 | The Eighth and Ninth Epistles of the First Book of Horace Imitated |  |
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THE EIGHTH EPISTLE OF THE First Book of Horace Imitated.
To CELSUS.
Muse, thrice invok'd, to Celsus speed the Verse,
Third of the Corps that bows the Sword to Pierce.
May Pleasure and Success his Course attend;
All, that in Love He sent, in Love I send.
Demand He, how or where I spend my Time?
Busied with Men, or Books? In Prose, or Rhyme?
Say, threat'ning high from Earth to raise my Wings,
In pleasing Search of profitable Things;
Yet tardy to pursue the promis'd Flight,
And living, nor agreeable, nor right.
Not, that the Frowns of Fortune give me Pain,
Tho' Men of Wordly View may think I feign:
What They her Cruelties, her Sports I call,
Prepar'd, for What befell, or may befall.
Not, that the Wintry Waves o'erflow my Mounds,
And wash to barren Sands my fruitful Grounds;
Not, that my Sheep in Foreign Fields decrease,
While scarce the tainted Flock supplies a Fleece;
Not, that ev'n This the Hand of Pow'r impairs,
Brittania wasting what Contagion spares;
Not, that the Irish Swain retards his Rent,
Or that the Sun has scorch'd my Hops in Kent.
To sicken at the Loss, my Heart disdains,
While yet a neat Sufficiency remains.
Third of the Corps that bows the Sword to Pierce.
May Pleasure and Success his Course attend;
All, that in Love He sent, in Love I send.
Demand He, how or where I spend my Time?
Busied with Men, or Books? In Prose, or Rhyme?
Say, threat'ning high from Earth to raise my Wings,
In pleasing Search of profitable Things;
Yet tardy to pursue the promis'd Flight,
And living, nor agreeable, nor right.
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Tho' Men of Wordly View may think I feign:
What They her Cruelties, her Sports I call,
Prepar'd, for What befell, or may befall.
Not, that the Wintry Waves o'erflow my Mounds,
And wash to barren Sands my fruitful Grounds;
Not, that my Sheep in Foreign Fields decrease,
While scarce the tainted Flock supplies a Fleece;
Not, that ev'n This the Hand of Pow'r impairs,
Brittania wasting what Contagion spares;
Not, that the Irish Swain retards his Rent,
Or that the Sun has scorch'd my Hops in Kent.
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While yet a neat Sufficiency remains.
No! 'Tis not This, that causes my Distress;
More cou'd I spend? Yet cou'd I live on Less.
Tis, that an Ill I feel, nor know the Name,
My Soul that burthens, and unnerves my Frame;
'Tis, that no Bliss sincere in Life I find,
Less indispos'd of Body than of Mind.
'Tis, that no Cure I seek, no Council hear,
At once, as obstinate of Taste as Ear.
Tis, that on What must hurt, perverse I run,
And, cautious, What I know must profit, shun.
Tis, that my best Physicians but displease,
They, that wou'd ease, or that I think cou'd ease;
Alike, disgust my Philosophic Friends,
Hollins inrages, Shaftsbury offends;
Because this Sleep of Death they wou'd controul,
This Sloth of Limb, and Lethargy of Soul.
Tis, that less steady than the varying Fane,
That turns to ev'ry Blast, and turns again;
At London, woody Sandlyn fills my Sight,
Her Hill, I hold, the true Parnassian Hight;
At Sandlyn, polish'd London hits my Taste,
I hold the Muse, in Solitude misplac'd.
More cou'd I spend? Yet cou'd I live on Less.
Tis, that an Ill I feel, nor know the Name,
My Soul that burthens, and unnerves my Frame;
'Tis, that no Bliss sincere in Life I find,
Less indispos'd of Body than of Mind.
'Tis, that no Cure I seek, no Council hear,
At once, as obstinate of Taste as Ear.
Tis, that on What must hurt, perverse I run,
And, cautious, What I know must profit, shun.
Tis, that my best Physicians but displease,
They, that wou'd ease, or that I think cou'd ease;
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Hollins inrages, Shaftsbury offends;
Because this Sleep of Death they wou'd controul,
This Sloth of Limb, and Lethargy of Soul.
Tis, that less steady than the varying Fane,
That turns to ev'ry Blast, and turns again;
At London, woody Sandlyn fills my Sight,
Her Hill, I hold, the true Parnassian Hight;
At Sandlyn, polish'd London hits my Taste,
I hold the Muse, in Solitude misplac'd.
Thus to our Friend. Expose without Disguise
This Vice, and praise his Virtue, if He flies.
Then of his Health, and of his Life inquire;
To What, submit his Views, to What aspire?
Ask, ruling Others, how Himself He rules;
(Laws ill-observ'd in Military Schools!)
From Those above, how bears He the Command;
How gives to Those that yet below Him stand?
If by his Friends, if by his Foes allow'd,
In Wealth more Liberal, and in Pow'r less Proud?
Shou'd He reply? “That all goes smooth and round.”
Tell Him, my Heart feels Transport at the Sound.
Then mind to drop this Precept in his Ear;
Instill it, Word by Word, that he may hear.
Within our Pow'r it lies, whate'er our Fate,
To gain the Love of Others, or the Hate.
