The Odes, Satyrs, and Epistles of Horace Done into English. Selections. English. 1688. Horace. 1684 Approx. 580 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 205 1-bit group-IV TIFF page images. Text Creation Partnership, Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) : 2006-02 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1). A44471 Wing H2774A ESTC R216475 99828206 99828206 32633

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 Early English books online. (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A44471) Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 32633) Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 1949:2) The Odes, Satyrs, and Epistles of Horace Done into English. Selections. English. 1688. Horace. Creech, Thomas, 1659-1700. [16], 183, [1], 369-432, 449-480, 465-570, [4] p., [2] plates printed for Jacob Tonson, and sold by Tim. Goodwin at the Maiden-head against St. Dunstans Church in Fleetstreet, London : 1684. "To the very much esteemed John Dryden, Esq." signed by the translator, Thomas Creech. Text continuous despite pagination. With two final advertisment leaves (for Jacob Tonson) at end. A variant has an engraving of two figures and a winged child on the verso of A, and pagination: [14], 183, [1], 369-432, 449-570 p.; the text is the same. Reproduction of the original in the Bodleian Library.

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 eng Latin poetry -- Translations into English -- Early works to 1800. 2005-07 Assigned for keying and markup 2005-08 Keyed and coded from ProQuest page images 2005-10 Sampled and proofread 2005-10 Text and markup reviewed and edited 2006-01 Batch review (QC) and XML conversion

Non uſitatâ nec tenui ferar Pennâ biformis per liquidum aethere Vates M Burghers delin. et ſculp.

THE ODES, SATYRS, AND EPISTLES OF HORACE.

Done into Engliſh.

Qui cupit optatam Curſu contingere metam, Multa Tulit fecitque Puer:—

LONDON, Printed for Jacob Tonſon, and Sold by Tim. Goodwin at the Maiden-head againſt St. Dunſtans Church in Fleetſtreet, 1684.

To the very much Eſteemed JOHN DRYDEN, Eſq.

'TIs pretended by every one that chooſeth a Patron, that either the Worth or good Nature of the Perſon hath determined him to that choice; He profeſſeth that He hath very mean thoughts of his own performance, and ſo ſtands in need of a Protector: He begs a Name whoſe Luſter might ſhed ſome Reputation on his Work, or elſe hath been oblig'd, and bound in gratitude to make this publick acknowledgment of the goodneſs of the Man. How eminently. You Sir, are endow'd with the firſt qualification of a Patron every one knows too well to need information; and where can this trifle find a Corner that hath not been fill'd with Mr. Dryden's name? 'Tis You, Sir, that have advanc'd our Dramatick to its height, and ſhow'd that Epick Poetry is not confin'd to Italy and Greece: That You are honored by the beſt, and envy'd by others, proclaims Excellency and Worth; For True Honor is built only upon perfection And Envy, as it is as ſharp ſighted, ſo 'tis as ſoaring as an Eagle, and who ever ſaw it ſtoop at a Sparrow or a Wren? And that Candor and Goodneſs have the greateſt ſhare in your Compoſition, I dare appeal to every one whom You have any way honored with your Converſation; Theſe ſo fill your Mind, that there is no room left for Pride, or any diſobliging quality: This appears from the Encouragement You are ready to give any tolerable attempts, and reach out a helping hand to all thoſe who endeavour to climb that height where You are already ſeated: E'en this own̄ its completion to thoſe ſmiles which You condeſcended to beſtow upon ſome parts of it, and now ventures to appear a ſecond time where at firſt it found a favourable Entertainment: 'Tis Horace, Sir, whom You have thought worthy your Study and Imitation, that flys to You for Protection, and perhaps will beg it againſt the Injuries I my ſelf have done him; You Sir are beſt acquainted with the difficulties of the Undertaking, can moſt eaſily diſcover, and as eaſily pardon the defects of

SIR, Your moſt Obliged Humble Servant, Thomas Creech. Oxon. All Souls Coll. May 25th. 1684.
Preface.

QUintilian in the Firſt Book of his Inſtitutions inſtructs the Young Orator what to read, and after Homer and Virgil are chiefly commended to his Study; He tells him, That conſiderable improvement may be made from the Lyrick Poets, but there is great Care to be taken in the choice, ſome ſelect parts only out of each Author to be permitted Youths: And he ſays particularly of Horace, That He would not have all in Him interpreted: What He means by Interpretation, is evident to every one that underſtands the Extent of the word, and the Antients Method of inſtructing: and why this Caution is reſtrain'd to the Odes, and not apply'd to the Satyrs as well, ſince the reaſon upon which He fixes it ſeems common to both must be taken from the deſign and ſubject matter of the Poems; To deſcribe and reform a vitious man, neceſſarily requires ſome expreſsions which an Ode can never want: The Paint which an Artiſt uſes muſt be agreeable to the Piece which He deſigns; Satyr is to inſtruct, and that ſuppoſeth a knowledge and diſcovery of the Crime; Whilst Odes are made only to delight and pleaſe, and therefore every thing in them that justly offends is unpardonable. In our Common Schools this Rule of Quintilian is grievouſly neglected, all is permitted to every Eye, and laid open to the dullest ſight by the most ſhameful Notes that can be pen'd: You may ſee a Grammarian with a demure mouth cry out, O Foedum! at a looſe expreſsion, and yet preſently fill a Page with a more fulſom explication; and the deſign of all his pains is only to indulge a petulant Humor, or aſsist the lazy Ignorance of the common Inſtructors of our Youth: If any ſhould reckon this amongſt the conſiderable Cauſes of the Corruptions of our Manners, certainly all thoſe would aſſent, who ſee that a Stream will be foul when the Fountain it ſelf is muddy: Nor is this a ſingle opinion, as is evident from their happy induſtry, who have corrected ſome of our Authors, and ſent them abroad naked, and uncorrupted with forreign Notes; This Method as it ſpares the Modeſty of the Youth, ſo it must be a conſiderable improvement to his Parts, ſince his Mind and Memory, and not only his Eye must be employ'd: I am bound thankfully to acknowledg the Pious Care of Mr. Thomas Curganven, now of Shirburn in Dorſetſhire, in this matter, He did not want, or if he had, His Vertue and Induſtry had contemn'd, ſuch helps, having ſearcht into the Secrets of the Claſsicks, and being an excellent Example of unweary'd Diligence, and regular Carriage to All under his Tuition: To his Inſtruction I owe what at preſent I underſtand of theſe Books, and to his Rules my hopes of future Attainments: The ſame Principles made me Cautious of ſome Odes, tho I have past by three more upon a different account.

This juſt debt being paid to my Honored Inſtructer, the part that concerns my ſelf, Reader, will give Thee little trouble: I cannot chooſe but ſmile now and then to think that I who have not Muſick enough to underſtand one Note, and too little ill Nature (for that is commonly thought a neceſſary ingredient) to be a Satyrist, ſhould venture upon Horace: 'Tis certain our Language is not Capable of the numbers of the Poet, and therefore if the Senſe of the Author is deliver'd, the variety of Expreſsion kept, (which I must deſpair of after Quintilian hath aſſur'd us that he is moſt happily bold in his words) and his Fancy not debas'd, (for I cannot think my ſelf able to improve Horace) 'tis all that can be expected from a Verſion; This the Admirable Cowly conſider'd when he undertook Pindar, and hath drawn a ſhort and full Apology for the like undertakings: We muſt conſider, ſays He, the great difference of time betwixt his Age, and ours: which changes, as in Pictures, at leaſt the Colors of Poetry; the no leſs difference betwixt the Religions and Cuſtoms of our Countrys, a Thouſand particularities of Places, Perſons and Manners, which do but confuſedly appear to our Eyes at this diſtance; and laſtly (which were enough alone for my purpoſe) we muſt conſider that our Ears are Strangers to the Muſick of his numbers, which ſometimes, (eſpecially in Songs and Odes) almoſt without any thing elſe makes an excellent Poet: 'Tis true he improves this conſideration, and urges it as concluding againſt all ſtrict and faithful verſions; in which I must beg leave to diſſent, thinking it better to convey down the Learning of the Antients, than their empty ſound ſuited to the preſent times, and ſhow the Age their whole ſubstance, rather than their thin Ghost imbody'd with ſome light Air of my own:

As for ill Nature, Horace requires none, nay diſclaims it in a Satyrist; his ſharpest touches, if we believe both himſelf, and thoſe that best understood him, are innocent Waggery, admiſſus circum praecordia ludit, He endeavours to laugh men out of their Vices, and doth not lance or cauterize the ſores, but tickles till He heals; and how much this method ſurpaſſes the rougher handling, every one may imagine who knows that 'tis more grievous to any man to be Ridicul'd than beaten; and who is there that would not rather appear in Company with a black Eye, than a ſmutted Face? Some few advis'd me to turn the Satyrs to our own Times, they ſaid that Rome was now rivall'd in her Vices, and Parallels for Hypocriſie, Profaneneſs, Avarice and the like were eaſie to be found; But thoſe Crimes are much out of my acquaintance, and ſince the Character is the ſame whoever the Perſon is, I am not ſo fond of being hated as to make any diſobliging applications: Such pains would look like an impertinent labor to find a dunghill, only that I might ſatisfy an unaccountable humor of dirting one Man's Face, and beſpattering another: Some have taken this way, and the ill-Nature of the World hath conſpir'd to think their rudeneſs Wit; All their ſmartneſs proceeds from a ſharp Humor in their Body, which falls into their Pen, and if it drops upon a Man's Reputation that is as bright and ſolid as poliſht Steel, it ſullys it preſently, and eats thro. Such are never lov'd, or prais'd, but ſhun'd and fear'd, like Mad-Dogs, for their Teeth and Foam; and are excellently repreſented by Luca's Baſilisk,

Who drives all other Serpents from the Plains, And all alone in the vaſt Deſart reigns.

