
And fill them with fresh gather'd leaves;
Besides the brook, in case of wet,
Adds to an idle fellow's sweat,
Best taught by embankations there,
The sunny meadow land to spare.

Come now attend, and you shall know
The reason why we differ so;
He who well-dress'd in essenc'd hair,
Cou'd scot-free please the venal fair,
He who from jovial noon to night,
Cou'd quaff Falernian with delight,
Now loves short meals, and sweet repose,
Where springs green grass, and riv'let flows;
Nor is it at one time of day,
So much a shame to have been gay,
As not to know one's hand to stay.
There's no one with an evil glance,
On my possessions looks askance,
Nor poisons there with secret spite,
Or slander's more audacious bite.
The neighbours smile to see me toil,
Clearing the clods and stone the soil—
You'd rather munch upon the fare,
Your fellow-slaves each day prepare,
There are your wishes and your joy—
Mean time the cunning errant-boy
Grudges the fewel and the flocks,
And what the kitchen-garden stocks.

107

The ox wants trappings on his back,
The plough wou'd suit the lazy hack;
But I determine in that case,
That each shall keep his proper place.

109

EPISTLE XV. To Vala.

Upon an engagement with himself to go to Velia and Salernum, he makes enquiry how it is to winter with them, and into the temperature of the air.

At Velia—how's the winter there,
And what's Salernum for its air?
What set of men are there bestow'd?
Is there a tolerable road?
For Musa warrants on his fee,
That Baiæ is no place for me,
Yet makes me odious at the wells,
While his prescription me compels
To use cold water every day,
Before the ice is gone away.
In truth, the village justly sighs,
To see us myrtle groves despise,
And likewise that chalybeate stream,
Held in such eminent esteem,
As men of chronic ills it rids;
And grudges at those invalids,
Who dare their breast and head commit
To Clusian waters, and think fit

111

To go to Gabii, and those parts,
Where with the cold a traveller smarts.
The wonted place I now must change,
And Inns accustom'd for the strange.
The horses must be driven by—
Hollo! quoth Bald-Face, where do you hie?
Why not to Cumæ, nor to stay
At Baiæ, will the rider say,
And pull in wrath the left-hand rein;
But angry speeches are in vain,
For horses are not apt to fear
Rough words, but in the bit they hear.

Your letter too must let me know,
At which place rankest harvests grow;
Whether rain-water there they save,
Or in perennial fountains lave.
For how they there are serv'd with wine,
At present, is no care of mine.
When at my seat the bowl I crown,
I can make any thing go down;
But when I came upon the coast,
The rich and mellow suit me most,
Which may all anxious thoughts subdue,
And raising up each pleasing view,
Flow in my veins and spirit too.
Which may a choice of words suggest,
In which my youth may be exprest,
And urg'd to the Lucanian Fair.—
Next mention if the country there

113

Abound with hares, or nurture boars,
And write what shallows near the shores
Most fishes, and sea-urchins breed,
That I with you so well may feed,
As to do credit to the place,
And part with a Phæacian face.
To all these queries you, my friend,
Must speak, and Horace shall attend.
Mænius, who manfully had spent
His father's, and his mother's rent,
Begun upon the comic plan,
And vague from post to pillar ran.
He with a citizen wou'd deal
As with a foe, denied a meal:
Made up of most inveterate lies,
Who ought on any wou'd devise;
The dearth, and hurricane, and draught
Of markets, whatsoe'er he caught
He greedily bestow'd within,
And when with winkers at his sin,
And those poor souls he fill'd with dread,
He little, or ev'n nothing sped,
Whole harslets at a time he'd cram,
With all th'intestines of a lamb,
Devouring as his proper share,
What wou'd have sated many a bear,
Now being frugal, as it were:

115

So as to urge; that men shou'd brand
The guts of Epicurus' band.
Yet this same Mænius, when he turn'd
Some special booty that he earn'd,
All into ashes, and to smoke,
Then wou'd he Hercules invoke,
And swear he cou'd not think it strange,
That men shou'd eat both house and grange,
While they fat thrushes cou'd prepare,
And feast upon a banging bear.

In fact, ev'n such a one am I,
And when I cannot beg, or buy,
Am very stout 'mongst sorry fare,
But midst the viands nice and rare:
I have another thing to say,
That happiest of all men are they,
Who by neat villas make it clear,
They're worth some thousand pounds a year.

Antonius Musa, a physician, celebrated at Rome, and all over Italy, for his curing Augustus, in the year of Rome 731, of a grievous disease, by making him bath and drink the waters; for which event, he received a large sum of money both from Cæsar and the Senate, with the privilege of the gold ring, which he had not before on account of his being only a free'd-man.

A rich luxurious people.

117

EPISTLE XVI. To Quintius.

After he has described the shape and situation of his Sabine farm, and mentioned his happiness in living there, he enquires into the life of his friend, and warns him not to depend upon vulgar report, but that he should prefer the reality, rather than the character of a good man.

Lest you shou'd with yourself debate,
Best friend, concerning my estate;
Whether it feeds it's lord with corn,
Or olive-yards the spot adorn,
Or rich with fruit and meads it shines,
Or elms, that are array'd with vines;
To you I will diffusely write
Of its dimensions, shape, and site.
A chain of mountains wou'd appear,
Did not a valley interfere,
Which wou'd be darken'd by the shade,
Did not the morning sun invade,
Where on the right-hand side 'tis cleft,
And beams at eve upon the left:
What if upon my thorny fence
Grow cornels, and the dam'sines dense,
If oak and holmes, whose acrons show'r
To feed the beasts, their lord embow'r?

119

You'd think Tarentum nearer Rome,
In all its verdant pride and bloom.
A fountain too, that well might claim
The rank to give a river name,
(Than which cool Hebrus bounding Thrace,
Shows not a more transparent face)
Flows fraught with salutary aid,
When head or bowels pains invade.
This sweet retreat, which dale and hill,
Believe me, are enchanting still,
Preserve your Horace hale and stout,
What time September comes about.

You're a good man, if you take care
To earn the character, you bear.
I will all Rome have long agreed,
That you're a happy man indeed;
But fear from symptoms, that I trace,
You any evidence embrace,
Rather than conscience in this case;
And think man's happiness the prize
Of others, than the good and wise.
Lest, tho' the people call you sound
In mind and body, there be found
A fever, which you wou'd conceal,
In order to resume your meal,
Until a nervous trembling seize
Your hands, which with good cheer you grease.
A fool's false shame his sores will hide,
Till med'cines are in vain applied.

121

If any man shou'd name to thee,
Fights you had fought by land and sea,
And strive your ticklish ear to please,
With compliments as great as these:
“May Jove! and all the pow'rs divine!
“Who guard the common-wealth and thine,
“Still make it doubtful on review,
“Which is most anxious of the two,
“Or you for Rome, or Rome for you!”
What wou'd you challenge as your own,
That which is Cæsar's praise alone?
When you sit still to hear men call
Thee wise, and without blame at all,
Pray will you answer to these terms,
And warrant what a fool affirms.
'Tis granted I, as well as you,
Love to be held both wise and true.
But he, who gives this praise to-day,
The next can take it all away;
Ev'n as, when they have giv'n their voice
For one unworthy of their choice
As consul, they can turn him out
Soon as the year is come about—
“Resign—'tis ours:”—with aching heart
I do resign, and must depart.

But shou'd the same tongues call me rogue,
Or tax me with each vice in vogue,
Or urge, I with a rope had tied
My father's neck, until he died.

123

Shou'd I change colour, or be stung
At such lies of an evil tongue?
Wrong-prais'd who's pleas'd, and wrong-arraign'd
Who's griev'd, except the false and feign'd?
Who then is good?—I'll tell thee who—
He that observes with rev'rence due
The statutes of the Conscript seers,
And law and equity reveres:
Who great and many things right fair
Determines, when he takes the chair;
Whose bond will property maintain,
And testimony causes gain.
Yet he is better understood
In his own house and neighbourhood,
To be all filthiness within,
And clad but in a specious skin.
If by a slave it shou'd be said,
I have not robb'd your house, nor fled,
I answer you have your reward,
Ungall'd your shoulders with the cord.
I've kill'd no man—you feed no crows
Upon the gallows—I suppose,
Still I am virtuous good and wise,
All which your Sabine friend denies.

The cautious wolf the pit forbears,
As does the hawk suspected snares,
Nor kite the cover'd hook will take—
Wise men love good for goodness sake.
If you from guilt still keep you clear,
'Tis on the principle of fear:

125

But sure to come off safe and sound,
You sacred and prophane confound.
For if of garner'd beans you stole,
From out a thousand but one bowl,
The lighter is my loss and grief,
But you by no means less a thief.

An honest man upon your scheme,
Whom every bar and court esteem,
If he appease the pow'rs divine,
At any day with beeves or swine,
Upon Apollo loud he calls,
And after father Janus bawls,
Mean time he mutters to himself,
As dreading hearers, “Charming elf!
“Laverna! goddess of deceit,
“Grant me the happy knack to cheat!
“Grant me a seeming honest face,
“And full of sanctified grimace:
“In night my gross offences shroud,
“And o'er my knav'ry cast a cloud!”
I cannot see, the niggard dupe,
Who for a farthing deigns to stoop,
Stuck in the road—how he can be
In any circumstance more free,
Or better than a common slave;
For he that is so prone to crave,
Must ever lead a life of dread,
And one with terrors in his head,
Cannot have freedom in my sense—

They lose their weapons of defence,

127

And all desert fair virtue's post
That hurry, who shall scrape the most.
Yet if this slave a price will fetch,
'Tis better not destroy the wretch:
He may turn out a useful hand,
To feed the flock, or plough the land,
Let him to sea, and winter there,
To stock the market and the fair.

A wise and good man will be bold
To say with Bacchus kept in hold:
“O king of Thebans! how much pain
“Will you compel me to sustain,
“So much unworthy this foul play?”
Why I will take your goods away—
“My cattle, bedding, and my plate,
“I do suppose—then take them straight.”
Beneath a surly keeper's nod
You shall be pris'ner here, “A God
“Shall save me, whenso'er I choose,
“And all these bonds and fetters loose.”
As hinting to the last event,
Death here, I think, the poet meant;
For death's the extremity suppos'd,
By which the line of life is clos'd.

129

EPISTLE XVII. To Scæva.

He admonishes Scæva not to despise the friendship of people in Power, and that in his cast of life, he should rather imitate Aristippus than Diogenes.

