 | The Twelfth Epistle Of the First Book of Horace Imitated |  |
THE TWELFTH EPISTLE OF THE First Book of HORACE Imitated.
TO GEORGE COOKE, Esq;
With Care what You collect, injoy with Ease,
The Golden Fruits that spring from Common Pleas;
Add All that Hays, from Tax and from Repair,
Produces, neat, the Master and the Heir;
These, while You turn from Usury to Use,
And steer between the Sordid, and Profuse;
'Tis not in Fortune to increase your Store,
(Odd tho' it sound) not God can give You more:
Tho' Farm to Farm He join'd in lavish Grace,
And All was Yours from Hare-Field to Hall-Place.
Heav'n bars all just Complaint, Sufficient grants;
And can that Man be Poor, that Nothing wants?
You think with Me, my Friend. Yet oft We find,
Man may want Much from Poverty of Mind;
While, indigent of Soul, for More He sighs,
Tho' Fate an happy Competence supplies.
The Golden Fruits that spring from Common Pleas;
Add All that Hays, from Tax and from Repair,
Produces, neat, the Master and the Heir;
These, while You turn from Usury to Use,
And steer between the Sordid, and Profuse;
'Tis not in Fortune to increase your Store,
(Odd tho' it sound) not God can give You more:
Tho' Farm to Farm He join'd in lavish Grace,
And All was Yours from Hare-Field to Hall-Place.
4
And can that Man be Poor, that Nothing wants?
You think with Me, my Friend. Yet oft We find,
Man may want Much from Poverty of Mind;
While, indigent of Soul, for More He sighs,
Tho' Fate an happy Competence supplies.
Blest, with Enough for Use, if not for Waste!
For Life, if not for Luxury of Taste!
The Study, either to be view'd, or read!
For Need, or Elegance, the Table spred!
The Coach for Use, or say, for decent Pride!
The Hunters, if not train'd to race, to ride!
The House for Country, and the House for Town!
With Choice of Hands and Legs beside Your own!
The Suit for Service, and the Suit for Show!
What more cou'd You receive, or Heav'n bestow?
What more than This from Royal Bounty springs?
From Kings, or from the Ministers of Kings?
For Life, if not for Luxury of Taste!
The Study, either to be view'd, or read!
For Need, or Elegance, the Table spred!
The Coach for Use, or say, for decent Pride!
The Hunters, if not train'd to race, to ride!
The House for Country, and the House for Town!
With Choice of Hands and Legs beside Your own!
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What more cou'd You receive, or Heav'n bestow?
What more than This from Royal Bounty springs?
From Kings, or from the Ministers of Kings?
If young, abstemious at the varied Treat,
You dine, by Choice, on one plain Dish of Meat;
On one the grown Philosopher wou'd dine,
Were all the fabled Streams of Tagus thine.
To Fortune cou'd thy watry Iris turn,
Exchange her Marble for a Golden Urn;
Spout liquid Oar from subterraneous Beds;
Inform the melted Mines to curl their Heads;
Gild the smooth Surface of the glassy Plain;
The sandy Bottom pave with yellow Grain;
Flood the Cascade, obedient to thy Call;
Glare in each Break, and glisten in each Fall;
What cou'd She add, of Pleasure, or of Wealth;
More than You share? Sufficiency, and Health!
Either, that Gold the Pow'r cou'd never find,
To change the Nature of your temper'd Mind;
Or that this Precept, as your Faith, You own;
“To Virtue, ev'ry Good submits, alone.”
You dine, by Choice, on one plain Dish of Meat;
On one the grown Philosopher wou'd dine,
Were all the fabled Streams of Tagus thine.
To Fortune cou'd thy watry Iris turn,
Exchange her Marble for a Golden Urn;
Spout liquid Oar from subterraneous Beds;
Inform the melted Mines to curl their Heads;
Gild the smooth Surface of the glassy Plain;
The sandy Bottom pave with yellow Grain;
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Glare in each Break, and glisten in each Fall;
What cou'd She add, of Pleasure, or of Wealth;
More than You share? Sufficiency, and Health!
