Poems by the celebrated translator of Virgil's Aeneid Together with The Jordan, a poem in imitation of Spenser, by --- ---, Esq [i.e. Christopher Pitt] |
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A DIALOGUE BETWEEN A POET and his SERVANT.
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 | Poems by the celebrated translator of Virgil's Aeneid |  |
3
A DIALOGUE BETWEEN A POET and his SERVANT.
In Imitation of the Seventh Satire of the Second Book of HORACE.
S.
Sir—I've long waited in my Turn to have
One Word with you—but I'm your humble Slave.
One Word with you—but I'm your humble Slave.
P.
What Knave is that?—my Rascal?—
S.
Sir, 'tis I;
No Knave, nor Rascal; but your trusty Guy.
No Knave, nor Rascal; but your trusty Guy.
P.
Well—as your Wages still are due, I'll bear
Your damn'd Impertinence, at least this Year.
Your damn'd Impertinence, at least this Year.
4
Some Folks are drunk one Day, and some for ever,
And some like Wilmot, but twelve Years together.
Old Evremont, renown'd for Wit and Dirt,
Would change his Living oft'ner than his Shirt;
Roar with the Rakes of State a Month, and come
To starve, another, in his Hole at home.
So rov'd wild Buckingham, the public Jest,
Now some Innholder's, now a Monarch's Guest.
His Life and Politics of every shape;
This Hour a Roman, and the next an Ape.
The Gout in every Limb from every Vice,
Poor N---v---l hir'd a Boy to throw the Dice.
Some wench for ever, and their Sins on those
By Custom sit as easy as their Cloaths;
Some fly like Pendulums, from Good to Evil,
And in that Point are madder than the Devil.
For they—
And some like Wilmot, but twelve Years together.
Old Evremont, renown'd for Wit and Dirt,
Would change his Living oft'ner than his Shirt;
Roar with the Rakes of State a Month, and come
To starve, another, in his Hole at home.
So rov'd wild Buckingham, the public Jest,
Now some Innholder's, now a Monarch's Guest.
His Life and Politics of every shape;
This Hour a Roman, and the next an Ape.
The Gout in every Limb from every Vice,
Poor N---v---l hir'd a Boy to throw the Dice.
Some wench for ever, and their Sins on those
By Custom sit as easy as their Cloaths;
Some fly like Pendulums, from Good to Evil,
And in that Point are madder than the Devil.
For they—
P.
To what will these wise Maxims tend?
And where, sweet Sir, will your Reflections end?
And where, sweet Sir, will your Reflections end?
5
In you;—
P.
In me, you Knave?—make out your Charge;
S.
You praise low Living—but you live at large.
Perhaps you scarce believe the Rules you teach,
Or find it hard to practise what you preach.
Scarce have you paid one idle Journey down,
But without Business you're again in Town.
If none invite you, Sir, abroad to roam,
Then—Lord!—what Pleasure 'tis to read at home!
And sip your two Half-pints with strange Delight,
Of Beer at Noon, and muddled Port at Night.
From Encomb John comes thund'ring at the Door,
With—Sir—my Master begs you to ride o'er,
To pass the tedious Hours these Winter Nights—
Not that he dreads Invasions, Rogues, or Sprights!
Strait for your two best Wigs you loudly bawl,
This stiff in Buckle—that not curl'd at all.
And where the Devil are the Spurs? you cry;
And—Pox—what Blockhead laid the Buskins by?
On your old batter'd Mare you'll needs be gone,
(No Matter whether on four Legs or none)
Splash, plunge, and stumble, as you scour the Heath;
All swear at Morden, 'tis on Life and Death.
As fierce through Wareham Streets you scamper on,
Raise all the Dogs and Voters in the Town,
Then fly for six long Miles through Roads as bad,
That Corfe and Kingston Gentry think you mad;
And all this furious Riding is to prove
Your high Respect, it seems, and eager Love;
And yet that mighty Honour to obtain,
Banks, Sh---s---ry, D---d---n, may send in vain.
Before you go we curse the Noise you make,
But bless the Moment when you turn your Back.
Mean-time your Flock, depriv'd of heav'nly Food,
(As we of carnal) starve, and stray abroad;
Left to your Care by Providence in vain—
You leave them all to Providence again.
As for myself—I own it to your Face,
I love good Eating—and I take my Glass.
But sure, 'tis strange, Sir, that one thing should be,
In you Amusement, but a Crime in me.
All this is bare refining on a Name,
To make a Difference, where the Fault's the same.
My Father sold me to your Service here,
For this fine Livery and four Pounds a Year,
A Livery you should wear as well as I;
And this I'll prove—but lay your Cudgel by;
You serve your Passions—Thus, without a Jest,
Both are but Fellow-servants at the best.
Your-self, good Sir, are play'd by your Desires,
A meer tall Puppet dancing on the Wires.
Perhaps you scarce believe the Rules you teach,
Or find it hard to practise what you preach.
Scarce have you paid one idle Journey down,
But without Business you're again in Town.
If none invite you, Sir, abroad to roam,
Then—Lord!—what Pleasure 'tis to read at home!
And sip your two Half-pints with strange Delight,
Of Beer at Noon, and muddled Port at Night.
From Encomb John comes thund'ring at the Door,
With—Sir—my Master begs you to ride o'er,
To pass the tedious Hours these Winter Nights—
Not that he dreads Invasions, Rogues, or Sprights!
Strait for your two best Wigs you loudly bawl,
This stiff in Buckle—that not curl'd at all.
And where the Devil are the Spurs? you cry;
And—Pox—what Blockhead laid the Buskins by?