Tho', Scæva, of yourself discrete,
You know how with grandees to treat,
Yet still to these remarks attend,
And take th'opinion of a friend,
Who'll teach you things of great concern,
Himself not yet too old to learn,
As tho' the blind shou'd lead the way;
Howev'r, observing what I say,
You'll see some things, that must conduce
To be of most peculiar use.
If self-indulgence make thee gay,
And kindly sleep till break of day,
If dust and rumbling of the wheels,
And noise in which the tavern deals,
Offend thee, then you must repair
To Ferentinum, I declare.
For all the joys beneath the skies,
The rich cannot monopolize;
Nor has he done amiss, whose lease
Of life were secrecy and peace.

131

If you your family wou'd serve,
And for your own content reserve
A cast upon a higher die,
Betimes you must the nobles ply.

Had Aristippus been content
To dine on herbs, he ne'er had went
Unto the tables of the grand—
Diogenes on t'other hand,
Who to our notions will object,
If he had skill'd in that respect,
Might so have liv'd in splendid scenes,
And wou'd have scorn'd his roots and greens:
Whose words and actions of the two
You best approve, I prithee shew;
Or as you're junior hear the test,
Why Aristippus reasons best.
For he was wont (as stories say)
To keep the Cynic thus at bay.
The jester's province I profess,
To serve myself with some address,
But you to give the mob delight,
So what I practise, as more right,
Is a more honourable thing
To ride and revel with the king.
I am obsequious in my turn—
You beg for what the donors spurn,
Yet are inferior in your soul
To him, that gives the sorry dole,
Tho' you mean while your boast have made,
You need not any human aid.

133

Rare Aristippus, genius born,
All lot and station to adorn,
Each look of things a grace he lent,
Tho' still aspiring, still content.
But I shou'd think it very strange,
If e'er the churl shou'd brook a change,
Whose obstinacy will but wear
Two rags, against th'inclement air.
The one if summon'd to the great,
Will not for purple vestments wait:
But be his habit as it may,
To the first place will make his way,
And without awkardness and pain,
Will any character sustain.
The other fellow a fine cloak,
Wrought at Miletum, wou'd provoke
Worse than a mastiff, or a snake,
And he with shiv'ring cold will ache,
Unless his rags you give him back—
Give them—and let him live and lack.
Great actions of heroic lives,
To shew to Rome her foe in gyves,
Ev'n at Jove's throne directly aim,
And there celestial honours claim.
And such immortal chiefs as these,
'Tis not the meanest praise to please:
But 'tis not ev'ry fawner's fate,
To gain a point so very great.

One fearing he shou'd not succeed,
Was prudent to sit still—agreed—

135

What then? was it not bravely done
By him, that hit the mark and won.

But here, or no where we must end
The matter, which we now contend.
One dreads the weight, too weak and poor
In limbs and spirit to endure;
The other makes the bus'ness sure.
The man whose resolution tries
Thro' hardship to attain the prize,
Shou'd be rewarded and renown'd,
Or virtue is an empty sound.
He that before his Lord forbears
To hint the dearth of his affairs,
Is likely to take more away,
Than one too apt to beg and pray.
It differs much with modest ease
To take, or greedily to seize;
For in the conduct of your part,
Lies all the myst'ry of your art.
If thus a man his Lord address,
“I have a sister portionless,
“A mother poor with an estate,
“Which will not sell at any rate,
“Nor yields it, whence we may be fed:”
Such an one plainly begs his bread;
A second will keep up the cant,
For you a dividend to grant.
But if the crow had held her prate,
She'd had more victuals and less hate,
When bick'ring at her cruel fate.

137

If when your Lord shou'd take his rout
Far as Brundusium, or set out
For fair Surrentum, and as friend
Invite his client to attend:
He who of rugged roads complains,
Or bitter cold, or heavy rains,
Or for his broken trunk laments,
And for the loss of the contents,
Resembles but too stale a bite,
Which harlots practice every night,
Oft wailing they've a garter lost,
Or string of pearls of mighty cost:
So that when really made a prey,
No faith is giv'n to what they say.
Nor cares a man, once made a fool,
To be again th'impostor's tool,
Who with pretended broken legs,
Thrown in the road for succour begs,
Ev'n tho' the gypsy stream with tears,
And by the great Osiris swears—
“This is no fraud, I pray believe,
“And on your backs the lame receive.”
Your tricks upon some stranger try,
All the hoarse neighbourhood reply.

139

EPISTLE XVIII. To Lollius.

He instructs Lollius what is to be done, and what avoided, in order to render friendships permanent; and is particular upon a man's conduct in respect to a friend in power.

Dear Lollius, if right well I ken
The most ingenuous of men,
Professor of a friendly heart,
You scorn to act a flatt'rer's part.
A Roman matron is not more
Distinguish'd from a painted whore,
Than a true friend, from the disguise
Of him that faithless deals in lies.
There is a vice reverse of this,
And of the two the more amiss,
A clownish harshness blunt and base,
Which wou'd commend itself to grace,
With tweazer'd face, and shaven skin,
And teeth all dirty-black within,
Intending that it shou'd appear,
As downright honest and sincere.
Virtue between each vice resides,
Alike remote from both the sides.

The one's submission's far too great,
And jester of the lowest seat

141

The rich-man's nod he so reveres,
And so respects, whate'er he hears,
And catches up each word that falls,
Like boys, whose rigid master calls
To say their lesson, or a play'r,
That must his under-part prepare.
The other's full of gross abuse,
About the milking of a goose,
And fights with trifles arm'd, “How now?
“What? credit not to me allow?
“What boldly shall not I give vent,
“Unto my heart's true sentiment?
“I wou'd not hold another year,
“On terms so monstrously severe?”
But what's the theme of all this fray?
If Castor best his weapon play,
Or Docilis shall win the day?
Or if Brundusium best to make,
A man the Appian road shou'd take?

Whom deadly lewdness strips, or dice
That speediest lead to want by vice,
Whom vanity too grand shall dress,
And dawbs with essence to excess,
Whom thirst and hunger after gold
Possesses, not to be controul'd,
Blushing and shunning to be poor,
Him his rich friend cannot endure,
And oft persues with dread and hate,
Himself far more inordinate.

143

And, if he does not hate, he rules,
And as a pious mother schools
Her son, her virtues to out-do,
He thus adds something pretty true.
“My wealth (pray do not you contend)
“Admits of all my follies, friend,
“Your small estate shou'd make you loth
“To cut your coat beyond your cloath,
“And, if your senses you retain,
“Cease contest, where the contest's vain.”
Eutrapelus whene'er intent
To do a man much detriment,
Wou'd give him gaudy cloaths, “For so
“Blest in the notion of a beau,
“He'll take new measures, form new schemes,
“Indulge till noon in pleasing dreams:
“Will for a whore his trade postpone,
“Will give huge int'rest for a loan;
“Will learn at last the fencer's art,
“Or drive for hire a gard'ner's cart.”—
Into no secrecies inquire;
Keep confidence repos'd intire,
Tho' put to torture by the force
Of wine, or passionate discourse.
Nor must you praise your own persuit,
And that of your great friend dispute:
Nor with your poetry solace
Your muse, when he prefers the chace.
For by such means Amphion cross'd
His brother, and his kindness lost;

145

Till he gave up his lyre, at last,
To him of the severer cast.
Amphion therefore did give way
To Zethus' temper, as they say.
And do you in likewise attend
The mild injunctions of your friend,
And when into the field he gets
His dogs, and his Etolian nets,
Arise, and for a while refuse,
Th'ill-bred moroseness of your Muse,
That you may sup upon the spoil,
Thus purchas'd by your mutual toil.
This exercise for health and bloom,
Habitual to the sons of Rome,
Is useful ev'n to life, and fame,
And keeps the feet from being lame;
But chiefly while you're young and sound,
And can in speed out-strip the hound,
And foil the fury of the boar.

Then add to what we've urg'd before,
Not one of those, which arms profess,
Can handle them with more address.
You know what vast applause you gain,
In all those feats on Mars's plain:
In fine, as yet of tender age,
You cou'd in cruel fights engage,
And those Cantabrian wars endur'd,
Beneath that chief, who has procur'd
Our standards from the Parthian host,
And fix'd them in their wonted post;

147

And now does all the acts that tend
To make the Roman arms transcend.

And lest you from the sports recede,
Without a good excuse to plead,
(Tho' nothing trifling, or uncooth,
You e'er committed from your youth)
Yet, where your rural villa lies,
You pleasant pastimes can devise.
The naval troops divide the boats,
And all the Actian battle floats,
Acted by boys, in hostile pride,
Which you, as their commander, guide;
Your brother's the fictitious foe,
And Adria's sea the ponds below,
Till victory, with bays, come down,
And one or other champion crown.

Great Cæsar, when he once shall see
Your taste and his so well agree,
Shall give you, and your little bands
Immense applause, with both his hands,
Now let me (if a man like you
Can need advice) advise you true.
Oft take good heed what, and to whom,
You speak of every man in Rome;
A pumper shun, who will not fail
To bear materials of a tale,
Nor can the ears that spring a leak,
With faith retain the things you speak,
And when one word to such you pawn,
It is irrevocably gone.

149

By frequent observations trace,
Him you wou'd recommend to grace;
Lest you anon shou'd be asham'd
Of faults, for which another's blam'd.
We sometimes are deceiv'd, and raise
A person who's not worthy praise.
Thus chous'd, forbear to vindicate
Him, whose own conduct mars his fate.
So one well prov'd you shall protect,
If false accusers ought object,
And shield him confident in you;
If slander's tooth his fame persue,
Perceive you not your danger too?
For 'tis a very near concern
To you, when neighb'ring houses burn,
And flames by negligence are fed,
And still are wont to get a head.

The cultivation of esteem
With men in pow'r, to those may seem
Desirous, who have never tried,
But by experience is decried.
When once your vessel's under sail,
Ply well your business, lest the gale
Shou'd shift upon th'inconstant main,
And drive your vessel back again.

The sad, abominate the gay;
These scorn the children of dismay;
The volatile the dull sedate;
Idlers, the brisk and active hate.

151

They that all night will ply the glass,
Despise you, if your turn you pass,
Tho' with solemnity you swear,
You dread th'effects of midnight air.
Your forehead of its gloom uncloud,
For 'tis in general allow'd,
Too modest men appear, as dark,
Too silent, curs that cannot bark.

In all, with which you are concern'd,
You must consult and read the learn'd,
Who on the proper measures treat,
To make your life serene and sweet;
Lest greedy av'rice, ever poor,
Still make you anxious thoughts endure,
Lest fear and hope distract your mind,
For things of an indifferent kind:
That you may know if nature teach,
Or virtue be what scholars preach,
What lessens care, encreases smiles,
And your own conscience reconciles,
What makes a perfect calm, a name,
Or wealth, which still is pleasure's aim,
Or life's whole passage to fulfil,
Thro' flowery bye-paths snug and still.
As oft as on Digentia's brink,
Whose cool streams all Mandela drink,
A little village chopt with cold,
Myself I at my ease behold,
What are my sentiments, my friend,
For what do you think my knees I bend?

