University of Virginia Library

MARTIAL'S EPIGRAMS.

The PREFACE.

Without formal Petition
Thus stands my Condition,
I am closely block'd up in a Garret,
Where I scribble and smoak,
And sadly invoke
The powerful assistance of CLARET.
Four Children and a Wife,
'Tis hard on my Life,
Beside my self and a Muse,
To be all cloath'd and fed,
Now the Times are so dead,
By my scribbling of Dogg'rel and News.
And what I shall do,
I'm a Wretch if I know,
So hard is the Fate of a Poet;
I must either turn Rogue,
Or, what's as bad Pedagogue,
And so drudge like a Thing that has no Wit.
My Levee's all Duns,
Attended by Bums,
And my Landlady too she's a Teazer,
At least four times a day
She warns me away,
And what can a Man do to please her?
Here's the Victualler and Vintner,
The Cook and the Printer
With their Myrmidons hovering about, Sir.
The Taylor and Draper,
With the Cur that sells Paper,
That in short I dare not stir out, Sir.
But my Books sure may go,
My Master Ovid's did so,
And tell how doleful the Case is;
If it don't move your Pity
To make short of my Ditty,
'Twill serve you to wipe your Arses.

Mart. Epig. 5. l. 2.

In some vile Hamlet let me live forgot,
Small Beer my Portion, and no Wine my lot:
To some worse Fiend in Church-Indentures bound,
Than ancient Job, or modern Sherlock found.
And with more Aches plagu'd, and Pains, and Ills;
Than fill our Salmon's Works, or Tilburgh's Bills;
If 'tis not still the burden of my Prayer
The Night with you, with you the Day to share.
But Sir, (and the Complaint you know is true)
Two damn'd long Miles there lie 'twixt me and you;
And these two Miles, by help of Calculation,
Make four, by that I've reach'd my Habitation.
You're near Sage Will's, the Land of Mirth and Claret;
I live stow'd up in a White-Chappel Garret:
Oft when I've walk'd so far, your Hands to kiss,
Flatter'd with Thoughts of the succeeding Bliss,
I'm told you're gone to the vexatious Hall,
Where with eternal Lungs the Lawyers bawl?
Or else stole out, some Female Friend to see;
Or, what's as bad, you're not at Home for me.
Two Miles I've at your service, and that's civil,
But to trudge four, and miss you, is the Devil.

Advice to a Vintner. Mart. Epig. 19. l. 1.

The Hint taken from Quid te Tucca juvat.

What Planet distracts thee, what damnable Star,
To dash honest Bourdeaux with vile Bar a Bar?
Why should innocent Claret be murder'd by Port,
Thou'lt surely be sentenc'd in Bacchus's Court.
As for us Drunken Rakes, if we hang, or we drown;
Or are decently poyson'd, what loss has the Town;
But to kill harmless Claret, that does so much Good,
Is downright Effusion of true Christian Blood:
Ne'er think what I tell you is matter of Laughter,
Thou'lt be curst fort in this World, and damn'd for't hereafter.

Mart. Epig. 23. l. 1.

An Imitation of an Epigram 44. in Mart. lib. 3.

That Cousins, Friends, and Strangers fly thee,
Nay, thy own Sister can't sit nigh thee;
That all Men thy Acquaintance shun,
And into Holes and Corners run,
Like Irish Beau from English Dun,
The Reason's plain, and if thou'd'st know it,
Thou'rt a most damn'd repeating Poet.
Not Bayliff sow'r, with horrid Beard,
Is more in poor Alsatia fear'd,
Since the stern Parliament of late
Has stript of ancient Rights their State:
Not Tygers, when their Whelps are missing;
Nor Serpents in the Sun-shine hissing;
Nor Snake in Tail that carries rattle;
Nor Fire, nor Plague, nor Blood, nor Battle,
Is half so dreaded by the Throng,
As thy vile persecuting Tongue.
If e'er the restless Clack that's in it
Gives thy Head leave to think a Minute,
Think what a Pennance we must bear
Thy damn'd Impertinence to hear.
Whether I stand, or run, or sit,
Thou still art i'th' repeating Fit;
Weary'd I seek a Nap to take,
But thy curst Muse keeps me awake.
At Church too, when the Organ's blowing,
Thy louder Pipe is still a going.
Nor Park, nor Bagnio's from thee free,
All Places are alike to thee.
Learn Wisdom once, at a Friend's instance,
From the two Fellows at St. Dunstan's;
Make not each Man thou meet'st a Martyr;
But strike like them but once a Quarter.