What I have borrow'd from others, if ever I have ſtock enough, I will honeſtly endeavour to repay; But the debt which I have contracted from my Lord Roſcommon is ſo vast, that I ſhall never be able to diſcharge; To his admirable Verſion I must gratefully acknowledge, That I owe the ſence, and the beſt lines in the Art of Poetry.
THE ODES OF HORACE.
The Firſt Book.
ODE I. To MECAENAS. Several Men have ſeveral Delights, Lyrick Poetry is his. MECAENAS born of Royal Blood, My joy, my guard, and ſweeteſt good; Some love with rapid wheels to raiſe Olympian duſt, and gather praiſe; Where Races won, and Palms beſtow'd, Do lift a King into a God: And ſome in high Commands are proud, That great preferment of the Crowd; Blown by their breath the Bubble flies Gaz'd at a while; then breaks and dies: Another ploughs his Fathers Fields, His Barn holds all that Lybia yields; And hopes of Wealth and Worlds of Gain, Shall never tempt him from the Plain; Or draw his fearful Soul to ride In feeble Ships, and ſtem the Tide: The Merchants toſt in angry Seas, That praiſe their fields, and quiet eaſe, Yet rigg their tatter'd Ships once more, Untaught, unable to be poor: Some underneath a Myrtle ſhade, Or by ſmooth Springs ſupinely laid, With Mirth, and Wine, and wanton Play, Contract the buſineſs of the Day: Shrill Trumpet's ſounds and noiſy Wars, That Mothers hate, pleaſe other Ears: The Hunter doth his eaſe forgoe, He lies abroad in Froſt, in Snow; He ſoon forgets his pleaſing Wife, And all the ſoft delights of Life, Whilſt faithful Hounds a Deer purſue, Or have a raging Bore in view: The purling ſtreams and ſhady grove The Nymphs and Satyrs dance, and Love, Green Ivy Crowns that only ſpread Freſh Honors round a learned head, Shall raiſe my Name above the Crowd, And lift me up into a God; If Muſes kind ſhall ſtring my Lyre, Or Tune my Pipe, and heats inſpire: If You, my Lord, approve my vein, And count me 'mongſt the Lyrick train, Secure from Death I'le proudly riſe And hide my head in lofty Skies.
ODE II. To AUGUSTUS. Rome hath ſmarted for killing Caeſar, and all their Hopes are in Auguſtus. ENough of Thunder, mighty Jove, Enough thy flaming Arm has thrown, Enough hath torn the ſacred Grove, Enough amaz'd the frighted Town: Leſt Purrha's age return'd they fear'd Strange Age, when from the former floods Old Proteus drove his ſcaly Herd To viſit Hills, and glide in Woods: The Fiſhes hung on lofty boughs, Thoſe Seats well known to Doves before, The ſpreading Waves ſnatcht trembling Does, They ſwam, and look't in vain for ſhore. We ſaw ſwoln Tiber backward flow, And from the Tuſcan waves retire; The Monuments of Kings o'rethrow, And hiſs in Veſta's ſacred fire: Whilſt He too too Uxorious flood Swoln big with fury cuts along The left-hand banks, though Jove withſtood, To right Complaining Ilia's wrong. The Youth ſhall hear that impious ſteel Againſt our ſelves we madly drew, Which better haughty Medes ſhould feel, The Youth our faults have left but few. What God to prop the falling State Shall we invoke with earneſt Prayers? How ſhall our Virgins ſoften fate, And weary Veſta's deafned Ears? And whom to expiate Caeſar's blood Will Jove appoint? Apollo come, O're thy bright ſhoulders caſt a cloud, And kindly ſuccour guilty Rome. Or Venus fair, whom Joys attend, Whom Youth flies round, and ſmiling Grace; Or Father Mars at laſt deſcend, And pity thy decaying Race. Oh long, too long thy fierce delight Hath glutted Thee, whom Wars do pleaſe With Darts and Spears, and ſtern in fight The frightful Moors unlearn'd in eaſe. Or whether chang'd to Mortal Eys You ſeem a Youth, Kind winged God, Nor doſt the friendly name deſpiſe Of the Avenger of our Caeſar's blood. Oh Late may You return to Jove, May quiet Days extend thy reign, Nor vext at Us in haſt remove To viſit happy ſeats again. Our Empires Father, Prince, and Guide, In Triumphs live; Nor let the Medes Proud in our Spoyls, unpuniſht ride Whilſt Mighty Caeſar bravely leads.
ODE III. To VIRGIL, Taking a Voyage to Athens. SO may kind Venus guide thy Sails, So Helen's Brothers ſhining Stars, Secure thee from thy fears: So Eol looſe the Southern gales, And all the other Winds controul; As Thou doſt waft my Virgil o're, And land him on the Attick ſhore; Preſerving half my Soul. His Heart was Braſs, who firſt did dare In feeble Ships to ſtem the Seas, Who weeping Hyades And Monſters ſaw, nor ſtoop't to bear. Who ſaw the headlong Whirlwinds fight, And South-winds rage, that beſt can raiſe Or ſmooth the Adriatick Seas, Nor dy'd at ſuch a ſight. What Face of Death can move his fears, That ſaw with an undaunted Eye Vaſt Rocks and Waves as high: And could reſtrain his flowing tears? In vain the Gods deſignd, in vain, In vain they did the Lands divide By an unfriendly Tide, If impious Ships can croſs the Main. Man forc't by an imperious Will, Do's make all haſt to be undone, And very eagerly ruſh on To court forbidden Ill. Prometheus brought Celeſtial fire, Which firſt by wicked Arts He ſtole, To give his Clay a Soul, And kindle this abſurd deſire. But Vengeance ſoon purſu'd deceit, For thence began an unknown diſeaſe, Thence cruel Feavers firſt did ſeize, And took their fatal Heat. Then lazy Death did mend her pace, Our Life contracted to a ſpan, Death came in haſt on Man, And ſtopt his yet unfiniſht race. With Wings which Nature's Laws deny, Firſt Doedalus did boldly dare To beat the Empty Air, And wander thro the liquid Sky. Thro Hell the fierce Alcides ran, He ſcorn'd the ſtubborn chains of Fate, And rudely broke the Brazen Gate; Nought is too hard for Man. Grown Giants in Impiety, Our Impious folly dares the Sky, We dare aſſault Jove's glorious Throne, Nor, ſtill averſe to his command, Will we permit his lifted Hand To lay his Thunder down.
ODE IV. He adviſeth his Friend to live merrily. SHarp Winter Melts, Favonius ſpreads his wing, A pleaſing change, and bears the Spring: Dry Ships drawn down from ſtocks now plow the Main, And ſpread their greedy Sails again: Nor Stalls the Ox, nor Fires the Clowns delight, And Fields have loſt their hoary white: The Nymphs and Graces joyn'd through flowry Meads By Moon-light dance, and Venus leads: Whilſt labouring Cyclops furious Vulcan tires, And heats their Forge with raging fires: Now crown'd with Myrtle, crown'd with riſing Flowers From looſned Fields drive eaſie hours; A Lamb to Faunus, if he moſt approves A Kid, a Kid muſt ſtain the Groves: With equal foot, Rich friend, impartial Fate Knocks at the Cottage, and the Palace Gate: Life's ſpan forbids Thee to extend thy Cares, And ſtretch thy Hopes beyond thy Years: Night ſoon will ſeize, and, You muſt quickly go To ſtory'd Ghoſts, and Pluto's houſe below, Where once arriv'd, adieu to Wine and Love, And all the ſoft Delights above: No Feaſts, where Thee the happy Lot may place The Juſt Diſpoſer of the Glaſs: No Lycidas, no fair ſurprizing Boy, Or to admire, or to enjoy: No Lycidas, who now our Youth do's charm, And ſoon ſhall all our Virgins warm.
ODE V. He rejoyces at his deliverance from his bewitching Miſtriſs. WHat tender Youth upon a Roſy bed With Odours flowing round his head Shall ruffle Thee, and looſe a heart? For what fond Youth wilt Thou prepare The lovely Mazes of thy Hair, And ſpread Charms neat without the help of Art? How oft unhappy ſhall he grieve to find The fickle baſeneſs of your Mind? When he that ne're felt ſtorms before Shall ſee black Heaven ſpread o're with Clouds, And threatning Tempeſts toſs the Floods, Whilſt Helpleſs He in vain looks back for Shore. Now fondly, now He rifles all thy Charms, He wantons in thy pleaſing Arms And boaſts his happineſs Compleat: He thinks that You will alwaies prove As fair, and conſtant to his Love; And knows not how, how ſoon thoſe ſmiles may cheat. Ah wretched thoſe who love, yet ne're did try The ſmiling treachery of thy Eye! But I'me ſecure, my danger's o're, My Table ſhows the Cloaths I vow'd When midſt the ſtorm to pleaſe the God I have hung up, and now am ſafe on ſhore.
ODE VI. To AGRIPPA. Varius may record his great Actions, but Love muſt be the ſubject of his Songs. THee great in Arms ſhall Varius ſing, In Conduct wiſe and bold in fight; What Conqueſts under your Command, The Legions wan by Sea and Land, The ſame ſhall boldly write With quils that dropt from lofty Homer's wing: My tender Verſe muſt Wars refuſe; Spears, Trophys, and the armed field, The fierce Pelides haughty rage That ſtill preſt forward to engage, And knew not how to yield, Are things too weighty for my feeble Muſe: Strict Modeſty confines my Tongue, And ſhame forbids me to diſgrace A ſubject high, ſo near divine As mighty Caeſar's praiſe and thine, And your great names debaſe By the officious meanneſs of a Song: For who in worthy ſtrains can write Mars dreadful in his Iron Coat? Or ſhow the black Merione In Trojan duſt ſeverely gay? Or how Tydides fought By Pallas aid, and matcht the Gods in fight? I ſing ſoft Boys and Virgin's Wars, How ſoon they ſmile, how angry ſoon With cloſe par'd nails, and tender tooth They all invade the ruffling Youth; Thus urge my frolick on And bid farewell, a long farewel to Cares.
ODE VII. He commends Plancus his Seat, and adviſeth him to enjoy his Life. SOme Mytelen, or famous Rhodes will praiſe, Or two-ſea'd Corinth's honor raiſe; Some Thebes for Bacchus fam'd in ſounding ſtrains, Or flowry Tempe's open Plains: Some fill their laſting Verſe with high renown Of Virgin Pallas learned town; And whilſt they ſtudiouſly their praiſe beſtow, To All prefer the Olive bough: To honor Juno, Argos ſome proclaim, Or raiſe Mycaene, high in fame; Not patient Sparta, Tempe's fruitful Fields, Nor all that fat Lariſſa yields, Can raiſe my fancy; no, I all contemn Compar'd to fair Albunea's ſtream; My water'd Orchards, headlong Anio's flood, Or quiet Tibur's ſhady wood: As fair South-winds will bruſh the Clouds away, Nor alwaies brood a rainy day, So Plancus, You, what ever life you lead, Or play at home in Tybur's ſhade, Or fill the ſhining Camp, and lead the War, With Wine ſtill wiſely end thy Care: When Teucer fled diſtreſt by angry fate, His Country, and his Father's hate, With poplar Crowns He grac't his drunken head, And thus to drooping Friends he ſaid, What ever Chance, the kinder Parent ſends, Wee'l bravely bear my noble Friends: Adieu fond Care, deſpairing fears be gone Whilſt Teucer guides, and leads you on: Unerring Phoebus ſays our hands ſhall raiſe A City in another place, Another Salamis: Cheer, rouze your force, For We have often ſuffer'd worſe: Drink briskly round, diſpell all cloudy ſorrow, Drink round, Wee'l plow the Deep to morrow.
ODE VIII. To LYDIA, Who had made Lybaris Effeminate. TEll, Lydia, tell me this, By all the Gods I do conjure Thee tell Why Thou wilt ruine Lybaris By loving of the Youth too well: Why doth He hate the Plain That can endure the fury of the Skies, The burning Sun, the Wind and Rain: By Nature fitted for the Prize? Why now refuſe to ride Amidſt his Equals, and with graceful force The fury of his Coarſer guide, And bravely ſit the manag'd Horſe? Why Yellow Tyber's ſtream Doth He now hate? why fear to touch the flood, And why the ſhining Oyl contemn With greater care than Viper's blood? Why do his Arms no more Look black with blows and honourable ſcars Which once with juſt applauſe He bore, When Fame attended on his Wars? So juſtly prais'd for Art, So fam'd for ſtrength, when thro the wondring throng Beyond the bounds he threw the Dart, Which ſwiftly bore his praiſe along. Why doth he now lie hid, As once complying with his Mother's fears The Great, the Brave Achilles did, Leſt Manly dreſs ſhould force him on to Wars?
ODE IX. He adviſeth his Friend to live merrily. SEE how the Hills are white with Snow, The Seas are rough, the Woods are toſt, The Trees beneath their burthen bow, And purling ſtreams are bound in froſt. Diſſolve the Cold with noble Wine, Dear Friend, and make a rouzing fire, 'Gainſt Cold without, and Care within, Let both with equal force conſpire. With all things elſe, come, truſt the Gods, Who when they ſhall a calm reſtore, And ſtill the ſtorms that toſs the floods; Old Oaks, and Aſhes ſhake no more. All Cares, and Fears are fond and vain, Fly vexing thoughts of dark to-morrow; What Chance ſcores up, count perfect gain, And baniſh buſineſs, baniſh ſorrow. Whilſt Thou art green, and gay, and Young, E're dull Age comes, and ſtrength decays, Let mirth, and humor, dance, and ſong Be all the trouble of thy days. The Court, the Mall, the Park, and Stage, With eager thoughts of Love purſue; Gay Evening whiſpers fit thy Age, And be to Aſſignation true. Now Love to hear the hiding Maid, Whom Youth hath fir'd, and Beauty charms By her own tittering laugh betray'd, And forc'd into her Lover's Arms. Go dally with thy wanton Miſs, And from the Willing ſeeming Coy, Or force a Ring, or ſteal a Kiſs; For Age will come, and then farewel to joy.
ODE X. In praiſe of Mercury. SWeet ſmooth-tongu'd God, wiſe Atlas Son, Whoſe Voice did mould Mens flinty hearts, Juſt riſen from their Parent ſtone, By ſoftning Muſick, and inſtructing Arts. Thee, Thee my Muſe ſhall gladly ſing Thee Poſt of Heaven, and Guard of Hell; Firſt Mover of the charming ſtring; By waggiſh Thievery cunning to conceal. Unleſs you would reſtore the Cows Whilſt with his voice He dar'd the Child, And threatned with his angry brows, Now He had loſt his Bow, Apollo ſmil'd. Rich Priam with a Pious haſt Whilſt You did guide his trembling feet, Theſſalian fires ſecurely paſt; The Camp, and proud Atrides haughty Fleet. You gently guide the Pious Souls To happy Seats; Your golden rod The flitting Troop controuls; O lov'd, Above, Below, by every God.
ODE XI. He adviſeth his Friend to live merrily, and take no Care for to morrow. AH do not ſtrive too much to know My dear Luconoe, What the kind Gods deſign to do VVith Me and Thee. Ah do not You conſult the Stars, Contented bear thy doom, Rather than thus increaſe thy fears For what will come: Whether they'l give one Winter more, Or elſe make this thy laſt; Which breaks the Waves on Tyrrhene ſhore With many a blaſt, Be Wiſe, and Drink; cut off long Cares From thy contracted Span, Nor ſtretch extenſive hopes and fears Beyond a Man: E'en whil'ſt we ſpeak the Envious time Doth make ſwift haſt away, Then ſeize the preſent, uſe thy prime, Nor truſt another Day.
ODE XII. To AUGUSTUS. WHat Man, what Hero, ſtately Muſe, Wilt thou deliver down to Fame? What God for thy great Subject chooſe? And make the wanton Echo ſport his Name O're Helicon's reſounding Grove, O're Pindus, or cold Hoemus hill? Whence liſt'ning Woods did gladly move And throng'd to hear ſweet Orpheus wondrous quill. He by his Mothers art could bind The headlong fury of the floods; Allay rough ſtorms, appeaſe the wind, And looſe from their fixt roots the dancing woods. Whom firſt? ſhall I creating Jove With pious duty gladly ſing, That guides below, and rules above, The great Diſpoſer, and the mighty King? Than He none greater, next him none That can be, is, or was: Supreme he ſingly fills the Throne; Yet Pallas is allow'd the neareſt place. Thy praiſes, Bacchus, bold in VVar, My willing Muſe will gladly ſhow, And, Virgin, Thee whom Tygers fear; And Phoebus dreadful for unerring Bow. Alcides Acts my Muſe muſt write, And Leda's Sons; one fam'd for Horſe, And one in cloſe and handy fight Of haughty bravery, and of noble force. When both their Stars at once appear, The Winds are huſht, they rage no more; (It is their Will) the Skies are clear, And Waves roul ſoftly by the quiet ſhore. Shall Romulus ſtand next to Theſe? Or furious Tarquin's haughty reign? Or, Numa's Laws and pious Peace? Or Cato's noble fall, and fierce diſdain? The Scauri next, the Great, the Good? Or Regulus his conſtant Truth? Or Paulus prodigal of his blood VVhen Hannibal o'rethrew the Roman Youth? Or ſhall I ſing in laſting Verſe Fabricius Mind too great for Gold? Or elſe rough Curius Praiſe reherſe In conduct prudent, and in action bold? Him and Camillus fam'd for War, In a poor houſe, and mean eſtate Want poorly bred on hardy fare, And made them ſtrong to prop Rome's ſinking Fate. Marcellus like an Oak doth riſe, And Julius Caeſar's light appears As in fair Nights and ſmiling Skies The beauteous Moon amid'ſt the meaner Stars. Great Saturn's Off-ſpring, mighty Jove, Whoſe greateſt care is Caeſar's fate; Serenely You may reign above, VVhilſt here Auguſtus keeps the ſecond ſtate. And whether He in triumph leads The Parthians that on Latium preſt; Or beats the Indians and the Medes, And ſpoils the diſtant Nations of the Eaſt, He leſs than Thou, rules all below, Whilſt Thy hot Wheels may ſhake the Clouds, And dreadful Thunder fiercely throw On Groves prophan'd, and on unhallow'd Woods.
ODE XIII. His Jealouſie occaſions his diſquiet. VVHen Lydia praiſes Damon's Charms, His roſy Neck, and waxen Arms, His Air, and rowling Ey; My Mind ſcarce thinks on what it does, My ſickly Colour comes and goes; I rage, I burn, I dy: I loſe my former vital Grace, And tears ſteal ſoftly down my face; Cold feeble Sweats begin, Cold feeble Sweats that plainly ſhow How fierce the Flame, and yet how ſlow That melts my Soul within: I rage to ſee thy Shoulder ſtand, Or ſnowy Breaſt by drunken hand Too lovingly unkind; Or when the ruffling Amorous youth Hath preſt thy Lips with eager Tooth, And left a Mark behind: Coy Lydia, all thy hopes are vain Still to endure the pleaſing pain Of a ſurprizing Kiſs, Which Venus doth in Nectar ſteep, And hangs upon the balmy Lip, To draw us on to Bliſs. Thrice happy They, that free from ſtrife Maintain a Love as long as life; Whoſe fixt and bending vows, No intervening Jealouſie, No Fears and no Debates untye; And Death alone can looſe.
ODE XIV. To the Common-wealth which was now ready to engage in another Civil War. ANd ſhall the raging Waves again Bear Thee back into the Main! Oh what doſt do! put cloſe to ſhore, And never truſt the Ocean more: Thy Oars are gon, and Southern blaſts Have rent thy Sails, and torn thy Maſts; Nor without tackling can'ſt thou brave The violent fury of the Wave: Thy Stern is gone, thy Gods are loſt, And thou haſt none to hear thy cry, When thou on dangerous Shelves art toſt, When Billows rage, and Winds are high: Thô thou art built of noble Wood, And gay as ever cut the Flood; Alas! 'tis but an empty Name, Nor will the Seas regard thy Fame: What fearful Seaman dares rely On Gilded Sterns when Winds are high? Vain ſhow, not fit to ſail but pleaſe, An eaſie prev to angry Seas: Tho often, Thou haſt ſafely paſt, Thou ow'ſt a ſport to Winds at laſt: Oh lately Thou my grief and fear, And now my freſh and preſent Care, Take heed, and fly the flattering Seas Between the ſhining Cyclades.
ODE XV. Nereus ſings the Fall of Troy occaſion'd by Paris's Rape of Helen. VVHen faithleſs Paris ſtole away, And carry'd Helen thro the Sea; Then Nereus ſtill'd the Wind: He quieted the angry Seas, And lull'd the Billows into eaſe, Eaſe to the Lovers haſt unkind. Whilſt thus he ſang, Thou carry'ſt home Thine own, falſe Youth and Country's doom; VVhom Greeks ſhall fetch again VVith all their force; and all combine To break that wicked Match of thine, And Ancient Priam's noble reign. VVhat labor, ah! what duſt and heat! And how the Men, and Horſes ſweat! Ah Troy what Fates engage! E'en furious Pallas now prepares Her Helmet and her Shield for VVars; Her dreadful Chariot, and her Rage. In vain ſhalt thou thy ſafety place In Venus aid, and paint thy face; In vain adorn thy hair; In vain thy feeble Harp ſhalt move, And ſing ſoft tales of eaſie Love, To pleaſe the wanton and the fair. In vain ſhalt Thou avoid thy Foe, The winged Dart, and Cretan Bow, Things grievous to thy joys: In vain with grief ſhalt fear to view Stout Ajax eager to purſue, And ſtrive to fly the hated noiſe. But ah too late, ah much too late Thou ſhalt endure the ſtroak of Fate, And find the Gods are juſt: Too late Thou ſhalt deſerv'dly feel The force of the revenging ſteel, And ſoyl th' Adulterous locks in duſt. Doſt Thou not ſee grave Neſtor's age, And fierce Ulyſſes wilely rage, The ruine of thy State? Nor Teucer's brave undaunted force Nor Stheneleus that drives his Horſe As furious and as faſt as Fate? Ah Thou ſhalt ſee Merione In Trojan duſt ſeverely gay; And fierce Tydides rave; Look how he frowns, and roves about To find the Feeble Paris out; Tydides, as his Father brave. Theſe feeble Paris thou ſhalt fly As trembling Does whoſe fears eſpy A Lion in a Grove; They leave their Herbs, with panting Breath, They ſtrive to ſhun purſuing Death; Was this thy Promiſe to Thy Love! Achilles angry for a Wrong Shall Troyes approaching Fate prolong; But after certain years Theſſalian Flames and Grecian Fire Shall o're the proudeſt Piles aſpire: And fill the Matrons Eyes with Tears:
ODE XVI. A Recantation for a Copy of Iambicks written on a young Lady. OH Daughter fair, of greater Charms Than thoſe with which thy Mother warms, My guilty Verſes how you pleaſe Deſtroy, in Flames (thô ſcarce ſo hot As that fierce rage with which I wrote) Or in the angry Seas. Not Cybele ſuch heat inſpires Ne're Phoebus with ſuch raging fires His Prophet's Soul poſſeſs't, Not Bacchus ſelf can raiſe a Man Half ſo much as Anger can When once it burns the Breaſt: Not Tears nor Kindneſs can aſſwage, Nor Force nor Danger curb the rage, It ventures boldly on; It ſcorns to be confin'd by Jove, Or all the Thund'ring Powers above, But by its boundleſs ſelf alone. When Bold Prometheus firſt began, As Story goes, to make a Man From every thing He ſnatcht a part To furniſh out his Clay And to compleat his rude eſſay, And plac't a Lions fury in the Heart. 'Twas Rage that made the Brothers hate, Rage wrought Thyeſtes wond'rous fate; 'Twas Rage that kill'd the Child; That fed the Father with the Son, And when it ſaw the mighty Miſchief done, Stood by, and (what was ſtrange) it ſmil'd. 'Tis that that raiſes all our Wars, And brings our Dangers and our Fears, When the inſulting Foe Whil'ſt Anger burns, and Rage prevails O're Town and Cities ruin'd Walls Doth draw the heavy Plough. Then curb thy Anger charming Maid, That once my heedleſs Youth betray'd, It rais'd a deadly flame; And hurry'd on my thought-leſs Muſe In ſwift Iambicks to abuſe And wanton with thy fame. But now I do repent the wrong, And now compoſe a ſofter Song To make Thee juſt amends: Recant the Errors of my Youth, And ſwear thoſe ſcandals were not Truth; So You and I be friends.
ODE XVII. He Commends his Country Seat, and invites his Miſtriſs thither. SWift Faunus oft Lyceum leaves behind, And to my pleaſing Farm retreats; And from the Summer heats Defends my Goats, and from the rainy wind. O're Vales, o're craggy Rocks, and Hills they ſtray, Seek flowry Thyme, and ſafely brouze And wanton in the boughs; Nor fear an angry Serpent in the way. No lurking Venom ſwells the harmleſs mould, The Kids are ſafe, the tender Lambs Lie bleating by their Dams, Nor hear the Evening Wolves grin round the fold. Soft rural Lays thro every Vally ſound; By low Uſtica's purling Spring The Shepherds pipe and ſing, Whilſt from the even Rocks the tunes rebound. Kind Heaven defends my ſoft aboads, I live the Gods peculiar Care, Secure and free from fear; My Songs and my Devotion pleaſe the Gods. Here naked Truth, Love, Peace, good Nature reign, And here to Thee ſhall Plenty flow, And all her Riches ſhow To raiſe the honor of the quiet Plain. Here crooked Vales afford a cool retreat; Or underneath an Arbor's ſhade For Love and Pleaſure made, Thou ſhalt avoid the Dog-Star's raging heat; And ſweetly ſing the harmleſs Wars of Love, How, chaſt Penelope's deſires, And wanton Circe's fires With various heats for one Ulyſſes ſtrove: At Noon with Wine the fiery beams aſſwage Beneath a ſhade on beds of Graſs; And take a Chirping glaſs, But never drink till Mirth boils up to rage. Ne're fear thy old Gallant, He's far away, He ſhall not ſee, nor ſeize, nor tear Thy Chaplet from thy Hair; We ſhall have leiſure, and have room to play.
ODE XVIII. Wine moderately taken cheers the Mind, but too much makes men mad. DEar Varus urge thy wiſe deſign, And chiefly plant the noble Vine In Tibur's fertile ſhade, Or round Catilles Wall, The ſober Dotards Cares invade, And numerous miſchiefs wait on all. Pale Cares are rude, And muſt intrude Untill forgetful Cups go round; And who in drink doth prate of Wars, Of Want, or State affairs? Each head is free, and buſie thoughts are drown'd; But Mirth, and Women, Sport, and Play Is all the trouble of the Day. But leſt thy growing Mirth ſurpaſs The moderate freedom of a merry glaſs; Think on the Centaurs blood, Think how thoſe Beaſts did fight, With Wine and G,ore their Tables flow'd; And then command thy Appetite. What wild deſires, What Madneſs fires The Thracian Bruits; how fierce a God, When Drunken They all Right and Juſt Do meaſure by their Luſt, And eagerly ruſh on to brawls and blood? Attending Death ſtrikes every Gueſt, And none ſurvive the fatal Feaſt. Submitting to thy eaſie yoke I'le freely uſe, but ne'r provoke Thy rage, obliging God; Nor ſhall my Tongue reveal To the prophane and common Crowd The myſteries thy boughs conceal: Preſerve my Age From drunken Rage Which blind Self-love does ſtill attend, With Vanity which loves to ſpread Her Plumes, and raiſe her Head Above the Common level of her Friend; With theſe with an uneven pace Walks broaken Faith which lets all Secrets paſs, Much more tranſparent than a glaſs.
ODE XIX. To GLYCERA. He confeſſeth his Love. THe cruel Mother of Deſires And wanton Youth reproves, And bids me rais'd by Bacchus Fires Reſtore my ſelf to my forſaken Loves: Fair Glycera my wiſh provokes More white than poliſht Marble Stone, Inviting coy, and ſlippery looks, Coy looks, too ſlippery to be gaz'd upon. Now Venus leaves her Cyprian Seats, And fills my Soul with all her heats; Bids me not mind the Parthian force, When dreadful on his Flying Horſe He makes his proud, and conquering retreats. All that I think on muſt be Love; Bring Wine, my Boys, an Altar rear, A tender Lamb perhaps may move; And make the angry Goddeſs leſs ſevere.
ODE XX. He invites Mecaenas to take a Bottle of Wine at his houſe. POor Sabine Wine in Cups as poor Is all my preſent ſtore; 'Twas bottled then, when You, my Lord, In crowded Theaters ador'd Smooth Tyber's Banks around Return'd the joyful ſound, And babling Eccho's the glad ſhouts reſtor'd. Rich Casks from the Colenian Vine, Or ſmooth Caecubian Wine Your Cellar ſtore; but meaner juice Contented I muſt humbly uſe; My Cups the Formian Hill Nor the Falernian fill; 'Tis Wealth's great priviledge to be profuſe.
ODE XXI. He exhorts the Boys and Maids to ſing Apollo's and Diana's praiſe. YE tender Maids Diana ſing; Apollo Praiſe Ye riſing Boys, And both to equal Honors bring; Latone too whom mighty Jove Did deeply love, And ſhow the pious duty of your joys. Diana ſing, Diana loves The purling Springs that ſoftly flow, The pleaſing Woods and quiet Groves That ſhady Erymanthus bears, Or Cragis rears, Or in cold Algidum but ſlowly grow. Ye Males with equal Songs reherſe The flowry Tempe's open Air, Or ſing with an immortal Verſe Fair Delos Iſle, the happy Earth That gave him birth: His charming Harp, his Bow, and graceful Hair. He by your Pious Vows o'rcome Pale Famine, and rough Wars ſhall drive From Caeſar, and his happy Rome, And make thoſe raging Plagues infeſt The diſtant Weſt: Whilſt we in wanton Peace and Plenty live.
ODE XXII. Nothing will hurt a good innocent Man, and a faithful Lover. A Man unſtain'd, and pure from Sin, No Quiver fraught with poyſon'd Heads, No Africk Javelin needs, He has a Guard and Arms within: Whether o're Syrtes wandring ſands, Or bruitiſh Caucaſus He goes, Or where Hydaſpes flows And ſwiftly cuts the ſavage Lands: Of late, when Cares forſook my head, I ſtray'd and Sang ith' Sabine Grove My Lalage, my Love, A Woolf ſaw me unarm'd, and fled: A Beaſt ſo large did never roar Ith' Daunian Woods, and fright the Swains, Nor in her burning Plains The Lyons Dry-Nurſe Africk bore: So place me where no Sun appears, Or wrapt in Clouds or drown'd in tears; Where Woods with whirling Tempeſts toſt: Where no relieving Summers breeze Does murmur thro the Trees, But all lyes bound and fixt in Froſt. Or place me where the ſcorching Sun With beams too near, doth burn the Zone, Yet fearleſs there I'le gladly rove, Let frowning, or let ſmiling Fate Or Curſe, or Bleſs my State Sweet ſmiling Lalage I'le always love.
ODE XXIII. He tells his young Miſtriſs that ſhe is now of Age, and need not be affraid of him. YOu fly me, Maid, as tender Fawns Seek abſent Dams in deep deſpair; O're craggy Rocks, o're Woods and Lawns, And idly fear at every breath of Air. If Winds do whiſtle thrô the Grove, Or ruffle Vin • s; they quickly ſtart, If Lizzards in a Bramble move, An Icy trembling runs thrô every part. Not Tyger I or angry Bore Purſue Thee, Chloe, to deſtroy, Attend thy Mother's heels no more Now grown mature for Man, and ripe for Joy.
ODE XXIV. He comforts Virgil Mourning for the Death of his Friend. ANd who can grieve too much? what time ſhall end Our mourning for ſo dear a Friend? Melpomene whom Jove hath bleſt With melting Voice, and mournful Tongue, And with a Harp above the reſt Hath grac't; begin the Melancholly Song. And doth eternal Sleep cloſe Varus Eyes? How ſoon our Pride and Glory dyes! And where will equal Juſtice find, Where ſteddy Faith and naked Truth So generous, and ſo great a Mind? And where an Equal to the falling Youth? To be bewail'd by all the Good, the Juſt He fell; by you, dear Virgil, moſt; By you, who now doſt mourn in vain, By Pious you, who idely pray To have thy Varus back again; He was not lent Thee for a longer ſtay. Could you with foſter touch than Orpheus move The Harp that drew the liſt'ning Grove, The Grove that danc't to Tunes he play'd; Yet Blood and Bones would ſcarce return, Nor Fleſh to cloath the empty ſhade, The Shade that once lay naked in the Urn. Which Mercury, a hard uneaſie God To open Fate, with frightful Rod Hath driven thrô the gloomy Air, And ſhut amongſt the Shades of Night: 'Tis hard: but when We needs muſt bear, Enduring Patience makes the Burthen light.
ODE XXV. He inſults over his Miſtriſs Lydia, now grown Old. HA, Ha! Thy Trade at laſt is done, And all thy wanton Lovers gone! No ſighing Youths attend thy State, There's no ſuch rattling at thy dore As Heretofore; And now thy Threſhold loves thy quiet Gate. Now you may reſt ſecure from noiſe, And ſadly dream of former joys; You ſeldom hear deſpairing Sighs, My Lydia reſts in ſoft delight All the long night, Whil'ſt here her faithful Lover pines, and dyes. Now, now 'tis thine, thy turn to moan The haughty wantons all alone: Now to a ſhady Grove retire, Whilſt Winds as cold as thy dull Age Do fiercely rage And cool the poor remainders of thy fire. When Luſt as fierce as Mares deſires Thy ulcerous Heart and Liver fires, Then Thou ſhalt mourn, but mourn in vain, That wanton Youth ſeeks blooming Charms, And greener arms; Whilſt longing Age ſtill meets with cold diſdain. Then thou ſhalt think on ſweets before, And dye at the deſpairing thought, No more.
ODE XXVI. He deſires his Muſe to commend his Friend Lamia. I, I, the Muſes merry Friend Deliver all my buſie Cares Unto the wanton VVind; What Tyrant of the North Leads dreadful Armies forth Secure alone, and laugh at others fears. Sweet Muſe that doſt delight to ſing In ſtrains to Roman Ears unknown, And taſt the Virgin ſpring; Trace o're the ſhady Bowers, And gather ſweeteſt flowers; And wreath my Lamia, wreath a noble Crown. What Honors I without thy Aid Beſtow to grace my Friends, are vain; My Crowns will quickly fade: You, Muſe, and all the Nine ſhould raiſe In new Alcaïcks Lamia's praiſe, And make him live in an unuſual ſtrain.
ODE XXVII. He adviſeth his Friends not to quarrel in their drink. AMidſt our Cups for mirth deſign'd To fight and quarrel, ſuits Rough Thracian Brutes; But not the ſober temper of a Friend. This Savage Humor, Sirs, forbear, And free the modeſt God From brawls and blood; And let your Humor, as your Wine, be clear. How Cups and Swords do diſagree! Then give your fighting o're, And brawl no more; But ſit, and keep your Elbows down like me. If you will have the glaſs go round, Then tell from what fair Eys The Arrow flies; What Beauty makes Thee Happy in a wound. Not tell! nay then the Glaſs remove, VVhat ever Charms enſnare Thy Heart, are fair; You never ſin in a diſhoneſt Love. Tell boldly, tell thy generous flame, This is no leaky Ear; Nor what I hear Shall my looſe Tongue pour out to common fame. Unhappy Youth! doth She ſurprize? And have her Flames poſſeſs't Thy burning Breaſt? Thou didſt deſerve a dart from kinder Eyes. Undone! for no Theſſalian Charms Nor e'en the winged Horſe Can break her force, And free Thee from this ſtrange Chimera's Arms.
ODE XXVIII. Architas a Mathematician being Shipwrack't, is repreſented begging a Seaman to Bury him, and denouncing Vengeance on him if he neglects his Requeſt. A Narrow Grave by the Matinian Shore Confines Thee now, and thou can'ſt have no more, Ah learn'd Architas, ah how ſmall for Thee Whoſe wond'rous Mind could meaſure Earth and Sea! What Sands make up the Shore minutely teach, And count as far as Number's ſelf could reach! What did it profit that thy nimble Soul Had travell'd Heaven, and oft ran round the Pole, Purſu'd the motions of the rowling Light When Death came on, and ſpread a gloomy Night! Wiſe Tantalus the gueſt of Gods is dead, And on ſtrange wings the chang'd Tithonus fled: Jove's Friend juſt Minos hath reſign'd his Breath, And Wiſe Pythagoras felt a ſecond Death; Althô his Trojan Shield, and former State Did prove his Soul above the force of Fate; Withdrew the Mind from Death's black conquering hand, And left but Skin and Bones at Fate's Command; In thy Opinion He did moſt excell, Diſcover'd Truth, and follow'd Nature well: But once o're all long Night her ſhades will ſpread, And all muſt walk the Valleys of the Dead: Some Rage ſpurs on, and Death attends in Wars; The Sea deſtroys the greedy Marriners: The Young and Old confus'd by Numbers fall, And Death with equal hand doth ſtrike at all: A boyſterous Storm my feeble tackling tore, And leſt one naked on th' Illyrian ſhore: But, Seaman, pray be juſt, put near the Land, Beſtow a Grave, and hide my Limbs in Sand: So may the threat'ning Eaſt winds ſpare the Floods, And idely ſpend their Rage on Hills and Woods; Whilſt you ride ſafely; ſo from every Shore May Gain flow in, and feed thy growing Store: May Jove and Neptune ſoft Tarentum's Guard Conſpire to Bleſs, and joyn in one Reward: Perhaps you ſcorn, and are deſign'dly baſe, Thy Crime ſhall Dam thy undeſerving Race; Thy Pride, vain Man, ſhall on thy ſelf return, Thou naked lie, and be the Publick ſcorn: My Prayers ſhall mount, and pull juſt Vengeance down, No Offerings ſhall releaſe, now Vows attone: Thô haſty now, driven by a proſperous gale, ('Tis quickly done) thrice ſtrew the ſand, and ſail.
ODE XXIX. To ICCIUS. A Philoſopher who had left his ſtudy, and was reſolv'd to go to War. YOu envy, Iccius, the Arabian's ſtore, Their pretious Gums, and Ivory beds, And art reſolv'd for War; For fierce Sabean Kings ne're fought before, And dreadful Medes Your ſcourges knit, and Roman Chains prepare. What lovely Virgin when her Lover's kill'd Shall wait on Thee, and call Thee Lord? What perfum'd Royal Boy To ſhoot in's Fathers Bow exactly skill'd, Attend thy board; And ſerve Thy pleaſure in another joy? Who now dares ſay that ſtreams muſt flow From Mountains tops to Vales below, And not to th' Springs return? Or who deny but Tyber's wondrous ſtream May Hills contemn, And ſwiftly roul back to his lofty Urn? When You can change for Shield, and Sword, and Dart, And the baſe Drudgery of Wars, VVhat e're contentment brings Panoetus VVorks, thy coſtly Books of Art And Plato's cares; Tho once I'me ſure You promis'd better things.
ODE XXX. He begs Venus to come to the Temple which his Glycera had prepar'd. KInd Venus leave the Paphian Iſle, And live with Glycera a while; A noble Temple ſhe prepares, VVith Incenſe ſweet thine Altars ſmoak, Thy preſence numerous Vows invoak; She calls Thee with a thouſand Prayers. The Graces with their Zones unloos'd, The Nymphs their beauties all expos'd From every Spring, and every Plain; Thy powerful, hot, and winged Boy, And Youth that's dull without thy joy, And Mercury compoſe thy Train.
ODE XXXI. The Poet's Wiſh. VVHat will the Poet beg to day From Phoebus in his hallow'd Shrine, For what doth He deſign to Pray, Whil'ſt thus He pours his Holy Wine? Not fat Sardinia's fruitful Crops, Nor Flocks that hot Calabria feeds, Nor Gold, nor Ivory raiſe his Hopes; Thoſe toys He neither loves, nor needs. Not thoſe rich Fields where Lyris runs With quiet Streams, and wanton play, The ſmootheſt of the Ocean's Sons, And gently eats his eaſie way. Let him that Has one, Prune his Vine, The Merchant now come ſafe to Land In golden Gobblets quaff the Wine His Syrian Wares and Voyage gain'd. He chiefeſt Darling of the Gods, For twice a year He plows the Main, He rides the Proud Atlantick Floods, And yet makes ſafe returns again! Me Chicory and Olives feed, Me loos'ning Mallows nobly feaſt, They give what Nature's wants can need, And kindly fill the eaſie Gueſt. A Mind to uſe my preſent Store With Health and Life, but not ſo long As brings Contempt, or cramps my Song; Grant this Apollo, and I ask no more.
ODE XXXII. To his Harp, whoſe aſſiſtance he deſires. IF underneath a Myrtle ſhade, When free from Buſineſs, I have play'd What may this year, and more command; Begin, ſweet Harp, a Roman ſtrain, Thoſe Meaſures and thoſe Tunes maintain Firſt ſtruck by great Alcerus noble Hand. He fierce in Arms, yet mid'ſt his Cares, When Dangers preſs't, and noiſy Wars, And ſtain'd his charming Harp with Blood; Or when He ſtem'd the angry Seas, Or when arriv'd He ſate at eaſe, And laught at all the Fury of the Flood: The Muſes He in ſounding Verſe Would Sing, and Venus Praiſe reherſe, With her attending wanton Boy: Or Lyco's Face ſurprizing fair, With lovely Eyes, and Auborn Hair, By Nature fitted to entice to Joy. Great Phoebus Glory, Phoebus Love, And welcome to the Feaſts of Jove; Thou great Reliever of my Care; When e're I beg thy Aid, attend; Aſſiſt the Verſes of thy Friend, And tune my Songs for Mighty Caeſar's Ear.
ODE XXXIII. He Comforts his Friend who had ill ſucceſs in his Amours. COme dry thine Eys, and ceaſe to mourn, Think not too much on Glycera's ſcorn: Let no complaining Songs proclaim, That ſhe, regardleſs of her Vows, Her wanton ſmiles beſtows Upon a later, and a meaner flame. Lycoris fair for Cyrus burns, She loves, but meets no kind returns; Ill-natur'd Pholöe Cyrus Charms, But ſooner ſhall the Lambs agree With cruel VVolves, than ſhe Shall take ſo baſe a Wanton in her Arms. Thus Venus ſports, the Rich, the Baſe, Unlike in Fortune, and in Face To diſagreeing Love provokes; VVhen cruelly jocoſe She ties the fatal nooſe, And binds Unequals to the brazen Yokes. This is the Fate that all muſt prove, The ſure unhappineſs of Love; VVhilſt fairer Virgins did adore And courted Me, I Myrtal woo'd As rough as Adria's flood That bends the Creeks of the Calabrian ſhore.
ODE XXXIV. He reſolves to be religious, and follow Epicurus's Philoſophy no more. I That but ſeldom did adore, I that no God but pleaſure knew, VVhilſt mad Philoſophy did blind, And Epicurus fool'd my Mind; Muſt keep that impious Courſe no more; But turn my Sails, and ſteer anew. For Angry Jove with mighty force, Whilſt all the Skies were bright and clear, Shot thro the Heaven with pointed flame, And ſhook the Univerſal frame; He lately drove his thund'ring Horſe And flaming Chariot thro the Air. This ſhook the Earth and wandring ſtreams, This noiſe diſturb'd the quiet Dead; Thro muddy Styx, thro all beneath, And thro the ſhady VValks of Death Quick Lightning ſhot unuſual beams; The Ghoſts beheld the Light, and fled. He brings the moſt obſcure to light, And robs the Glorious of a Crown; Now tumbles down the mighty Proud And makes them know there is a God; Now kicks the lofty into night, And ſeats the Peaſant in a Throne.
ODE XXXV. To Fortune, whom he Celebrates, and begs to preſerve Caeſar. GReat Goddeſs, Antium's guardian Power, Whoſe force is ſtrong and quick to raiſe The loweſt to the higheſt place; Or with a wond'rous fall To bring the haughty lower; And turn proud Triumphs to a Funeral. The labouring Swain thy Aid implores, His Prayers are mixt of Fear and Hope On Thee depending for his Crop; Thee Merchants Thee confeſs VVhen far remov'd from Shores, And bow to Thee the Miſtreſs of the Seas. To thee their Vows rough Germans pay, To Thee the wandring Scythians bend, Thee mighty Rome proclaims a friend: And for their Tyrant Sons The barbarous Mothers pray To thee, the greateſt Guardian of their Thrones: They bend, they vow, and ſtill they fear Leſt you ſhould kick their Empire down And cloud the glory of their Crown; They fear that you would raiſe The lazy Crowd to War, And break their Empire, or confine their Praiſe. Neceſſity ſtill ſtalks before, And leads the way with poys'nous breath, And all the Inſtruments of Death; Sharp Swords, and VVheels and Racks That flow with putrid gore Her brazen hand to fright the Nations ſhakes. Sure Hope, and Friendſhip cloath'd in white Attend on Thee, they ſtill remain The chiefeſt Glories of thy Train; Thô you inrag'd retreat And with a haſty flight, Thy Garment chang'd, forſake the falling Great. But the baſe Crowd, the Perjur'd Whore, And when the Casks of Wine are dry, The falſe Pretenders quickly fly; They all refuſe to bend With the declining Poor And take the heavy yoke to eaſe their Friend. Preſerve Great Caeſar, Caeſar leads To diſtant Britan, guide his Fate, And keep the Glory of our State, The youth that muſt infeſt VVith Arms the haughty Medes; And ſcatter Fears and Slavery thrô the Faſt. I bluſh at the diſhoneſt ſhow, I die to ſee the VVounds and Scars Thoſe Glorys of our Civil VVars; What Sins, a Curſed Age Were VVe afraid to do, And what hath ſcap't the fury of our rage? VVhat dread of Heaven, or fears of Hell Could ſtop the Impious daring hand? And was not every ſhrine prophan'd! Oh wouldſt Thou quickly whet Our impious blunted ſteel To fight the bold Arabian, and the Gete.