153

That what I have of present store
Be kept, or rather less than more,
That if the Gods more life shou'd give,
I may for self-improvement live,
With choice of the best books to read,
And year's provision for my need,
Lest I shou'd be in fortune's pow'r,
Dependent on th'uncertain hour;
Thus much is fit of Jove to pray,
Ev'n he that gives and takes away:
Let him long life and wealth bestow,
I trust from my own heart to know,
All things that make for peace below.

155

EPISTLE XIX. To Mæcenas.

He reprehends the false zeal certain writers had to imitate the defects, rather than the perfections of the poets.

Dear Friend, if you the lore embrace
Of old Cratinus, in this case
No verse can last, or charm the age,
Wrote by the water-drinking sage;
And this has been a maxim fix'd,
E'er since the brain-sick bards were mix'd,
By Liber's laws injoin'd to rove
With fawns and satyrs of the grove:
Hence all the muses sweetly gay,
Oft smell of wine at early day.
When Homer call'd the grape divine,
He wrote his verses by his wine;
And Ennius, our reverend sire,
Wou'd not to sing of arms aspire,
Till for his subject made a match
By drink—I therefore shall dispatch
The sneaking milk-sops one and all,
For sentence to the judgment-hall,
Nor will I any licence grant,
For those to sing, who whine and cant.

157

Soon as this edict was promulg'd,
The poets night and day indulg'd
The bumpers they wou'd not abate.—

What if a man shou'd imitate
The naked feet, and surly frown
Of Cato, with his scanty gown?
Wou'd he be instantly endued
With Cato's worth and rectitude.
The mimic, who propos'd to please
By taking off Timagenes,
With envy burst, as he in vain
Did after wit and utt'rance strain.

Mean imitation foils the base,
As faults are all that they can trace,
As tho', when I've a pallid hue,
They shou'd take drugs to be so too.
O mimics! scarce above the brutes!
How very frequently the fruits,
Of that in which each bungler prides,
Provok'd my wrath, or split my sides?

A sheer original from God,
I stalk'd upon the vacant sod,
Nor in another's footsteps trod.
He who as leader can perform
His part in justice heads the swarm.
I first made Italy repeat,
Iambics of the Parian beat,
Form'd on Archilochus, to tow'r
At once in harmony and pow'r,

159

But not pursuing of his scheme,
To kill my brother with my phlegm;
And lest I shou'd from Rome receive
A crown that sparing critics weave,
Because I fear'd to undertake
The changing measure of his make:
There's Sappho, writing like a man,
Corrects and variegates my plan;
Alcæus too—but all the while
Diverse in numbers and in stile,
Nor does he now unto his shame,
Seek his step-father to defame,
Nor strangle, in poetic wrath,
The maid to whom he pledg'd his troth:
Him, who was never known before,
I harp'd upon the Latian shore:
For 'tis my pleasure to be new,
And read by an ingenuous few.

Now wou'd you know the real cause,
My readers give me such applause,
Fond of my arch-instructive tomes,
When sung within their private homes;
But soon as e'er they quit their place
Degrade me—this is then the case.
To count the suffrage of the mob,
I ever thought too mean a job,
By treating them with dainty fare,
And rags and tatters for their wear.
I hear no writings of the great,
Nor in revenge my own repeat;

161

Nor do I hie me to the schools
Of those, that teach the grammar-rules—
Hence all this grievance—if I say,
I am asham'd my worthless lay
In crouds theatric to recite;
As tho' I wou'd to things so light
A thought of dignity and weight
In rank presumption arrogate.
At us (says one) your honour sneers,
Preserving for celestial ears
Your poetry—for you distill
Alone, it seems, the honey'd rill,
A person in your own sweet eyes,
Extremely beautiful and wise.
At taunts like these, I do not dare
To let my nose have too much air,
And lest their nails my skin deface,
I cry, I do not like this place,
And beg a truce—for gamesome jest
Brings on a trial, who is best,
Then emulation furthers strife,
And that ill-blood, and loss of life.

Ανδρα δε κεκμηωτα μενος μεγα οινος αιξει, and sundry other places.

163

EPISTLE XX. To his Book.

You seem to cast, my vent'rous book,
Towards the town a wishful look,
That thee the chapmen may demand,
Where Janus, and Vertumnus stand;
When polish'd by the binder's art.—
Both keys and seals, with all your heart,
You hate, and every thing refuse
Which all your modest volumes chuse.
You grudge that you are shewn to few,
Desirous of the public view,
On other principles compil'd—
Away then, since you are so wild—
When once set off there's no return—
Soon shall you say with much concern—
Ah! wretch, what wou'd I, when your pride
Is by some reader mortified,
And in some narrow nook you stick,
When curiosity is sick,
But if the augur do not dream,
In wrath for this your desp'rate scheme;
At Rome you'll be a welcome guest,
As long as you are new at least.
But when all dirty you become,
In witness of the vulgar thumb,

165

Or groveling book-worms you must feed,
Or for us Utica shall speed;
Or bundled up in packthread chain,
Be sent a transport into Spain.
The good adviser, all the while,
To whom you gave no heed, will smile:
As he who from the mountain threw
The sulky ass, that wou'd not do
His bus'ness—“then go down the hill—
“Who'd save an ass against his will.”
This destiny too must remain—
Thee faultring dotage shall detain
About the city-skirts to teach
The boys their rudiments of speech.
And when the servency of day
Brings you more hearers, you must say,
That poor and meanly born at best,
I spread my wings beyond my nest,
And what you from my birth subtract,
You for my virtues must exact;
That peace or war, I still was great,
With the first pillars of the state,
Short-siz'd, and prematurely grey,
Form'd for th'intensity of day,
With passion ev'n to phrenzy seiz'd,
But very easily appeas'd.
If any person by the bye
Shou'd ask how old I am, reply,

167

That when the fasces were assign'd,
To Lepidus and Lollius join'd,
I was full out, and fairly told,
Four times eleven Decembers old.

169

THE SECOND BOOK OF THE EPISTLES OF HORACE.

171

EPISTLE I. To Augustus.

He complains of the depraved taste amongst the Romans of his time, who estimated the merit of poems by their antiquity, and despised modern ones, for no other reason than that they were modern.

Since you alone sustain the state,
Midst things so various and so great,
And while your arms our coast defend,
To moral pulchritude attend,
Correcting us with wholesome laws,
Twere sin against the common cause

173

Was I to pen a tedious strain,
Thy time, Augustus, to detain.

Rome's Founder, Bacchus, and the seed
Of Leda, men of might indeed,
And for their works in heav'n receiv'd,
Yet while on earth conjointly griev'd,
That human favour, human fame,
By no means answer'd to their claim,
As cultivators of mankind,
That special property assign'd,
And cities built, and lands dispos'd,
And finally dissentions clos'd.
The man that brought the Hydra down,
And beasts of horrible renown
Subdu'd by his predestin'd toil,
Found yet their was a foe to foil,
Ev'n Envy, whose infernal blast
Cou'd not be worsted but the last.
He galls, whose merits overbear
The puny wits, with lust'rous glare,
Hated while he retains his breath,
And lov'd for nothing but his death.

To you, tho' with us, we bestow
The full-blown honours, as they grow,
And to your name those altars rear,
Which men upon their oath revere,
Confessing that a man like thee,
Nor has been, nor again shall be.
But here your people wise to own
The truth, in this one point alone,

175

(That is to place your matchless fame
Above each Greek and Roman name)
Cannot be made at any rate,
Thus other things to estimate,
And still their futile venom spawn,
On all that are not dead and gone:
Such favourers of dusty shelves,
They will assert the Nine themselves,
Upon mount Alban did ordain
Those tables that the laws contain;
The leagues our antient monarchs made,
With neighbours for their mutual aid,
The Pontiff's rolls, and each record
The Angurs College keeps in ward.
If, as the oldest Greeks are best,
You say the same thing of the rest
And prove our writers by that test;
Your tongue at once all truth disowns,
Nuts have no shells, nor olives stones.

We've reach'd the highest pitch in arts,
In painting, music, shew our parts
And wrestle cleaner on the stage
Than active Greeks, in any age.

If keeping to a certain date,
Like wine one's poems meliorate:
I fain wou'd know the very year
That makes this sage decision clear.
Who died an hundred years ago,
Is he an ancient good or no?
Or must he rather be referr'd,
And scorn'd amongst the modern herd.

177

Here something positive will suit,
To put the matter past dispute—
Well he's an ancient true and good,
Who for an hundred years has stood:
But what for him do you deicde
Who month or year his junior dy'd?
Him will you condescend to place,
Amongst the vet'ran's in this case,
Or such as are condemn'd to scoff
Both now and many ages off?
Him then you say, we may be bold
In honesty, to rank as old
Who did the junior depart
One month, or year—with all my heart—
From your concessions if you please,
I pull the tail off by degrees,
And certainly shall dock the mare
If once I work it hair by hair,
Till like an heap that falls to ground,
I my opponent shall confound,
Who to the almanacs adheres,
And reckons eminence by years;
And nothing will applaud at all
But trophies from a funeral.

Ennius th'ingenious and the strong,
A second Homer for his song,
(As critics estimate the bard)
Seems now but lightly to regard
His dreams, of what shou'd come to pass,
And figments of Pythagoras.

179

Nævius, altho' he be not read,
Is fresh in every person's head,
All ancient verse is held so dread.
When critic desputants contest,
Which of the poets is the best.
Pacuvius is for learning prais'd,
And Accius reckon'd great and rais'd;
Afranius all the town admit
His gown wou'd on Menander sit.

Plautus still keeps each sketch in view,
Sicilian Epicharmus drew:
Cœcilius did in weight excel,
And Terence in conducting well.

These mighty Rome by heart has got,
With these cram'd theatres are hot.
These are the poets of the stage
From Livius to the present age.

Sometimes the populace are right,
Sometimes remote from reason quite.
If poets of the former days
At such a rate th'admirers praise,
So that they nothing will prefer
Or ev'n compare with them, they err;
If they but fairly wou'd confess,
Some things are in too stale a dress,
Most lines put down too harsh and rough,
And many errant idle stuff,

181

Then are they wisemen, and agree
With what is very truth—and me.
I do not for my part devote
To silence, all that Livius wrote,
Who when a boy, that flogging cull
Orbilius hammer'd in my skull,
But am astonish'd they appear,
To any beautiful and near
To finish'd—for 'mongst many lines
If but one bright expression shines,
And midst the lamentable whole,
One verse or two harmonious roll,
In every righteous man's despite
It carries off th'edition quite.