Either, that Gold the Pow'r cou'd never find,
To change the Nature of your temper'd Mind;
Or that this Precept, as your Faith, You own;
“To Virtue, ev'ry Good submits, alone.”
Shall learned Newton then our Wonder raise,
Who left his Studs and Herds at Large to graze?
What, tho' his Horses tore the springing Shoots;
What tho' his Heifers spoil'd the promis'd Fruits;
While his great Soul, intent on nobler Things,
Her earthly Limbs forsook for Heav'nly Wings?
Who left his Studs and Herds at Large to graze?
What, tho' his Horses tore the springing Shoots;
What tho' his Heifers spoil'd the promis'd Fruits;
While his great Soul, intent on nobler Things,
Her earthly Limbs forsook for Heav'nly Wings?
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Thus You, the Search of Knowledge to attend,
The Weight of Worldly Int'rest oft suspend.
Imbark'd, with Caution, in this sordid Age,
You in the Commerce, not the Guilt ingage.
Clean are your Hands from the contagious Stain,
The Itch of Lucre, and the Scurff of Gain.
You toil not to be Rich, but to be Wise;
Your Cares convey your Thoughts from Lands to Skies.
The vast Creation! The superior Cause!
You study; Natures Works! and Nature's Laws!
Whence, sprung the Light'ning? Whence, the Whirlwind rose?
The mighty Ocean, whence, it ebbs or flows?
If err the Planets by their proper Force,
Or if They move, prescrib'd, a destin'd Course?
What, turns the Seasons? What, renews the Year?
What, guides the Sun to mount or quit the Sphere?
What, veils the Moon? What, orbs her Face with Light?
What, clears the Day? And What, obscures the Night?
What Seeds of jarring Matter bind the Whole?
And what concording Discord forms the Soul?
Thro' virtuous Order! Revelated Will!
You range; Thro' Moral Good, and Moral Ill!
The Church, and Lay, You judge, on diff'rent Sides;
Preachers, Philosophers! Deceivers, Guides!
Discern, the Hell of Doubt, the Heav'n of Hope!
And know, who truly raves, Crousaz or Pope!
The Weight of Worldly Int'rest oft suspend.
Imbark'd, with Caution, in this sordid Age,
You in the Commerce, not the Guilt ingage.
Clean are your Hands from the contagious Stain,
The Itch of Lucre, and the Scurff of Gain.
You toil not to be Rich, but to be Wise;
Your Cares convey your Thoughts from Lands to Skies.
The vast Creation! The superior Cause!
You study; Natures Works! and Nature's Laws!
Whence, sprung the Light'ning? Whence, the Whirlwind rose?
The mighty Ocean, whence, it ebbs or flows?
If err the Planets by their proper Force,
Or if They move, prescrib'd, a destin'd Course?
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What, guides the Sun to mount or quit the Sphere?
What, veils the Moon? What, orbs her Face with Light?
What, clears the Day? And What, obscures the Night?
What Seeds of jarring Matter bind the Whole?
And what concording Discord forms the Soul?
Thro' virtuous Order! Revelated Will!
You range; Thro' Moral Good, and Moral Ill!
The Church, and Lay, You judge, on diff'rent Sides;
Preachers, Philosophers! Deceivers, Guides!
Discern, the Hell of Doubt, the Heav'n of Hope!
And know, who truly raves, Crousaz or Pope!
But how, or where, You live! Your Palate suit
Ven'son or Mutton! Brocoli or Fruit!
Or quite ingross the softer Joys of Life,
The healthy Offspring, and the lovely Wife!
Let This, my Sterling to your Care, commend,
And use Him, as I hold Him, for a Friend.
If Ought, with Pain, his Modesty requires;
Freely, or doubly answer his Desires.