ODE XXXVI. A Welcome to his dear Friend Lamia. 'TIs pious Duty now to praiſe With Incenſe, Songs and ſacred Lays, And with a promis'd Heifers blood My Numida's kind guardian God: Who ſafely now return'd again From the remoteſt Parts of Spain, To thronging Friends on every ſide A thouſand Kiſſes does divide; But Deareſt Lamia moſt receives, And takes as gladly as He gives: Their equal Love at School began, Both the ſame Race of Vertue ran; And both at once grew up to Man: Be every Head with Garlands Crownd, And let the flowing Bowl go round: Let fading Lillys and the Roſe Their Beauty, and their ſmells diſcloſe, Let long-liv'd Parſly grace the Feaſt, And gently cool the heated Gueſt: Then all on Beauteous Damalis Shall loſe their gloating wanton Eyes; But her no Charms no Nods ſhall move, And none divide her from her Love; She ſhall imbrace her young Gallant As twining Ivy claſps the growing Plant:
ODE XXXVII. On Caeſar's Victory over Antony and Cleopatra. NOw now tis time to dance and play, And drink, and frollick all the Day; Tis time, my Friends, to baniſh Care; And coſtly Feaſts with thankful Hearts prepare, In hallow'd ſhrines, and make the Gods your Gueſts: 'Twas Treaſon once to Sport a Flaſh, And Sin to Pierce the Noble Caſh, Whilſt nought but boading Fears were ſeen For Ills to come, When Egypts haughty Queen With wither'd Eunuchs threat'ned mighty Rome: A Woman vain, whoſe hopes could riſe To ſuch Impoſſibilities! A Woman Drunk with ſweet ſucceſs; Whom ſmiling Fate Had brought to dare no leſs Then Caeſar's Fortune, and the Roman State. But ſoon her Pride to Fears retir'd When all her Ships were ſunk or fir'd; And real dread poſſeſt her mind, When Caeſar's Oars Did preſs ſo cloſe behind And bore his Navy to the frighted Shores. (As Hawks purſue the trembling Doves, Thro open Fields or ſhady Groves. Or as ſwift Huntsmen chace the Deer Thro Thracian Plains That fly as wing'd with fear) To bring the fatal Monſter into Chains. But She deſign'd a Nobler Fate, And falling would appear as great As when She ſingly fill'd the Throne, No fears betray'd, Nor fled to Coaſts unknown To live ſecure, or meanly beg for Aid: Her falling Throne with ſmiling look She boldly ſaw; ſhe dar'd provoke Fierce Serpents rough with Poys'nous trains. To dart their Tongue, And fill her dying Veins; Grown furious now on Death reſolv'd ſo long: The ſtout Liburnian Ships, the Fame And laſting glory of her Shame She envy'd; ſhe a Soul too Proud, Too haughty to be ſeen Amongſt the private Crowd, And grace a Triumph leſs than Egypt's Queen.
ODE XXXVIII. He tells his Boy that he ſhould not take too much careabout his Entertainments. I Hate, my Boy, I deeply hate The uſeleſs Perſian Pomp and State; Crowns wrought with too much Art diſpleaſe; Forbear to ſeek the bluſhing Roſe, Or where the Beauteous, Lilly grows, Such toil diſturbs our eaſe: A negligent and ſimple dreſs Thoughts free from Cares will moſt expreſs; Thy Front, my Boy, thy Front, and mine A Myrtle Crown will beſt become Whilſt I ſit, and quaff at Home Beneath my ſhady Vine.
The End of the firſt Book.
ODES The Second Book.
ODE I. To POLLIO. He deſires him to forbear writing Tragedies till He had ſettled the State. SAD Priſoners Guard, and Glory of the Bar The Senate's Oracle, and great in War, Whoſe Faith and Vertue all proclaim; To whom the German Triumph won Eternal Fame, And never fading Glories of a Crown: The Grounds and Vices of our Wars, Our Civil Dangers, and our Fears, The ſport of Chance, and turns of Fate, And Impious Arms that flow'd With yet unexpiated blood; The great Triumvirate, And their Leagues Fatal to the Roman State; A dangerous Work you write; and tread O're Flames by treacherous Aſhes hid; Yet this you write, and give to Fame A laſting Monument of our Fathers Shame: But hold thy Mourning Muſe, forbear To tread the crowded Theater, Till Quiet ſpread o're State Affairs. Shall lend Thee time for meaner Cares; And then inſpir'd with Tragick rage Return to the forſaken Stage And mourn the Faults, and Follies of the Age: Methinks the Trumpet's threatning Sound Diſturbs our reſt with fierce Alarms And from the ſhining Arms A dreadful lightning ſpreads around; It darts pale fear through every Eye The Horſes ſtart, and trembling Riders flie: Methinks the Warlike Captains ſhouts are heard, With ſordid Duſt how Gloriouſly beſmear'd! In Blood I ſee the Souldiers roul, I ſee the World obey, All yield, and own great Caeſar's ſway beſide the ſtubborn Cato's haughty Soul: Juno, and Africk's Guardian Power, That left their ruin'd Seats before, Unable to revenge their fall; Hath now on Rome return'd diſgrace, And offer'd up the Victor's race To great Jugurtha's Ghoſt, and Hannibal: What Land is free, what Plain Not Fatt'ned by the Roman Slain? What cannot witneſs by the Graves it ſhows Our Empire's fall, whoſe Noiſe is ſpread O're Perſia and the diſtant Mede The Sport and Laughter of our ſmiling Foes? What Lake unſtain'd before Not knows our War, and ſwells with Latian Gore? What Sea's not dy'd? on what unhappy Flood On what remoter Coaſt Have not our Youth been loſt Grown Impiouſly Prodigal of their Blood? Enough, my Muſe, Complaints forbear, With me to ſhady Grots retire, Thy Mourning ceaſe, divert thy Care; And there with ſofter touches move thy Lyre:
ODE II. The free and generous only are the happy Men. DEar Friend whoſe generous thoughts deſpiſe The creeping Fears of Avarice, How Silver looks, how mean and baſe, How much below the common Braſs, Unleſs a Moderate uſe refine, A value give and make it ſhine? Kind Proculeius, juſt and good, In Fame as Noble as in Blood, Who with a Father's care did grant Supplies and eas'd his Brother's Want, Long long ſhall live; ſurviving Fame On laſting Wings ſhall bear his Name. That Man a wider Empire gains That his own craving wiſh reſtrains, Than he whoſe Sword and wide Command, Joyn diſtant Spain and Libya's Sand, Than if they did his Arms obey, And either Carthage own his ſway: The Dropſies ſtill by Drink increaſe, In Rain are all our hopes of eaſe; The Jaws are dry, the Thriſt remains Until the fatal Humors ceaſe; Until the cauſe of the Diſeaſe Shall leave the ſwoln and craving Veins: Phraates fixt in Cyrus Throne, Ador'd like Perſia's riſing Sun, True ſence that ſcorns the Peoples teſt Ne're ranks amongſt the happy Bleſt; From cheats of Words the Crowd ſhe brings To real Eſtimate of things: To him ſhe gives, to him alone The Laurel, and the laſting Throne Whoſe Eyes can unconcern'd behold. The darling heaps of ſhining Gold; Whoſe mind doth never Wealth purſue, Nor turn to take a ſecond view:
ODE III. He adviſeth his Friend Delius to be content, and live merrily. AN even mind in every State, Amidſt the Frowns and Smiles of Fate, Dear mortal Delius always ſhow; Let not too much of cloudy Fear, Nor too intemperate joys appear Or to contract, or to extend thy Brow: Whether thy dull unhappy Years Run ſlowly clog'd with Hopes and Fears, And ſit too heavy on thy Soul; Or whether crown'd on Beds of Flowers Mirth ſoftly drives thy eaſy hours And cheers thy Spirits with the choiceſt Bowl: Where Poplars white the lofty Pine And Myrtles friendly Branches joyn, And hoſpitable ſhades compoſe; Where near a purling Spring doth glide In winding Streams, and ſoftly chide The interrupting Pebble as it flows. There bring thy Wine; thy Odors ſpread, Let fading Roſes crown thy Head, Whilſt Wealth, and Age and Life will bear; For you muſt leave your Groves, your Houſe, And Farm where yellow Tiber flows; And thy heap'd Wealth ſhall fill thy greedy Heir: For whether ſprung from Royal Blood, Or from themeaneſt of the Crowd; 'Tis all a Caſe, for nought can ſave; The Hand of Fate doth ſtrike at all, And thou art ſurely doom'd to fall, A Sacrifice to the impartial Grave: Our Lots are caſt, Fate ſhakes the Urn, And each mans Lot muſt take his turn ſome ſoon leap out, and ſome more late: But ſtill 'tis ſure each Mortals Lot Will doom his Soul to Charon's Boat, To bear th' eternal Baniſhment of Fate.
ODE IV. To Xanthias Phoceus who fell in Love with his Captive. DEar Xanthias tis a faulty ſhame, Bluſh not to own a Noble flame Rais'd by thy Captives Charms; The fair Briſëis once could move Achilles ſtubborn Soul to Love, And force the haughty Heroe to her Arms: Tecmeſſa's Charms ſubdu'd her Lord, And Conquering Ajax ſoon ador'd; By fair Caſſandra's Eyes When Hector fell, and left his Troy To weary Greeks an eaſy Prey, E'en midſt his Triumph great Atrides dies: See what a Beauteous Majeſty, And how commanding is her Eye, Her look proclaims her State; She Mourns, ſhe Mourns, a Royal Race, And Parents equal to her Face, And grieves to ſee ſo ſtrange a whirl of Fate: Ne're think her, Friend, of Common Blood; Nor ſprung from the diſhoneſt Crow'd A mind ſo bravely bold, So chaſt as to reſiſt the Arts That take the mean unguarded Hearts, The force of preſſing Youth, and Charms of Gold: Her Face, her Neck, her Breaſt and Arms I praiſe not taken with her Charms; Suſpitious thoughts remove; Let almoſt forty feeble Years Secure thy mind from jealous fears, And tell that Horace is too old for Love:
ODE V. To his Friend in Love with a young Girl. THy Heifer, Friend, is hardly broak, Her neck uneaſy to the Yoke; She cannot draw the Plough, nor bear The weight of the obliging Steer: In flowry Meads is her delight, Thoſe charm her Taſt and pleaſe her ſight: Or elſe ſhe flies the burning Beams To quench her Thirſt in cooler Streams; Or with the Calves thro Paſtures plays, And wantons all her eaſy days: Forbear, deſign no haſty Rape On ſuch a green, untimely Grape: Soon ruddy Autumn will produce Plump Cluſters, ripe, and fit to uſe: She now that flies, ſhall then purſue, She now that's courted doat on you: For Age whirls on, and every year It takes from Thee it adds to Her: Soon Lalage, ſhall ſoon proclaim Her love, nor bluſh to own her Flame: Lov'd more, for ſhe more kindly warms Than Phloe coy, or Cloris Charms, So pure her Breaſt, ſo fair a White As in a clear and ſmiling Night, In quiet Floods the Silver Moon Or Cretan Gyges never Shone; Who, plac't amongſt the Maids, defies A skilful Stranger's praying Eys; So ſmooth his doubtful looks appear, So looſe to Womaniſh his Hair:
ODE VI. To SEPTIMIUS. He wiſhes for a quiet retreat in his Old Age. SEptimius that wouldſt ſtem the Main, And go with me to diſtant Spain; To fierce Cantabrians never broak, As yet unlearn'd to bear our Yoke: And Syrtes Sands, where th' Ocean roars, And rowling Waves waſh ſwarthy Moors; May Tibur's Walls the Tuſcan Seat Afford my Age a ſafe retreat, Oh! there, now tir'd with Wars and Seas, May I enjoy a happy Eaſe! If Fate denies this ſmall Deſire, My haſty ſteps ſhall ſoon retire Where ſmooth Galeſus cuts his way; Around whoſe Banks, white Fleeces play And felt Phalantus eaſy ſway: Oh how thoſe little Plains do pleaſe, how fit for Happineſs and Eaſe! Where Honey fills the Combs, and ſtrives With fair Hymettu's ſweeteſt Hives: Where Olives from the fruitful Soil, Nor yield to the Venafrian Oyl: Where Springs are long, and Winters mild, Nor hoary Froſt deforms the Field; Where Bacchus friendly Mountains ſpread, And Almon rears his fruitful Head; Where choiceſt Grapes in Cluſters twine, Nor envy the Falernian Vine: Theſe happy Seats muſt us receive, There you and I, dear Friend, muſt live, Till Death's approaching hands ſurprize, And cloſe thy Poet Horace Eyes; Then you a little Tomb ſhall rear, And cool my Aſhes with a Pious tear:
ODE VII. A Welcome to his Friend Pompy. DEar Pompy that haſt often try'd Whilſt once we fought on Brutus ſide How near pale Death rough Wars attends; What Genius now hath ſent Thee home, And who reſtor'd Thee back to Rome, Pompy, the beſt of all my Friends? With whom in Mirth and Wine and Play, Whilſt ſweeteſt Roſes Crown'd my Head, and did their Fragrant Odors ſpread; I often broak the lingring Day: The bloody Wars, Philippy's Field Ignobly having loſt my Shield, With thee I ſaw, ſecure from Wound; I ſaw the flight, when haughty Proud To Caeſar's ſtronger vertue bow'd, And baſely bit the bloody ground: Me Mercury ſecur'd from Fears, He kindly wrapt me up in Night, And ſav'd me from the dangerous fight, But Thee the Tide bore back to Wars: Now then reſtor'd to eaſe and reſt, Pay Jove thy thanks and promis'd Feaſt, Now tir'd with Wars, from danger free Beneath my cool and pleaſing ſhade On flowry Beds ſupinely laid Enjoy the Casks deſign'd for Thee: See here they ſtand, theſe Bowls employ, Forgetful Wine profuſely pour, From largeſt Shells rich Oyntments ſhour, There's no extream in real joy: Who Parſly twines, or Myrtle Boughs To grace our Mirth, and ſhade our Brows? Who Crowns prepares for every Gueſt? Whom will the happy Dye deſign The juſt diſpoſer of the Wine, And great Controuler of the Feaſt? Let Mirth, and Joy, and Wine attend, I muſt be Mad, I muſt appear As wild as the mad Thracians are; 'Tis decent at the welcome of a Friend:
ODE VIII. To his forſworn Miſtriſs. BArine did revenge or'take, And blaſt as oft as you deceive; Were but one Nail, one Tooth more black, Thy Vows I would at laſt believe: But ſtill more fair, more bright thy Face, More Crowds of Lovers flock to view, As each falſe Oath procur'd a grace And tempted Thee to prove untrue: It profits Thee to be forſworn By all that other Mortals fear, Th' eternal Gods, thy Mothers Urn, By whirling Heaven, and every Star: The merry Nymphs approve thy Arts, And Venus fair forgives thy Wiles, And Cupid, ſharpning flaming Darts On bloody Whetſtones, gently ſmiles: Beſides new Slaves ſtill flock to Thee, And happy He that takes the Chain; And thoſe that threaten to be free Forgive the jilt, and ſerve again: Thee ſtill the thrifty Father fears, And Mothers for their wanton Boys. New Brides leſt you detain their Dears, And rob them of their promis'd joys:
ODE IX. He adviſeth his Friend to grieve no more for dead Myſtes. NOt always Snow and Hail and Rain Deſcend, and beat the fruitful Plain; Not ruffling Storms ſtill toſs the Caſpian Floods: Not every Month doth lazy Froſt Bind up the Armenian Coaſt Nor furious Storms ſtill vex the groaning Woods: Call'd forth by Spring's enlivening Breez The Leaves return to naked Trees; But you, dear Friend, ſtill mourn in Weeping ſtrains Loſt Myſtis; when Noon burns the Skies When night comes on, or when it flies No change appears, Thy love and Grief remains: Yet Aged Neſtor dry'd his Tears, His Grief was ſhorter than his Years; Nor did he ſtill his dying Son bewail: His Siſters, and the Trojan Train, And Priam wept, but ſmil'd again, Nor always mourn'd young Troylus haſty fall. Thy ſoft Complaints at laſt forbear, Let Mirth ſucceed, and Smiles appear Let's ſing, and Caeſar be our lofty Theme; How rough Niphates Hills obey, And Tigris bound by Caeſar's ſway Leſs furious grows, and rouls a milder ſtream: The Scythians now with broken Bows Confin'd to their own Froſt and Snows Have cool'd the raging fury of their Pride; In narrow bounds with nimble force They ride their fierce impetuous Horſe, And view with longing Eyes the Roman ſide.
ODE X. A middle Eſtate of Life is the beſt. WIſe they, that with a cautious fear Not always thro the Ocean Steer, Nor, whilſt they think the Winds will roar, Do thruſt too near the rocky Shore: To thoſe that chooſe the golden Mean: The Waves are ſmooth, the Skies ſerene; They want the baſeneſs of the Poors retreat, And envy'd Houſes of the Great: Storms often vex the lofty Oak, High Mountains ſeel the Thunder's ſtroak; And lofty Towers, when Storms prevail, Are ruin'd with a greater fall: A Breaſt prepar'd in either State Or ſears or hopes a change of Fate; 'Tis Jove the ſame that Winter brings And melts the Froſt by pleaſing Springs: Tho Fortune now contracts her Brow, And frowns; yet 'twill not ſtill be ſo: Apollo ſometimes Mirth purſues His Harp awakes his ſleepy Muſe, Nor always bends his threatning Bow: When Fortune ſends a Stormy Wind Then ſhow a brave and preſent Mind, And when with too indulgent Gales She ſwells too much, then furl thy Sails.
ODE XI. He adviſeth his Friend to live Merrily. WHat fierce Cantabrians, what the Scythians dare, Make, Friend, no object of thy care; Whilſt raging Floods, and Adria's Tide Confine their force, and arms divide, Secure we laugh at all the threats of War: Let no concern, no cares for Life approach, It laſts not long, and asks not much; But ſee our years do ſwiftly move, Our Nimble Youth and Beauty fades, Dry Age with Cares will crowd our Heads: And leave no room for eaſy Reſt and Love: Spring Flowers not always equal Beauties wear, Nor Moons with equal Beams appear As when at full they brightly ſhin'd; Then why ſhould you diſturb your Mind So much too narrow for eternal Care? Why underneath a pleaſing Myrtle ſhade On flowry Banks ſupinely laid, Are we ſo ſlow to ſpeed a Day; And whilſt grey Hairs are crown'd with Roſe, Or odorous Oyl our Heads o'reflows Drink all our Troubles and our Cares away? Brisk Bacchus ſoon will ſordid Cares refine, And make dull Melancholly ſhine; What Boy waits there, what Boy to bring Some cooler Streams from yonder Spring To quench the fury of my flaming Wine? What ready Servant waits to call my Miſs, And who coy Lyde will entice? Bid Lyde come, we are in haſt; Bid Lyde come, her harp prepare, Like Spartans looſely bind her hair; For Love may Ebb, and then her time is paſt.
ODE XII. To MECAENAS. Wars and Battles are not a Subject fit for his Muſe, but Love and Lycimnia he can Sing. THe ſtout Numantines lingring fall, The Romans Scourge dire Hannibal, No more, my Learned Lord, require, No more the rough Sicilian Flood Dy'd deep with Carthaginian Blood, To fit to the ſoft Meaſures of the Lyre: Nor Centaurs eager to engage, Nor fierce Hylaeus Drunken rage, Nor Giants tam'd by Hercules Who dar'd to reach old Saturn's Crown, Who dar'd to ſtorm his ſhining Throne And break the quiet of eternal Eaſe: And you, my Lord, with equal flights Great Caeſar's Wars, and conqu'ring Fights Shall better tell in laſting Proſe; And how in Triumph Caeſar led The Perſian and the haughty Mede, And ſcatter'd Slavery midſt his threatning Foes: My Muſe bids me imploy my Verſe, And ſoft Lycymnia's Songs rehearſe; She bids me all her Charms improve, Her taking Air, her ſhining Eyes, By Nature fitted to ſurprize; And mind ſtill faithful to thy mutual Love: Lycimnia fair, the Pride of Rome, How well her Charms and Arts become! How movingly her Beauty pleads, When toying ſhe and richly dreſt At Great Diana's ſolemn Feaſt, Begins the Dance, and leads the Beauteous Maids? For what Achemenes poſſeſt, And for the Wealth of all the Eaſt, Yould you, my Lord, exchange your Fair? Yould you, my Lord, for all the Gold The ſtuft Arabians houſes hold Exchange one braid of ſweet Lycimnia's hair? When e're her head ſhe gently moves, To take the earneſt of her Loves A blamy Kiſs; or elſe denies With eaſy forwardneſs, which ſhows That She is more content to loſe Than He that begs to win the Prize; Or when She runs to ſnatch an eager Kiſs.
ODE XIII. Upon a Tree that was like to fall upon him as he was walking in his Field. A Fatal Star did then command The Skies, and guide his impious hand Who planted Thee, to the diſgrace Of's Farm, and ruin of his Race: 'Tis certain He his Father kill'd, He ſlew, and fed upon his Child, He Stab'd his Friend before his God And Stain'd the Image with his Blood: To him Medea's Arts were known, The whole World's Sins he made his own, Who firſt diſgrac't my Field with Thee, Thou impious Stock, thou curſed Tree, Thou curſed Tree whoſe haſty fall Deſign'd thy Maſter's Funeral: What each ſhould fly is ſeldom known, We unprovided are undone: The Waves that foam round Thracian Shores Are dreaded by the ſwarthy Moors, They think cold Death doth uſe to trace The Snow and Frozen Hills of Thrace, Nor fear it from a warmer place: The Roman dreads the Darts, the Force, And Conquering flights of Parthian Horſe: The Roman Chains the Parthian fears, Their ſteddy Troops, and weighty Spears: Yet Death when Arm'd with a Diſeaſe From other Parts will rudely ſeize, She comes unlookt for, ſweeps away Unthinking Nations in a Day, And huddles up her eaſy Prey: How near had I, how nearly ſeen The Kingdom of the ſwarthy Queen? Judge Aeacus, the ſtory'd Grove, The ſeat of Piety and Love: And Sappho who in humble ſtrains Of her baſe Country-men complains, In ſweeteſt tunes proclaims her Love, But mourns at her reproach above: Alcaeus too whoſe golden ſtrings VVith manlier ſtrokes ſound greater things; He tells the dangers and the fears Of Flights, of Sailing, and of VVars: VVith ſilent rever'nce Ghoſts admire The wondrous fury of his Lyre: The Vulgar Shades throng moſt to hear Of Kings depos'd, of feats of VVar, And Drink them with a greedy Ear: No wonder this, Hell's furious Guard With ſilent wonder ſtood and heard; His Ears lay down, and, whilſt he play'd, A hollow Grin his joy betray'd: No Hiſs was heard, the Furies Snakes Lay huſht, and quiet on their necks: Delight did torn Prometheus ſeize, The ſound deceiv'd him into eaſe; And Tantalus felt ſoft repoſe, Unheeded now the bending Boughs Hang o're his Lips and Water flows: Nor did the fierce Orion care To hunt his Lyon, or his flying Bear.
ODE XIV. Life is ſhort, and Death unavoidable. THe whirling year, Ah Friend! the whirling year Rouls on apace; And ſoon ſhall wrinkles plough thy wither'd Face: In vain you waſt your Pious breath, No prayers can ſtay, no vows defer The ſwift approach of Age, and conqu'ring Death: No, tho ten thouſand Oxen ſtain'd his Shrines With ſacred Blood, Shouldſt thou appeaſe the inexorable God: He opens, and he ſhuts the Grave; Geryon's triple Soul confines, And ſtubborn Gyges with the Stygian Wave: That fatal Wave that muſt be paſt by all, The Rich, the Poor Are doom'd alike to view the Stygian Shore; The Knaves and Fools, the Wiſe and Juſt, The Kings as well as Clowns muſt fall; And undiſtinguiſht lie with meaner duſt: In vain we all retreat from dangerous War, And live in eaſe; In vain we ſhun the rage of angry Seas: The burning Fevers Autumn brings In vain we fly, and idly fear The Plagues that South-winds bear on ſickly Wings: For all the Stygian Waves are doom'd to paſs, We all muſt go And view Cocytus wandring Streams below: We all muſt ſee the laſting Chains That hold curſt Danaus his Race, And Siſyphus condemn'd to endleſs pains: Thy Children muſt be left, thy Lands and Houſe, Thy pleaſing Wife, That happy Comfort and Delight of Life; Of all the Trees thy hands reſtor'd None but the Cypreſs hated Boughs Shall follow their ſhort-liv'd decaying Lord: The Wines you keep ſo cloſe thy worthier Heir ſhall ſoon poſſeſs, And waſt midſt wanton Luxury and Eaſe; Much nobler Wine the ſquandring Youth Shall ſpill and coſtlier Feaſts prepare, Than ever pleaſ'd a Pamper'd Abbots Tooth.
ODE XV. On the Luxury of the Age. OUr Squares ſtill riſe, our fields decreaſe, And now the Ploughs muſt ruſt in eaſe; New Motes are dug, large Ponds we make That Rival e'en the Lucrine Lake: Round lofty Firrs weak Ivy twines, Unmarry'd Plains profuſely ſpread A uſeleſs melancholly Shade O're larger Fields than marry'd Elms and Vines: Our Beds of Roſes, Myrtle Bowers And all the Luxury of Flowers Their fruitleſs Shades and Smells afford: They now thoſe fruitful grounds poſſeſs Where Olives roſe with vaſt Increaſe, And with great Bounty fed the former Lord: Thick Laurells plac't by purling Streams Shut out the Mid-days burning Beams And give us ſhade to drink and play; Was this by Romulus allow'd? Was this the way our Fathers ſhow'd To riſe to Empire, and extend our ſway? No, then each ſingle Man's Eſtate Was ſmall, the Publick Stock was great, The Publick-Weal imploy'd their Care; No private Man profuſely Skill'd Did then his large Piazza's build To take cool Breezes of the Northern Air: The little Hut their Father's Houſe The Laws forbad them to refuſe, But live content in mean Aboads; Enjoyning all their Shrines and Towns To build with new and coſtly Stones, To grace their Country, and to pleaſe their Gods.
ODE XVI. The contented Man the moſt happy. FOr eaſe the Seaman asks the Gods When toſt in the Egaean Floods; When darkneſs ſpreads to heighten fears, And not one friendly Star appears: For eaſe the Warlike Thracians plead, The Perſian and the quiver'd Mede; For eaſe too precious to be ſold For coſtly Gems, or bought with Gold: For neither Power nor Wealth controul The ſad diſorders of the Soul, Nor yet remove the Cares that wait About the Palace of the Great: Bleſt he with little, on whoſe thrifty Board That Salt ſtill ſhines that call'd his Father Lord, No vexing fears his Breaſt can ſeize, No ſordid Luſt will break his eaſe: Why theſe extended Cares, and Strife, And trouble for ſo ſhort a Life? VVhy do we ply our Sails and Oars, And fondly viſit forreign Shores? Can he that flies his Country find That he can leave himſelf behind? "For baneful Care will ſtill prevail, "And overtake us under ſail; It dogs the Horſeman cloſe behind, More ſwift than Roes, or Stormy Wind: A man contented with his preſent doom Hates to look on for what's to come; With mirth he ſweetens bitter Fate; There is no perfect happy State: The ſtout Achilles dy'd in haſt, Long Age did old Tithonus waſt; Thoſe years ſwift time denies to Thee Perhaps his hand ſhall reach to me: Round Thee ten thouſand Heifers low, Stout Oxen bend beneath thy Plow; In his gilt Coach neigh generous Mares, The Purple dies what e're he wears. A Farm as large as my deſire With ſome few heats of Lyrick fire On me hath ſtubborn Fate beſtow'd, With Pride enough to Scorn the Crowd:
ODE XVII. To MECAENAS. He is reſolv'd not to ſurvive him, and congratulates his Recovery. VVHy am I kill'd with thy Complaint? 'Tis more than any God will grant, 'Tis more, my Lord, than I can bear; That you on whom my hopes rely, That you my great ſupport ſhould dy, And leave thy Melancholly Horace here: Did you my better half decay For what ſhould I, the other, ſtay? What comfort could compoſe my Mind When neither whole, nor yet ſo dear I ſhould be doom'd to linger here, And feel my worſer part ſtill left behind? The ſame black Day ſhall ſeize on both, It is a fixt, and Solemn Oath, Wee'l go, I've Sworn, We both will go; Tho you may firſt begin the Race, I'le follow with a nimble pace, And joyn you e're you reach the Waves below: Did fierce Chimera dart her fire, To make my frighted Soul retire, Yet ſtill I would attend you State; Tho hundred handed Gyas Roſe, In vain ſhould all his ſtrength oppoſe, For Juſtice bids, and 'tis approv'd by Fate: What ever Star did at my Birth prevail, Whether my Fate was weigh'd in Libra's Scale, Or Fatal Scorpio's Beams did ſhine; Or Capricorn's diſturbing Rays Thoſe Tyrants of the Weſtern Seas, 'Tis Strange how much your Stars conſent with mine: From Saturn's fatal influence Jove's milder Rays were your defence, He clog'd the Wings of haſty Death; When thrice with an auſpicious voice The States of Rome proclaim'd their joys, And with their own ſupply'd their fading Breath: My Head had felt a falling Oak, But Faunus did divert the ſtroak; Faunus, the Witts kind guardian God, The Shrine you vow'd the Gods prepare, Let offer'd Bulls reward their Care: For me a Lamb ſhall ſhed his meaner Blood.
ODE XVIII. Againſt Covetouſneſs. NOr Ivory, nor Indian Stuff, Nor Gold adorns my gawdy Roof; No Cedar Beams preſs coſtly Stone From Quarries of the torrid Zone, Where burning Rayes the Marble mould, And joyn the Maſs with flowing Gold: Nor yet have I an Heir unknown E're ſeiz'd on Attalus his Throne; No honeſt Clients hang my Rooms With Purple ſtretcht on Tyrian Looms: But yet I make a fair pretence To Honeſty and Innocence, And ſtore of Wit, and theſe compleat, And make me ſought to by the great: This is my Wealth, This all my Store, Content I ask the Gods no more; Nor my great Friends: O bounteous Fate, How happy in my mean Eſtate! Days puſh on Days with equal pace, New Moons ſtill haſt to the decreaſe, But you e'en whilſt the Bell doth toll, And ſadly warn thy flying Soul Rich Stones provide, large Piles you rear, Unmindful of your Sepulcher: Thy Moles, and thy incroaching Mounds Remove thy floods to ſtreighter bounds, For greedy you would ſeem but poor Confin'd by Nature's narrow Shore: Nay more you leap the Sacred bounds And ſeize your meaner Clients Grounds; No Fence too high, no Ditch too deep For Wealthy Injury to leap: Expell'd by greedy Avarice The Wife with her dear Husband flies, With all her Gods, (too weak defence For Poor and injur'd Innocence, They ſuffer in the common harms) And ſordid Infants in her Arms: Yet after all this toyl and heat, This Fraud and Treachery to be great, The laſt retreat the Rich muſt have, The laſt and ſureſt, is the Grave: What wouldſt thou more? to Swains and Lords An equal Room juſt Earth affords, Nor does ſhe take a Prince's Bones With greater Rev'rence than a Clowns: Ne're ſurly Charon brib'd with Gold Brings back the Cunning or the Bold; Nor will He waft Prometheus o're And land him on the living Shore: Proud Tantalus and all his Line, Tho Kings, His laſting Chains confine; And whether we his aid Implore Or not, He's ready ſtill to eaſe the Poor, Free him from want, and place him on the happy Shore:
ODE XIX. In praiſe of Bacchus. BOrn out by an unuſual rage I ſaw (believe it future Age) Where Bacchus taught the Nymphs a Song, In diſtant Vales; from every Wood With prickt-up Ears the Satyrs ſtood, And ſmiling Fauns compos'd a liſt'ning throng: Evae! new fear diſturbs my Soul, With troubled joy my Paſſions roul Whilſt full of the impetuous God: Evae! ſpare, mighty Liber, ſpare, Urge not the violent rage too far: Spare, Liber, dreadful with thy angry Rod: Now boldly I can ſpeak thy Praiſe, Rehearſe the ſtubborn Thyades, Too fierce to bear the eaſy Yoke: Thy ſtreams of Wine, thy milky Spring, And in repeated Numbers Sing Diſtilling Honey from the melting Oak: Thy happy Bride's refulgent Hairs, That grace the Skies with brighter Stars; What Fate the Impious Theban ſtrook, How Aunt and Mother ſtrangely tore The trampling Wolf, and rooting Bore; And fierce Lycurgus falling by his hook: Indus and Ganges own thy ſway, And Thee the barbarous Seas obey, You fluſh't o're craggy Mountains lead, O're Hills and Dales, o're Springs and Lakes The Thracian Rout, whilſt harmleſs Snakes In innocent folds twine round each drunken Head. When impious Giants climb'd on high, And dar'd to ſtorm thy Fathers Sky; Thy ſingle hand ſecur'd his Crown: You with a Lyons dreadful Jaws And frightful Nails retriev'd the Cauſe, Bold Rhetus quell'd and ſav'd the falling Throne: Tho much more us'd to ſoft delight, Unfit, unable for a fight You once were thought, and doom'd to eaſe: Yet when your Heat and Vertue roſe, What fury ſeiz'd your haughty Foes? How equally inclin'd to Wars and Peace? When beauteous with your gawdy horn You did from Hells black Shades return, Thee Cerberus ſaw, and ſhow'd the Way; He wagg'd his Tail, grew wondrous kind, He lickt thy Feet, he fawn'd and whin'd; Nor did one grin an impious rage betray:
ODE XX. He promiſeth himſelf immortal Fame. NO weak, no common Wing ſhall bear My riſing Body thro the Air; Now chang'd I upward go; I'le grovel here on Earth no more, More high than Envy's ſelf can ſoar, I leave Mortality and things below: Not Me, not Me, the meanly Born, Whom the proud Fools and haughty ſcorn, Not Me ſhall Death controul: Not I, whom you I know not what, Mecaenas, call, will yield to Fate: Nor ſhall the Stygian Waves confine my Soul: Rough Skin o're both my Legs is ſpread, And ſhining Feathers Crown my Head; Above I'me turn'd a Swan: O're both my Hands light Plumes do ſpring, My Arm is chang'd into a Wing, And now I move with greater ſpeed than Man: On ſtronger, and on ſwifter Wing, Than Icarus fled, I riſe and Sing: A ſounding Bird I ſoar, I'le ſee the diſtant Northern Pole I'le ſee the Southern Billows roul, And ſpread my Wings o're Boſphorus groaning Shore. My Songs ſhall to the Colchian Ears, And German that conceals his fears Of Roman Troops be known: The Moors, and in my numerous Verſe The Scythians Skill'd ſhall Songs rehearſe: The Spaniard too, and He that drinks the Rhone. Mourn not, no friendly drops muſt fall, No ſighs attend my Funeral, Thoſe Common Deaths may crave: Let no diſgraceful Grief appear, Nor damp my Glory with a Tear: And ſpare the uſeleſs Honors of a Grave.
The End of the Second Book.
HORACE'S ODES. Book the Third.
ODE I. Not Wealth or Honor, but Peace and Quietneſs makes a happy Life. BEgon, begon, I hate ye all Both you great Vulgar, and you ſmall; Nor Myſteries, Prophane, behold: To Boys and Maids unſtain'd with Crimes The Muſes Prieſt in Sacred Rhimes Doth unknown Songs, and wondrous Truths unfold: The awful Kings o're Nations ſway, Their Subjects tremble and obey; The Kings themſelves are rul'd by Jove, Who broak the Giants Pride, and won Eternal ſafety to his Throne And by his powerful Nod doth all things move: One man doth larger Fields poſſeſs, One ſtands more fair for Offices, The drudging Darling of the Crowd Whilſt One his Manners, or his Friends, Or his Obſequious Train commends, And One in Fame is greater, or in Blood: Yet equal Death doth ſtrike at all, The haughty Great, and humble Small, She ſtrikes with an impartial Hand; She ſhakes the vaſt capacious Urn, And each Man's Lot muſt take his turn; Thro every glaſs ſhe preſſes equal Sand: Whilſt Swords hung o're proud Damocles, Not all the Tyrant's ſweets could pleaſe: Not Muſicks Airs could calm his Breaſt: The black remembrance of his faults Still crowding back upon his thoughts, Diſturb'd and rob'd his troubled Soul of reſt. But humble quiet ne're flies o're The lowly Cottage of the Poor: The pleaſing Shade and purling Streams She loves to haunt, ſhe loves the Plains, And cheers the Plough-man loos'd from Pains With ſtill Security, and eaſy Dreams: He that deſires but what's enough Againſt the force of Fate is proof: Unſtain'd He lives, and pure from Sin: Let violent Tempeſts break the Woods, And angry Whirlwinds toſs the Floods; He ſtill hath Quiet, and a Calm within. Let Hail his ripening Olives beat, Or let them ſhrink with too much heat, His barren Field deceive his hopes; Or let his naked Trees complain Of too much Drought, or too much Rain; Or Froſt untimely nip his riſing Crops: Now ſtill our ſtately Squares encreaſe, The Fiſh will find their Ocean leſs; The Moles thrown in extend the Shoar; The Lord grown weary of the Land Now builds upon the Ocean's Sand; And ſcorns the Bounds that Nature fixt before. But Fear, and Melancholly Cares attend, And where the Maſter climbs, aſcend; They ſoon o'retake his flying Mind: Born on by the ſame nimble gales They preſs the Poop where e're He ſails, And when he rides black Care ſits cloſe behind. Well then, ſince neither Gold, nor Gain, Can quiet bring or fears reſtrain; Since Purple bright as ſhining Stars Can ne're diſpel our Cloudy Cares; Since all the Spices of the Eaſt Can never calm our troubled Breaſt, Why ſhould I madly toyl to raiſe On envy'd Pillars Palaces? Why ſpend my time, and waſt my health? Why ſhould I ſtrive to change my Field, And thoſe delights my Farm can yield, For larger Lands, and more diſturbing Wealth?
ODE II. Youth muſt be bred in Wars and Want, and taught to be Religious. LEt vigorous Boys be train'd to bear The ſtreights of Poverty in War; Be hardly bred, improve thy Force, And bravely gall the Parthian Horſe; And let the Perſians tremble at his Spear: And let him live, and lie abroad Mid'ſt Dangers, Slaughters, Fears, and Blood; Be toſt with all the Storms of Fate, And hard'ned up to prop the State; His Country ſave, and riſe into a God: Him from their Walls, when fierce in War, Let Tyrants Mothers view, and fear; And let their Brides deſpairing ſigh Ah may not my unskilful Spouſe That furious Lion madly rouſe, How fierce He drives, and how our Armies fly! He nobly Bleeds, he bravely Dies That falls his Countries Sacrifice; The flying Youth ſwift Fate o're takes It ſtrikes them thro the trembling backs, And runs too faſt for nimble Cowardice. Vertue, unlearn'd to bear the baſe And ſhameful baffle of diſgrace, Nor takes, nor quits the tottering Throne, As fickle Crowds ſhall ſmile or frown; Nor from their wavering Breath receives the place: True Vertue that unbarrs the Skie To thoſe that are too brave to Die, Thro wondrous ways doth upward go, Scorns the baſe Earth and Crowd below; And with a ſoaring Wing ſtill mounts on high: And juſt Rewards the Gods decree For fair, obedient Piety; Not He that ſcorns or ſcoffs His God, Or blabs his Myſteries abroad, Shall live in the ſame Houſe, or ſail with me: Oft Jove doth heedleſs Thunder throw, And mix the Good and Bad below: But lame Revenge ſtill ſtalks behind, Do's ſlowly dodg the guilty mind, And only ſtays to take the ſurer blow:
ODE IV. To the Muſes acknowledging their Power and Kindneſs. DEſcend, my Muſe, compoſe a long A pleaſing and a grateful Song, Or to the Pipe or ſounding Flute, Or gently move Apollo's Lute: D'ye hear? or airy frenzy cheat My mind, well pleas'd with the deceit? I ſeem to hear, I ſeem to move And wander thro the happy Grove Where ſmooth Springs flow, and murmuring Breez Do's wanton thro the waving Trees: In lofty Vultur's riſing grounds Without my Nurſe Apulia's bounds When young, and tir'd with ſport and play, And bound with pleaſing ſleep I lay, Doves cover'd me with myrtle boughs And with ſoft murmurs ſweetned my repoſe: A wonder this, and ſtrange to all That liv'd in fat Ferenti's Vale; High Acherontia, Bantine groves Admir'd the kindneſs of the Doves: 'Twas ſtrange that I midſt Thorny Brakes, Secure from Bears and creeping Snakes Should lie ſo long; that Doves ſhould ſpread The Sacred Laurel round my Head, And I a Child not fear the Woods The Care and Darling of the Gods: Yours, Muſes, yours, I live your Care On Sabine Hills, or cold Praeneſte's Air: Or whether watry Baiae pleaſe, Or wanton Tibur lulls me into eaſe: Becauſe your Springs, your Sport, and Grove Are all the objects of my Love; When Brutus loſt Philippi's Field, I ſafely fled, and ſcorn'd my Shield, 'Twas Sin to guard or to defend By mortal Arms the Muſes Friend: By you the proud Sicilian Rock I brav'd, and ſcap't the curſed Oak: Whilſt you my feeble Ship ſhall guide, I'le ſingly ſtem the proudeſt Tide; I'le travel thro the fartheſt Eaſt, Where never Mortal foot hath preſt; Britans Inhoſpitable Flood And Thracians pleas'd with Horſes Blood, On Scythian Sands I'le boldly tread, And ſtoutly ſee the quiver'd Mede: When Caeſar, great as all our Hopes, In Towns hath hid his weary Troops, You cheer his Soul, you ſoften Cares, And eaſe the harſh fatigue of Wars: You, Kind, inſtruct him how to live, Give good advice, and joy to give: We know, we know how mighty Jove (Whoſe guiding Nod rules all above, Who governs with an equal hand The raging Sea, and quiet Land; Whoſe eaſy and Almighty ſway The Gods, and Ghoſts, and all obey;) With Thunder ſtrook bold Titans down, And beat their fury from his Throne; We know how impious Giants fell From climbing Heaven to deepeſt Hell: That horrid Troop, thoſe impious Bands, Relying on their numerous hands, Whilſt they on Mountains climb'd on high Spread no ſmall terror thro the Sky; And ſhady Pelion, rais'd above The high Olympus, frighted Jove: But how could Brawny Mimas riſe, How large Porphyrion's frightful ſize Againſt the Thunder of the Skies? How bold Typhaeus aim a ſtroak, How impious Encel dart his Oak? Too weak their force, and ſoon repell'd By Virgin Pallas ſounding Shield: Here Vulcan fought, a greedy God, On that ſide Matron Juno ſtood; And Phoebus there, a dreadful Foe Still arm'd with an unerring Bow: Who loves to haunt the Lycian Woods, And in the pure Caſtalian Floods Waſh his looſe locks; who Songs inſpires, And fills his Prieſts with pleaſing fires, On Patara and Delos Fame Beſtows, and takes from both a Name. Raſh force by its own weight muſt fall, But Pious ſtrength will ſtill prevail; For ſuch the Gods aſſiſt, and bleſs, But hate a mighty Wickedneſs. Proud Gyges proves this fatal truth, And hot Orion's lawleſs youth, E'en Virgin Pallas ſcarce could ſcape The Luſtful fury of a Rape; 'Till her Bow reach't him, whilſt He ſtrove, With fiercer Darts than thoſe of Love: The Earth on her own Monſter thrown Now mourns the ruin of her Son, She grieves that her proud Children fell By Thunder ſtrook to deepeſt Hell: Nor do hot Aetna's flames decay, Yet cannot eat the load away: Hot Tytius Liver, Vulturs tear, They watch as ſoon as parts appear, And ſeize them ſtreight; the Doom was juſt, He puniſht in the ſeat of Luſt; Wrath waits on Sin, three hundred Chains Perithous bind in endleſs pains.