The 63d Epigram in Martial, Lib. 3.

Oh Jemmy you're a Beau: not I alone
Say this, but 'tis the talk of all the Town.
Prithee be free, and to thy Friend impart
What is a Beau—Ay Sir, with all my Heart.
He's one, who nicely curls and comb's his Hair,
And visits Sedgwick monthly all the Year:
Sings baudy Songs, and humms them, as along
Flanting he walks thro' the admiring Throng;
All the Day long fits with the charming Fair,
And whispers pretty Stories in their Ear.
Writes Billets doux; shuns all Men as he goes,
Lest their unhallow'd Touch shou'd dawb his Cloaths.
He knows your Mistress: Nay, at every Feast
He'll tell the Pedigree of every Guest.
Is this a Beau? Faith Jemmy, I'll be plain,
A Beau's a Bawble, destitute of Brain.

The Contented Whore.

An Imitation of Epig. 66. in Mar. l. 12.

An Imitation of Uxor vade foras. In Mart. l. ii. Ep. 105.

Mart. Epig. 61. l. 11.

To a Gentleman that cut off his Hair, and set up for a Spark in his old Age. Out of Martial. Epig. 43. lib. 3. Mentiris Juvenem, &c.

The Epigram in Martial L. Imitated.

When e'er I meet you, still you cry,
What shall I do with Bob, my Boy.
Since this Affair you'll have me treat on,
Ne'er send the Lad to Pauls or Eaton.
The Muses let him not confide in,
But leave those Jilts to Tate or Dryden.
If, with damn'd Rimes he racks his Wits,
Send him to Mevis or St. Kit's.
Wou'd you with wealth his Pockets store well,
Teach him to pimp, or hold a door well.
If he has a head not worth a Stiver,
Make him a Curate, or Hog-driver,

An Epigram out of Martial imitated Book 3. Epig. 54.

Sir Fopling, you're a Man of Fashion grown;
The most accomplish'd Blade in all the Town,
'Tis all the Ladies talk; but tell me this,
What a fine Man of Mode and Fashion is.
'Tis he that's all the Morning at the Glass,
To put each Curle in its most proper place,
And in affected Forms to set his Face,
That smells of Essence, and the best Perfume,
Which does from India or Arabia come.
That when one speaks (as if he did not hear)
Hums o'er some wanton Song, or modish Air;
That Legs and Arms in various Postures throws,
And seems to dance at every step he goes,
That sits among the Women in the Pit,
And that he may be thought a Man of Wit;
He Whispers to the next as to a Friend,
That in loud Laughter does his whispering End,
That reads and writes Love-Letters to and fro,
And does each Gallants Wench and Mistress know.
Who, tho' unbidden is a constant Guest,
At Ev'ry Mask, at ev'ry Treat, and Feast.
But sits in Pain for fear the next should stir,
And so displace his Dress or Garniture.
Who knows New-Market Breed, so well, that he
Can tell you Jack-a-Dandy's Pedigree;
And down from long Descent pretends to trace
The famous Swallows, or Fleet Dragon's Race.
How Sir, What's this you say; Is this Buffoon
Admir'd so for a Spark throughout the Town?
Believe me Sir, on Earth there cannot be
A more ridiculous trifling Thing than he.