Or, what would more become, his Wish prevent;
He will not ask You, what You can repent.
This, by the Way; I recommend, not press:
Yet cheap the Price of Virtue in Distress.
Store Friendship now, while Worth neglected lies,
He plays the good OEconomist that buys.
Ven'son or Mutton! Brocoli or Fruit!
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The healthy Offspring, and the lovely Wife!
Let This, my Sterling to your Care, commend,
And use Him, as I hold Him, for a Friend.
If Ought, with Pain, his Modesty requires;
Freely, or doubly answer his Desires.
Or, what would more become, his Wish prevent;
He will not ask You, what You can repent.
This, by the Way; I recommend, not press:
Yet cheap the Price of Virtue in Distress.
Store Friendship now, while Worth neglected lies,
He plays the good OEconomist that buys.
But wou'd You know, how War or Peaceprevails?
England, We hold, still balances the Scales.
Our Haddock triumphs on the Midland Main,
For all the boasted Armament of Spain;
Whose good Ally of France, our Neutral Foe,
Tho' well inclin'd, yet fears to strike the Blow.
Our Brittish CÆsar, dreaded from afar,
Remains sole Arbiter of Peace or War;
Whose thund'ring Navies, Masters of the Seas,
Demand the Spaniard, shorten'd by the Knees.
Already Faction quits his happier Isle;
Trade prides to flourish, Liberty to smile;
His golden Reign, while Plenty, to adorn,
Repletes from ev'ry Field her copious Horn.
England, We hold, still balances the Scales.
10
For all the boasted Armament of Spain;
Whose good Ally of France, our Neutral Foe,
Tho' well inclin'd, yet fears to strike the Blow.
Our Brittish CÆsar, dreaded from afar,
Remains sole Arbiter of Peace or War;
Whose thund'ring Navies, Masters of the Seas,
Demand the Spaniard, shorten'd by the Knees.
Already Faction quits his happier Isle;
Trade prides to flourish, Liberty to smile;
His golden Reign, while Plenty, to adorn,
Repletes from ev'ry Field her copious Horn.
FINIS.
11
ODES OF HORACE, Relating to the Twelfth Epistle.
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ODE VII. Book II.
To POMPEIUS GROSPHUS
Full oft, with Me, to Danger led!With Me, to Life's last Limit prest!
(While Brutus was our warlike Head)
Pompeius, my First Friend, and Best!
Full oft with Whom, Time stole away,
Our Heads while Syrian Odors crown'd!
With Whom, short seem'd the Length of Day,
While copious Bowls our Labors drown'd!
Say, Friend, what Pow'r, inclin'd to spare
A free-born Soul, averts thy Doom?
Gives Thee, to breath Paternal Air?
Restores Thee, to thy Native Rome?
With Thee, Philippi's horrid Flight
I shar'd, nor well forsook my Shield;
Yet not, till Warriors, fam'd in Fight,
Or bit the Ground, or left the Field.
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Veil'd, thro' the Foe, o'er Hills of Slain;
Thee, War's strong Tide drove back from Shore,
A-new to try, her troubled Main.
Restor'd; to Jove the Rites perform,
Rites, due for Vows of Safety made!
Thy Limbs, long beaten by the Storm,
Repose beneath my Laurel Shade!
These Casks, take, destin'd to thy Use!
Pour Oil from those capacious Shells!
Drink deep of my Oblivious Juice!
My Massic ev'ry Grief dispells!
Who hastes the Myrtle Wreath to twine?
What Venus flies to crown my Guest?
Appoints the Ruler of the Wine?
And names the Master of the Feast?
I long to rage, with Rapture, Glad;
Wild, as a Thracian, o'er his Bowl!
And hold it Wisdom, to be Mad;
At Sight of Him, that fills my Soul!
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ODE XVI. Book II.
To GROSPHUS.