'Tis wrath—when works they discommend,
Not that they're stupid or ill penn'd,
But merely for their modern date:
And for the ancients arrogate,
Rewards and reputation too,
When pardon barely is their due.
Shou'd a man question in this age
If Atta tread the essenc'd stage
With grace or not, our sires wou'd roar
That modesty is now no more,
Those parts by me to be disdain'd,
Whence grave Esopus glory gain'd,
And which learn'd Roscius too sustain'd.

183

Because they think, there's nothing right
But which is pleasing in their sight,
Or that they hold themselves disgrace't
If once their juniors set the taste,
And that when young (they must allow)
They learnt, what they shou'd cancel now.
Who Numa's Salian hymn wou'd praise
And such strange stuff, which now a days
Cannot be understood, when read,
Does not so much applaud the dead,
As his invidious taunts he show'rs
On us and every thing of ours.

But if in Greece new things had been
Thus odious, how shou'd we have seen
One ancient, how had they remain'd
With which we all are entertain'd?
When first upon a gen'ral peace
They learn'd to play the fool in Greece,
And into luxury to slide
By fortune fav'ring wind and tide,
Now wrestlers, now the race alone,
Now works in iv'ry or in stone,
Now busts, now pictures were admir'd
Thro' which the very soul transpired.

Now were they fond of pipe, now plays
Full of those wild infantine ways,
Like little misses when they're nurst
Soon slighting what so pleas'd at first.
Nought sweeten'd and nought made them sour
But had mutations every hour.

185

Such were the things that peace cou'd do,
And all the prosp'rous gales that blew.

In Rome it was in much repute,
And held a pleasant task to boot,
Betimes each morning to be found
And to a client laws expound;
Cash with great caution to put out;
To be attentively devout
To hear the old—the young direct
How wealth may grow and lust be check'd.

Light fashion now has chang'd our mind,
All are to verse alone inclin'd,
Each boy and rigid elder's crown'd
With bays, and as the cup goes round
At supper will their lines rehearse—
Ev'n I, who swear I make no verse,
Am found a Parthian to outlie,
And e'er the Sun's a second high,
Call for my ink with quick demand,
My pen, my paper and my stand.
A man that knows not how to steer
A ship, will such an office fear;
No one with drugs the sick will aid
Who was not 'prentice to the trade—
They're doctors who the art profess,
Smiths use their hammers with address,
But wits or blockheads, wrong or right,
We one and all must verse indite

But yet this error in degree
This tincture of insanity

187

How much the virtues it can serve
Please in this manner to observe.
The poet seldom on the whole
Has got an avaricious soul,
Verse is his study and delight—
At detriments of fire and flight
Of servants he securely smiles,
By craft no neighbour he beguiles,
No pupil of his trust, as fed
On homely husks and second bread:
Tho' slow and useless in the war,
Rome's weal is that he's ever for,
And if you'll grant me this withal
That great things are upheld by small,
The infant's mouth the poets frame,
And tune their language lisping—lame.
Weans from bad words their ears betimes
With friendly care their heart sublimes;
Corrects their rudeness, all the seeds
Of envy or of passion weeds;
Records good actions with the pen
And in the lives of glorious men
Instructs hereafter, to the poor
And weakly gives a gentle cure.
How shou'd good boys and girls regard
Their pray'rs, had heav'n denied a bard!
The chorus for heav'n's aid applies
And feels the present deities,
Sweet in mysterious pray'r the rain
They from the highest heav'n obtain,

189

Avert disease, stave dang'rous fears
Bring peace with rich and fruitful years:
The gods above, the pow'rs below
By verse their consolation know.

Our ancient rustics hale and rough,
And with a little bless'd enough,
Soothing upon their garner'd grain
Their limbs and minds, which cou'd sustain,
In hopes of respite, grievous pain;
With children and with faithful wife,
And fellow-craft in rural life,
The goddess Tellus with a swine,
Sylvanus with the milk and kine,
All worshipp'd, and with wine and flow'rs
The genius of the mental pow'rs
Who's mindful still that life is fleet
And thence invites to make it sweet.

From sports like these driv'n to excess
Came Fescennine licentiousness,
Which pour'd out clownish verse profuse
In dialogue and gross abuse,
Which grateful liberty each year
Was rather cheerful than severe.
At length the jest too far inhanc'd
To downright open rage advanc'd,
And while impunity remain'd
Upon ingenuous houses gain'd,
The suff'rers from their bloody frangs
Were tortur'd with most cruel pangs,

191

And many, tho' unhurt, were grieved,
That men such injuries receiv'd,
The senate made a law in fine
Which did a penalty injoin,
If any man they shou'd asperse;
And point out in satiric verse,
They were oblig'd to change their plan
For fear of beating, and began
Their works poetic to dispense
For pleasure and benevolence.

Bow'd to our arms the captive Greece,
Took the fierce victor on the peace
And introduced politer arts
In Italy's more rustic parts;
Thus lines of barbarism and scoff,
Prais'd in Saturnian times, flow'd off,
And elegance, which must be neat
Did squalled filthiness defeat,
Yet this (as former times) retains
Some traces of the rough remains.
'Twas late e'er they their talents tried
And to the Grecian style applied;
And both the Punic wars were o'er
E'er they set by th'Athenian lore,
And made enquiry by degrees,
What Æsculus, and Sophocles,
And Thespis, had of useful vein,
And strove too, if they might attain
Each author's beauties to translate,
Conscious of natures high and great.

193

For spirit we've enough in Rome,
And wear with grace the Tragic plume,
But cannot bear to be correct,
And hate a blot as a defect.

The comic muse that draws her scene
From things of common life and mean,
Is thought to smell too much of sweat:
But the less favour it can get,
The more of study it shou'd take.

Observe how Plautus paints his rake,
How stupidly th'old huncks is drawn,
And crafty bawds that huff and fawn;
How much Dorsennus' muse delights
In eating and in parasites,
Who treads the stage an errant slouch
For while there's money in his pouch,
With him is no concern at all
Whether the Drama stand or fall.

He, whom vain-glory's chariot draws
Upon the stage for mere applause,
Faints when the audience languid grows,
But when they're lively puffs and blows.
So light, so trivial are the things
By which a spirit flags or springs,
That's covetous of praise—Farewel
All thought in writing to excel,
If glory giv'n or ta'en away
Make me look fat or lean a day—

This too makes many a bard withold
And well may terrify the bold,

195

That those who're of no worth possess'd
Or name, out-number all the rest,
Unlearn'd and dolts and prone to box
When a knight's taste their fancy shocks:
These midst the most inchanting airs
Demand the wrestlers and the bears,
For in all such the mob delights:
Nay ev'n the pleasure of our knights,
Driv'n from judicious ears, decoys
Th'uncertain eyes to gewgaw toys.
—Three or four hours the curtain's drawn
And horse and foot at once come on,
March o'er the stage with hapless kings,
Their hands behind them tied in slings,
Then chariots, litters, ships and wains
And slaves with iv'ry drag'd in chains,
And Corinth, to conclude the whole,
Is carried on a cloth and pole.
Democritus, was he on earth,
Wou'd fairly burst his sides with mirth,
To see the people staring hard
Upon some strange camelo-pard,
Or on an elephant all white,
The mob wou'd more attract his sight,
Than all the fun upon the stage,
Mean time he'd find the author's rage,
On a deaf ass, was spent in vain,
For who can rant in such a strain,
As all that din to over-bear,
With which they drown both house and play'r.

197

You'd think Garganian forests roar,
Or billows on the Tuscan shore:
With so much clamour from their hearts,
The foreign gems, and wealth, and arts,
In which the actor's trick'd, are view'd,
For when he comes, in claps renew'd,
The right-hand and the left agree—
Has he said any thing?—Not he—
Whence therefore all this wond'rous glee?
From robe of true Tarentian die,
Whose tints may with the violet vie;
And lest you think that I degrade
With sparing praise, what I'm affraid
To undertake myself, when done
By others for a general run,
Know then, that far above my hopes
That poet treads the highest ropes,
With fictious grief who wounds my breast,
Inflames, serenes, disturbs my rest
With magic terrors, that he makes,
And now to Thebes, now Athens takes.

But Cæsar, take a little care
Of writers, that the stage forbear,
Who for the closet bards commence,
And dread an haughty audience,
So shall that library be fill'd
To Phœbus, which you rose to build,
And bards have spurs for new essays,
To gain the Heliconian bays.

199

We poets oft to mar the plot
Of our own comrades are, got wot,
Too apt to do ourselves much wrong,
When we present th' obtrusive song
To thoughtful patrons, when in league
With sleepy dulness, thro' fatigue:
When we are pain'd, if any friend
Has dar'd to call one line ill-penn'd;
When tho' unask'd, we read again
The place that did small praise obtain,
Griev'd that our works so very clear,
And finely spun did not appear;
When we indulge our hopes, in fine,
That when our verses we divine,
You'll cite us of your own accord,
Force us to write for a reward,
Nor dream of want, when you're Lord.
And yet 'tis worth the while to know,
Who shou'd be virtue's priest below,
Who gives to their immortal tome
Your worth in battle and at home,
Themes far too sacred for a bard,
That is not worthy prime regard.

Lov'd by the Macedonian youth
Was Chærilus, whose verse uncouth,

201

And vilely made, cou'd yet purloin
An hoard of royal Philip's coin.
But as the ink not manag'd right
Leaves blots, so scriblers that indite
Bald verses, must their theme debase,
And the most shining acts disgrace.
This same king, who cou'd verses buy
So stupid, at a price so high,
Cou'd make an edict of restraint,
That not a hand his face shou'd paint
Except Apelles, nor in brass
Shou'd bustos for his likeness pass,
Sav'd form'd in fam'd Lysippus' mould—
Now shou'd a person make so bold,
This monarch's judgment to refer
To books and bards, one might aver,
Or even undertake to swear,
His birth was in Bœotian air.
But those, your fav'rite sons of song,
Virgil and Varius, do not wrong
Your judgment, or the gifts that crown
Theirs and the donor's just renown.
Nor are the lineaments more just,
When cast into a brazen bust,
Than in th'immortal poet's lays,
Appear the spirit and the ways
Of heroes—I am none of those
Who wou'd prefer your creeping prose,
To the describing mighty acts,
Earth's, rivers, and extensive tracts,

203

And tow'rs upon the mountains built,
And kingdoms of barbarian guilt,
With all the wars constrain'd to cease,
By proclamation of your peace,
And Janus' temple lock'd and barr'd,
To stand for Concord upon guard,
And Rome, that now the Parthians dread,
Because Augustus is our head.
All this supposing I cou'd do,
As well as is my wish, is true.
But nor your grandeur will admit
Of grov'lers, nor can I think fit,
In modesty a theme to try,
Which for my size is far too high.
An author's zeal that's too intense,
Will urge his folly to offence;
But most so, when he acts his part
In numbers, and poetic art:
For things ridiculously wrong,
Will to the mem'ry stick more strong,
Than passages of better thought,
For praise and admiration wrote.
Were I a patron I shou'd feel
Uneasiness for ill-tim'd zeal,
Nor like by any means to spy
My ugly likeness in a die,
Nor choose to be a heroe call'd,
In verses miserably bald,
Left I shou'd blush, when forc'd to take
The gifts fat dulness comes to make,

205

And in an open trunk repine,
To see my author's name and mine;
Or carried off those streets behold,
Where all-spice and perfumes are sold,
And fritter'd into many a scrap,
Be doom'd all sorts of trash to wrap.