ODE V. To AUGUSTUS. Praiſing him for enlarging their Empire, and diſcommending Craſſus's Souldiers which draws on the Story of Regulus. HIs Thund'ring proves that mighty Jove With wondrous Force rules all above, And now as mighty Actions ſhow That Caeſar is a God below; O're Britiſh Shores our Empires ſpread, Our Arms have reacht the haughty Mede: Could Craſſus Souldiers lead their lives, So meanly yokt to barbarous Wives? Could they grow old (degenerate race, Inverted Souls, and Rome's diſgrace?) In Hoſtile Arms, the Mede obey And fight for a Barbarians pay? Forget their Rites, their Name, and Blood, Whilſt Jove was ſafe, and Rome yet ſtood! Wiſe Regulus did this prevent, He ſcorn'd baſe Terms that Carthage ſent, Nor would he e're by his advice Tempt future Age to Cowardice: He knew that Vertues Crowns would fade Unleſs the Captive Youth were made Unpittied Preys to barbarous Foes, And bore the Slavery they choſe. I ſaw, ſaid He, our Eagles ſhine And baſely fill a Punick ſhrine, With hanging Wings our fears upbraid By which they were ſo ſoon betray'd: I ſaw how Coward Armies ſtood, And yield without a drop of Blood; I ſaw when they their Arms reſign'd, Their Slaviſh Hands drawn back behind, I ſaw our Free-men bound led home, Bound Conquer'd Citizens of Rome! Their Gates unbar'd, they plough'd the ſoyl Which Roman Troops did lately ſpoyl: Redeem'd perhaps more free from fear More fierce they ſhall return to War, More bold, more careful of their Fame; You add new loſſes to your ſhame: Wool once infected with a ſtain Ne're takes it's Native white again: And when true Vertue falls, it lies, Preſt down, and never cares to riſe: If trembling Does when freed from Snares Will fight, then He'l forget his fears Then He'l be ſtout who baſely choſe To truſt the Treachery of his Foes: He, He no doubt, will brave appear, And beat them in another War, Whoſe Arms could tamely bear the Cords And Whips of domineering Lords, Who ſold his precious Liberty For meaner Life, and fear'd to Die: Reſolv'd for Life He did not know To which he ſhould his ſafety owe His Roman Courage or his Fear, And mixt diſhoneſt Peace and War; Oh ſhame! Great Carthage! rais'd more high On the Diſgrace of Italy! His Wives chaſt Kiſs, his pratling Boys The former Partners of his joys, Now grown a Slave, thrown down by Fate, And leſs'ned from his former State He ſhun'd; with manly modeſty On Earth he caſt his ſtubborn Eye Whilſt thus by ſtrange advice He fought, And fixt the wavering Senate's Vote; Then thro his weeping Friends He ran In haſt, a glorious baniſht man: What Cords and Wheels, what Racks, and Chains, What lingring Tortures for his Pains The Barbarous Hangmen made, He knew; And hightning Fame told more than true: Yet He his Wife and Boys remov'd, His hindring Friends, and all he lov'd, And thro the Crow'd he made his way That wept, and beg'd a longer ſtay; As free as if when Term was done, And Suits at end, He left the Town, From Buſineſs and from Cares retreat To the cool pleaſures of a Country Seat.
ODE VII. To ASTERIA. He tells her that her abſent Huſband is Conſtant, and adviſeth her to have a care of her ſolliciting Neighbour. ANd why does fair Aſteria mourn? And why deſpair of his return? The firſt Spring Winds ſhall thy Dear Love reſtore, Soft Gales ſhall waft the charming Youth Of conſtant and unſhaken truth With Wealthy lading to the Roman Shore: He's driven to a diſtant Coaſt, Whilſt Winter binds the Floods with Froſt; Sleep grows a Stranger to his Eyes: He mourns in melancholly Creeks, Whilſt falling Tears freez on his Cheeks, And lengthens out the lingring Night with ſighs: Whilſt ſome from Chiloë ſtrive to move And draw him to another Love; They tell the fury of her Flame; They tell how melted in thy Fires The miſerable Maid expires, And uſe all Arts that Treacherous Wit can frame: They tell how Phaedra's treacherous Tears Did urge believing Proetus Fears, And with what Luſtful heat ſhe ſtrove; What Crimes ſhe feign'd to haſten on The Death of chaſt Bellerophon, And take ſharp vengeance for her ſlighted Love: How neer chaſt Peleus reacht his Fate And felt the force of Woman's hate, Whilſt from Hyppolite He fled; A Thouſand tales, thoſe Bawds to Vice They ſtill force on him, to entice Or fright him to deſpairing Chloe's Bed: In vain, in vain, He hears no more Than Rocks when Winds and Waters roar; Nor owns the Conqueſt of her Eyes: But, fair, take heed, and guard your Heart, And let not fond Eunipe's Art Steal in, and your unguarded Soul ſurprize. Tho none with equal manly force In Mars his Field can guide his Horſe, Tho none appears ſo brave in Arms; Tho none with equal Art divides The headlong force of Tiber's Tides, Yet ſcorn the winning beauty of his Charms: Shut all your doors at Evening's ſhade, Nor when you hear a Serenade Look down with a regarding Eye: Although he vows, and mourns his pains, And calls Thee cruel, and complains; Be cruel Still, and more and more deny.
ODE VIII. To MECAENAS. Whom He invites to an Entertainment which He made for joy of his deliverance from the falling Tree. VVHat I, a Batchelor, intend My learned Lord, and noble Friend, In Mars his Calends you admire; What mean thoſe Flowers that Crown my Head, The Coals on green-turf Altars laid Where in ſmall Cenſures thankful ſweets expire: To Bacchus pleaſing Feaſts I vow'd, And a White Goat's attoning Blood, When I had ſcap't the falling Oak: This day, as years run round, a Feaſt, Shall pierce my Casks; and claim the beſt, That long ſtor'd up hath drank digeſting Smoak: Drink, drink, let numerous Cups extend The Life of thy deliver'd Friend, Cups large as thy extenſive joys: Let watching Tapers chaſe the Night, Till riſing Morn reſtore the light; Let mirth attend, and baniſh Strife and Noiſe. Forget, forget thy publick Cares, And take no thought for ſtate Affairs, We hear the German Troops o're thrown; The Medes now hate their Former Lords, They fight, nor yet expect our Swords; But ſadly conquer for us with their own: Our ancient Foe the Pride of Spain The fierce Cantabrian takes the Chain, Tho late, at laſt He's forc't to yield: The Parthians fly, the Scythians now Their Arrows break, unſtring their Bow, And are reſolv'd to quit the fatal Field: Neglect the various turns of State, The ſports of Chance, or nods of Fate, Grown private watch not o're Affairs; But ſmile, and eagerly receive The Goods the preſent time can give; And leave behind the Grave Fatigue of Cares.
ODE IX. A Dialogue between Horace and Lydia. WHilſt I was welcome to your Heart, In which no happier Youth had part, And full of more prevailing Charms Threw round your neck his dearer Arms; I flouriſht richer, and more bleſt Than the great Monarch of the Eaſt. Lydia. Whilſt all thy Soul with me was fill'd, Nor Lydia did to Chloe yield, Lydia the celebrated Name, The only Theme of Verſe and Fame, I flouriſht more than ſhe renown'd Whoſe Godlike Son our Rome did found: Horace. Me Chloe now, whom every Muſe And every Grace adorn, ſubdues; For whom I'de gladly die to ſave Her dearer Beautys from the Grave: Lydia. Me lovely Calais doth fire With mutual flames of fierce deſire, For whom I twice would die to ſave His Youth more precious from the Grave: Horace. What if our former Loves return And our firſt fires again ſhould burn, If Chloe's baniſht to make way For the forſaken Lydia? Lydia. Tho He is ſhining as a Star, Conſtant, and Kind as he is Fair; Though light as Cork, rough as the Sea, Yet I would Live, would Die with Thee Duke.
ODE X. He tells Lyde that perhaps He ſhall not always be able to endure her Scorn. DId Lyde Drink cold Tanais Flood, A Scythians Bride that fed on Blood; Yet would you grieve to ſee the Kind, The conſtant Horace graſp the Floor, Extended by thy cruel Door, Expos'd toth' fury of the Native Wind. Doſt hear what Tempeſts beat thy Gate? How all ruſh on as arm'd with Fate? And how thy pleaſing Groves are toſt? With what ſevere and piercing light The Moon and Stars now guild the Night, And glaze the ſcatter'd Snow with hoary Froſt? Thy haughty Pride and Scorn remove, Ingrate and Enemy to Love; My paſſions Tide may ebb again; No Scythian Mother brought Thee forth, And hardned by the freezing North, That ardent Lovers thus ſhould court in vain. If all my Prayers and Gifts are weak, Nor violent paleneſs of my Cheek The Lover's Livery, can move; If that thy Husband ſcorns thy Charms, And takes a Songſtreſs to his Arms, Can n're provoke Thee to my firmer Love. O ſtiff as Oaks to warm deſire Too hard to burn in my ſoft Fire, As fierce as Snakes on Lybian Shore; Tho now my patient ſide can bear Thy Door, the Rain, and piercing Air, Yet time will come when 'twill endure no more.
ODE XI. To Mercury, and his Shell, whom He deſires to move Lyde, and tells the Story of Danaus's Daughters: SWeet Mercury (for taught by you The liſtning Stones Amphion drew) And pleaſing Shell, well skill'd to raiſe From ſeven ſtretcht ſtrings the ſweeteſt Lays; Once mute, but now a Friend to Feaſts, To cheer the Gods, and Rich-mens gueſts, Play Tunes, as may provoke to hear E'en Lydes coy denying Ear. She like a Colt frisks o're the Plain, A Rider hates, nor takes the Rein; Unable yet to bear the force And ſtrength of the obliging Horſe: You Tigers, you the liſtning Woods Can draw and ſtop the rapid Floods, E'en Cerberus thy force confeſt, Well-pleas'd He lay, and lull'd in reſt, Tho thouſand hiſſing Serpents ſpread And guard around his horrid Head, And Gore foam'd round his tripple Tongue He gently liſt'ned to thy Song: Ixion, Tytius heard below, And ſmil'd but with a gloomy Brow: The leaky Tub a while was dry, And Danaus Race ſtood idle by, Whilſt thy harmonious Tunes did pleaſe They ſmil'd at their unuſual eaſe; Begin ſweet Lays, let Lyde hear What Crimes they did, what Pains they bear, Tell how their Tub can nought retain, But ſtill gives ſpace for idle pain; How Vengeance comes, tho moving ſlow, And ſtrikes the guilty Souls below: They could, (could Hell contrive a blacker deed) Their Husbands ſtab, and ſmile to ſee them bleed: But one more Worthy of the Name of Wife The hopes and end of every Virgin's Life, Her perjur'd Father bravely diſobey'd, And lives thro future Age a glorious Maid: With Love and Pity in her look She wakt her Spouſe, and thus ſhe ſpoke, Fly, fly, leſt Fate ſhould ſeize thy breath, And ſleep be lengthned into Death: Fly, fly, thy unexpected Fate, My Siſters Rage, and Fathers Hate, Like Lioneſſes on a Steer They grin, and tear, ah me! they tear: More tender I'le not ſtrike the blow, Nor keep Thee from a fiercer Foe: Me let me Father load with Chains, Joyn Wit and Cruelty in Pains; Me let him ſend to Lybian Shores, Mid'ſt Poyſnous Snakes, and ſwarthy Moors, For ſaving you, I'le gladly bear, Nor ſhow I'me Woman by a Tear: Fly, fly, dear Partner of my Bed, Whilſt Night can hide, and Venus lead, Fly, fly, let happy Omens wait, And guide Thee thro gloomy Fate; Remember me, and o're my Grave Write this in a complaining Epitaph:
ODE XII. He congratulates Neobule's Happineſs who lov'd a deſerving Man. 'TIs hard to be deny'd to prove The ſoft Delights of pleaſing Love, 'Tis hard to be deny'd to play, And with ſweet Wine waſh Cares away, Still to be toſt with doubting fear Leſt angry Friends ſhould prove ſevere, And with ſharp chidings wound our Ear. Young wanton Cupid's Darts and Bow Have forc't thy Spindle from Thee now, Thy Wool, and all Minerva's toyls Are charming Hebre's Beauties ſpoyls; He lives thy minds continual Theme, And you can think on nought but him; Hebre, a Youth of Manly force, None ſits ſo well the manag'd Horſe; Bellerophon would ſtrive in vain To guide with ſo gentile a Rein: In all He ſhows a Manly grace, In Cuffing ſtout and ſwift in Race, When His oyl'd Arms have cut the Flood In ſwimming ſtrong; He takes the Wood, Thro Plains purſues the flying Doe, And ſhoots with an unerring Bow; Or elſe for Bores His Toyls He ſets, And takes them foaming in his Nets.
ODE XII. To His pleaſant Spring. BLunduſia's Spring more clear than Glaſs, That bubbles thro the riſing Graſs: Thee Wine ſhould ſweeten, Crowns adorn, But now a wanton Ridgling dies A Pious humble Sacrifice, His flowing blood ſhall Paint the riſing Morn: With budding Horns He dares to fight; His fury haſtens to delight; Courage with Love together grows: In vain, in vain; His wanton Blood Shall ſurely ſtain thy cooler Flood, And pay the mighty Debt his Maſter owes: The furious Dog-Stars burning Beams In vain attempt thy living Streams, In vain they ſtrike thy Sacred Deep; You yield delightful liquid Snow To Oxen wearied with the Plow, And cool the thirſty Heat of wandring Sleep: You rankt ſhall be midſt noble Springs, And high in Fame, whilſt Horace Sings, The ſhady Beech that riſing grows Where, by great Neptune's Trident ſtrook A Paſſage opens thro the Rock And whence thy prattling Stream of Water flows.
ODE XIV. He reſolves to be merry at Caeſars return. CAeſar, who like Alcides, Rome, Did march to bring the Laurel home, Bought with his Death; from diſtant Spain Is now return'd in Peace again: Let Caeſar's Queen, with one content With Pious thanks juſt Gods preſent; His Siſter too, as bright in Charms And great as Caeſar in his Arms: And you whoſe Sons kind Fates reſtore With humble modeſty adore; Ye ſmiling Maids, ye Girls and Boys And you that taſt the Marriage joys, With Mirth ſalute our Conquering Lord, Nor drop one inauſpicious Word. This Day, to me a real Feaſt, Black Cares ſhall baniſh from my Breaſt: I'le fear no Tumults, fear no Pains, Nor violent Death, whilſt Caeſar Reigns: Boy bring me Oyl, and Crowns prepare, And Wine that knew the Marſian War, If any Cask could hidden lie From wondring Spartacus his Eye: Bid ſweet Neoer a ſpread her Charms, And haſt to fly into my Arms, But if the Curſed Porter ſtay, And ask Thee queſtions; Come away: Now Snowy time hath coold my rage, I am not eager to engage, But yet I know when I was wont To ſtorm at ſuch a rude affront; Whilſt Youth was warm, but Love is cold, And I can bear now I am old.
ODE XV. He adviſeth an Old Woman to be Modeſt. THou Wife of Ibycus the Poor, Forbear, and toy in Love no more, Confine thy Luſt and end thy ſhame, Nor ſtrive to blaze with dying flame: Now near to Death that comes but ſlow, Now Thou art ſtepping down below: Sport not amongſt the Blooming Maids But think on Ghoſts, and empty Shades: What ſuits with Pholoe in her bloom, Gray Chloris will not Thee become, A Bed is different from a Tomb: Thy Daughter with a better Grace Tho wrinkles plough her wither'd Face, Might burn, and rage, break Young Men's doors, And waſt the Relicks of her hours; Let Nothus Love force her to play Like wanton Kids ith' heat of May; Lucerian Wool with Purple ſtain'd Not Harps become thy wither'd hand, The Purple Roſy Crowns diſgrace The Earthy paleneſs of thy Face; And Drink until the Hogſhead's dry, Then ſuck the dreggs, no blood will fly To thy pale Cheek, nor ſoftneſs to thy Eye.
ODE XVI. All things obey Gold. ATower of Braſs, Gates ſtrong and barr'd, And watchful Dogs ſuſpicious Guard From creeping Night Adulterers, That fought impriſon'd Danae's Bed, Might have ſecur'd one Maiden-Head; And freed the old Acriſius from his fears: But Jove and Venus ſoon betray'd The jealous Guardian of the Maid, They knew the way to take the hold; They knew the Paſs muſt open lie To every hand and every Eye, When Jove himſelf was Bribe, and turn'd to Gold: Gold loves to break through Gates and Barrs, It is the Thunderbolt of Warrs; It flies thro Walls, and breaks a way, By Gold the Argive Augur fell, It taught the Children to rebel, And made the Wife her fatal Lord betray: When Engines, and when Arts do fail, The golden Wedg can cleave the Wall; Gold Philip's Rival Kings o'rethrew; Rough Sea-men, ſtubborn as the Flood And angry Seas that they have Plow'd, Bribes quickly ſnare, and eaſily ſubdue: Care ſtill attends encreaſing ſtore, And craving Appetite for more; Mecaenas, Honor of our Knights, How juſtly was thy Friend afraid To raiſe his too conſpicuous Head And ſoar too lofty, and to envy'd heights? Thoſe that do much themſelves deny, Receive more bleſſings from the Sky: I love a mean, and ſafe retreat; And naked now with haſt retire To Humble Thoſe who nought deſire; And joy to leave the Party of the Great: In my ſcorn'd Farm a greater Lord Than if my crowded Barns were ſtor'd With all the ſtout Appulian reaps; Than if to Me Pactolus ran And roul'd in flowing Tides of gain, Whilſt I was Poor amidſt my mighty heaps, A purling Spring, a ſhady Grove To raiſe my Song, and eaſe my Love, My Farm that ne're deceives my hopes Make me ſeem happier to the Wiſe, Tho not to baſe and vulgar Eyes, Than He that boaſts his Fruitful Lyha's Crops: Tho no Calabrian Bees do give Their grateful Tribute to my Hive, No Wines by Rich Compania ſent In my Ignoble Casks ferment; No Flocks in Gallick Plains grow Fat, Yet I am free from pinching want, And beg'd I more, my Lord would grant; And to my Wiſhes equal my Eſtate: But now more ſafe, and more ſecurely bleſt Than if my Hand graſp't Eaſt and Weſt: He, that asks much, muſt ſtill want more; Happy, to whom Indulgent Heaven Enough, and ſparingly hath given, And made his Mind as narrow as his Store.
ODE XVII. He adviſeth his noble Friend Aelius Lamias to live merrily. GReat Sir from ancient Lamus Sprung, As noble a deſcent, as long; (From Him, the Spring, thy generous Blood In undiſturbed Streams has flow'd; From him the Lamias took their name, And ſwell the Annals of our Fame, Thy generous Blood rould nobly down From him that fill'd the Formian Throne Where ſwoln with Rain, ſwift Liris roars, And waſhes fair Marica's Shores, A Potent Scepter grac't his Hand, And meaſur'd out a wide Command) To morrow furious Winds ſhall ſpread The troubled Shore with uſeleſs Weed, And fill the Woods with ſcatter'd Leaves, Unleſs the cawing Crow deceives, The Crow that ſtill foretells a Rain And Storm, and never caws in vain: Now Pile thy Wood whilſt ſound and dry, To morrow morn a Pig ſhall die, And Wine ſhall cheer thy Slaves and Thee, From Country Toyl, and Buſineſs free, And all enjoy a ſhort liv'd Liberty.
ODE XVIII. To FAUNUS. Whoſe Favour and Protection He deſires. FAunus that flying Nymphs purſues, And Courts as oft as they refuſe, If Yearly Ridglings ſtain thy Grove, If the large Bowl the Friend of Love, Still flows with Wine; if Prayers invoke, And thy old Shrines with Odors ſmoak, Defend my Fields, and ſunny Farm, And keep my tender Flocks from harm: Or'e graſſy Plains the wanton Flocks, The Village with their idle Ox, Sport o're the Fields, all finely dreſt When cold December doth reſtore thy Feaſt: The Lambs midſt ravenous Wolves repoſe, The Wood to thee ſpreads ruſtick Boughs, The Ditcher with his Country Jugg, Then ſmiles to Dance where once he dugg.
ODE XIX. A merry Ode to his Friend who was a Student. HOw many years divide Old Inachus and Codrus Reign Who for his Country bravely dy'd, You ſeek with mighty pain, Theſe are the idle Labors of thy Brain. Old Aeacus you can derive from Jove, And tell what mighty Kin he had above, You all the Trojan Wars can write, But never mind what Wine will coſt, Who make a Feaſt, and who invite, And who a Fire prepares at Night Now Winter ſpreads the Fields with hoary Froſt. A Glaſs! come fill me to the riſing Moon, To Midnight, and to Morning one; Wee'l never part whilſt Stars do ſhine; Forget thy Books, thoſe idle Dreams, Fill round, Three Bowls or Nine Are ſober Jollity's extreams. He that th' uneven Muſes loves, With Three times Three his heat improves, A ſtaring Poet, rais'd by every Bowl; The ſober Grace with th' naked two, Afraid of Brawls, but Three allow, And only cheer, but never heat the Soul: I muſt be Mad, what means the Flute? Why hangs the Pipe and ſilent Lute? I hate a niggard, quickly ſpread The ſweeteſt Roſes round my Head; Let Lycus hear the roaring noiſe, And ſhe the Neighbouring Miſs That doth his feeble Love deſpiſe, And let them pine, and envy at our joys: Thee Beauteous with thy buſhy Hair, And like the brighteſt Evening Star Ripe Chloë ſeeks with warm deſires; Whilſt I a dull expecting Fop Still linger on with lazy hope, And ſlowly melt in Glycera's tormenting Fires.
ODE XX. He adviſeth his Friend not to ſtrive to part a Lover and his Miſtriſs. DOſt ſee what Dangers muſt attend, Thy Pious Duty to thy Friend; 'Tis hard to rob a Tygreſs of her Young: Ah bafled, Thou ſhalt ſoon retreat, And midſt the ſhame of a defeat Unequal Foe confeſs her force too ſtrong. When ſhe with Fury rais'd ſhall move Thro throngs of Youth that offer Love, And ſtrive to win her Heart; to ſeize the Fair; Then ſhall we ſee who wins the Day, And who ſhall ſeize the Beauteous Prey, And in Nearchus have the greateſt ſhare: Whilſt you your winged Arrows draw, She whets her Teeth, and ſpreads her paw; Whilſt he that muſt beſtow the Prize Sits unconcern'd with gloting Eyes; On all around his Amorous glances ſpread, His perfum'd looſe and wanton Hair, Permitting to the waving Air, As ſweet as Nireus or as Ganymed.
ODE XXII. He Dedicates his Pine to Diana. KInd Guardian of my Hills and Grove Who thrice implor'd doſt hear, and ſave The teeming Women from the Grave, Great here on Earth, in Hell, and great Above. This Tree be thine that long hath ſtood To ſhade my Houſe; as Years roul round A Bore that Aims a ſide-ways wound Shall Yearly ſtain the Trunk with offer'd Blood.
ODE XXIII. Innocence pleaſes Heaven more than Sacrifice. A Fat and coſtly Sacrifice Is not the welcom'ſt Tribute to the Skys, They'r more delighted with the ſmall expence Of Honeſty and Innocence. Let ruſtick Phydile prepare At each new Moon an humble Prayer, And at her old Penates Shrine Pour one ſmall bowl of Country Wine, And ſtain their Altars with a greedy Swine; No ſcorching Winds ſhall blaſt her fruit, Her Corn be free from barren ſmut; Nor let her darling Children fear The ſhivering Agues of the dying Year. The Sacrifice Albanian Paſtures feed, Or Snowy Algidum's cold Mountains breed 'Midſt fruitful Oaks a pamper'd Beaſt, Shall ſtain the Axes of the Prieſt: But why ſhould You profuſely try With ſlaughter'd Flocks to bribe the Sky, Since Myrtle Crowns, and from the neighbouring Flood Few ſprinkled drops ſhall pleaſe the God More than whole Rivers of their offer'd blood? If with an unpolluted hand, Which neither Blood nor wicked Arts have ſtain'd, A little Meal and Salt you bring 'Twill prove a more prevailing Offering Than all the Spices of the Eaſtern King.
ODE XXIV. Nothing can ſecure a Man from Death, And Covetouſneſs is the Root of all Evil. THough You had all the Spice and Gold Arabia ſweats, and the rich Indies hold; Tho You extend Your Palaces O're the Tyrrhene, and Pontick Seas; When ſtrong Neceſſity Shall fix her Adamantine hooks on Thee, When ſhe ſhall drag away The trembling melancholy Prey, Not all thy Wealth ſhall ſave Thy Mind from fear, or body from the grave. Happier the wandring Scythians live, Who all their houſe in one ſmall Waggon drive, Where no unequal bounds Do parcel out the Land in private grounds, The Corn grows freely for the Common good; And when one Year their Fields they plow'd, They ſit at Eaſe, whilſt others toyl, And equal pains manure the Publick Soil. There all the Cups the Step-dames hands preſent To unſuſpecting Heirs are innocent: No Wife confiding on her Dower, Or rich Gallant uſurps her Husband's Power; None there a lawleſs ſway pretends, Her Portion is the vertue of her Friends, And cautious Modeſty That cloſer draws the marriage tye, They fear to ſin, or ſinning doom'd to dye. He that would prize his Country's good, And ſtop the Iſſue of our Civil blood; He that would ſtand in Braſs as fixt as Fate, Be nam'd the Father of the State; Let him reſtrain this Brutal rage: A glorious Man in future age! Since Envious We deſpiſe Vertue when preſent, when it flyes Stand and gaze after it with longing Eyes! But ſad Complaints are vain, Vice only yields to pain, Her Sword ſtrict Juſtice needs muſt draw, And cut it off by neceſſary Law; And what are Laws! State Pageantry! Unleſs obey'd With the ſame reverence they were made, Unleſs our Manners and the Rules agree! The Merchants dare to cut the Line, Where beams ſtill boyl the Metal in the Mine, Nor can the frigid Coaſt That lyes bound up with lazy Froſt, Nor all the Snow and Northern Ice, E're cool the Sailer's flaming Avarice; In feeble Ships they dare to ride And boldly ſtem the higheſt Tide, When ſcarce three inches them and Death divide, For Poverty that great diſgrace Still drives them on the vicious race; Whilſt Vertue's Paths that lead on high Untrod and unfrequented lie, Few think it worth their while to climb the Sky. To Jove's great Shrine let Romans bring Their Wealth, a grateful Offering; For thoſe that thus their Treaſures ſpend, Juſt bleſſings Crown, and joyful ſhouts attend: Or in the Neighbouring flood Let's caſt our Jewels and our Gold, For which we have our Vertue ſold, Our Gold the dear-bought cauſe of all our blood: Wealth, form'd near Hell, when here on Earth Brings up the curſed Region of its birth. If we repent, and hate the Crimes And Follies of our own and Father's times, We muſt root out the very ſeeds of Sin, And plant new Vertue in; The Soil is ſoft, and if manur'd with care, And manly Arts, may bear A fruitful Crop, Vertue may ſprout again, And with a Vaſt encreaſe reward the Tiller's pain. Our Nobles Sons with an unequal force Now ſcarce can ſit the Manag'd Horſe, They Hate the Ring, nor dare to ride the Courſe: But Cards, unlawful Dice, And all the myſteries of Vice That Greece e're taught, or Rome improv'd they know, For theſe they nobler Deeds forgoe; Theſe are their Arts, their chief delights, The Pleaſures of their days, and ſtudy of their nights. Mean while their perjur'd Fathers cheat, Grow grey in baſe Oppreſſion, and Deceit; To their beſt Friends their Oaths are Snares, Whilſt at the vaſt Expence Of Honeſty and Innocence, They Heap up Wealth for their unworthy Heirs. Their Stores encreaſe, and yet, I know not what, Still they do ſomething want, Which neither pains can get, nor Heav'n can grant, To ſwell their Narrow to a full Eſtate.
ODE XXVI. Now being grown Old, he bids farewel to Love. ONce I was gay, and great in Charms, Succeſs ſtill waited on my Arms, In Venus Battles bravely ſtout, I fought, and conquer'd when I fought: But now my Arms and wanton Lyre Whoſe tunes could ſpread Harmonious fire, Whoſe moving ſtroaks could ſoon impart Soft wiſhes to the tender heart, My Torches, Leavers, Darts and Bows That broak the Doors that did oppoſe, That did all Obſtacles remove, Which hindred my purſuit of Love, In Venus Shrine unheeded lie With all my Love's Artillery: Great Goddeſs who o're Cyprus reigns, And ſcorching Memphis burning Plains, Let coy and ſcornful Chlöe know The fury of thy Cupid's Bow; And let her ſmart for her diſdain, Enflame her Breaſt, and I ſhall love again.
ODE XXVIII. To Lyde, On Neptune's Feſtival. VVHat ſhould I do at Neptune's Feaſt, What better ſhould my thoughts employ, What ſhould I do but treat my gueſt, And ſhow the greatneſs of my Joy? Wine, Lyde, Wine; ſtorm ſober Senſe, My Bowl is ſtrong, and that will make a weak defence. Do'ſt ſee how half the day is paſt? And yet as if wing'd Time would ſtay, You ſtill the precious minutes waſt; And lead me on with ſlow delay. Wine, Lyde, Wine; to raiſe my flame, Old luſty Wine, and ſeal'd with Bibulus's name. I'le ſing great Neptune bound by Rocks, I'le ſing the Nereids Sea-green hair; And how they ſit, and ſpread their locks To tempt the greedy Mariner: You to your Harp Latona ſing, And Cynthia's Arrows ſhot from an unerring ſtring. Both her who drawn by murmuring Doves To Paphos guides with ſilken ſtrings, Whilſt Cupids wait, and wanton Loves Fan their warm Mother with their wings: Juſt ſongs and thanks ſhall praiſe the Night, For lingring Long, and giving ſpace for gay delight.
ODE XXIX. He invites Mecaenas to an Entertainment. MY noble Lord of Royal Blood, That from the Tuſcan Monarchs flow'd, I have a Cask ne're pierc'd before; My Garlands wreath'd, my Crowns are made, My Roſes pluckt to grace thy head; As fair and ſweet as e're Praeneſte bore. Make haſt, my Lord, and break away From all the Shackles of delay, From watry Tibur's Fields retreat: Let not low Aeſula delight, Nor let her Vales detain thy ſight, Or Parricide Telegonus his Seat. From thy diſguſting Plenty fly, Thy Palace leave that mounts on high And hides her head in bending Clouds; Admire no more (but quickly come) The Wealth, the noiſe, and ſmoak of Rome, That happy Manſion of our future Gods. Changes have often pleas'd the Great, And in a Cell a homely treat; But ſweet and good, and cleanly dreſt, Tho no rich Hangings grace the Rooms, Or Purple wrought in Tyrian Looms, Have ſmooth'd a careful brow, and calm'd a troubled breaſt. The Dog's and Lion's fury riſe, With doubled beams they ſcorch the Skys; The Swains retire to mid-day dreams: The bleating Flocks avoid the heat, And to the Springs and Shades retreat; And not one breath of Air curles o're the Streams. Whilſt You ſtill watch the turns of Fate, The careful guardian of our State; Intent on what the Mede prepares: What leads the quiver'd Perſian forth, What moves the Bactrian, and the North, Are the diſtracting Objects of thy Cares. Future Events Wiſe Providence Hath hid in Night from humane Sence, To narrow bounds our ſearch confin'd: And laughs to ſee proud Mortals try To fathom deep Eternity With the ſhort Line and Plummet of their Mind. Thoſe Joys the preſent Hours produce Take thankfully, my Lord, and uſe; All other things like Rivers flow, In their own Channels thro the Plain They fall into the Tuſcan Main, And bleſs the Country as they go: When Rain hath rais'd the quiet Floods, Whilſt Neighbouring Mountains all around Are fill'd, and Eccho with the ſound, They whirl the eaten Rocks and Woods, And drown the growing Labors of the Plow. He's Maſter of himſelf alone, He lives, that makes each day his own: He lives that can diſtinctly ſay It is enough, for I have liv'd to day: Let Jove to morrow ſmiling riſe, Or let dark Clouds ſpread o're the Skys: He cannot make the pleaſures void Nor ſower the ſweets I have enjoy'd, Nor call that back which winged hours have born away. Still Fortune plays at faſt and looſe, And ſtill maliciouſly jocoſe, Her cruel ſport ſhe urges on; Now ſmiles on me, on Me beſtows, And then upon another throwes Vaſt heaps of Wealth, and takes them back as ſoon. When e're ſhe ſtays with what ſhe brings I'me pleas'd, but when ſhe ſhakes her Wings, I ſtreight reſign my juſt pretence; I give her back her fading Gold: My ſelf in my Vertue fold, And live content with Want and Innocence. When ſpreading Sails rough Tempeſts tear, I make no lamentable Prayer; I do not bargain with the Gods, Nor offer coſtly Sacrifice To ſave my precious Tyrian dys From Adding Riches to the Greedy Floods. E'en 'midſt theſe Storms I'le ſafely ride, My Bark ſhall ſtem the higheſt Tide; Tho Tempeſts toſs, and th'Ocean raves, Caſtor ſhall gather gentle Gales, And Pollux fill my ſpreading Sails, And bear me ſafe thro the Aegean Waves.
ODE XXX. He promiſeth himſelf Eternity. 'TIs finiſh't; I have rais'd a Monument More ſtrong than Braſs, and of a vaſt extent: Higher than Egypt's ſtatelyeſt Pyramid, That coſtly Monument of Kingly Pride; As High as Heaven the top, as Earth the Baſis wide: Which eating ſhowers, nor North wind's ſeeble blaſt, Nor whirling Time, nor flight of Years can waſt: Whole Horace ſhall not dye, his Songs ſhall ſave The greateſt portion from the greedy Grave: Still freſh I'le grow, ſtill green in future praiſe, Till Time is loſt, and Rome it ſelf decays; Till the chief Prieſt and ſilent Maid no more Aſcend the Capitol, and Jove adore: Where violent Aufid rouls thro humble Plains, And where ſcorch'd Daunus rul'd the labouring Swains, There ſhall my fame reſound, there all ſhall cry 'Twas I, the great from mean deſcent, 'twas I That firſt did dare to bind the Grecian Song, And unknown numbers in the Roman tongue: Muſe take thy Merits due, and proudly raiſe Thy Head, and gladly Crown my Brows with Bays.
The End of the Third Book.
ODES. Book the Fourth.
ODE I. To VENUS. 1. He is now grown Old and unfit for Love. 2. Deſires her to go and viſit Young Paulus. 3. Yet He ſtill thinks on his lovely Boy Ligurine. 1. LOng interrupted War Thou Venus doſt again renew, And former hate purſue; Oh ſpare, for Pitty, Venus, ſpare. I am not what I was In lovely Cynera's eaſy Reign When heat warm'd every Vein, And manly Beauty filld my Face. Ceaſe Queen of ſoft Deſires To bend my Mind grown ſtiff with Age, And fifty years engage To crackle in thy wanton Fires. But Youth and Beauty hear, Go where their tender wiſhes call, And let their ſighs prevail; Go free young Virgins of their fear. 2. There is a Noble game, In Paulus Houſe, go drive thy Doves, And revel with thy Loves, His Heart deſerves thy choiceſt Flame: For He is great in Charms, The chiefeſt Honor of the Bar, He'l make ſucceſsful War, And ſpread the Glory of thy Arms: When He the lovely ſmiles, When he the happy Man ſhall prove, And win by naked Love His giving Rivals coſtly ſpoyls; Of Cedar grac't with Gold, A ſtately Pile ſhall proudly riſe As glorious as the Skies, And thy bleſt Image gladly hold; Before Thee thrice a day With Incenſe ſweet thy Shrine ſhall ſmoke, And Boys and Maids invoke, And dance, and praiſe Thee as they pray; In wanton order move, Whilſt Pipe, and Flute, and charming Lyre Compoſe the joyful Quire, And naked all, and fit for Love. No Maids, no wanton Boys, No Empty hopes of mutual Love My feeble paſſions move, Or quicken my dead Soul to joys: E'en Crowns and VVine diſpleaſe, I cannot roar and drink all Night, Old Age doth cramp Delight, And lead me down to lazy Eaſe: 3. But Ah! what's this my Dear! Dear Ligurine, ah tell me why Theſe drops forſake my Eye, And tender ſighs fan every tear. Why doth my flowing Tongue In unbecoming ſilence fall? And why do ſighs prevail, And in the midſt ſurpriſe my Song? Thee, Thee, my lovely Boy, Now now I claſp, and now in Dreams Purſue o're Fields, and Streams; Thee, Thee, my Dear, my flying Joy.
ODE II. To ANTONIUS JULUS. 1. None can imitate Pindar. 2. Commends Antony, and propoſes Caeſar's Actions as a fit ſubject for his Muſe. 1. HE that to equal Pindar trys, With Waxen wings he vainly flys Too near exalted Fame; And muſt expect a Fate like his Who fell, and gave the Sea a name. As violent Rivers ſwoln with Rain, Break o're the neighbouring fruitful Plain With an impetuous ſtream; So Pindar doth all Banks diſdain, And overflows the higheſt Theme. In all He doth deſerve the Crown Whether He ruſhes boldly on, And rouls new words along; Through lawleſs Dytherambicks thrown; Or Thunders in a looſer Song: Or Gods, or Gods next Kindred Kings, In mighty numbers mighty things, Or valiant Heroes names That kill'd the Centaurs, nobly ſings, And quench'd the fierce Chimaera's flames. Or praiſed him that ſwiftly rode, And Crown'd return'd almoſt a God From the Olympian race; Or Verſes on the Brave beſtow'd, More ſounding and more ſtrong than Braſs. Or ſoftly ſings with pious grief A Youth ſnatcht from his weeping Wife, And bears their names on high, Their vertuous manners pleaſant life, And doth forbid their Loves to dye. The Theban Swan vaſt whirls of Air Thro higheſt Regions ſwiftly bear When he deſigns to riſe, When He his lofty head doth rear And ſhoots it thro the Cloudy Skies. I like a Bee with toil and pain Fly humbly o're the flowry Plain, And with a buſy tongue The little Sweets my Labors gain, I work at laſt into a Song. 2. But You ſhall ſing in higher ſtrains What Conqueſts mighty Caeſar gains, How great his Pomp appears, When juſtly Crown'd he leads in Chains The German Trophies of his Wars. Greater than him no Age can know, Nor, if they would, the Gods beſtow; No, they can bleſs no more If they their bounty ſtrove to ſhow, And would the Golden Age reſtore: Then thou ſhalt ſing our feaſting days, Our City's Joy, and publick Plays At Caeſar's wiſht return: Then thou ſhalt ſing how ſtrife decays, And Courts their peaceful Clients mourn. And there if any patient Ear My Muſes feeble Song will hear My voice ſhall ſound thro Rome: Thee, Sun, I'le ſing, Thee, lovely fair; Thee, Thee I'le praiſe when Caeſar's come: As you great Poet march along From every Heart and every Tongue A joyful ſound ſhall move, Io Triumph be the Song, VVhilſt Incenſe ſmoaks to Gods above: Ten fair large Bulls, ten luſty Cows Muſt dy to pay thy richer Vows; Of my ſmall ſtock of Kine A Calf juſt wean'd now Youthful grows In Paſtures fat to fall for mine: Unus'd to puſh doth wildly run, And as the third-days riſing Moon So bend his tender horns; All over Red, but where alone A milky ſpot his front adorns.
ODE III. To his Muſe. By her favor he gets immortal Reputation. AT whoſe bleſt birth propitious rays The Muſes ſhed, on whom they ſmile No duſty Iſthmian game Shall ſtouteſt of the Ring proclaim, Or to reward his toyl Wreath Ivy Crowns, or grace his head with Bays. Nor Victor, Laurel round his Brows, In an Achean Chariot ride: No glorious feats of War His happy Skill, and Arms declare When He hath broke the pride, And baffled dreadful threats of haughty Foes. But fruitful Tibur's ſhady Groves, Its pleaſant Springs and purling Streams, Shall raiſe a laſting name, And ſet him high in ſounding ſame, For Lyric Verſe the nobleſt Themes, Great as his Mind, and various as his Loves. Rome Empreſs of the Nation's Writes, Writes me amongſt the Lyrick Train; And hence I Honor raiſe, Immortal Love and laſting praiſe Secure from fears, and pain, For ſharp-tooth'd Envy now but faintly bites. Sweet Muſe that tun'ſt the charming Lyre, And draw'ſt ſoft ſounds from ſtubborn ſtring, That can'ſt the Envious pleaſe And ſoften fury into eaſe, Teach ſilent Fiſh to ſing, And tunes as ſweet as dying Swans inſpire. 'Tis thine, ſweet Muſe, thy gift alone, That as I walk all cry 'tis He; That warms with Lyrick fire, 'Tis He that tunes the Roman Lyre; And that I pleaſe, I own, Suppoſe I pleaſe, I have it all from Thee.
ODE V. GReat Hero's Son, Rome's gratious Lord, How long ſhall we thy abſence mourn! Thy promis'd ſelf at laſt afford, Rome's ſacred Senate begs: Return. Great Sir reſtore your Country light; When your auſpitious beams ariſe, Juſt as in Spring, the Sun's more bright, And fairer days ſmile o're the Skys. As tender Mothers wait their Sons Whom Storms have toſt above a Year, And every nimble day that runs They load with vows, and pious fear, They ne're their Eys from th' Shores remove, Longing to ſee their Sons reſtor'd; Thus Rome, inſpir'd with Loyal Love, Expects her great, her gracious Lord. The Ox doth ſafely Paſtur • trace, And fruitful Ceres fills our Plains, The Merchant ſails o're quiet Seas, And unſtain'd Faith, and Vertue reigns. No baſe Adultry ſtains our Race, Strickt Law hath tam'd that ſpotted Vice; The Child can ſhow his Father's face; Pain waits on Sin, and checks its riſe. Who doth the dreadful Germans fear The Scythian Rage, or Parthian Bow, Or Who the threatning Spaniards War, Whilſt Caeſar lives, and rules below? In his own Hills each ſets his Sun; To Widow Elms he leads his Vine, And chearful, when his toyls are done, Invokes Thee o're a Glaſs of Wine: To Thee our Prayers, and Wines do flow To Thee the Author of our Peace, As much as grateful Greece can ſhow, To Caſtor, or great Hercules: Long may You live, your days be fair, Beſtow long Feaſts, and long Delight; This is our ſober morning Prayer, And theſe our drunken Vows at Night.
ODE VI. To Apollo and Diana. GReat God, whom Niobe's Race did know A ſharp revenger of a haughty Tongue, Whom Luſtful Titus wrong Provokt to draw his fatal Bow; And ſtout Achilles found too great a Foe. Tho fierce in Arms, tho Thetis Son, Tho Death did wait upon his Sword, and Fear, Attended on his Spear; Tho wretched Troy almoſt or'e thrown Confeſt his force, He bow'd to Thee alone. Like Oaks which biting Axes wound, Or Cypreſs tall which furious Storms divide He ſpread his ruin wide: He felt the fatal Dart, He groan'd And hid his noble Head in Trojan ground: Not He in great Minerva's Horſe Had cheated Troy, and Priam's heedleſs Court Diſſolv'd in Wine and Sport; But hot, and deaf to all remorſe Had fiercely ſtorm'd our Walls with open force: And when ſtrong Fates had Troy or'come Too ſavage He, ah! ah! with Grecian Flames Had burnt the breeding Dames, And in their Mothers burning Womb, Poor harmleſs Infants found a hated Tomb: But your kind Prayers, and Venus Face Prevail'd on Fate, made angry Juno kind, And bent Jove's mighty mind To grant a more auſpicious place To raiſe a Town for great Aeneas Race: Fain'd Artiſt on the Muſes Lyre, That bath'ſt thy yellow Locks in Zanthus Flood, Sweet, ſmooth-fac't charming God, Improve the rage thou didſt inſpire, Encreaſe my heat and ſtill preſerve my Fire: From Phoebus all my fancy came, 'Twas Phoebus firſt that taught me how to ſing, And ſtrike the ſpeaking ſtring; He Art inſpir'd, He rais'd my Fame, And gave the glory of a Poet's name: You noble Maids, and noble Boys, The chaſt Diana's chiefeſt care below, Whoſe dreadful Darts and Bow, Fierce Tygers fear; obſerve my voice, Obſerve the meaſures of the publick joys: Juſt praiſes give Latona's Son; And ſing the Moon with her encreaſing light The beauteous Queen of Night, Kind to our Fruits, and ſwift alone To turn the headlong Months, and whirl 'em down. When Marriage bands confine thy Love Then boaſt, as years brought round the Feaſt, I plaid The Tunes that Horace made; I ſang his Verſe; and This did prove A pleaſing Tribute to the Gods above.