For all the World, or all that We should prize,
The Brave, the Good, the Generous, and the Wise,
Will scorn to rob the Modest of his Fame,
Or sound the Praise the Confident may claim,
But sharply censure, or humanely spare,
And bear Us, just, as We, our Fortune, bear.
This Vice, and praise his Virtue, if He flies.
Then of his Health, and of his Life inquire;
To What, submit his Views, to What aspire?
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(Laws ill-observ'd in Military Schools!)
From Those above, how bears He the Command;
How gives to Those that yet below Him stand?
If by his Friends, if by his Foes allow'd,
In Wealth more Liberal, and in Pow'r less Proud?
Shou'd He reply? “That all goes smooth and round.”
Tell Him, my Heart feels Transport at the Sound.
Then mind to drop this Precept in his Ear;
Instill it, Word by Word, that he may hear.
Within our Pow'r it lies, whate'er our Fate,
To gain the Love of Others, or the Hate.
For all the World, or all that We should prize,
The Brave, the Good, the Generous, and the Wise,
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Or sound the Praise the Confident may claim,
But sharply censure, or humanely spare,
And bear Us, just, as We, our Fortune, bear.
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THE NINTH EPISTLE OF THE First Book of HORACE Imitated.
To the Right Honourable
EDWARD WALPOLE, Esq;
Candler has found, (and, doubtless, He alone)
How much You value Me, how long have known!
Hence, when He-prays, He forces Me, to write,
And try to place Him in your Trust and Sight.
For so He prays, by all the Ties of Youth,
He forces Me to add, and add with Truth;
‘That He is One, whom, try'd, You must approve,
‘Hold worthy your Esteem, if not your Love;
‘The Kind of Man to suit You and attend:’
For 'tis the Man of Merit You befriend.
How much You value Me, how long have known!
Hence, when He-prays, He forces Me, to write,
And try to place Him in your Trust and Sight.
For so He prays, by all the Ties of Youth,
He forces Me to add, and add with Truth;
‘That He is One, whom, try'd, You must approve,
‘Hold worthy your Esteem, if not your Love;
‘The Kind of Man to suit You and attend:’
For 'tis the Man of Merit You befriend.
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But when He holds it, as a Point most clear,
That I, the first in Grace, possess your Ear;
And that the Influence of a single Line,
From Me to You, wou'd crown his whole Design:
How much below the Value must He rate
Your Judgment, my Repute above the Weight?
But This, (so strong his Faith!) He sees, and knows,
Better than I. 'Tis Folly to oppose.
Sure of his Project, till the Glass be flown,
The Chymist schemes his Philosophic Stone.
That I, the first in Grace, possess your Ear;
And that the Influence of a single Line,
From Me to You, wou'd crown his whole Design:
How much below the Value must He rate
Your Judgment, my Repute above the Weight?
But This, (so strong his Faith!) He sees, and knows,
Better than I. 'Tis Folly to oppose.
Sure of his Project, till the Glass be flown,
The Chymist schemes his Philosophic Stone.
His fond Credulity to disabuse
What urg'd I not? But Nothing to excuse.
Our Friends too thought, and think it to this Hour,
My Will, to serve Him, weaker than my Pow'r.
A selfish Wretch, that plans a separate Scheme,
(What, tho' I scorn to be, I fear to seem!)
That feigns, his Foes are many, Friends but few,
Yet holds some profitable Place in View!
That saves his Int'rest, least it should be blown,
In no Man's Service hearty, but his own!
What urg'd I not? But Nothing to excuse.
Our Friends too thought, and think it to this Hour,
My Will, to serve Him, weaker than my Pow'r.
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(What, tho' I scorn to be, I fear to seem!)
That feigns, his Foes are many, Friends but few,
Yet holds some profitable Place in View!
That saves his Int'rest, least it should be blown,
In no Man's Service hearty, but his own!
Walpole, for This improperly I press;
To scape a greater Scandal seek a less.
Such as I am, determin'd to appear,
To You impertinent, to Him sincere.
Prepar'd your full Refusal to support
With Face as steady, as if train'd at Court.
Where, daily the Repuls'd renews his Claim,
He that has Worth! And He that has no Shame!
Alike solicitous for Post or Place,
From Right of Service, or from Want of Grace!
But if You cou'd excuse, tho' not commend,
All Modesty thrown off to please a Friend;
High in the Roll of Chaplains write his Name:
An easy Competence is all his Aim.
A Layman, He was Honest, and was Brave;
The Church-man neither seeks to waste, nor save.
To call Him, Learn'd as Modest, is the Lest;
The Man has Nothing in Him of the Priest.
To scape a greater Scandal seek a less.
Such as I am, determin'd to appear,
To You impertinent, to Him sincere.
Prepar'd your full Refusal to support
With Face as steady, as if train'd at Court.
Where, daily the Repuls'd renews his Claim,
He that has Worth! And He that has no Shame!
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From Right of Service, or from Want of Grace!
But if You cou'd excuse, tho' not commend,
All Modesty thrown off to please a Friend;
High in the Roll of Chaplains write his Name:
An easy Competence is all his Aim.
A Layman, He was Honest, and was Brave;
The Church-man neither seeks to waste, nor save.
To call Him, Learn'd as Modest, is the Lest;
The Man has Nothing in Him of the Priest.
FINIS.
| The Eighth and Ninth Epistles of the First Book of Horace Imitated | |