Ennius his nephew, by his sister, born at Brundusium.

Livius Andronicus.

Here Horace dissents from Cicero, who tells us that the comedies of this person were not worth a second reading.

The Roman theatre was sprinkled with saffron-water for the refreshment of the audience.

There are more passages in Horace (particular, a caution to Lollius, and his own reason of forbearance to Trebatius) that shew, what extreme address it required to approach Augustus with verses, who tho' he loved them, and could make them, yet did not choose they should interfere with certain times and circumstances.

207

EPISTLE II. To Julius Florus.

He makes his apology to Julius Florus, who complained that he neither sent him any letter, nor those verses, which he had promised.

Florus, great Nero's faithful friend,
Shou'd any man by chance commend
A little stripling, to be bought
From Gabii, or from Tibur brought,
And thus begin with you to treat,
“This boy, Sir, 's of a temper sweet,
“And sightly ev'n from head to foot,
“And he his Lord's commands will suit;
“Pay me but fifty pounds—he goes—
“A little Greek the youngster knows.
“Like clay for models, you with ease
“Can make him learn whate'er you please;
“His voice, tho' rude, is well to pass,
“And entertaining o'er a glass.
“Huge promises will credit lose,
“When any man is too profuse
“In praising what he wants to sell:
“Necessity does not compel
“That he must needs be sold as yet,
“Tho' poor I am in no man's debt;

209

“There's not a dealer you cou'd find,
“So much unto your honour's mind,
“And there's not any man but you
“That I wou'd thus oblige—'tis true,
“This boy, (as often is the way)
“Did once upon an errant stay,
“Then fled, thro' fear to feel the pangs
“Of whip, that on the stair-case hangs,
“Wherefore if this, his only vice,
“Offend you not, pay down the price.”
The man may for his money call,
And be indemnified withal,
According to my skill in trade;
You wittingly a purchase made
Of him, who for a knave was sold,
But the conditions were foretold,
And yet you will th'affair dispute,
And forward an unrighteous suit.

I told you, when you went away,
That I was idle, out of play,
Nor cou'd such offices abide—
I told you that you might not chide,
When from my hands no letter came.
But what's all this, if you disclaim
Conditions for myself I made,
And furthermore your friend upbraid,
That he's no better than a liar,
Not sending verse, as you require.

After much hardship in the fight,
As tir'd he snor'd away the night,

211

A soldier of Lucullus' host,
His money to a farthing lost;
From this a rav'nous wolf he grows,
Wroth with himself, as with his foes,
Fierce rushing, with his hungry fangs,
From off their post he soundly bangs
A royal guard (as they report)
And took their stores and strongest fort.
By such great gallantry renown'd,
He is with highest honours crown'd:
The Chief besides to him decrees,
Full fifty thousand sesterces.
It happen'd just upon this feat,
His captain was intent to beat
The foe, and batter their redoubt—
Words that wou'd make a coward stout,
He to the self-same man addrest,
“Go thou the bravest and the best,
“Go where thy valour calls, and speed
“About to share rewards indeed!
“Why do you stand debating—march!”—
On which my chap extremely arch,
Tho' but a clown, made answer back,
“Let him go foremost to th'attack,
“His lance at your command to couch,
“Who's fall'n asleep, and lost his pouch.”
It was my lot in tender age
At Rome, to con th'Homeric page,
How by the wrath of Peleus' son,
The Grecian councils were undone;

213

Ingenuous Athens added more,
Of what is call'd the useful lore,
The right from its reverse to know,
And in the search of truth to go,
Where solitary wisdom roves,
And thinks in academic groves.
But the perverseness of the time,
Displac'd me from that pleasant clime,
And, e're I knew whom I was for,
Involv'd in tides of civil war,
And arms, in which there was no hope
That they shou'd with Augustus cope,
From whence when we were all dispers'd,
And from Philippi sent amerc'd,
With my wings clipt, and heart unmann'd,
And destitute of house and land,
Compell'd by poverty intense,
I boldly did a bard commence.
But now remote from being poor,
What med'cines cou'd my phrenzy cure,
If I should write or verse, or prose,
In preference to my repose?

The fleeting years from spring to fall,
Have fairly rob'd me of my all,
My jests, my gallantry, my play,
And revellings are ta'en away.
Now they're exerting of their force,
The very Muses to divorce,
Then how shou'd I direct my course?

215

In short, all matters do not strike
On every personage alike;
The ode is by your choice preferr'd,
He likes iambics, and a third
The satires written on the plan
Of Bion, that invet'rate man;
Here are three guests, cannot approve
Of the same dish, or same remove;
What shall I give, or what refuse,
You spurn the things that others chuse,
And what's acceptable to you
Will give offence to t'other two.
Besides all this, pray how do you think
A man can harmonize his ink,
At Rome, amidst his toils and cares
And all his intricate affairs?
One summons me to be his bail,
And one to hear him without fail,
While he, forsooth, his work recites!
To mount Quirinus one invites,
The other two I must attend,
On Aventine the farther end.
Both must be visited, you see
The distance suits one charmingly:
But never mind the streets are clear,
Fit for the thoughtful and severe;
A builder hurries with his mules,
And porter bearing chips and tools;
The timber-tug, now whirls a stone,
And now a log to break a bone;

217

Now a dispute is likewise made
'Twixt waggon, and the sad parade
Of fun'ral pomp—a mad dog now,
Now rushes a most filthy sow:
Go, poet, make your verses neat,
And let their melody be sweet.
Thro' all their choir, the gen'ral run
Of bards love groves, and cities shun,
Due votaries of Bacchus made,
Rejoicing in repose and shade.
Must I then sing the tuneful lay
Amidst such din both night and day,
And up hill strive the steps to trace
Of poetry's retarded race.
A genius who has made retreat,
In Athens leisure-loving seat,
And there his constitution wears
Sev'n years immers'd in books and cares.
Sometimes comes out into the town,
A mere dumb statue in a gown,
Till all the people shake their sides—
But how in all these boistrous tides
And tempests of the city-throng
Can I associate lyre and song!

At Rome together liv'd of late,
A dab in tropes and advocate,
Those men were brothers, and so near
Allied, that they wou'd only hear
Their mutual praise, in mutual speech,
Gracchus and Mucius, each to each.

219

Why shou'd this wrath of complaisance
Be less in them that sing and dance?
I write but odes, another sings
His elegies, amazing things
Trick't up by all the muses train—
Observe you first, with what disdain,
And what importance for ourselves,
We view the temple's vacant shelves.
Next if your leisure is inclin'd,
Yourself may follow us behind,
And hear us quote and judge the cause
We crown each other with applause.

We work in counterfeited fight,
Like samnite blades till candle-light.
I am Alceus the divine,
By his decree—who's he by mine?
Callim'chus, if I underate,
Mimnermus more divinely great.

Much do I bear to keep in grace
With bards, that irritable race,
Whilst I myself to get the bays,
Submissive court the people's praise,
But having now my studies clos'd,
Quite sound, tho' lately indispos'd,
I can, secure of former fears,
Against reciters stop my ears.

The makers of your wretched strains,
By all are laugh'd at for their pains;

221

But in the writing they rejoice,
And for themselves will give their voice,
And if you let their praise alone,
The men are happy in their own.

But whoso chuses to compile
A work in genuine form and style,
Shou'd with his pen assume the mind
Of critic, honest and refin'd;
He boldly will all words displace,
Devoid of cleanness and of grace,
Such as are destitute of weight,
Such as are not sublime and great;
All these your blotting hand require,
Howe'er unwilling to retire,
And deem'd eternal for their fire.
Such phrazes, as from Rome have long
Been hid, he will receive in song,
And kindly bring to light again
Words, which ideas best explain,
The language of the great and just,
Tho' now disus'd thro' age and rust.
New words he likewise will invent,
All founded on experiment:
At once strong, musical, and clear,
Like some pure river he'll appear,
And pour out his redundant store
Abroad upon th'Italian shore;
What's too luxuriant he will pare,
To what is harsh he'll give an air;

223

What has no worth he'll take away,
He'll ape the mimic in the play,
With his invention on the rack,
While now he has the Satyr's knack,
And now like Cyclops must advance,
Stupendous in the clumsy dance.

I'd rather be esteem'd a fool,
And object of all ridicule,
Self-entertain'd, or self-deceiv'd,
Than with my wisdom be aggriev'd.

At Argos once it came to pass,
A personage of no mean class,
Set in a theatre at ease
Alone, and clapt himself to please,
Supposing that he hear'd the play'r,
Divinely tragedizing there:
And yet in other points of view,
This man cou'd all his duty do,
Good neighbour, courteous to his guest,
And with kind love his wife carest,
Indulgent to forgive a slave,
So as not actually to rave,
If he had dar'd to tap his wine—
Wou'd well, or precipice decline—
At length by care, and by expence
Of friends, recovering his sense.
“Good sirs, (says she) be all assur'd,
“You've kill'd me, rather than have cur'd,
“Who've rob'd my thoughts of sweet employ,
“And all my visionary joy.”—

225

'Tis granted life is best apply'd
To wisdom, throwing toys aside;
Leave then to boys all childish play,
Theirs is the proper time of day,
Nor merely think on words to dwell,
Adapted to the Latian shell,
But method and array to scan,
Which tend to harmonize the man:
Wherefore I with myself converse,
And only things like these rehearse:
“If, tho' you drank untill you burst,
“No water yet wou'd quench your thirst,
“To doctors you wou'd tell th'affair,
“How is it that you do not dare,
“By frank confession to explain,
“The more you've got, the more you'd gain.
“If from a root or herb prescrib'd,
“Your wound no healing balm imbib'd,
“That herb, or root, you'd surely shun,
“By which you found no good was done;
“You by some conjurer was told,
“To whom the Gods give store of gold,
“From him depravity of heart,
“And folly shall of course depart;
“But since you are no wiser grown,
“With all this plenitude your own,
“Why have you therefore any more
“The same advisers, as before?
“But if wealth made you wise of soul,
“Your lusts and terrors to controul,

227

“You ought to blush if earth cou'd shew
“A man more covetous than you.