ODE VII. To MANLIUS TORQUATUS. The Spring coming on, from the conſideration of our frail State, He invites him to be merry. THe Snows are gone, and Graſs returns again, New Leaves adorn the Widow Trees The unſwoln Streams their narrow banks contain, And ſoftly role to quiet Seas: The decent Nymphs with ſmiling Graces joyn'd, Now naked dance i'th' open Air They frolick, dance, nor do they fear the Wind That gently wantons thro their Hair. The nimble hour that turns the Circling Year And ſwiftly whirls the pleaſing Day, Forewarns Thee to be Mortal in thy Care Nor cramp thy Life with long delay: The Spring the Winter, Summer waſts the Spring, And Summers beauty's quickly loſt, When drunken Autumn ſpreads her drooping Wing And next cold Winter creeps in Froſt. The Moon tis true her Monthly loſs repairs, She ſtreight renews her borrow'd light; But when black Death hath turn'd our ſhining years, There follows one Eternal Night. When we ſhall view the gloomy Stygian Shore, And walk amongſt the mighty Dead Where Tullus, where Aeneas went before: We ſhall be Duſt, and empty ſhade: Who knows if ſtubborn Fate will prove ſo kind, And joyn to this another day? What e're is for thy greedy Heir deſign'd, Will ſlip his Hands, and fly away: When thou art gone, and Minos Sentence read, Torquatus there is no return, Thy Fame, nor all thy learned Tongue can plead, Nor goodneſs ſhall unſeal the Urn: For Chaſt Hyppolytus Diana ſtrives, She ſtrives, but ah! ſhe ſtrives in vain; Nor Theſeus Care, and Pious force reprieves, Nor breaks his Dear Perithous Chain.
ODE VIII. To Marcus Cenſorinus. Verſe is the beſt and moſt laſting Preſent that a Man can ſend his Friend. I Would be kind, I would beſtow Dear Cenſorine, on all I know, Plate, Statues, Braſs prepar'd; Or Bowls the ſtouteſt Greeks reward: On You my Friend, and half my heart, Some curious Piece of noble Art; Could I the famous Works command Of Scopa's or Parrhaſius hand, One skill'd in Stone, and one in Paint To frame a Man, or make a Saint: The Art declar'd the frame divine, And God appear'd in every Line. But I am poor, and your Eſtate Too large for theſe, your Soul too great To want ſuch Toys: but You delight In noble Verſe, and I can write; I'me rich in theſe, can pleaſe a Friend, And ſhow the worth of what I ſend: Not ſtately Pillars rais'd in Braſs, Nor Stones inſcrib'd with publick Praiſe, Tho ſuch new Heat and Vigor give, And make the buried Heroes live; The haſty flight, the wondrous fall, And threats thrown back on Hannibal, Not Impious Carthage bright in flames, His praiſe, who came increas't in Names From conquer'd Africk, Vertues ſhow With half the Glory Verſe can do: If Books were dumb, what ſmall Regard Would Vertue meet, what mean Reward? And who had Rome's great Founder known Tho ſprung from Mars, tho Ilia's Son, If envious ſilence had with-held, His great Deſerts, and Fame conceal'd? From Shades below, and gloomy Night By Poet's power, and force of Wit Good Eack freed, ſerenely reigns A Mighty King in happy Plains: The Muſe forbids great worth to dye; On whom ſhe will beſtows the Sky: Thus Great Alcides carves the Feaſt With Jove himſelf, a noble Gueſt: Thus ſhining Caſtor kindly ſaves A feeble Ship in rougheſt Waves; And Bacchus, crown'd with Ivy, hears Our modeſt Vows, and ſpeeds our Prayers.
ODE IX. To LOLLIUS. His Songs ſhall never dye; and he is reſolv'd to make his Friend Lollius his Name live for ever. VAin fear to think thoſe Words will dye Which born by Aufid's whirling ſtream, With unknown Art I firſt did try In Lyric numbers joyn'd With charming ſtrings to bind, And gently raiſe my noble Theme. Tho King in Verſe great Homer reigns, And doth Equality refuſe; Yet Pindar lives in lofty ſtrains, Alcoeus nobly charms, The Coean Lyrick warms With grave Steſichorus ſtately Muſe: We read Anacreon's wanton toys; Whilſt they our paſſions gently move, No Envy blaſts, no Age deſtroys; And Sappho's charming Lyre Preſerves her ſoft deſire, And tunes our raviſht Souls to Love. Not only Helen's Heart was fir'd, When baſely careleſs of her fame She Paris Princely Train admir'd, His Curls ſurprizing grace, His Dreſs, his Art, his Face, And lewdly fed her lawleſs Flame. Not Teucer firſt drew fatal Bows; Not Troy but once felt Grecian rage; Not only Stheneleus brav'd his Foes, The great firſt-born of Fame, That fought, and overcame And lives in Verſe to future Age. Not Hector firſt the glory won Of bravely ſpending Royal Blood To guard his hopes, his darling Son; Nor firſt profuſe of Life To ſave a Vertuous Wife And do his dying Country good. Before that Age a thouſand liv'd, And ſent ſurpriſing Glories forth, But none the ſilent Grave ſurviv'd; In Night their Splendor's gone, They fell, unmourn'd, unknown; Becauſe no Verſe embalms their Worth. What worth doth lazy floth excel, If 'tis withheld from ſounding Fame? Thy Glories I will loudly tell, And in immortal Verſe Thy living praiſe reherſe, Nor ſuffer Age to waſt thy Name: A Generous Mind in Action bold, Wiſe in debate, in Council grave, Too ſtrong for all-attracting Gold: Let Fortune frown or ſmile Thy ſoul is conſtant ſtill, In either State 'tis great and brave: Not Conſul only for one Year, But ſtill the Chair as oft obtain'd As equal juſtice rul'd the Bar, As oft as Crimes accus'd, And guilty Bribes refus'd With haughty look ſhe nobly Reign'd: Believe not thoſe that Lands poſſeſs And ſhining heaps of uſeleſs Ore The only Lords of Happineſs, But rather thoſe that know For what kind Fates beſtow, And have the Art to uſe the Store: That have the generous skill to bear The hated weight of Poverty Who more than Death will baſeneſs fear, Who nobly to deſend Their Country or their Friend Embrace their Fate, and gladly dye.
ODE X. To ſcornful LIGURINE. Age will come, Beauty waſt, and then he will be ſorry for his preſent Pride. AH lovely yet, and great in Charms, Ah coy, and flying from my Arms! When an unlook't for Beard ſhall hide And ſcatter'd hairs ſpread o're thy Pride; When all thoſe wanton Curls ſhall fall, Thy Roſy Color yield to Pale, Thy Cheeks grow wan, thy Body pine, And leave a different Ligurine, Ah thou ſhalt ſay, when e're the glaſs Shall ſhow Thee quite another Face, Ah whilſt I was a vigorous Boy, Why did I not this Mind enjoy! Or ſince I now ſo freely burn Why won't my former Face return!
ODE XI. To PHYLLIS. On Mecaenas his Birth Day, He invites her to a Feast. I Keep ſome Casks of racy Wines Full nine years old; to Crown thy hair My Parſly grows; my Ivy twines, To grace thy head, and make Thee fair: My Rooms well furniſh'd joy proclaim, My Altar Crown'd with Sacred Wood And Vervine chaſt, expects her Lamb, And thirſts to drink the promis'd Blood. All hands at work, my Boys and Maids With buſy haſt the Feaſt prepare, My Torches raiſe their trembling Heads And roll dark Volumes thro the Air: But now to tell what joys to Night I call Thee to; I keep the Ide That April's Month the choice delight Of Sea-born Venus doth divide: A Day of Joy and Mirth appears, And almoſt dearer than my own; It ſhuts Mecaenas former years, And brings another gently on: That Telephus whom you deſire A richer Maid, and Beauty gains Young, Wanton, Gay, and full of fire, And holds him faſt in pleaſing Chains: Burnt Phaëton checks hopes too high, From Heaven by dreadful Thunder thrown; And Pegaſus refus'd to fly And threw his mortal Rider down: The Phillis ſtop thy riſing Flame, And all ambitious thoughts remove, 'Tis Sin to hunt too great a Game, And fly at an unequal Love: Come, come, my laſt, my deareſt Miſs, The laſt I can I muſt adore; No Face ſhall e're provoke a Kiſs; And other Beauty warm no more: Come learn, my Dear, ſome pleaſing Song, Which you with a ſurpriſing Air Might warble o're your charming Tongue; For Songs are good to leſſen Care:
ODE XII. To VIRGIL. He deſcribes the Spring, and invites him to Supper. THe ſoft Companions of the Spring The gentle Thracian Gales Spread o're the Earth their flowry Wing, And ſwell the greedy Merchants Sails: The Streams not ſwoln with melted Snow In fair Meanders play, To quiet Seas they ſmoothly flow, And gently eat their eaſy way. The Swallow with the Spring returns, And as ſhe builds her Neſt, Her murder'd Itys ſadly mourns And ſighs, and beats her troubled Breaſt. The ſwallow Athens laſting ſhame, For tho her Cauſe was juſt, Her Breaſt conceiv'd a lawleſs flame, And ill reveng'd the Tyrant's Luſt. The Swain whilſt Flocks ſecurely feed Sits down, and ſweetly plays, He ſoftly blows his Oaten Reed, And pleaſeth Pan with rural Lays: The Seaſon, Virgil, brings us thirſt; And if you Mirth deſign VVith Noble youths, bring Oyntment firſt, And I'le provide Thee racy VVine: For one ſmall Box of Oyntment brought I will a Cask prepare, 'Tis ſtrong to tame a lofty thought, Check hopes, and waſh down bitter Care. Now if you'l make a joyful Gueſt I'le not, as Nobles do, Bear all the Charges of the Feaſt But muſt expect a ſhare from you. Think Life is ſhort, forget thy fears, And eager thoughts of Gain, Short Folly mix with graver Cares, 'Tis decent ſometimes to be vain.
ODE XIII. To LYCE. He inſults over her now ſhe is grown old. THe Gods have heard, Lyce, the Gods have heard The Gods have heard my Prayer, As I have wiſh'd, and you have feard, Your'e old, yet would be counted fair: You toy, you impudently drink to raiſe Your lazy dull deſire, You ſtrive to highten to a blaze VVith your cold breath the dying fire. In vain, 'tis all in vain, coy Cupid flys, A better Seat He ſeeks, In young ſoft Chloe's Face he lyes, And gently wantons in her Cheeks: Coy he flies o're dry Oaks, he ſcorns thy Face, Becauſe a furrow'd Brow And hollow Eyes thy form diſgrace, And o're thy head Age ſcatters Snow. Nor can thy coſtly dreſs the Eaſtern Shore VVith all the Gems it bears Thy former lovely Youth reſtore, Nor bring thee back thy ſcatter'd Years, Thoſe Years which the Eternal wheel hath ſpun, And drawn beyond thy Prime, Thro which ſwift Day hath nimbly run And ſhut in known Records of Time. VVhere is that Beauty, where that charming Air, That ſhape, that Amorous Play, Oh what haſt thou of her! of Her! VVhoſe every look did Love inſpire, VVhoſe every breathing fan'd my fire, And ſtole me from my ſelf away! To lovely Cynera's Face ſet next in Fame For all that can ſurprize, For all thoſe Arts that raiſe a Flame, And kindly feed it at our Eyes; But haſty Fate cut charming Cynera ſhort, That Fate that now prepares Old Lyce, old as Daws for ſport, And ſcorn as grievous as her Years. When our hot Youths ſhall come, and laugh to ſee The Torch that burnt before; And kindled aged Lechery, To Aſhes fall'n, and warm no more.
ODE XIV. To AUGUSTUS. That His Deſerts are much greater than any Rewards Rome can beſtow. HOw can the Senate's, how the People's care, Tho All with gifts that ſwell with honors ſtrive, A laſting Monument prepare To make thy glory live, And thy great Name thro future Ages bear! O greateſt Prince the circling Sun can view! Whom ſtout Vindilici unlearn'd in fear, From glorious Conqueſts lately knew How great He is in VVar, And felt that all that Fame had told was true. Brave Druſus led thy conquering Legions on, And fierce Genauns a ſtubborn Nation broak; The furious Brenni's force o'rethrown Now gladly take the Yoke, The Glory of their Slavery proudly own. Strong Caſtles fixt on Mountains vaſtly high, Almoſt as high as his aſpiring thought, VVith a repeated Victory Thrown down; He climb'd and fought Where Fear or winged Hope ſcarce dar'd to fly. Next Elder Nero great in Arms appear'd, And Rhoeti fought; A ſight for Gods to ſee VVhat ſlaughters broak their Souls prepar'd For Death with Liberty, And led the Conqueror to high Reward. As raging VVinds with an impetuous Courſe When ſtormy Stars aſſiſt, do toſs the flood, So fierce He breaks thro armed force, Thro Darts and ſtreams of blood And threatning flames He ſpurs his eager Horſe: As branched Aufidus doth Moles diſdain, And thro Apulian Fields doth whirl his VVaves, VVhen rais'd by Snow or ſwoln with Rain, Againſt his Banks He raves, And threatens Floods to all the fruitful Plain. Thus Claudius violent did in Arms appear, No Bands, no barbarous Troops his force could ſtay, The Front, the Body, and the Rear Secure he ſwept away, And o're the Field He ſcatter'd dreadful War: Whilſt You your Forces, You your Counſel lent, What mortal Courage could his Arms oppoſe? VVhen to his Aid your Gods you ſent, He thunder'd on his Foes, And threw among them Slavery as He went. Since ſuppliant Egypt in her empty Throne Receiv'd Thee Lord, the Fates that ſtrive to bleſs, Thy Title to the Empire own By fifteen Years Succeſs; And ſtill increaſe the Glory of thy Crown. The fierce Cantabrian not to be o'recome Before thy Arms, the Indian and the Mede, The wandring Scythians lurk at home, And Thee they wiſely dread; O preſent guard of Italy and Rome! The Waves that beat the Britiſh monſtrous ſhore, Cold Iſter, Nile, and Tanais rapid ſtream, Fierce Spaniards now rebel no more, And Gauls that death contem Lay down their Arms, and quietly adore.
ODE XV. He praiſeth Auguſtus. WHen I would ſing of noble Fights, Of Lofty things in lofty flights; Kind Phoebus Harp my Temples ſtrook, The trembling ſtrings in Conſort ſhook, And anſwer'd to the tunes he ſpoak: Thy Ship is weak, he ſaid, forbear, And tempt not raging Seas too far. Thy Age, great Caeſar, gracious Lord, Hath Plenty to our Fields reſtor'd: Proud Parthians captive Arms reſign To Mighty Jove's and Caeſar's Shrine. Now noiſy VVars and Tumults ceaſe, And Janus Temple's barr'd by Peace: Wild Luſt is bound in modeſt chains, And Licence feels juſt order's reins: Strict Vertue rules, good Laws command; And baniſht Sin forſakes the Land: You all thoſe generous Arts renew, By which our Infant Empire grew; By which her Fame ſpread vaſtly wide, And carry'd in Majeſtick pride From Eaſt to Weſt ſerenely ſhone, As far and glorious as the Sun. Whilſt Caeſar lives and rules in Peace, No Civil VVars ſhall break our Eaſe, No Rage that fatal Swords prepares, And hurries wretched Towns to VVars: Not cruel Getes tho bath'd in blood, Not thoſe by Tanais faithleſs ſtood, Not thoſe that drink Danubius Stream Shall glorious Caeſar's Laws contem: We on our Feaſt, and working days 'Midſt jovial Cups will gladly praiſe; Our Pious Wives, and pratling Boys Shall firſt the Gods with humble voice, And then with Pipes and ſounding Verſe The Heroes noble Acts reherſe; Anchiſes, Troy our Songs ſhall grace, And brave Aeneas Venus happy race.
The End of the Fourth Book.
EPODES.
EPODE I. MY Lord, my beſt, and deareſt Friend, The chiefeſt Bulwark of the State; In tall Liburnian Ships defend Great Caeſar's Cauſe, and prop his Fate. Before his danger thruſt your own: But what ſhall He that breaths in You, That ſcorns to live when You are gone, What ſhall forſaken Horace do? Shall I ſit down and take my Eaſe? But without You what joys delight? Or ſteel my ſoftneſs, ſtem the Seas, Or bolder grow, and dare to fight? Or ſhall I arm my feeble breaſt, And wait on You thro Alpine Snow, Or fartheſt Regions of the Weſt, Where Caeſar bids the Valiant go? You ask why thus I boldly preſs, And what ſhould feeble I do there, My fear, My Lord, will be the leſs; For abſence ſtill increaſes fear. Thus Birds on Wing are moſt affraid That Snakes will come when they're away, Tho preſent they're too weak to aid, And ſave the eaſy Callow prey. I would be ſtout, diſcard my fears, The greateſt dangers bravely prove, And venture this or other Wars In hopes, my Lord, to keep your Love. But not to have more Oxen groan Beneath my Plows, nor feed more Swains; Nor yet as Heat or Cold comes on, To drive my Sheep to other Plains: Not to enlarge my Country Seat, Or get vaſt heaps of ſhining Ore; Your bounty, Sir, hath made me great, And furniſh'd with ſufficient ſtore. I do not heaps of Gold deſire, To hide, and have no heart to uſe, As Chremes did; nor Wealth require On baſer Luſts to be profuſe.
EPODE II. The Pleaſures of a Country and retir'd Life. HAppy the Man beyond pretence, (Such was the State of innocence) That looſe from Care, from buſineſs free, From griping Debts and Uſury, Contented in an humble Fate VVith his own Oxen Ploughs his own Eſtate: No early Trumpet breaks his eaſe, He doth not dread the angry Seas: He flies the Bar, from noiſe retreats, And ſhuns the Nobles haughty Seats. But Marrigeable Vines he leads To luſty Oaks, and kindly VVeds: Or careleſsly in Vallies ſtrays And ſmiles to ſee his Oxen graze: He prunes his Vines, or grafts his Trees; Or ſheers his Sheep or takes his Bees; From Combs well preſt his Honey flows Almoſt as ſweet as his repoſe: Or when the mellow Autumn rears His Fruitful Head he gathers Pears, Or Purple Grapes, and theſe reward VVith pleaſing gifts his Holy Guard; Thee, Sylvian, and, Priapus Thee A Tribute fills from every Tree: Now ſmiles beneath a Myrtle ſhade On flowry Banks ſupinely laid, VVhilſt neer his Head there creeps a Spring, And the free Birds around him ſing: Or Fountains with their murmuring Streams Invite to ſhort, and eaſy Dreams: Or when cold Jove hath turn'd the Year, And Rain and Snow and Froſt appear, He takes his Hounds, ſtrong toyls he ſetts, And drives fierce Bores to ſecret Netts. Or ſprings Tiles in every Buſh, To take the Black-bird and the Thruſh: Or Fearful Hare, or ſtranger Crane All ſweet rewards do cheer his pain. Who midſt theſe pleaſing joys does bear, The numerous ills of Love and Fear? In Towns the Tyrant paſſions Reign, And ſpread their Cares, but fly the Plain, But if a Wife more chaſt than Fair, (Such as the ancient Sabines were, Such as the Brown Apulian Dame, Of moderate Face, and honeſt Fame) With equal Care, his Care ſhall meet, And keep the Houſe and Children ſweet; Againſt He comes provide a Fire; As pure and warm as her deſire: And with an Honeſt chearful ſmile Receive him weary from his toyl: Pen up her ſelf, and Milk the Kine, Then draw a Pot of Country Wine, And ſtreight with what her Fields afford Doth furniſh out an eaſy board: I would not change for all the State And coſtly trouble of the Great; Their Oyſters, Trouts, and all the ſtore Of Luxury would take no more; Their Fiſh that catering Storms, to pleaſe Their Palate, toſs from Eaſtern Seas, The Pheaſant, Patridge, Quail and Teal Would not go down, nor taſt as well As Olives pluckt from laden Boughs, Or Sorrel that in Paſture grows; Or Mallows ſweet extreamly good For Bodies bound poor wholſom Food, Or Lambkins kil'd a ſheering Beaſt: Or reſcu'd from a greedy Beaſt: Amidſt theſe dainties, Oh the vaſt delight To ſee fed Sheep come home at Night! To hear the weary Oxen low And almoſt tir'd trail back the Plow! To ſee my merry Clowns carouſe, And ſwarm about my cleanly Houſe! This Alpius ſaid, the fam'd, and known, The griping Uſerer of the Town, Reſolv'd to leave his Cares and Strife And quickly lead a Country Life, One week He call'd his Money in, The next He lent it out agen:
EPODE III. To MECAENAS. He ſhows his diſlike to an Onion that made him ſick. IF any, let's ſuppoſe ſo damn'd a Rage Forget their Duty and their Age; And eager to enjoy the whole Eſtate, With impious hands ſhall haſten Fate, And their old Fathers coming Death prevent, Let Onions be their Puniſhment. O Reapers Stomachs! Ah! what Poyſon Reigns, What ſecret fire runs o're my Veins? Hath Viper's blood, or hath Canidia's breath Blown o're my Meat, and mingled Death? When Jaſon did Medea's fancy move, And ſhe fixt on him for a Love, Before the reſt, ſhe gave him this to tame The fiery Bulls, and quench their Flame; By Preſents dipt in this Creuſa dy'd, And Jaſon mourn'd his promis'd Bride: Such furious heat as rages o're my Veins N'ere ſcorcht the dry Apulian Plains, Nor did the flaming Poyſnous gift infeſt With half ſuch Heat Alcides Breaſt: My merry Lord if e're you taſt of this May every Maid deny a Kiſs; But ſtop her Mouth, cry foh! refuſe delight, And ne're lie near Thee all the Night.
EPODE IV. To Vulteius Mena, a Freed-Man of Pompey. AS much as Lambs with Wolves agree, So much, baſe Sot, do I with thee; With Spaniſh whips thy Sides are torn, Thy Legs with heavy ſhackles worn: Tho Fortune ſmiles and ſwells thy Mind, It gilds, but cannot change the Kind: Do'ſt ſee when Thou with ruffling Gown Do'ſt ſweep the Mall, how many frown, How each that views Thee, ſcrews his Face, And juſtly ſcorns the gawdy Aſs! He lately whipt at the Carts tail, The very ſcandal of the Jayl, Now vaſtly rich a mighty Spark In Coach and Six flys o're the Park: At Plays he takes the Box, in ſpight Of Otho's Law, a doughty Knight! What Honor is't to free the Waves From Pyrates rage, and tame the Slaves, What honor can attend the VVar Where He a Captain claims a ſhare?
EPODE V. Againſt the Witch Canidia, where he diſcovers the Cruelty and Baſeneſs of ſuch Creatures. BUt O what ever God doſt fill the Sky, And rule the Earth and Men below, What means that rout? and why Each Fury bends on me an angry brow? By all thy brood, if e're Lucina came, To real Births, and eas'd thy throws; By Honor's uſeleſs name, By Jove that ſees, and will revenge my Woes. Why doth that Stepdame's frown affright? That rage thy gaſtly form diſgrace? A hunted Tyger's ſpight, And grinning fury ſit upon thy Face? Thus ſadly ſpake the naked lovely Child, Which e'en a Thracian's Soul might move, Make raging fury mild And in a flinty Boſom kindle love: Canidia, Serpents wreath'd her ſhaggy brow, Appear'd, and theſe Commands ſhe gave; A Funeral Cypreſs Bough, And a wild Fig-tree rooted from a Grave; A Scritch-Owls Feather, Eggs beſmear'd with blood Of croaking Frogs, a Tyger's paws, A ſwelling angry Toad, And Bones ſnatcht from a hungry Bitches jaws: Each powerful Herb that in Iberia ſprings To raiſe ſtrong Love, or Anger tame, And all that Colchos brings, Go mix, and burn them in a Magick Flame. Whilſt ready Sagana from beechen Cup Pour'd Stygian Water o're the Floors, Her hair an end ſtood up Like Hedg-hogs briſtles, or a running Bores: But hardned Veja deaf to all remorſe A little Grave had quickly made; She rais'd her feeble force, And joy'd to ſweat, and groan upon the Spade: Where fixt Chin-deep the power unhappy gueſt By looking on his meat muſt dye, Whilſt they renew the Feaſt, And He ſtands famiſht, feeding at his Eye: That His dry Marrow, and his raging Heart When his weak Senſes fail may prove Fit for their Magick Art, And make Ingredients for a Cup of Love: All thought that luſtful Floria too was one That came to view the horrid ſight, She that can charm the Moon And force the Stars from their fixt ſeats of light: Here fierce Canidia whilſt her unpar'd Nail She gnaw'd with an envenom'd Tooth, Oh what did ſhe conceal! What horrid words broak from her impious mouth! Thou Night, thou Moon and all Ye meaner lights That charm dull Mortals into ſleep, And when our ſacred Rites Are done, an undiſturbed ſilence keep; Aſſiſt me now with all your ſtrength and rage, That I might pay the debts I owe, Your greateſt force engage To wreak my ſpight on my unhappy Foe; Whilſt cruel Beaſts aſleep in Woods are ſafe, Let the Saburran Maſtiffs bark, ('Twill make the Neighbours laugh) At the old Leacher creeping in the dark: When fierce deſire hath raging fury bred Then let him walk as Luſts perſwade With Oyntment round his Head As ſtrong as e"re my skilful hands have made: Ah! what's the matter! where's the Power of Charms Which fierce Medea once did prove, When with theſe conquering Arms She furiouſly reveng'd her injur'd Love! When with a Garment lin'd with ſecret flame (What will not jealous rage inſpire?) She burnt the lovely Dame, And wrapt falſe Jaſon's youthful Bride in fire! Ah! ſure no powerful Herb hath ſcap't my ſight, In ſhady Groves or purling Streams; And yet He ſleeps all night, No wanton Miſs diſturbs him e'en in Dreams: Ah! Ah, ſome Witch more skilful ſets Thee free, Unhappy Varus, doom'd to ill, Thou ſhalt return to Me; I'le force Thee back by an unuſual skill: With unreſiſted Art I'le bind thy Soul, No Charms ſhall then thy mind reſtore; I'le mix a ſtronger Bowl, And urge Thee ſtill as Thou doſt ſcorn the more: Firſt Heaven ſhall downward, Earth ſhall upward move And to the Center Stars retire; E'er thou ſhalt ceaſe to Love, Or burn like Brimſtone in a ſmoaky Fire: The injur'd Boy inrag'd no longer ſtrove To ſoften them by mournful Prayer And gentle pitty move, But ſpoak theſe dying words in deep deſpair: Poor Charms too weak to alter Humane Fate, And hinder Plagues from rage Divine; No Blood ſhall expiate So ſolemn, and ſo great a Curſe as mine. When I am dead then I'le a Ghoſt by Night With crooked Nails your jaws invade, At every turn affright; For that's the force and fury of a Shade. Then will I ſit upon your fearful Breaſt, And there my dreadful watches keep; Diſturb approaching reſt, And drive away the lazy hand of Sleep. Thro every Street the Crowd in eager haſt Shall brain the ugly Hags with Stones, And when Death comes at laſt, The Crows ſhall ſcatter, Wolves ſhall break your Bones: And this my Parents (ah they muſt ſurvive, And ſeek in vain, and mourn for Me) Tho many years they grieve, Grown gray in Tears, ſhall live and ſmile to ſee.
EPODE VI. Againſt Caſſius Severus a very ſcurrilous and abuſive Rhymer. BAſe coward Curr when harmleſs ſtrangers come, You ſnarl and bark about the Room; But when a fierce and ſhagged Wolf appears, How ſoon you whine, and hang your Ears! Come, make at me, if you reſolve to fight, For I have Teeth, and dare to bite: The generous Maſtiff I of Noble ſenſe The careful Shepherd's kind defenſe; With Ears an-end thro Snow and Froſt purſue What ever Beaſt I have in view: When Thou the Woods with frightful ſounds has ſhook Thou leap'ſt for every little Brook: Take heed, take heed, to Rogues a deadly Foe I'me ſtill prepar'd to ſtrike the blow; As ſharp as fierce Archilochus his Song Like Hipponax revenge a wrong; If any malice wounds my Fame, ſhall I Like a poor Child ſit down and cry?
EPODE VII. To His Citizens that are ready to engage in another Civil War. WHere, Mad men, where? where, ſo averſe to Peace Your ruſty Swords that ſlept in eaſe Why drawn? What hath not every Country flow'd And every Sea with Roman Blood? Not to purſue your angry Fathers hate, And urge proud Carthage rival Fate, Nor make the untoucht Britans Slaves to Rome And lead them chain'd in Triumph home; But what the Parthians often pray to view Theſe Arms are now prepar'd to do: Againſt your ſelf, ah me! you raiſe them all, And Rome by her own hand muſt fall: E'en Wolves are to more gentle thoughts inclin'd And prey but on another kind: What is it Madneſs, is it ſtupid Rage That doth the brutal Arms engage? Or is it Sin? ſpeak, not one word will come; 'Tis cruel Fate that urges Rome: Since Remus fell about thy riſing Walls His loud-tongued blood for Vengeance calls; The Iſſue then began, and ſtill hath flow'd, For Blood muſt be reveng'd with Blood
EPODE IX. To MECAENAS. He wiſhes for the good News of Caeſar's Victory over Mark Antony, that they might be merry as formerly, when Sextus Pompejus was overthrown. VVHen will the happy morning come, And bring the welcom News to Rome, That I, my Lord, with you may Dine, And in your ſtately Houſe Full Bowls carouſe, Preſerv'd for this expected Joy, of racy Wine! Where Pipes ſhall joyn the ſpeaking ſtring, And tuneful Voices gladly ſing, As you, my Lord, and I have done; When Pompy turn'd his Head And baſely fled Confeſſing Caeſar's Fortune greater than his own: His flaming Ships blaz'd o're the Wave; Whilſt flying by the light they gave, He left thoſe Chains which faithleſs He Had loos'd from ſervile Hands, And threatned Bands To happy Rome, by Caeſar's Will, and Nature free: A Roman (who will credit give VVhat future Age this truth receive?) Turn'd Woman's Slave with ſervile Hands A Common Souldier bears The drudgery of Wars, And can endure her wither'd Eunuchs baſe Commands: Amidſt the Arms, diſhoneſt ſight! The Sun that view'd withdrew the Light, As once at curſt Thyeſtes Feaſt; As 'twere aſham'd to ſee The Canopy And the great Roman lolling on a Woman's Breaſt. Io Triumphe, break delay, Why doth the golden Chariot ſtay? And not the promis'd Oxen fall? Io Triumphe bring The greateſt King, The Common good, the comfort, and the joy of All: Jugurtha's Wars, and Noble Toyls Ne're ſhow'd his Equal grac'd with Spoyls; Nor Conquer'd Africk ſent to Rome, Altho his laſting Name Is great in Fame, And ruin'd Carthage lies to make his noble Tomb: Where will the conquer'd Roman fly From Caeſar's Hand, and Caeſar's Eye? What will the Conquer'd Roman do? What Winds, what ſervile Gales Will ſwell his Sails, That on his Maſter Caeſar's may ſo freely blow? More Bowls and larger Bowls my Boy, As large as my extenſive joy, Let Mirth advance my good deſign; 'Tis ſweet to eaſe my Cares For Caeſar's Wars, And drown all Melancholly thoughts in noble Wine.
EPODE X. He wiſhes Maevius the Poet may be Shipwrackt. THat curſed Ship that ſtinking Maevius bore With an ill Omen left the Shore; South-wind, beſure, you raiſe the ſwelling Tides And ſtoutly beat her feeble ſides, You Eaſt-wind turn the Sea and break the Oars, And whirl her Sails to diſtant ſhores, The North-wind rage as when he tears the Woods On lofty Hills, and toſs the Floods: No Friendly Star ſhine thro the Cloudy Night But ſad Orion's watry light: Hah! let him now no ſmoother Waves enjoy Than thoſe that toſt the Greeks from Troy, When Pallas hatred from the flaming Town On wicked Ajax Ship was thrown. Hah! Hah! what ſweat ſhall from thy Seamen flow, And what Death-pale ſpread o're thy Brow! What Woman's crys, and what unmanly Tears What vows to Jove's relentleſs Ears! VVhen South-winds rattling o're th' Ionian Tide Shall beat thy Ship, and break her ſide Then if I ſee thee ſpread a dainty diſh To hungry Fowl, and greedy Fiſh, A Goat and Lamb ſhall then my Vows perform, And both ſhall die to think the Storm.
EPODE XI. To PETTIUS. Love hinders him from Writing any more. AH I have loſt my old delight, Now Muſe can now my fancy move, My Rhymes diſpleaſe, I hate to write, Now I am very deep in Love: Love that doth ſtill my Heart ſurprize, And ſingle me from conſtant game, From Boys and Maidens charming Eyes He thro my Marrow ſcatters Flame. Three Stormy VVinters now have ſhook The leavy Honor from the Tree, Since I diſdain'd Inachia's Yoke, And dar'd to ſet my paſſion free. Oh what a Town-talk then was I, How Fopps did wanton, with my Fame, And (when I think on't how I die) All ridicul'd my fooliſh Flame! Oh how it grates to mind the Feaſts Where thoughtful ſilence ſeem'd to prove, And a deep ſigh would tell the Gueſts That Poet Horace was in Love! When Wine unlockt my eaſy Soul How often I with ſighs have told The Poor Man's Wit could not controul The giving Rival's mighty Gold! Yet, Faith, if vext my rage will riſe, And when theſe hated Chains are broak, I'le leave theſe dull complaints, be wiſe, And ſcorn to take another Yoke. Yet after this was ſtoutly ſaid, And conſtant I reſolv'd to hate; My heedleſs Feet my mind betray'd, And brought Me to the uſual Gate: That cruel Gate, and us'd to ſcorn, VVhere I have layn, and layn deny'd; VVhere I whole tedious Nights have born And craz'd my Health, and bruis'd my Side. Lyceſtris now of greater Charms Than all that grace proud VVomankind, Doth gently force me to his Arms; VVith pleaſing Bands he draws my Mind: And now let my free Friends adviſe, Or let them blame; 'tis all in vain, Too feeble they to break the tyes VVhen Love and Beauty make the Chain. Of freedom I muſt ſtill deſpair, Unleſs ſome Maid or lovely Boy With killing looks, and Charming hair, Shall draw me to another joy.
EPODE XIII. He adviſeth his Friends to paſs their time merrily. DArk Clouds have thickned all the Sky, And Jove deſcends in Rain; With frightful noiſe rough Storms do fly Thro Seas and Woods, and humble Plain. My noble Friends the Day perſwades, Come, come, let's uſe the Day; Whilſt we are ſtrong, e're Age invades, Let Mirth our coming years delay: Put briskly round the noble Wine, And leave the reſt to Fate, Jove, chance, will make the Evening ſhine, And bring it to a clearer State: Now, now your fragrant Odors ſpread, Your merry Harps prepare; 'Tis time to cleanſe my aking Head, And purge my drooping thoughts from Care. Thus Chiron ſang in lofty ſtrain And taught Achilles Youth; Great Thetis Son, the pride of Man, Obſerve, I tell Thee fatal truth: Thee, Thee for Troy the Gods deſign Where Simois ſtreams do play, Scamander's thro the Vallies twine And ſoftly eat their eaſy way: And there thy thread of Life muſt end Drawn o're the Trojan Plain, In vain her Waves ſhall Thetis ſend To bear Thee back to Greece again: Therefore, Great Son, my Precepts hear; Let Mirth, and Wine, and Sport, And merry Talk divert thy Care, And make Life pleaſant ſince 'tis ſhort.
EPODE XIV. To MECAENAS. Love hinders him from making the Iambicks which He had ſo often promis'd. YOu ask, My Lord, why lazy ſloth hath ſpread A dark oblivion o're my Head; As I had drank forgetful Lethe's Stream; And this is your continual Theme; This the Complaint I am Condemn'd to hear, Like Death it pierces thro my Ear: A God forbids me, (ah! a cruel God Regardleſs, Sir, of what I vow'd) (To other things my eaſy Mind he drew) To finiſh what I promis'd you: Thus ſoft Anachrean for Bathyllus burn'd, And oft his Love he ſadly mourn'd: He to his Harp did various grief reherſe, And wept in an unpoliſht Verſe: E'en, Sir, you Love, but if no brighter Flame Burnt Troy, careſs thy lovely Dame: By Phyrne, ah! thy Horace is undone, Falſe, fair, and not content with one.
EPODE XV. To NEAERA. He complains of breach of Promiſe. 'TWas Mid-night, and the riſing Moon Amongſt the leſſer Stars ſerenely ſhone, When you the falſe, the Perjur'd you Devoutly Swore you would be always true: Scarce half ſo cloſe doth Ivy twine Round Oakes, as you did then your Arms in mine: As long as Wolves purſue the Sheep, As long as Winter Storms ſhall toſs the deep: As long as wanton Gales ſhall move Apollo's Locks, ſo long ſhall be my Love. Perjur'd Neaera falſe as Hell, Yet fair as Heaven, and ah belov'd too well, How ſhalt thou mourn at my diſdain! For ſure if Horace be but half a Man, He'l ſcorn to bear repeated ſlights, Nor tamely ſee his Rival's happy Nights; But with an equal Flame purſue A Face as fair, tho not ſo falſe as you: And know when I begin to hate, I'le ne're be kind, I am as fixt as Fate: And Thou, the Bleſt, who'ere thou art The fancy'd happy Maſter of her Heart; That doſt thy Conqueſts proudly boaſt, And Triumph'ſt in the ſpoils that I have loſt, Tho Thou art rich as Miſers Dreams, And tho Pactolus brought Thee all his Streams, Tho Fam'd Pythagoras Arts be thine, Thy Face more fair than Nireus, half Divine; Yet thou ſhalt mourn to find that ſhe Doth prove as falſe as once to Me, And then 'twill be my turn to laugh at Thee.
EPODE XVI. To the People of Rome. He adviſeth them to leave the Town, which He thinks doom'd to Civil Wars. NOw Civil VVars do waſt another Age, And Rome muſt fall by her own rage; What neighbouring Marſi with an envious Hand, What threatning Porſen's Thuſcan Band, Fierce Spartaeus, and Capua's rival Fate, The force of all the German State; What in unſetled times the faithleſs Gaul, The Mother-hated Hannibal, Could not deſtroy, We, VVe, an impious Brood Devoted ſtill, and doom'd to Blood, Shall ruin now by force of Civil VVars, And leave our Towns to VVolves and Bears: Ah me! the barbarous Horſe with ſounding Feet Shall tread our Graves, and beat our Street, And madly, ſcatter, Oh too proud! unjuſt! Rome's glorious Founder's quiet duſt! Perhaps the moſt, or better part would know VVhat way to ſhun the falling blow, I like that way the Phoceans once have gone; They all forſook their curſed Town, And did their Lands, their Fields and Shrines reſtore To ravenous VVolf and angry Bore: Let's go, let's go, and ſeek a place to live Where Chance directs, or Wind ſhall drive: Agreed? or do's ſome better Courſe appear? Come let's imbark the Omen's fair: But firſt let's ſwear wee'l then return again When Rocks ſhall float upon the Main, When lowly Po ſhall pour his Cryſtal Urn O're Alpine Tops then VVe'l return; When Appennine runs out, and cuts the Floods, When nimble Dolphins graze in VVoods, VVhen wondrous Luſt ſtrange kinds ſhall ſtrangely joyn, Fierce Tygers leap the willing Kine, The fearleſs Does ſhall court the Lyon's Love And cruel Hawks gallant the Dove: VVhen Goats grown ſmooth ſhall leave the flowry Plain, And dive and wanton in the Main: To this, and ſuch as cut off ſweet return VVhen we have all devoutly ſworn, Let's go Curſt Town, but let the ſoft and baſe, Still ſtick to their unhappy place: You Men of worth unmanly grief give o're And nimbly paſs the Thuſcan Shore, The Ocean waits, and in ſmooth calmneſs ſmiles, Let's go and ſeek the happy Iſles, VVhere Fields untill'd a Yearly Harveſt bear And Vines undreſs'd bloom all the Year: VVhere Olives ne're the Farmers hopes do mock, And ripe figs grace their proper Stock: There Hony flows from Oaks, from lofty Hills, VVith murmuring pace the Fountain trills, There Goats uncall'd return from fruithful Vales And bring ſtretcht Duggs to fill the Pails: No Bear grinns round the Fold, No Lambs He ſhakes; No Field ſwells there with poyſnous Snakes: More we ſhall wonder on the happy Plain; The VVatry Eaſt deſcends in Rain, Yet ſo as to refreſh, not drown the Fields, The temperate Glebe full Harveſt yields; No heat annoys, the Ruler of the Gods From Plagues ſecures theſe bleſt Abodes: Here Jaſon never fixt ſwift Argos Oars, Nor baſe Medea toucht theſe Shores; Ne're Cadmus came when forc't by angry Fates, Nor ſtout Ulyſſes weary Mates: No rot here Reigns, no Star here taints the Meads, And poyſnous Heat unkindly ſheds; VVhen Jove allay'd the golden Age with Braſs, For Pious men He kept this place: Now Iron hardens the old Brazen Age, And Fraud grows up, and Wars, and Rage, And every Ill, I preſs a quick retreat, And ſhow the good, the happy ſeat.
EPODE XVII. To CANIDIA. He confeſſeth Her Magick Power, and begs pardon for abuſing Her. NOw, now thy Power I Conquer'd own, And humbly beg by Pluto's Throne, By Powers below, by Proſerpine, by fierce Diana's angry ſhrine, By all thoſe Charms that can remove; And call down Stars from Seats above, Recall thy ſtroak, thy Charms forbear, Spare me at laſt, Canidia, ſpare: Achilles Teleph nobly ſpar'd, Tho with his Myſian Bands He VVarr'd: Tho boldly He oppos'd His Fate, And buoy'd the ſinking Trojan State: Stout Hector doom'd to Beaſts a Prey The Trojan Matrons bore away VVhen Priam midſt the Grecian Fleet Had fall'n at proud Achilles Feet: By Circe's leave Ulyſſes Men Receiv'd their former ſhapes agen; Their Limbs, their Minds, and Voice reſtor'd, They ſpoke, not grunted to their Lord: Enough, enough hath vext my Soul, O Tar's and Tinker's lovely Trull! My Youth, my roſy Cheeks are gone, And left pale Skin ſtretcht o're the Bone: My Head grows white, it feels thy Bane, No Eaſe doth lay me down from Pain, Dayes urge the Nights, and Nights the Dayes, Yet my ſwoln Heart can find no Eaſe: Now I'me convinc't, 'tis now confeſt Thy force hath reacht my troubled Breaſt: Now I'me convinc't by wondrous Harms My Head is ſplit with Magick Charms: My ſlow Belief I ſadly Mourn; VVhat more? O Earth, O Floods, I burn! Not half the Heat Alcides bore VVhen fir'd by Neſſus Poyſnous Gore: Not half the Heat in Aetna Reigns, That ſcorches o're my boyling Veins: Yet ſtill you heat till I'me calcin'd To Duſt, and ſcatter'd by the Wind: What end of Pain? What hope for eaſe: Speak, Speak, I'le ſuffer what you pleaſe, I'me eager to avoid my Fate And ſatisfie at any rate; A Hundred Bulls ſhall pay their blood, Or Lying Verſe proclaim Thee good; Chaſt, Modeſt, Juſt, thou ſhalt appear, And walk midſt Stars a glorious Star: Great Caſtor vext at Helen's wrong With blindneſs pay'd the railing Song; Yet Prayers prevail'd, He heard his Cries, And ſoon reſtor'd the Poets Eyes: And now forget my curſt Offence, Reſtore (thou canſt) my periſh'd ſence, O nobly Born and nobly Bred, Thou ne're hadſt skill to raiſe the Dead, Unbind the Poor Mans quiet Urn Or make his ſhivering Soul return; Nor ſcatter Aſhes o're a Tomb; As chaſt as fruitful is thy Womb, And e're thy Child-bed Cloaths are clean, Strange Breeder Thou art well agen.
CANIDIA's Anſwer. I'Me deaf, I'me deaf, thou beg'ſt in vain; Rocks beaten by the raging Main, Not half ſo deaf will ſooner hear The naked ſinking Mariner: Could'ſt Thou Cotytto's Rites reprove, Diſcloſe my Myſteries of Love, Could Cenſuring you my Tricks proclaim, And fill the Country with my Fame? At all my Arts prophanely laugh, Yet clare to fancy to be ſafe? In vain thou ſhalt, in vain inrich With precious Gifts the famous Witch; In vain ſtrong Drugs and Charms require; Fate ſhall be ſlow to thy deſire: Wretch, hated Life ſhall ſtill remain That thou might'ſt bear new racks of Pain: Falſe Tantalus doth beg for reſt Deluded by the hanging Feaſt. Condemn'd the griping Vultur's Prey Prometheus begs a dying Day: Poor Siſyphus would fix his Stone But Jove forbids it to be done. Now thou from Towers ſhalt madly fall, Now run thy Head againſt a Wall; And tir'd at laſt with ſqueamiſh pain Shalt tye the nooſe, but tye in vain: Then on thy neck I'le bravely ride, And make Thee bend beneath my Pride: Shall I that can when e're I pleaſe Waſt men by waxen Images? Shall I that can, as thou haſt known, (Curſt prying Thou!) eclipſe the Moon, Drawn down the Stars from Seats above And mix a furious Cup of Love, Shall powerful I now grieve to ſee My force too weak to baffle Thee?
The End of the Epodes.
M Burghers ſculp.
SATYRS.
BOOK I.