6
(No Matter whether on four Legs or none)
Splash, plunge, and stumble, as you scour the Heath;
All swear at Morden, 'tis on Life and Death.
As fierce through Wareham Streets you scamper on,
Raise all the Dogs and Voters in the Town,
Then fly for six long Miles through Roads as bad,
That Corfe and Kingston Gentry think you mad;
And all this furious Riding is to prove
Your high Respect, it seems, and eager Love;
And yet that mighty Honour to obtain,
Banks, Sh---s---ry, D---d---n, may send in vain.
Before you go we curse the Noise you make,
But bless the Moment when you turn your Back.
Mean-time your Flock, depriv'd of heav'nly Food,
(As we of carnal) starve, and stray abroad;
Left to your Care by Providence in vain—
You leave them all to Providence again.
7
I love good Eating—and I take my Glass.
But sure, 'tis strange, Sir, that one thing should be,
In you Amusement, but a Crime in me.
All this is bare refining on a Name,
To make a Difference, where the Fault's the same.
My Father sold me to your Service here,
For this fine Livery and four Pounds a Year,
A Livery you should wear as well as I;
And this I'll prove—but lay your Cudgel by;
You serve your Passions—Thus, without a Jest,
Both are but Fellow-servants at the best.
Your-self, good Sir, are play'd by your Desires,
A meer tall Puppet dancing on the Wires.
P.
Who at this Rate of talking can be free?
S.
The brave, wise, honest Man; and only he.
All else are Slaves alike, the World around,
Kings on the Throne, or Beggars on the Ground;
He, Sir, is Proof to Grandeur, Pride, or Pelf,
And greater still, the Master of himself.
Not to and fro by Fears and Factions hurl'd,
But loose to all the Interests of the World;
And while that World runs round, entire and whole,
He keeps the sacred Tenor of his Soul:
In every Turn of Fortune still the same,
Like Gold, unchang'd, or brighter than the Flame:
Collected in himself, with god-like Pride,
He sees the Darts of Envy glance aside,
And fix'd like Atlas, while the Tempests blow,
Smiles at the idle Storm that roars below.
One such you know—a Layman—to your Shame;—
And yet the Honour of your Blood and Name.
If you can such a Character sustain,
You too are free, and I your Slave again.
But when in Brun's feign'd Battles you delight,
More than myself to see two Drunkards fight,
Fool, Rogue, Sot, Blockhead—and such Names are mine;
Your's are a Connoisseur, or deep Divine.
I'm chid for loving a luxurious Bit,
The sacred Prize of Learning, Worth, and Wit!
And yet some sell their Lands, these Bits to buy,
Then pray—who suffers most from Luxury?
I'm chid, 'tis true, but then I pawn no Plate;
I sell no Bonds, I mortgage no Estate.
Besides, high-living, Sir, must wear you out,
With Surfeits, Qualms, a Fever, or the Gout.
By some new Pleasures are you still engross'd,
And when you save an Hour, you think it lost.
To Sports, Plays, Races, from your Books you run,
And like all Company, except your own.
You hunt, drink, sleep, and (idler still) you rhyme;
Why—but to banish Thought, and murder Time?
And yet that Thought, which you discharge in vain,
Like a foul loaded Piece recoils again.
All else are Slaves alike, the World around,
Kings on the Throne, or Beggars on the Ground;
8
And greater still, the Master of himself.
Not to and fro by Fears and Factions hurl'd,
But loose to all the Interests of the World;
And while that World runs round, entire and whole,
He keeps the sacred Tenor of his Soul:
In every Turn of Fortune still the same,
Like Gold, unchang'd, or brighter than the Flame:
Collected in himself, with god-like Pride,
He sees the Darts of Envy glance aside,
And fix'd like Atlas, while the Tempests blow,
Smiles at the idle Storm that roars below.
One such you know—a Layman—to your Shame;—
And yet the Honour of your Blood and Name.
If you can such a Character sustain,
You too are free, and I your Slave again.
But when in Brun's feign'd Battles you delight,
More than myself to see two Drunkards fight,
9
Your's are a Connoisseur, or deep Divine.
I'm chid for loving a luxurious Bit,
The sacred Prize of Learning, Worth, and Wit!
And yet some sell their Lands, these Bits to buy,
Then pray—who suffers most from Luxury?
I'm chid, 'tis true, but then I pawn no Plate;
I sell no Bonds, I mortgage no Estate.
Besides, high-living, Sir, must wear you out,
With Surfeits, Qualms, a Fever, or the Gout.
By some new Pleasures are you still engross'd,
And when you save an Hour, you think it lost.
To Sports, Plays, Races, from your Books you run,
And like all Company, except your own.
You hunt, drink, sleep, and (idler still) you rhyme;
Why—but to banish Thought, and murder Time?
And yet that Thought, which you discharge in vain,
Like a foul loaded Piece recoils again.
10
Tom, fetch a Cane, a Whip, a Club, a Stone,—
S.
For what?—
P.
A Sword, a Pistol, or a Gun;—
I'll shoot the Dog.—
I'll shoot the Dog.—
S.
Lord! who would be a Wit?
He's in a mad, or else a rhyming Fit.
He's in a mad, or else a rhyming Fit.
P.
Fly fly, you Rascal, for your Spade, or Fork,
For once I'll set your lazy Bones to work;
Fly—or I'll send you back without a Groat,
To the bleak Mountains where you first were caught.
For once I'll set your lazy Bones to work;
Fly—or I'll send you back without a Groat,
To the bleak Mountains where you first were caught.
| Poems by the celebrated translator of Virgil's Aeneid | |