If goods your property are found,
Bought by the penny, and the pound;
And some things (as the law assures)
Are wholly by possession yours;
The field that feeds you is your own,
And while he harrows it when sown,
The hind of Orbus still imputes
The right to him that has the fruits.
You give your cash receiving more,
Grapes, pullets, eggs, and wine galore,
Till by degrees the farm you've made,
For which p'rhaps the owner paid,
(To speak upon a mod'rate guess)
Three hundred thousand sesterces.
What boots it if your food you owe
To things bought now or long ago!
He, who that Aricinian spot,
Or field of Veiens lately got,
Sups on bought-herbs, tho' he thinks not.
Nay more, he boils his very food
Each frosty night with purchas'd wood;
And yet they're all his freehold lands
As far as where the poplar stands,
And is the limit too forefend,
Disputes at law 'twixt friend and friend,
As if ought was a man's estate,
Which in one moment of his date;

229

Now by petition, now by pay,
By violence another day,
Or by the common lot of all,
May to some other owner fall.
Then since for ever is not here,
Heir making heir still disappear,
As wave o'er wave the billows rise,
Then what are towns, or granaries,
Or cou'd you join, your flocks to feed,
Calabrian with Lucanian mead,
Since stern inexorable fate,
Unbrib'd by gold mows small and great?
Gems, marble, iv'ry, busts, and plate,
Fine pictures, and rich robes of state,
There are who never can acquire,
There are who no such things desire.

Why of two brethern one consumes
His time in idling, play, perfumes,
Nor heeds rich Herod's palm-estate;
The other, miserably great,
From morn to night with fire and steel,
Seeks with his forest fields to deal;
Our guiding genius here on earth
That rules the planet of our birth,
The best can certify, ev'n he,
Our nature's true divinity,
That o'er our heads exerts his might
And cheques our lives with black and white.

I'll freely take with mod'rate hands,
As much as exigence demands,

231

Nor will I waste a single care,
About th'opinion of my heir,
When at his coming he shall find
No augmentation left behind.
Yet I with measures thus advis'd,
Am still inclin'd to be appris'd,
How much the chearful and the free,
Is distant from the debauchee,
And what distinction exists
'Twixt misers and oeconomists.
For know there is a diff'rence quite,
Shou'd you waste ev'ry thing out-right,
Or only spread a plent'ous board,
Nor seek addition to your hoard:
But rather self and friend enjoy
By fits and starts, as when a boy,
Glad of the breaking-up retreat,
As shorter so by far more sweet.
Let dirty poverty, I pray,
Be far, yea very far away;
And be my vessel small or strong,
Let me go uniform along,
The wind, perhaps, is not so fair,
Sails swelling with the Northern air,
And yet I have not in my mouth
The tempest of the adverse South.
In force, in genius, figure, weight,
In virtue, station, and estate,
The last of them that foremost go,
But captain of the band below.

233

You are not covetous—go to—
But have you manhood to subdue,
And put to flight all vice beside?
Clear is your breast from worldly pride?
Of wrath and dread of dying clear?
Do you at dreams and conj'rer sneer?
Mock wonders, witches, nightly elves?
And ev'n Thessalian charms themselves?
When heav'n another birth-day sends
Art grateful? do you spare your friends?
At the approach of hoary age,
Art more good-natur'd and more sage?
Why pluck one thorn from out your mind
And leave so many more behind?
If you no more your life pursue
With skill, make room for them that do.
You've play'd, and eat, and drank, your share,
'Tis time your journey to prepare;
Lest youth, that has more decent claim
To every kind of wanton game,
Shou'd, midst your cups o'ercharg'd, with scoff
Hiss your last scene, and drive you off.

Of Palatine Apollo.

237

HORACE HIS ART OF POETRY.

Inscribed to the House of Piso.

If any painter shou'd design
A human visage, and subjoin
A horse's neck with plumage swoln,
And limbs from various creatures stol'n,
Untill the figure, in th'event,
Which for a beauteous dame was meant,
At length most scandalously ends
In a black fish's tail—my friends!
Admitted to so strange a sight,
Wou'd not your laughter be outright?

Believe me, Pisos, that a book
Will just like such a picture look,

239

Whose matter, like a sick man's dreams,
Is form'd of vanities and whims;
Where such absurdities prevail,
You can make out nor head nor tail;
The painters and the bards, 'tis true,
Claim licence as of both their due.
'Tis a concession that I make,
And hence excuse we give and take:
But not so largely as to coop
The tame and savage in a groupe,
And snakes with turtle-doves to mate,
And lambs with tigers copulate.

In pompous proems, big with threat,
The usual pattern that is set,
Is that they place to make one stare,
A piece of patchwork full of glare.
As when the fane and sacred wood
Of Dian, or meand'ring flood,
In pleasant fields, or copious flow
Of rhine, or many-colour'd bow,
Are all describ'd—but in this case
The foppish trump'ry had no place.
Perhaps a cypress you can draw—
But does that signify a straw,
If he that buys what you perform,
Was to be made as in a storm.
The potter had a jar begun;
Why nothing but a pipkin done?
In short, the subject what it will,
Be simple and consistent still.

241

Most of us—(I the sire address,
And each good son the sire express)
Are dup'd by things that seem aright:
I wou'd be brief with all my might,
And so become as dark as night!
He nerves and spirit must neglect,
Who strives to be extreme correct;
He's apt to swell, who wou'd be grand,
And he that dreads to leave the strand,
In terror of the fierce profound,
Is sure to run his ship aground:
And he that works a simple theme,
With monster, prodigy and dream,
Will paint the dolphin in the lawn,
While boars are upon ocean drawn;
A scape from error leads to vice,
If your discernment be not nice.

A sculptor near th'Emilian school,
Can skill to fashion with his tool
The nails, or flowing of the hair,
But not compleat the whole affair.
If I had any thing to write
I wou'd no more be such a wight,
Than I wou'd chuse black hair and eyes,
With nose of most portentous size.

243

Your plan, whene'er you tune your lay,
Suit to your faculties, and weigh
How much they can or cannot bear;
He who selects his theme with care
Will find no want of flowing style,
With clean arrangement all the while.
But, if the thing I rightly trace,
This is the merit and the grace
Of disposition, that the bard
To time and place have just regard,
And mention what shou'd first be known,
But other things a while postpone.
The true professor of the muse
Shou'd know to take and to refuse;
Yet if new words he intersperse,
He shou'd be cautious in his verse,
And choice—It is exceeding well
To give a common word the spell,
To greet you as intirely new—
It is a point you must persue,
In modern language to confirm
Each strange and philosophic term,
Words you may use, to ancient Rome
Unknown, yet modestly presume.

But new-coin'd words will ever be
Of more approv'd authority,
If from the Grecian fount they fall,
And their mutation be but small,
For why shou'd Rome Cæcilius give,
And Plautus a prerogative,

245

Which they to Virgil still deny,
And Varius?—Why may not ev'n I
Make some improvements if I can,
Nor suffer from th'invidious clan,
Since Ennius and Cato's phrase
Their native tongue enrich and raise,
And terms exotic introduce—
All have, and must allow the use
To make a word, that cleanly chimes,
Stampt with th'impression of the times.
As when the leaves each fleeting year
Are chang'd—the earliest dis-appear
The first; our words in likewise fare,
The oldest perish, as it were,
And those new-coin'd are now in flow'r,
Like youths, in all their strength and pow'r.
Ev'n both must fail our works and we;
Whether the sovereign of the sea,
Receiv'd far up into the land,
(A work with royal grandeur plann'd)
Our fleet from the North wind defends,
Or if a fertile tract extends,
Feeds neighbouring cities, feels the plough,
A lake and row'd upon but now—
Or tho' the river's made by force
Of Cæsar's word to change his course,
And noxious to his former place
Must learn to run a better race—

247

Yet these as human acts must fail;
Then how much less shall we prevail
To keep the elegance and weight
Of language, in a settl'd state.

Words shall revive that now are gone,
And some, which most are look'd upon,
Shall perish, if dame fashion will,
Who has in her dominion still
Supreme prescriptive pow'r to teach
All written and colloquial speech.

Homer has taught us in what verse
The deeds of kings we shou'd rehearse;
And heroes and contentions dire,
With what propriety and fire!
In numbers of unequal lines,
Were wrote at first the lover's whines,
But in a while were carried high'r
For bliss and fortunate desire.
But he who thought it worth his while
To sing first in so small a style,
Our critics have not yet found out,
So still the matter is in doubt.

Archilochus his wrathful heat
Made him strike out th'iambic feet:
The sock and stately buskin chose
This measure as the nearest prose,
Whence dialogue might aptly please,
And clamours of the mob appease,

249

Expressive or of mirth or rage,
Fit for the bus'ness of the stage.

The muse has giv'n us on the lyre
In praise divinely to aspire,
To sing of Gods and sons of Gods,
And champions crown'd against the odds;
The winning steed and lover's care,
And gen'rous claret to declare.
If I'm unskilful to combine
The parts and colours I design,
Why am I hail'd, where'er I go,
As poet, since I nothing know:
Why falsely bashful be a fool
Rather than go again to school?
A comic subject will not hold
If 'tis in tragic measure told:
Besides, it wou'd an audience shock,
In verses fitter for the sock,
The Thyestean feast to tell:
Each kind of writing shall do well,
According to its proper place,
Arrang'd in seemliness and grace.—

But sometimes comedy will rage,
And angry Chremes shake the stage;
And sometimes in the tragic scene
You've wailings melancholy-mean.
Peleus and Telephus when poor,
And exiles will no more endure
Their rants and ravings ten feet high,
If they wou'd to the heart apply.

251

A poem cannot be compleat,
Tho' beautiful, if 'tis not sweet,
Till by its pathos it can seize
The soul, and bear her where it please.

Expressive or of joy or pain,
As human aspects smile again
Upon the smilers, so their eyes
Will with the tearful sympathise.
If you wou'd have me really weep
Your own distresses must be deep,
Then, Telephus, your tragic part,
Or, Peleus, truly wound my heart.
But if you miserably spout
Your words, I sleep or else laugh out.
Things of a melancholy turn
Shou'd be express'd with much concern;
But if in wrath the person fret,
The aspect shou'd be big with threat.

In jest the looks shou'd pleasant be,
But serious in severity.
For first there is a sense innate
To every colour of our fate,
Which causes passion, gives relief,
Or weighs us to the ground with grief,
Till to the tongue the task's assign'd
To blaze the motions of the mind.
If what the characters shall say
Be foreign to the part they play,
The Roman knights, and all the croud
Will titter and explode aloud.

253

It is a diff'rent matter quite
Shou'd Davus speak, or errant knight,
A grey old man approach the scene,
Or hot young rake, whose years are green,
A matron full of pomp and show,
Or nurse officious to and fro',
A merchant wont thro' seas to roam,
Or one who tills his ground at home,
Assyrian, Colchan, Theban bred
Or Argive on the stage shou'd tread?