The Heads of the firſt Satyr. (1.) Againſt the general Diſcontent of Mankind, none being content with his own Condition, ſtill thinking his Neighbour happier, and yet would refuſe to change with him. (2.) Againſt Covetouſneſs. (3.) That the Covetous is the moſt diſcontented.

1. WHence comes, my Lord, this general diſcontent? Why All diſlike the State that Chance hath ſent, Or their own Choice procur'd? why All repent? The weary Souldier now grown old in Wars, With bleeding Eyes looks o're his Wounds and Scars; Curſe that E're I the trade of War began, Ah me! the Merchant is a happy Man: The Merchant, when the Waves and Winds are high, Crys, happy happy Men at Arms; for why, You fight, and ſtreight comes Death, or joyful Victory. The Lawyer that's diſturb'd before 'tis light By reſtleſs Clients, or that wakes all night, Grows ſick; and when He finds his reſt is gone, Crys, happy Farmers that can ſleep till Noon: The weary Client thinks the Lawyer bleſt, And craves a City Life, for that's the beſt. So many Inſtances in every ſtate, That mourn their own, but praiſe their Neighbours fate, 'Twould tire even bawling Fabius to relate. But to be ſhort, ſee I'le adjuſt the Thing: Suppoſe ſome God ſhould ſay I'le pleaſe you now, You Lawyer leave the Bar and take the Plough; You Souldier too ſhall be a Merchant made, Go, Go, and follow each his proper trade: How? what refuſe? and diſcontented ſtill? And yet They may be happy if They will. Now would not this vex Jove, and make him rage? Hath he not reaſon now to ſcourge the Age? And puff and ſwear He'd never hear again? No, They ſhould vow, and pray, but pray in vain: Yet not to laugh, and let my Muſe be looſe, As 'twere my whole deſign to be jocoſe, Altho I may be grave when not moroſe: And mirth commends, and makes our Precepts take, Thus Teachers bribe their Boys with Figs and Cake To mind their books; theſe Things deſerve to have A ſerious handling: Come now let's be grave: 2. The Souldier fights, the buſy Tradeſman cheats, And finds a thouſand tricks and choice deceits; The heavy Plough contents the labouring Hind, The Merchant ſtrives with every Tide and Wind; And all this Toyl to get vaſt heaps of Gold, That They might live at Eaſe when they are old: When they have gotten ſtore for numerous years, They may be free from Want, and from its fears: As the Small Ant (for ſhe inſtructs the Man, And preaches Labor) gathers all ſhe can, "And brings it to increaſe her heap at home "Againſt the Winter which ſhe knows will come: For when that comes ſhe creeps abroad no more, But lyes at home, and feaſts upon her ſtore. But neither Heat, nor Cold, nor Wars reſtrain, Nor Dangers fright Thee from purfuit of gain; Only that Thou may'ſt be the richeſt Man: What pleaſure is't with buſy toyl and care To gather heaps of Gold to hide with fear, Tho under ground ſcarce ſafe we think it there? Why, ſhould I ſpend one Croſs 'twould ſtill waſt on, 'Twould all run out, and I ſhould be undone; Why prethee what is't good for till 'tis gone? In thy vaſt Barns great ſtores of Corn do ly, Yet thou canſt eat perhaps no more than I: The Slaves that bear the weighty Flasks of bread, With ſmall and barly Loafs are hardly fed. They ſweat 'tis true, and with the burthen groan, But eat no more than He that carrys none: Beſides, what difference prethee is't to Me That feed no more than Nature's Luxury, To plough three thouſand Acres or but Three? Oh but 'tis ſweet to take from Barns well ſtor'd; What, if You take no more than mine afford? Mine but half full? why doſt Thou praiſe thine My ſmall one is as good as thy great ſtore. (more? If you would fill a Cup come tell me why, Why not from this ſmall Spring that runs hard by, As well as from that yonder rowling Flood, Since this will give enough, and quite as good? For Hence whilſt eager on their uſeleſs prey The rapid ſtream whirls them and Banks away: He that ſeeks but enough, is free from fear, His Life is ſafe, and all his water clear: But moſt are loſt in a Confounded Cheat, (great They would have more, for when their Wealth is They think their Worth as much as their Eſtate: Well then, what must we do to ſuch a one? Why, let him, 'tis his Will to be undone: Since He, as the Athenian Chuff, will cry The People hiſs me, True, but what care I? Let the poor fools hiſs me where e're I come, I bleſs my ſelf to ſee my bags at home: Poor wretched Tantalus, as Storys tell, (And that's the worſt, the Curſed'ſt Plague in Hell) Stands up chin deep in an o're flowing Bowl, But cannot drink one drop to ſave his Soul: (free? What doſt Thou laugh? and think that Thou art Fool change the Name, the Story's told of Thee: Thou watcheſt o're thy heaps, yet 'midſt thy ſtore Thou'rt almoſt ſtarv'd for Want, and ſtill art poor: You fear to touch as if You rob'd a Saint, And uſe no more than if 'twere Gold in paint: You only know how Wealth may be abus'd, Not what 'tis good for, how it can be us'd; 'Twill buy Thee Bread, 'twill buy Thee Herbs, and What ever Nature's Luxury can want: (grant But now to watch all day, and wake all night, Fear Thieves and Fire, and be in conſtant fright, If Theſe are Goods, if theſe are a delight: I am content, Heavens grant me ſleep and eaſe, If Theſe are Goods, I would be poor of Theſe: Ay, but ſuppoſe I ſhould be ſick; what then? Why then the richeſt are the happyeſt men: Then are the great advantages of Wealth, 'Twill make the Doctor ride, and bring me health: 'Twill get a Friend that may condole My pain, And tell me that I ſhall do well again: 'Twill get a Nurſe, a Purge, and ſave my Life, And keep me well for my dear Friends and Wife: Prethee fond fool for this ne're vex thy Head, For ſhe and all that know Thee wiſh Thee dead: And reaſon good, ſince you your Gold prefer To all your Friends, your Children, and to Her: How then canſt Thou expect that They ſhould prove So kind to Thee, when Thou deſerv'ſt no Love? Why, to be Covetous yet keep thy Friends, That Chance or that indulgent Nature ſends; It is a fooliſh hope, abſurd and vain, As his, to teach an Aſs to take the rein And freely run a race upon the Plain. Well, fix a bound at laſt to thy Eſtate; And then leave off when Thou haſt gotten that; And let not, as Thou doſt encreaſe thy ſtore, Thy fears riſe too that Thou ſhalt once be poor. Act not Uvidius, (come, the Story's ſhort, The tale is tragick, yet 'tis pretty ſport) A Rogue as rich as if He had a Mine, He did not tell, but meaſure heaps of Coin: And yet ſo cloſe, he went as meanly clad As any thread-bare Servant that he had; His Shoes ſtill clouted, and He always cry'd, That He ſhou'd ſtarve for want before he dy'd: Him his Whore ſnapt, and with a luſty blow (Well ſtruck I'faith) ſhe cleft the ſlave in Two: What then muſt I ſpend all? No, that's as bad: There's ſomething betwixt ſtaring and ſtark mad: Why ſtill to the Extreams You madly run, For when I chide Thee for a greedy Clown, I do not bid Thee ſpend, and be undone: No, there are bounds when Nature did begin Then fixt, and all is Good that lyes within, And all without on either ſide is Sin. 3. But to return to that where I began, Is none ſo pleas'd as the rich greedy Man? Is none like him contented with his ſtate, But rather praiſe and crave another's ſate? When others Cows do give more milk than his Is He not vext? doth He not pine at this? Doth He compare himſelf, and doth he ſee That almoſt all are poorer far than He? Doth He not ſtrive to raiſe his vaſt Eſtate? Be richer now than this Man, now than that? Yet richer ſtill appear as He goes on, And thoſe He muſt Excel, or Nothing's done. Juſt as our Racers when They run the Courſe, Still keep their Eye upon the foremoſt Horſe, And ſtrive to out-ſtrip him; but never mind The lazy diſtanc't Jade that lags behind: Hence 'tis ſearce any thinks his ſtate is bleſt, Nor when Death calls like a contented Gueſt Will riſe from Life, and lay him down to reſt: But ſtay, enough, and leſt mine ſeems as long As Criſpin's tedious Books, I'le hold my Tongue.
SATYR II.

