 | 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.
| The Eighth and Ninth Epistles of the First Book of Horace Imitated | |