In Storms when Clouds the Moon do hide,And no kind Stars the Pilot guide;
Show me at Sea the Boldest there
Who does not wish for Quiet here.
For Quiet, Friend, the Soldier fights,
Bears weary Marches, sleepless Nights.
For This, feeds hard, and lodges cold;
Which can't be bought with Hills of Gold.
Since Wealth and Pow'r too weak we find,
To quell the Tumults of the Mind;
Or from the Monarch's Roofs of State,
Drive thence the Cares that round him wait.
Happy the Man, with Little blest,
Of What his Father left possest;
No base Desires corrupt his Head,
No Fears disturb him in his Bed.
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Can all our vain Designs intend?
From Shore to Shore why shou'd We run,
When None his tiresome Self can shun?
For baneful Care will still prevail,
And overtake Us under Sail.
Will dodge the Great Man's Train behind;
Out-run the Roe, out-fly the Wind.
If then thy Soul rejoice To-day,
Drive far To-morrow's Cares away;
In Laughter let them all be drown'd:
No perfect Good is to be found.
One Mortal feels Fate's sudden Blow;
Another's ling'ring Death comes slow;
And What of Life They take from Thee,
The Gods may give to punish Me.
Thy Portion is a wealthy Stock,
A fertile Glebe; a fruitful Flock;
Horses and Chariots for thy Ease,
Rich Robes to deck and make Thee please.
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Fit for my Mind, fit for my Muse;
Which soft Content does best adorn,
Shunning the Knaves and Fools I scorn.
23
ODE XXIX. Book I.
To ICCIUS.
Iccius, to Arts and Letters bred!
You envy, Friend, the Ivory Bed;
And Hoard of blest Arabian Gold:
Once Student wise! Now Warrior bold!
You envy, Friend, the Ivory Bed;
And Hoard of blest Arabian Gold:
Once Student wise! Now Warrior bold!
Already seems perform'd the Deed;
Before You falls the horrid Mede!
The stern Sabæan quits the Field!
(Whose Kings are yet untaught to yield!)
Rais'd is the Pyre, to burn the Slain!
Wove, for the Captive Foe, the Chain!
Before You falls the horrid Mede!
The stern Sabæan quits the Field!
(Whose Kings are yet untaught to yield!)
Rais'd is the Pyre, to burn the Slain!
Wove, for the Captive Foe, the Chain!
What Courtly Youths, with fragrant Hair,
In Fancy, wait thy Bowl to bear;
Well skill'd the Seric Shaft to throw,
Dismiss'd from the Paternal Bow!
What Matrons of the Royal Train,
(Their Lords laid level on the Plain)
By Thee, in airy Triumph, led,
Adorn thy Board, and bless thy Bed!
In Fancy, wait thy Bowl to bear;
Well skill'd the Seric Shaft to throw,
Dismiss'd from the Paternal Bow!
What Matrons of the Royal Train,
(Their Lords laid level on the Plain)
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Adorn thy Board, and bless thy Bed!
For This, You quit your Stoic Friends,
Assembled once for nobler Ends!
Preserv'd with Care! Procur'd with Cost!
Your whole Socratic House is lost!
What will your Plato now afford,
Exchang'd to an Hesperian Sword?
What your Panetius now avail,
Converted to Iberian Mail?
Assembled once for nobler Ends!
Preserv'd with Care! Procur'd with Cost!
Your whole Socratic House is lost!
What will your Plato now afford,
Exchang'd to an Hesperian Sword?
What your Panetius now avail,
Converted to Iberian Mail?
Who, concious of this Change, denies,
Prone Rivers up steep Hills may rise?
And Tyber, turn'd, re-seek his Springs?
Lost Youth! That promis'd better Things!
Prone Rivers up steep Hills may rise?
And Tyber, turn'd, re-seek his Springs?
Lost Youth! That promis'd better Things!
FINIS.
| The Twelfth Epistle Of the First Book of Horace Imitated | |