The Heads of the ſecond Satyr. 1. Men keep no mean, as He confirms by Examples. 2. He laſhes the Adulterers.

1. THe Players, Pimps, and Hectors of the Town, The Rooks, the Gameſters, all lament and moan For their Tigellius that is dead and gone: For He was a free Soul, a Prodigal, He had a fair Eſtate, and ſpent it all: Others t'avoid that Name refuſe to ſpend One ſingle Croſs upon a needy Friend; Their heaps are Sacred, and they ſpare their Gold, Altho he dyes for Want, and ſtarves with Cold: Now if you take the firſt to task, and ſay, Why doſt Thou ſquander thy Eſtate away? Why waſt thy Ancient Lands on Paltry gueſts, And borrow Money to maintain thy Feasts? He anſwers ſtreight, I hate to be confin'd, I have no ſordid, nor a narrow Mind; No, I a free and generous humor love; And this ſome diſcommend, and ſome approve. Fuſidius rich in Money out at Uſe, And Lands, yet fears to be eſteem'd profuſe; For five times double He would Sums ingage, And ſues Young Heirs when newly come of Age: The greateſt Prodigals He preſſes moſt, And lends them Money till their Lands are loſt. Who when He hears all this would not complain, Good God! yet thus He damns himſelf for gain: "And one would ſcarce believe a Man for Pelf "Should be ſo great an Enemy to himſelf: That He in Terence when His Son was gone, Tho He laments, and crys He is undone, The moſt unhappy Man the Sun can ſee, Yet liv'd not half ſo bad a Life as He: And all this proves whil'st Fools one Vice condemn They run into the Oppoſite Extream: Malthin with Gowns below his heels is grac't, Another Humoriſt tucks them to his waſt: Rufillus ſmells like any Civet Cat, Gorgonius like a Goat, or worſe than that: Men keep no Mean; One, when his Blood boils o're, Will take a Matron only for his Whore, Whil'ſt others all but common Jades refuſe, They fly the ſober Whores, and rake the Stews: A certain famous Bully of the Town When He did leave the Stews, was often known To uſe old Cato's words, Go bravely on: Here our hot Youths ſhould come to cool their flame, And never uſe the marry'd City Dame: But Cupien ſays, I'le not be prais'd for this, That Cupien that admires a Matron Miſs. 2. Now you that wiſh theſe baſe Adulterers ill, And Puniſhment as bad as is their Will; Muſt needs be pleas'd to hear my Muſe explain What ſmall delight they with great danger gain, And how their Pleaſure's ſadly mixt with Pain: For one found faulty with another's Wife Muſt from a Window leap to ſave his life: Another's finely kickt and jilted too, Or taken, bribes the Slaves to let him go: Another's kickt into the Common Shore, There ſtifled, and a thouſand Miſchiefs more, Another's Guelt, his Dancing days are gone, And All but Galba ſay 'twas juſtly done. But come let's ſee now how the Matter falls, Is't ſafer trading with the Abigals, Whom Salust ſo admires, and ſo adores, As much as thoſe that uſe the marry'd Whores? Now did not this Man make his gifts too great, But fit, and equal to his ſmall Eſtate: He might be counted kind, preſerve his Name, Not ruine his Eſtate, nor loſe his Fame: But what cares He for this? He boaſts alone He knows no Matron, and He tempts not one: Or as Marſaeus whom a jilting Whore An Actreſs hath undone, and made him Poor: Methinks, ſays He, I lead a civil Life, I never meddle with another's Wife: Ay, but with Whores and Players; and by that Thy Fame is ruin'd more than thy Eſtate: Is it enough to ſay, when faults are done, I did it not with ſuch or ſuch a one; And not take Care to ſhun the Action ſtill, The Action that's intrinſecally ill, And ſcandalous in its ſelf? to waſt thy Time, Thy Fame, or thy Eſtate is ſuch a Crime, 'Tis bad on whomſoe're you loſe it all, Or Matron, Common-Whore, or Abigal: Young Villius He to Sylla's Daughter kind, Almoſt a Son in Law, ſo oft He ſin'd Poor wretch, thus cheated, ſmarted o're and o're; Being ſoundly beaten, ſtab'd, kickt out of Door, Whil'ſt poor Longarenus claſp't the jilting Whore: Suppoſe his Whore-Pipe now being vext at this, Should ask him, did I want a Noble Miſs, A Whore of Quality to cool my Flame? No, I had been content with meaner Game: What anſwer could be given? what be ſaid? Only, forſooth, She was a Noble Maid: But how much better Nature's Laws provide, How great the gifts beſtow'd, how ſmall deny'd? If you diſtinguiſh well, if well deſign, No things forbidden with the granted joyn: Is it all one? can you no difference ſee Whether the Fault be in the Things, or Thee? Then tempt no Matrons, for ſuppoſe you gain, The Sweet is little, but immenſe the Pain: 'Tis true her coſtly Jewels court our Eye, But yet She's not more ſoft, more plump her thigh, No, tho ſuch Gems as ſoft Cerinthus wore, She does no better than a trading Whore: Beſides, her Trade is fair, I like it well, She freely ſhows what e're She has to ſell: And you may turn her, and view every part, And ſee that all is Nature, and not Art: She does not ſhow her beſt to tempt the Eye, And ſtrive to cover a Deformity, All's ſeen, and if you like it, you may buy: Our Jockys, when a Horſe is ſet to ſale, Take off the Covering-Cloaths, and look on all; Leſt by a well-ſhap't Neck and cleanly made The greedy Chapman be at laſt betray'd, And buys a ſpavin'd or a founder'd Jade: This care is good, thus when you chooſe a Laſs, Be not too Eagle-ey'd to view a grace; And blind as Hypſea is to ſpy a fault, For ſuch as judge by halves are often caught: How neat her Arm and Leg! 'tis true, but ſtay, Her Waſt is ſhort, Noſe long, her Feet are ſplay. Beſides, a Matron's Face is ſeen alone But Kate's that Female Bully of the Town, For all the reſt is cover'd with the Gown: But if you'ld taſt, for that doth raiſe thy heat, A Dainty but forbidden Diſh of Meat: There are a thouſand ſtops, a thouſand ſpyes, A Chamber-maid, a Foot-boys curious Eyes, Theſe muſt be fee'd, and each will claim his ſhare, Beſides a Gown doth hide the precious Ware: But now a trading Girl is freely ſhow'd, You ſee her Naked, or almoſt as good; Her Coats are thin, and you may fairly try If ſtrait her Waſt, Feet Good, if plump her Thigh, There's free admiſſion to the Chapman's Eye: Wou'd you be cheated? the Occaſion's fair, Since you would buy before you ſee the Ware. As Hunters trace their Hares thro froſt & ſnow, Like not the Fleſh as well as others do, As if they caught it only to beſtow: Juſt ſo my Love, it ſcorns an eaſie prey, But hotly follows that that flyes away: What can'ſt Thou think that this mean Verſe can tame Thy wild Deſires, that this can quench thy Flame? And doth not Nature ſteddy Rules ordain, Fixt Laws which ſhould thy wildeſt wiſh contain, And which divide the ſolid Goods from vain? Doth She not tell, what ſhe would have ſupply'd, And what She cannot bear to be deny'd? When Thirſt doth burn thy Throat, and call for eaſe, Will nothing but a golden Goblet pleaſe? And when thy Hunger bites, and fain would eat, Is all refus'd but rare, and dainty meat? Or when thy Luſt calls for a ſpeedy Joy, And Thou haſt ready a mean Girl or Boy, What wilt thou rather burn than thoſe employ? I'm of another Mind, I'm not ſo nice, I love a Miſs that comes at eaſie Price: And ſays, Yes, when my Husband's out of Doors, Or, Sir, One Guiney more, and I am yours: Says Philodem let patient Eunuchs Court Such formal Ladies, I'm for quicker Sport: I love a Miſs that flies into my Arms, And ſets at eaſie rate her tempting Charms, Let her be ſtrait and fair, of comely grace, And let her bring no more than Nature's face: Whil'ſt we embrace, whil'ſt She my Arms doth fill, She's my Egeria, or what e're I will: Then I'le fear nothing, for no harm can come, No jealous Husband is returning home, No Doors broke open, or the Servants rais'd, Whil'ſt She poor Wretch ſtarts from my Arms amaz'd, And with a guilty ſhriek crys I'm undone, Oh now I'm caught, and all my Joynture's gone; (For that's the Puniſhment of marry'd Whores) Whil'ſt I poor guilty Rogue ſneak out of Dores, Unbutton'd, and barefoot, to ſhun the Shame, And ſave my Purſe, my Fleſh, or elſe my Fame: Then leave the marry'd Women, be advis'd, 'Tis ſad, ask Fabius elſe, to be ſurpris'd.
SATYR III.