If e'er you write or follow fame,
Or at such sort of stories aim,
As with themselves do best agree—
Homer's Achilles shall we see?
Courageous, enemy to sloth,
And most inexorably wroth,
Let him, denying human laws,
Claim all things by the sword he draws.
If e'er Medea fill the scene
Fierce and ungovern'd be the queen.
Be Ino cast to make you cry,
Ixion of perfidious die,
Io be rambling drawn and mad,
Orestes most severely sad.

If to the stage you shall approach
With matter you're the first to broach,
—Let the new character you cast,
Be fairly kept up to the last.

'Tis arduous common things to say
In such a clean peculiar way,

255

Untill they fairly seem your own,
Wherefore more prudence will be shewn
To plan the Iliad out in acts,
Than your inventive pow'rs to tax,
The first to speak upon the stage
Things known not to a former age.

A tale however blown upon
Will, as your property, come on,
If you shall not on trifles dwell,
How and about it all to tell,
Nor be so faithfully absurd
As to translate it word for word,
Nor must you squeeze into a streight
While you too closely imitate,
From whence you can't so well recede
For shame, and for the plan agreed,
Nor yet begin in tumid sounds,
Like that old songster of the rounds,
“The fate of Priam, sing I shall
“And many a noble bout withal.
What will the boaster bring about
With all this mowthing and this rout?
The mountain shall again be laid,
The little mouse again display'd.
How much more to the purpose he,
The pattern of propriety—
“To me the man, O Muse! relate,
“Which after Troy's determin'd fate,
“By toil and actual review
“The nations and their manners knew.”

257

He does not meditate by trash,
To give you smoke from out a flash,
But chooses rather to procure
Illumination from th'obscure.
By striking out such strokes with ease,
That Scylla and Antiphates
And Cyclops and Charybdis please.
Nor will from Meleager's fate
Returning Diomedes date.
Nor dates the Trojan war “to wit
“When Leda first began to sit,”
But ever hastens to the goal,
And throws the reader's very soul
Into the center of th'affair,
As tho' he'd been an actor there.
But chuses certain things to leave
Unfit his polish to receive,
And with so much discretion lies,
Blends truth and falshood in such wise,
That the beginning, middle, end,
Do cleanly each on each depend.

Now hear what all the town with me
From you that write expect to see,
If you wou'd have th'applauder stay,
Attending till the actors say,
“Kind gentlemen, pray clap your hands,”
Mark how with every man it stands

259

For manners at a certain age;
And the decorum of the stage
Must be kept up with things assign'd
To time of life and turn of mind;
The boy who just can prattle plain,
And on the ground his tread sustain,
Loves with his play-fellows to 'bide,
And wrath contracts or lays aside
For nothing, changing every hour—
The youth out of his guardian's pow'r
Delights in horses and in hounds,
And o'er the sunny champaign bounds,
Pliant as wax to vicious ways,
And harsh at what th'adviser says;
A slow provider for the best,
And spendthrift with a lofty crest,
Hot in pursuit of new amours,
And quick to leave what he procures.

From this by shifting of the plan
The age and spirit of the man,
Seeks wealth and friendships and a name,
And dreads an action to his shame.
Sundry infirmities are found
Which man in his old-age surround,
Because he scrapes and yet abstains,
A wretch, that dreads to use his gains;
Or else because he acts when old,
All things too cautious and too cold,
Fain wou'd put off the evil day
And greedy in this world to stay;

261

Harsh, querelous, and loud of tongue
In praising things when he was young,
Censor and punisher too free
Of all who're not so old as he.

Our growing years, when we are strong,
Bring great advantages along,
And when we're going down the hill
We're more and more the losers still.
Then lest the parts that are of age,
Shou'd be assign'd to youthful rage,
Or those of youth be giv'n to years,
The strict propriety adheres
Upon those qualities to dwell,
Which suit respective ages well.

A scene we on the stage behold,
Or else we hear the story told;
But things which enter at the ear
Will not affect the mind so near
As what before the eyes is shewn,
And each spectator makes his own.
But yet you must not things disclose
Which done within we best suppose.
Some things from sight you'll take away,
Which clean description may display;
Nor let Medea's hand destroy
Before the gaping crowd, her boy;
Nor wicked Atreus, full in view,
A dish of human entrails stew
Or Cadmus turn by change absurd
A snake, or Progne be a bird.

263

When thus your scenes you represent
Disgust forbids me to assent.—

Let not a play you'd have us read,
And put upon the stock, exceed
Five acts—nor let a god be there,
Unless some intricate affair
Make you divine assistance seek,
Nor a fourth person strain to speak.

The chorus shou'd support with art
The duty of his manly part,
Nor let him sing amidst the acts
Ought forc'd or foreign to the facts.
Let him the men of worth defend,
And give good council to each friend,
Restrain the wroth, to them that hate
Offences, be affectionate.
Let mod'rate fare have his applause
And wholesome justice and the laws,
And gen'ral peace, that loves to deal
In open ports—let him conceal
Things spoke in confidence, and pray
The Gods, that their propitious day,
May to th'unfortunate return,
While haughty loftiness they spurn.

To flute was not at such a pass
Of yore, as to be girt with brass,
Till vying with the trump it roars,
But small and simple with few bores,
To help the chorus with its touch,
And fill the rows not throng'd too much:

265

While they cou'd the spectators hold
In numbers easy to be told,
Chaste, frugal, and not over-bold.

But when victorious Rome began
On all sides to extend her plan,
And when an ampler wall embrac'd
The city, and the god of taste
Was serv'd with festal wine by day,
With none the practice to gain-say,
New measures and more notes they found
Alike for poetry and sound,
For what degree of taste refin'd
Cou'd be in an unletter'd hind,
Loos'd with his oxen from the yoke,
And mix'd with the politer folk.
Where low-liv'd miscreants and base,
With men of honour took their place?

Thus did the master's skill impart,
New movements to the ancient art,
With all the luxury of air,
And strutting like a pompous play'r,
Drew on the stage amongst the rest,
A train deep-flowing from his vest:
Thus likewise did the sober lyre,
Up to new strings and strains aspire,
And an unusual flow of rage,
Rush'd all at once upon the stage;
So what they did of old design,
For things both useful and divine,

267

Is so far wrested from the mark,
That 'tis oracularly dark.

The bard (a filthy goat the prize)
Who first began to tragedize,
Brought on the fawns, a naked race,
Still joking with a serious face;
Because spectators full of wine,
And wild and tir'd with things divine,
Requir'd by novelty and show,
Their minds shou'd relaxation know;
But laughing satyrs we commend.
Provided they do not offend,
By turning earnest into jest,
So that a god, or king, that's drest
In gold and purple, do not bawl
The language of the cobler's stall,
Nor while they shun the groveling mire,
To mists and emptiness aspire.

Grave tragedy shou'd still disdain
All verses in a trivial strain,
And, tho' midst wanton satyrs plac'd,
Will yet with decency be grac'd,
Like some grave matron whom the priest
Commands to dance upon a feast.

As satirist I do not praise
The bald, unornamented phrase,
And common cant, nor shall I try
To break the rules of tragedy,
So as to make no odds between
A Davus talking in the scene,

269

Or Pythias putting to the worse
Th'old hunks, and making of a purse,
Or Liber's guardian wont to wait
Upon his pupil god, in state.

So wou'd I make a tale my own,
Tho' taken from a thing well known,
That any man might think to do
The same, but when he once set to
Wou'd sweat and vex himself in vain,
And never to the point attain.
So much effect is in the art,
Of clean disposing every part,
And so much novelty and grace,
In common topics, may take place.

The wood-land fawns shou'd have a care,
(If one may judge in this affair)
Lest they shou'd speak as born in town,
And ev'n like them that wear the gown;
Or lest too much they be inclin'd
To verses of infantine kind,
Or ev'n be too grosly free
With ignominious ribaldry:
For every man of rank, or sense,
Or family, will take offence;
Nor things that with the mob go down,
Will such hands or excuse or crown.

When a long syllable is join'd
Unto a short, and plac'd behind,
The quick iambic foot we frame,
Whence trimeter deriv'd its name;

271

With only six iambic feet,
Consisting of itself compleat:
But to the ear not long ago,
That it might come more grave and slow,
The sober spondee was took in,
As to a league and of akin,
But not to quit the second place,
Or fourth, or last, in any case.
However this is very scarce,
In Accius's applauded farce,
And in the verses Ennius wrote—
All bungling lines, like theirs, when brought
Upon the stage, with heavy weight,
Convict them as precipitate,
And wanting care—or, what is worse,
Most grosly ignorant of verse.
It is not every judge can see
The negligence of harmony,
And Roman bards in this abuse,
Have met with far too much excuse:
But shall a man for this discharge,
All method, and trangress at large?
Or shall I not suppose the more,
The world with all my faults explore,
Nor shall my spirit be so poor
As merely pardon to procure;
For tho' I 'scape all brand and blame,
I cannot therefore merit fame.

The Grecian patterns ye that write,
Peruse by day, peruse by night;

273

But spite of these, our sires thought fit
To praise the verses and the wit
Of Plautus (fools I will not say)
But far too patient at his play:
That is, if either you or I
Have comprehension to descry,
True repartee from coarser jeers,
And have our fingers and our ears.

Thespis the first (they say) found out
The tragedy, and bore about
His poems in theatric cart,
Which all his actors got by heart,
And play'd in faces daub'd with lees:
Then Escalus too, by degrees,
Invented masque and decent pall,
And made a little stage withal,
Learnt them to aggrandise their talk
And in the tragic buskin stalk.

To these, with no small share of praise,
Th'old comedy in after days
Succeeded, but its free excess
Forc'd pow'r such licence to suppress;
Accordingly a law was fram'd,
And when the right, the Chorus claim'd,
Of personal abuse, was o'er,
He wholly to his shame forbore.
Our poets have not left a part
Untried, in all their various art,
Nor do they least applause deserve,
Who from the Grecian models swerve,

275

And our domestic facts rehearse,
In tragic or in comic verse;
Nor wou'd our Latium more excel
In feats of arms, than writing well,
Did not her poets in their stile,
Disgust the toilsome, tedious file.
Do you, my noble friends, reject
All poetry for its defect,
Which many a blot, and many days
Have not chastis'd to perfect phrase.

Because Democritus contends,
That Genius sorry art transcends;
And bars from Helicon each wight,
That has his understanding right,
The greater number of our herd,
Nor pare their nails, nor shave their beard,
But walk alone in secret paths,
And keep away from public baths,
And he shall get the name and prize,
Of all poetic mysteries,
Whose head beyond all hopes of cure,
Will not the barber's touch endure.
O how unfortunate am I,
Which in the spring to drugs apply!
No man shou'd write a finer style,
But since that's scarcely worth one's while,
I'll do the duty of an hone,
And give an edge, tho' I have none.
I will (not writing of a line)
The office of a bard define,

277

Whence his materials he may gain,
How form, and how improve his vein,
What graces, and what must offend,
Where excellence and error tend.

In taste and wisdom to excel
Is the main spring of writing well,
And subjects you may best explore,
Deduc'd from the Socratic lore;
And when you once have plan'd the scheme,
The words will come with ease extream.
The writer, who the duty knows,
Which he his friends and country owes,
And how he may endear the best,
A father, brother, or a guest,
By what behaviour he may grace
A senator's or Prætor's place,
Or how his character sustain,
When sent to make the great campaign,
Such skill as his compleatly suits
Each person with just attributes.

The learned copyist shou'd look
At life and manners, as a book,
And from the language most in use,
His style and dialogue deduce.

Sometimes a play, that shines at starts,
With moral matter for good hearts,
Tho' without music, weight or ease,
Will more the Roman people please,
And better on their mem'ry dwells,
Than tuneful toys, and senseless bells.

279

The Muse has Greece with genius crown'd,
They turn the rolling periods round,
Nor can such spirit and such fire,
Ought equal to applause desire.

The Roman youths with pain and pride
A pound divide and subdivide,
“If from five ounces you take one,
“How much remains, my little son,”
—One third part of a pound.—” O rare!
“You'll for yourself take special care—
“An ounce is added—what's the whole?
Why half a pound—this rust of soul
And hankering after wealth ingrim'd,
The verse harmonious and well-tim'd,
Can we expect from sordid elves
With cedar ting'd on cypress shelves?

If poets use their talents right,
'Tis to instruct or to delight,
And in the moral page to plan,
The pleasures and concerns of man.
Whate'er you teach be brief and plain,
That they conceive you and retain.
When masters make too much a rout,
O'ercharg'd instructions will flow out.
Each fancy-piece for pleasure feign'd,
Shou'd near the truth be still sustain'd,
Nor let your tale at any hand,
Exaction of belief demand,
Nor from the witch's belly rive,
The boy she din'd upon alive.

281

The tribe of seniors will decry
All verse in which no fruit they spy;
And the young noblemen will sneer,
And slight all writings too austere;
He wins most votes and makes most friends,
That use and entertainment blends,
At once delighting all that read,
And urging them to take good heed.
This book brings money to the trade,
By this the longest voyage is made,
And its fam'd author must procure
A long memorial to endure.
But there are failings of the muse
We shou'd be ready to excuse;
Nor in the strings we always find,
Sounds answering to the hand and mind;
For oftentimes they will not suit,
And sound a grave for an acute.
The archer's bow, tho' aim'd aright,
Will not for ever hit the white.

But verses shining in the main
I'll not for a few faults disdain,
Which either from a want of heed,
Or human frailty may proceed,
What therefore shall we hence deduce?
As a transcriber wants excuse,
If oft he err, tho' oft forewarn'd,
And as a harper's justly scorn'd,
By whom one note is always marr'd,
So each incorrigible bard

283

Becomes a Chærilus to me;
In whom if three good lines I see
I smile and wonder—but am wroth,
At Homer's slumbers and his sloth;
But 'tis allowable, perhaps,
If in long works the author naps.

With painting poetry agrees,
And some things will the rather please,
If nearly view'd—but you'll be took
With others at a distant look.
That loves the dark, this will endure
The light, nor dread the connoisseur.

This piece has pleas'd, one time explor'd,
But this ten thousand times encor'd.

O youth! the elder of the two,
Tho' from your father you persue
The right, and of yourself are wise,
Yet hear the thing that I advise,
Respecting life in many a scene,
The tolerable and the mean
We bear; a lawyer in his room,
Or pleader, who cannot presume
With great Messala's worth to vie,
Nor can be seen with Aulus by,
Yet still may be in some request—
But with regard to bards profest,
Nor Gods nor men nor rubric post,
Can bear them when they're middlemost.

As musick at an handsome treat,
If bad, will all the joy defeat;

285

And essence thick, where poppies blend
With Sardian honey-comb, offend;
Because these things might have been spar'd,
So verse, to sooth the soul, prepar'd;
If short of true perfection found,
They lose all worth, and sink aground.

He that cannot the weapons play,
Will from the ring keep far away,
And one unskill'd in quoit or troque,
Forbear, lest he the laugh provoke
Of gaping crowds, at his expence—
But poets all our fools commence.—
Why not! the gentleman is free,
Of such estate and family,
Is rated at th'equestrian fine,
And has no sinister design.
But thou shalt nothing say or do,
Save what Minerva prompts you to;
Such is your judgement, such your will,
But if you ere assume the quill,
Let Metius your production see,
Who is a judge—your sire—and me.—
Nine years your verses be suppress'd,
For while you're of your work possess'd,
You still may blot th'unpublish'd strain,
Which gone, you will recal in vain.

287

Orpheus, the God's own seer and priest,
Wild mortals from th'inhuman feast,
And savage ways deterr'd, from thence
Inferr'd, upon a fair pretence,
Tygers to tame and lions fell.
Amphion, by his tuneful shell,
Was said to build the Theban wall
With stones that heard the charmer's call.

It was the wisdom of their song
Of old, to sever right and wrong,
The public weal from private gain,
And things religious from profane;
Promiscuous Venus to abate,
And institute the marriage state;
Towns and communities to plan,
And write the laws of God and Man.
'Twas thus an honour and a name,
On bards divine, and verses came.

To worthies as sublime as these,
Succeeded great Mæonides:
Tyrtæus too, by pow'r of verse,
To make the combatants more fierce.
In verse the oracles are made,
Th'œconomy of life display'd;
And by the soft Pierian strain,
The royal favour we obtain;
For these were giv'n th'Olymphic bay,
And sports to sooth the toilsome day.
Hear this lest you in scorn refuse
Sweet Phœbus, and the tuneful muse.

289

It is a question they contest,
If nature or if art be best,
To form the bard—I do not see,
What without parts mere industry
Can profit,—nor can I devise
How unform'd Genius shou'd suffice.
Thus one requires the other still,
And friendly mingles force and skill.

Whoe'er attempts with all his soul,
To run so as to reach the goal,
Has from a child endur'd much pain,
From wine and women must abstain,
And sweat and freeze, and sweat again.
The man that hymns the Pythian God,
Was once at school and fear'd the rod:
Nor will it hold for one to cry,
“My wond'rous verse is very high,
“A murrain seize the hindmost bard,
“'Tis shame if ought my course retard,
“Or that I shou'd be forc'd to own,
“That what's untaught to me's unknown!”

As auctioneers with voice aloud,
To buy their goods collect a crowd;
Thus bards with money and with land,
Will hire an assentatious band;
But if 'tis one that can afford
To deck with elegance his board;
Or any of the poor to bail,
And save from law-suits, and a jail.

291

I wonder if he yet can know,
A friend distinguish'd from a foe;
For making or intent to make,
A gift of ought for friendship's sake,
Do not lead forth the honour'd boy,
To read your verse while big with joy:
For then he certainly will roar,
O rare, O bravo, and encore!
Pale at some parts, at some he'll weep,
At some he'll jump about and leap:
As those that wail a corpse for pelf
Do more than real grief itself,
By word and deed—so friends that jeer,
Out-act the candid and sincere.

Kings certain men are said to ply,
With frequent cups their strength to try,
That they may see into their heart,
If it can act a friendly part.
Thus, when the verse you make and show;
Learn caution from the fox and crow.
Quintilius, if to him you read
Your poems, with great frankness said;
“Pray alter this and that review:”
Which if you urg'd you cou'd not do,
Endeav'ring sundry times in vain,
He'd bid you blot it out again,
And to the anvil yet restore,
Bald verses to be hammer'd o'er.
If you chose rather to defend
Your fault, than own it and amend,

293

He wou'd not waste another word
On one resolv'd to be absurd,
But rivalless you might admire
Yourself, and your poetic fire.
A good man judging as he ought,
Will censure numbers void of thought,
Condemn the harsh, nor will be brook
The incorrect, but cross the book:
Ambitious ornaments he'll pare,
And to th'obscure give light and air;
Ambiguous diction he will spurn,
Mark what shou'd have another turn:
In short, he will to thine and thee,
Another Aristarchus be—
Nor will he say, “I'll not offend,
“In trivial matters any friend”
Such trifles sometimes cause offence,
And are of serious consequence,
To one expos'd and ill-receiv'd,
Thro' folly not to be retriev'd.
As one thro' phrenzy wild and vague,
Whom scurvy and King's evil plague,
Dreading his touch, each man that's wise,
From the mad-headed poet flies;
The boys attack him in the street;
Some follow, who are less discreet.
He, while he roves about to cant
His verses with extatic rant,
If like a fowler while he eyes,
Intent upon the bird that flies,

295

Into some ditch or well shou'd fall,
Tho' for a long time he might bawl,
“Help, O my Countrymen!” not one
To take him out, an inch wou'd run.
But shou'd some man his help afford,
And fairly let him down a cord,
I wou'd object, “how can you prove,
“This person chuses to remove!”
And then to make the matter clear,
I'd quote the fam'd Sicilian seer,
Empedocles, what time he schem'd,
Ev'n as a god to be esteem'd;
And in cold fit too fond of fame,
Leapt into Etna's burning flame.

Then let these men of great renown,
Have privilege to hang or drown,
For such as save them 'gainst their will,
Are next akin to those, that kill.
And often has he thus behav'd,
Nor, shou'd he by mere force be sav'd,
Wou'd he (as man) his lot abide,
And scorn the shame of suicide.
Nor is the principle yet known,
Why he shou'd try at verse alone;
Whether he did of old presume,
To stale upon his father's tomb,
Or 'ere remov'd with black intent,
The vengeful thunder's monument.
He's mad, howe'er, by all the fates,
And like a bear that's broke the grates,

297

Learn'd and unlearn'd, as he recites,
He chaces bitterly and frights,
But those he overtakes at last,
With tooth and tongue he holds right fast,
And sticks unto them, like a leach,
Till glutted in all parts of speech.

I cannot help thinking, but in this and sundry passages, at the beginning of this epistle, there are tacit sneers at Ovid's Metamorphoses, that Horace might at once please Augustus, and gratify (not improbably) a small degree of poetical jealousy.

The Statuaries had their work-shops near the fencing school, that they might be at hand to take the attitudes of the Gladiators.

Three grand works are here mention'd for the honour of Augustus. The Julian port at Baia, the draining of the Pomplinas palades, and the cleansing of the channel of the Tiber.

Ovid again tacitly ridiculed for his elegies.

Upon the eggs that brought forth Castor and Pollux.

This honey was bitter, from the nature of the herbs in that country.

The elder Piso.

FINIS.