The Heads of the Third Satyr. (1.) He laſhes Tigellius a Songſter, an Enemy of his, and a moſt unſettled Fellow. (2.) Thoſe that quickly ſpy others faults, but cannot ſee their own. (3.) Faults of Friends ſhould he extenuated. (4.) Againſt the Stoicks Opinion that all Faults are equal.

1. AMongſt their Friends our Songſters all agree Of this one fault, not one of them is free; Ask them to Sing you cannot have a Note, No, they have gotten Cold, or a ſoare Throat: But unrequeſted then They ſtrain their Voice, And trouble all the Company with their Noiſe: This humour hath Tigellius often ſhown; If by his Father's Friendſhip and his own Caeſar, that could Command, did beg a Song; 'Twas all in vain, He might have held his Tongue: Yet take him in the vein, and He would ſing From Morn till Night, a Health to Charles our King: Sometimes to ſqueaking Treble his voice would raiſe, Then ſink again into the deepeſt Baſe: A moſt unſettled fellow, He would run As if He fled a Robber, or a Dun; And ſtreight as in Proceſſion gravely go, Now with two hundred Servants, now but Two: Sometimes He'd talk of Heroes, and of Kings, In mighty ſwelling Numbers mighty Things: And then again, let gracious Fortune give A little Meat and Drink enough to live: Let her a Coat to keep out Cold preſent, Altho 'tis thick and courſe, yet I'm content: Yet give this ſparing thing, this moderate, This Man of mean deſires a vaſt Eſtate, In Nine days time 'tis every Penny gone, And He's grown Poor again, and is undone: He wakes all Night to Sing, to Drink, and Play, Then goes to Bed, and ſnores it all the Day: No Mans deſigns like his do diſagree, None lives ſo contrary to himſelf as He. 2. Ay, but ſays One, have you no fault like this? Yes, Sir, I have, Perhaps as great as his: When Menius rail'd at Novius, how, ſays One, Do'st know thy ſelf, or think thy faults unknown? Ay, but ſays Menius, I forgive my Own: This is a fooliſh, and a wicked Love, And ſuch as ſharpeſt Satyrs ſhould reprove, When thou art Blind and Senſeleſs to thine own, How do'ſt thou ſee thy Friend's Diſeaſe ſo ſoon: That ſcarce a Serpent can ſo quickly ſpy, Nor any Eagle hath ſo good an Eye. Well then go on, purſue thy mean deſign, As Thou do'ſt find their faults, ſo They will thine; Perhaps He's pettiſh, and He's apt to rage, He cannot bear the Railery of the Age, Perhaps he doth not wear his Cloaths gentile, His Shoe is not well made, nor ſits it well: He may be flouted, and be jeer'd for this; Yet He's an honeſt Man as any is: He is thy Friend, and tho the Caſe be foul, It holds a Learned, and a Noble Soul. Laſtly, look o're thy ſelf with ſtricteſt Care, And ſee what ſeeds of Vice are rooted there, What Nature plants, and what ill Cuſtoms bear. This ſearch is good, for a neglected Field, Or Thorns, or uſeleſs Fern will quickly yield. 3. Well, let us bring our ſelves at laſt to this, As ardent Lovers when they Court a Miſs; Or ſpy no faults, or love thoſe faults they ſpy, Thus Agne's Polypus pleas'd Balbine's Eye; I wiſh this Error in our Friendſhip reign'd, Or had the credit of a Vertue gain'd, As Fathers hide Sons faults or elſe commend, We ſhould excuſe the failures of our Friend: A Father that hath got a Squint-ey'd Boy Crys what a pretty Caſt adorns my joy! And calls his dwarfiſh Son that's often ſick, As that Abortive Siſyphus, his Chick: Is one too Cloſe? be tender of his fame, And call him thrifty, 'tis the ſofter Name: If He will brag too much, if He is vain, Then ſay he is a brisk, and merry Man: If He will rage, if he will rudely flout, Then ſay He is a downright Friend, and ſtout: If He will huff, his Airy Soul commend, And this I think will get, and keep a Friend: But We unkindly and perverſely nice, Do turn their very Vertues into Vice: If any lives a ſober honeſt life, Puts up Affronts, and ſhuns diſturbing Striſe, A mean, we ſtreight exclaim, and Chicken Soul: And one that's ſlow, We call a thick-ſcull'd Fool: Another in theſe evidencing Times When Envy loads our Honeſt Men with Crimes, Lives unſuſpected, and with prudent Art He keeps himſelf ſecure on every part. Inſtead of Wiſe, of Provident, and Grave, Oh He's a Cunning and a Crafty Knave: If any man (as I have often done To you Mecaenas, and now freely own) Impertinent Diſcourſe or Queſtions brings, Or jogs Another whil'ſt He reads or ſings, Or ſits a muſing upon other things: We ſtreight grow Mad, we'l hear no juſt defence; Pox, He's a Dolt, He wants even Common Senſe; What Cuſtoms, ah! what Rules have Men deſign'd? And how unjuſt, and to themſelves unkind! There's none but hath ſome fault, and he's the beſt, Moſt Vertuous he, that's ſpotted with the leaſt: A kind good natur'd Friend that ſtrives to prove And know the Man that he intends to love, And weighs my Vertues, and my Faults, 'tis juſt (If happily my Vertues prove the moſt,) To let that Scale go down; and if on this He'l be a Friend, I'le bate ſome things amiſs, And make the ſame allowance in weighing his: For thoſe that would not have their Sores offend, Muſt not diſguſt the Pimples of their Friend: And 'tis but juſt, that he that hopes to find A Pardon for his Faults, ſhould be as kind, And give the like, and with a willing mind. 4. But now ſince Paſſion's rooted in our Souls, As other faults that ſtick ſo cloſe to Fools; Why doth not Reaſon poiſe and mend our thoughts? And ſee our rage proportion'd to the faults: When Supper's done a Slave removes the Diſh, And ſpills the Broth, or elſe lets fall the Fiſh; Now ſhould the Maſter ſtab the Slave for this, He would be thought more mad then Labeo is: But how more mad are we, and more ſevere! Our Friends but little, and but ſeldom Erre, (And ſuch ſmall Faults good Natures ne're reſent; They ſin as Men muſt do, and may repent.) But yet for this we hate, for this we ſhun, As Bankrupts, Riſio, the notorious Dun; Who, when the Calends come, ſeverely ſues, And if the Debtor doth not pay the Uſe, He's clapt in Jayl, and hears a tedious Bill, A killing Scroll, Item, and Item ſtill: My Friend got drunk, perhaps hath foul'd my bed, Or bruis'd a Cup by neat Evander made, Or ſnacht away a Chicken from my Plate, And muſt I love my Friend the leſs for that? What ſhould I do then if he prov'd unjuſt, Refus'd to bayl me, Thiev'd or broke his Truſt? Thoſe that hold Vices equal ſeem diſtreſs't, When leaving Sophiſtry they come toth' Teſt: This Fancy doth with Law and Cuſtom fight, And Intereſt too, that ſpring of Juſt and Right: When Man firſt crept from Mother Earth's cold Womb, He was a miſerable Thing, and dumb; Then they for Acorns fought, and ſhady Cave, With Nails, then Clubs, the Weapons Nature gave: And next with Swords which ſad convenience found, And malice taught them they were fit to wound: Till Words and Names for Things, and Laws began, And civiliz'd the bruitiſh Creature Man: Then they built Towns, and ſettled Right and Juſt, And Laws to curb our Rapine, and our Luſt; For long e're Helen's time a thouſand dy'd, Then thouſands fought to get a beauteous Bride: But unrecorded fell, like Beaſts they ſtray'd, Each caught his willing Female and enjoy'd: Till one more ſtrong kill'd him, and was preferr'd, Juſt as the greateſt Bull amongſt the Herd: Look o're the Word's old Records, there's the Cauſe. 'Twas fear of wrong that made us make our Laws: By Naked Nature ne're was underſtood What's Juſt and Right, as what is Bad and Good, What fit and what unfit for Fleſh and Bood: Nor Reaſon ſhews to break a Garden Hedge, Should be as great a Crime as Sacriledge: Let Rules be fixt that may our Rage contain, And puniſh faults with a Proportion'd pain: And do not flea him, do not run him through, That only doth deſerve a kick or two: For I ne're fear that Thou wilt prove too kind, To too much Pity vitiouſly inclin'd, That can'ſt hold Vices Equal, and believe To Rob's no greater Crime than 'tis to Thieve; And who would puniſh all with equal hand If Thou wer't King, and had'ſt the full Command: If he that's wiſe and skilful in his Trade, Tho but a Cobler, muſt be neatly made, Be rich, be fair, be handſome and a King; Why do'ſt Thou wiſh for't ſince Thou haſt the Thing? But what Chryſippus ſaid Thou doſt not know, No wiſe Man yet did ever make a ſhoe And yet the Cobler's a wiſe Man; how ſo? Why, as Hermogenes, tho He holds his Tongue, Is skill'd in Muſick and can ſet a Song; And ſuffling Alfen though he loſt his Awl, And threw away his Laſt, and ſhut his Stall; And broak his Threads, yet was a Cobler ſtill; Thus every Tradeſman if he hath but skill Is wiſe, and therefore only King: but ſtay, Unleſs you uſe your Club, with wanton play The waggiſh Boys will pluck thy formal Beard, Thou ſhalt be kickt, derided, ſcorn'd and jeer'd, Till thou do'ſt burſt when Rage or Envy Stings, And ſnarl thou greateſt King of mighty Kings. In ſhort, whilſt Thou a King ſhalt walk in State, And only fooliſh Criſpin on Thee wait, To get a farthing Bath, I nobly live, The Faults I Fool commit, my friends forgive, And I as eaſily will pardon theirs, And ſo I'le live ſecure, and free from Cares, A happier Private Man, Than Thou a King.
SATYR IV.

The Heads of the Fourth Satyr.

(1.) Lucilius was bitter but uncorrect. (2.) Few read Satyrs, becauſe they know they deſerve the reproof. (3.) Whether Satyr be a Species of Poetry. (4.) A defence of his own Writings. (5.) The manner how his Father bred him to Vertue. 1. CRatin and Eupolis that laſh't the Age, Thoſe old Comedian Furies of the Stage; If they were to deſcribe a vile, unjuſt, And cheating Knave, or ſcourge a Lawleſs Luſt; Or other Crimes; regardleſs of his Fame They ſhow'd the Man, and boldly told his Name; This is Lucilius's way, He follows thoſe, His Wit the ſame, but other numbers choſe; I grant he was a ſharp and ready Wit, But rude and uncorrect in all he writ: This was his fault, He haſtily would rhyme (As if 'twere ſuch a wondrous thing in him) Two hundred tedious lines in one hours time: Yet when with force his muddy fancy flow'd, Some few pure Streams appear'd amongſt the mud: In writing much 'tis true his Parts excell, Too lazy for the task of writing well: But grant that rare, what then? Criſpinus ſays You talk of writing, Sir, You claim the Bays, Come on Sir Critick, You ſhall have your fill, (The wager be as little as you will) Here's Pen and Ink, and Time and Place, let's try Which can write moſt and faſtest, You or I: Thanks Heaven that made me ſlow, and gave a Pe • That writes but little, and but now and then: But you, like Bellows, till the Gold's refin'd, Are puffing ſtill, and all but empty wind. 2. Fannius was happy, whom the publick praiſe Preferr'd to Phoebus ſhrine, and Crown'd with Bays: But few read mine, and few my Books delight, And I ſcarce dare to publiſh what I write: Few like this way, for moſt know well enough, That they deſerve, and fear my juſt reproof: Take any at a venture midſt the Crowd, And you ſhall find him covetous or proud, One marry'd Whores, another Boys deſires, One Silver's white, and Alpius Braſs admires: Another runs from Eaſt to Weſt to cheat, Like Duſt by Whirlwinds toſt thro ſtorms of Fate, And all to keep or better his Eſtate: All theſe hate Poets, theſe do fear our Rhimes, Look he's stark mad, they cry, fly, fly betimes; He ſpares no Friend, He will abuſe the beſt, So he may laugh himſelf and have his Jeſt: And then what e're He writes flies o're the Town, To Pimps, to Hectors, and to Gameſters ſhown, To every one He meets He tells the Tale, Old Senſeleſs Fops, Old Women, Boys and All: Now hear what may for t'other ſide be ſhown; 3. Firſt, I'me no Poet, for to make me one 'Tis not enough to fetter words in Rhyme, And make a tedious and a jingling Chyme; And chiefly ſince my numerous feet encloſe Such plain familiar Talk, and almoſt Proſe; No, He alone can claim that name that writes With Fancy High, and bold and daring flights, And ſings as nobly as His Hero fights. And therefore ſome do doubt, (though ſome allow) If Comedy be Poetry or no, Becauſe it wants that Spirit, Flame, and Force, And bate the numbers, 'tis but plain diſcourſe: Yet often there the careful Fathers rage, They ſtorm, and ſwear, and crack the trembling Stage, A Rogue, a Dog, I'le kick him out of Door; When his young Stripling courts a Jilting Whore, And ſlights a noble Match; or ſtow'd with drink, E'en whilſt 'tis day, He Sails behind his Link: And would not Pompon, were his Father here, Expect as harſh a check, and as ſevere? Well then 'tis not enough to keep due time, Obſerve juſt feet, and put plain words in Rhyme; For break the Numbers, and the Verſe affords But common angry talk, and uſual words: Thus take what I, or what Lucilius writes, Tho now and then it Storms, and ſometimes bites, Invert the Order and the Words tranſpoſe, No ſign, as when you change (When violent Wars Had burſt their Brazen Gates, and broke the Bars:) Of Poetry appears, 'tis naked Proſe. 4. But now enough, another Time ſhall ſhow If 'tis a part of Poetry or no: But now I will enquire how Men ſhould hate This way of writing Satyr, and for what: Capri and Sulce, thoſe Terrors of the Jayl, Both hoarſe with pleading walk the Common-Hall, Their green Bags ſtuſſt with Bills, Indictments, Breves, A mighty Terror thoſe to Knaves and Thieves; But yet an honeſt Man that keeps his Oath, Nor robs nor ſteals, may ſafely ſcorn them both: If Thou'rt a Thief, as Coele and Byrrhus are, I'me not like Sulce or Capri, why do'ſt fear, And why dread me? My Book's not ſet to Sale, Thumb'd by the Rabble upon every Stall, The Raſcal ſcum, Hermogenes and All: I ſeldom do rehearſe, and when I do, I'me forc't becauſe my Friends will have it ſo: But then in private, to my Friends alone, Not every where, nor yet to every one: Thouſands i'th' publick Market-place recite, And trouble all they meet with what they write: Nay whilſt they Bath, They ſtudiouſly rehearſe, The Eccho's raiſe the Voice and grace the Verſe: Thus act our Fops, and without fear or wit, Never conſidering if the Seaſon's fit, Or time convenient: Well, but what you write Doth hurt Mens fame, that's your perverſe delight: Why this to me? Doth any Friend of mine Boldly affirm that this is my deſign? He that himſelf ſhall blame his abſent Friends, Or hears them ſcandaliz'd, and not defends, Sports with their Fame, and ſpeaks what e're He can, And only to be thought a Witty Man, Tells Tales, and brings his Friend in diſ-eſteem, That Man's a Knave, beſure beware of him: Set Twelve to Supper, one above the reſt Takes all the talk, and breaks a ſcurvy Jeſt On all, except the Maſter of the Feaſt: At laſt on him, when frequent Cups begin, T'unlock his Soul, and ſhow the ſpight within: Yet him you count a Wag, a merry Soul, A pleaſant, innocent, and harmleſs Droll: But if I ſmile perchance, if I preſume To laugh becauſe Rufillus doth perfume, That Female Man; or naſty Gorgon note For ſtudied filthineſs, and ſmell of Goat: My ſmiles are Satyrs, and what e're I write, In me 'tis all detraction, and 'tis ſpight: In common Talk, as we have often done, If we diſcourſe how Petil ſtole the Crown; And you, as you are wont, his Cauſe defend, He hath a kindneſs for me, He's my Friend, My old Acquaintance He, He is indeed, And faith I'me glad at heart that He is freed; And yet I wonder how He 'ſcapt; 'tis right, This, this is baſe detraction, this is ſpight: This, If I know my ſelf, ne're reliſht me, My Books from this, I'me ſure my Mind is free, But if ſome things appear jocoſely writ, This you muſt pardon, this you muſt permit. 5. For my good Father did inſtruct me ſo, And by Examples taught me how to know What was unfit, and what was fit to do: For when He tutor'd and advis'd to thrift, And live content with that which He had left: Mark Byrrhus, he would ſay, and Alpi's Son, How poor They live, now They are both undone! Two fit examples by unhappy Fates, To fright young Heirs from ſpending their Eſtates: When He would fright me from a lawleſs Love, And Whores, He ſaid, Young Horace do not prove Like Sectan, do not lead ſo looſe a Life, And ſeek stoln joys, and with another's Wife; Uſe what the Laws permit, and be advis'd, Trebonius got no credit when ſurpriz'd: Philoſophers perhaps may ſhow the Cauſe, And talk of Reaſon and of Nature's Laws, Why ſome things ſhould be hated, ſome admir'd, And why avoided ſome, and ſome deſir'd, But 'tis enough for me to form thy mind, And leave it to the Ancients rules inclin'd, And whilſt Thou want'ſt a Tutor, keep thy Name And manners ſpotleſs, and preſerve thy Fame; For when a Man, then thou muſt walk alone, No prudent care to guide Thee but thy own: Thus he advis'd; What e're He'd have me do, He ſays, Look ſuch a one doth ſo and ſo; And ſets a Worthy Man before my Eyes, And when he would forbid a Thing, He crys, Is not this bad when ſuch and ſuch a One Is ſcandaliz'd for't over all the Town? Unruly Patients when They chance to hear Their Neighbour's lately dead, begin to fear, Grow orderly and check their Appetite; So others ill repute do often fright Young Men from following Vice and falſe delight: Hence 'tis that ſound from greater faults I live, But ſmall, and ſuch as Friends may well forgive, I grant I have; yet even thoſe grow leſs By my own Care, or by my Friends advice; For when I lye or when I walk alone, I uſually revolve what I have done; This may be better'd ſure, and this commend, And make me greater, and a pleaſant Friend: Sure this is bad, and this is not well done; What ſhall I act like ſuch and ſuch a one? All this I uſe to think on when alone: At leaſure times I write my fooliſh thoughts, And this is one of Thoſe my little faults, Which if you won't forgive, but prove ſevere, A Band of Poets to my Aid I'll rear, (For we can make a Band) and like the Jews I'le force you take that ſide you now refuſe.
SATYR V.

The Heads of the Fifth Satyr. (1.) A Deſcription of his journey to Brunduſium, with all the various occurrences in the way.

FRom ſtately Rome I walkt a little way, And reacht Aricia firſt, and there I lay; My Company as good as Man could ſeek, The Lawyer Heliodore a Learned Greek: Then Forum Apii, that's a paltry Town, With Tars and Pedlars throng'd, and thoſe alone; We made two days on't hither, tho moſt but one; For to quick Travellers 'tis a tedious road, But if you walk but ſlow 'tis pretty good: Here 'cauſe the water did corrode the Taſt, And hurt the Stomach, I reſolv'd to faſt; And envy'd thoſe that Sup't, now Night appears And o're the Heaven ſpreads ſhades, and twinkling Stars: And then the Boys and Tars began to roar, A Boat, a Boat, ſo ho, you Son of a Whore, Pox, Thou wilt ſink the Boat, enough, no more: And whilſt They take the Fare we were to pay, And tye the Mule, a whole hour ſlips away: The Boat was full of Fleas, and thoſe moleſt, And croaking Frogs all night diſturb'd our reſt: The Mule-man and the Boat-man ſate up late, Both drunk, and ſang a Catch of merry Kate: At laſt the weary Mule-man rolls to Bed, With fiery Eyes, ſwoln Guts, and aking head: The Boat-man too reſolv'd to work no more, But ty'd his Mule to graze along the ſhore, Then fell aſleep, and there all night doth ſnore: And now the Sun climb'd o're the Eaſtern Hill, And ſhow'd the Day, but yet our Boat ſtood ſtill; Till one, a ſurly fellow, leapt from far, And back and ſide He cudgel'd drowzy Tar: This made him work and follow our Command, And ſo at ten a Clock we came to Land: Feronia was the place, and there we Dine; Thence three miles farther to another Inn: My kind Mecaenas was to meet me there, With good Cocceius ſent on great Affair, On Embaſſies, 'twas their delightful toyl To make new Friends, and Enemies reconcile: And here becauſe my travelling did inflame, I dreſt my Eyes, mean while Mecaenas came, Cocceius, Capito, and Fronto— That Fronto delicate in mind and face, And great with Antony as any was: At little Fundi we refus'd to bait, But laught at proud Aufidiu's Pomp and State; A Scrivener lately, now with Mace and Gown He huffs, and proudly Lords it o're the Town: To Formiae next; There Capito meat affords, Murena Lodging, ſo we liv'd like Lords: The next day was a happy joyful day, For then at Sinueſſa on our way, Plotinus, Virgil, Varius too attends, All worthy Men, and my obliging Friends: Oh how did we embrace! What ſhouts we gave! A Friend's the deareſt thing a Man can have: Next night near Campan's Bridge our Stage was good, And there we Lodg'd, and as the Cuſtom ſtood The Villagers preſented Salt and Wood: Next Stage was Capua, there we made a ſtay, We came betimes, Mecaenas went to play, Virgil and I to Bed, my Eyes were ſore, His ſtomach ſick, and ſo we both forbore: And next we reach't Cocceius Farm at night; A pleaſant Seat, and ſtor'd with all delight: But now aſſiſt my Muſe, and now relate How two baſe fellows quarrell'd, and for what: But firſt their Pedigree; the generous, brave, And valiant Meſſius was a Noble Knave, An Oſcian born; Sarmentus was a Slave: Thus nobly born theſe Two, and nobly bred Began the Brawl, And firſt Sarmentus ſaid, Faith Meſſius Thou art like an untam'd Horſe; We laugh; Well, well, ſays Meſſius, take your Courſe, And ſhakes his head; Oh were thy horns not gone, How thou wouldst puſh, ſince now when thou haſt none Thou threatnest ſo? but that's a ſcurvy place, Thoſe plaguy Scars thy briſly front diſgrace. And then breaks many a jeſt upon his face: On every Pimple, and on every Wart, And bids him Mimick Polyphem; No Art, No Vizor thou doſt need, for thou art rough, And Nature's given Thee uglineſs enough. This Meſſius ſtomachs, and replies again, Well, Sir, when will you Conſecrate the Chain You vow'd the Lares? now you're mighty proud, A Scribe, yet ſtill your Ladies claim is good: But why I wonder ſhould'st Thou run away? A poor thin-gutted Rogue; ſure he might stay That feaſted on an half-penny Loaf a day. This made our Supper pleaſant, thence we rod To Beneventum, there our Inn was good: But whilſt our ſedulous Hoſt makes too much haſt To roaſt our Meat, and makes too ſtrong a blaſt, He had almoſt been burnt, the Chimny fir'd, And flames as hungry to the Roofs aſpir'd: Then hungry We, and all our Servants came To ſave the Meat and Houſe, and quench the flame: Next day the known Appulian Mountains riſe, Which hot Atabulus ſcorches as He flies: To paſs theſe Hills had prov'd too great a toyl, But ſmall Trevicum gave us reſt a while, We ſtaid, quite blinded in a ſmoaky houſe, For all They had to burn was leaves and boughs: Here I poor Noddy half the night or more Expected a ſorſworn, a jilting Whore, At laſt dull ſleep did blunt my keen deſire, His lazy hand ſpread o're, and check't my fire: But then ſome wanton Dreams, too looſe to tell, Supply'd her place, and did the feat as well: Thence four and twenty Miles in four hours time, To a ſmall place whoſe name wo'nt ſtand in Rhyme: But yet by Signs 'tis very eas'ly known: Firſt then, the Water's ſcarce o're all the Town; The cheapeſt Thing that Nature hath beſtow'd Here's dearly ſold; the Bread is very good: This oft the wary Traveller approves, And when He parts, He fills his Bag with Loaves: For none Canuſium yields but griſty Bread, This Town was built by Valiant Diomed, The Nymphs averſe, 'tis like the former, poor, Nor can it boaſt one Quart of Water more: Here Varius left us, but appear'd to be Concern'd to part, and all as much as He: Next night we reach't to Rubi, there we lay, All very weary, for the tedious way Was dirty, and beſides it rain'd all day: Next Morn the Sky was fair, the Weather good As far as Bari's Town, but worſe the Road: Here we had ſport enough, and cauſe to ſmile, For ſome that would our eaſie Faith beguile, Would needs perſwade that in their Sacred Quire Sweet Incence burns without the help of fire: Ay, let the Jews believe it if they pleaſe, Not I, I know the Gods muſt live at eaſe: Nor when ſtrong Nature doth ſome wonders ſhow, Can I believe They meddle here below: Hence to Brunduſium, there I left my Friends, And ſo my Story and my Journey Ends.
SATYR VI.

To MECAENAS. (1.) He commends him for looking on the Excellencies, not the Families, of Men. (2.) Againſt Pride. (3.) His acquaintance with Mecaenas. (4.) How his Father bred him. (5.) That he is very well contented with his ſmall Estate.

1. BEcauſe thy Veins are fill'd with Royal Blood, Thy Birth is Noble, Family as good As all Hetruria boaſts, you are not proud: Becauſe thy Ancestors did Armies guide, Kings by thy Fathers and thy Mothers ſide, Thou doſt not ſlight a Man of mean Degree, As moſt Men uſe to do, for inſtance, Me, Whoſe Father was a Slave, and lately Free: For you believe, and you are right in This, No matter whence He comes, but what He is: No matter if his Race be low, his blood Be mean, if but his Mind be great and good: Before King Tully's time, by Birth a Slave, A thouſand Men of mean deſcent were brave, And fill'd the Honors that the People gave: But Noble Laevin though Valerias Son (By whoſe wiſe Conduct this great State begun, When Tarquin They, the lofty and the Proud, Expell'd) was never valu'd by the Crowd: The Crowd thoſe Common Slaves to empty Fame, That more than the Deſerts regard the Name, Dazled with Family and gawdy ſhows: Then what ſhould We, what We the Wiſe propoſe, We that are thought a different Kind from Thoſe? But at Elections grant the Crowd refuſe Ignoble Decius, and Levinus chuſe; And grant the ſurly Cenſor Appius ſcorn, And ſhove me off, becauſe but meanly born Or elſe deſerv'dly 'cauſe I would be brave, And ſeek a finer skin than Nature gave: Yet Glory's ſhining Chariot ſwiftly draws With equal Whirl the Noble and the Baſe: 2. What profit was it, Tully, to reſume Thy once loſt Honors, ſpread thy gawdy Plume And be a Tribune? Thence more hate began, More Envy roſe than when a Private Man: For when a Fool ſhall make a mighty ſtir, Swagger and huff in Golden Chain and Fur; All Eyes ſtreight turn to the unuſual State, And ſtudiouſly enquire, what Fellow's that? What Family? As one that ſhows a face Pox't, Meager, Pale, and ſuch as Barrus has, Yet would be handſome thought. Where e're He goes The Ladies cry, look how the fellow ſhows, And ſtreight examine his Leg, his Calf and Noſe. Thus when one thruſts himſelf upon the State, And cries, Come I'll ſustain the Nation's weight, The Empire and Religion be my Care, I'll manage all: This makes the People ſtare, This makes them ask what is He, whence came He? What was his Mother? Of what Family? Or is He baſe, his Sire of mean Degree? And what ſhall baſe-born you, Sir, rule the Law, Lord it o're Citizens, and hang and draw? My Collegue Novius, Sir, is mean to me, He's what my Father was, a Slave made Free. What then, doth that enoble all thy blood, Make Thee Meſſala, Paulus, or as good? Yet did two hundred Drays, and all the Crowd Of two great Funerals meet, He bawls ſo loud That He would drown the Horns and Trumpets Noiſe; This pleaſes, we are taken with his Voice: 3. But to my ſelf the Son of a Free'd-Man,— Whom Envious Eyes and Envious Tongues purſue, Becauſe, My Lord, I am belov'd by you: But once becauſe I had a good Command, And as a Tribune led a Roman Band: The cauſe unlike, for thoſe that may pretend To envy me, for Honours Chance can ſend, Yet may not be diſpleas'd that you're my friend: Since neither Fancy nor the Pop'lar Voice, But prudent Care, and Worth doth guide your choice: And, Sir, this happineſs I dare not own Was Chance, for 'twas not Chance that made me Known: For Virgil did commend me to your Grace, And Varius often told you what I was: When ſent for, Sir, in few and broken words, In ſuch as Infant Modeſty affords, I did not tell you my Deſcent was great, I did not ſay I had a vaſt Eſtate, But what I was; and your Reply was ſhort, As 'tis your Cuſtom; ſo I left the Court, And to my fields retir'd; at nine months end You ſent for me, and bad me be your Friend: And this I think is great, this makes me proud, That I pleas'd you, who know what's bad from good, By Vertue, not by Nobleneſs of Blood: 4. If only little ſtains do ſpot my Soul, (As perfect Beauties often have a Mole) Tho I'me Secure and free from all the foul: If none on me can truly fix diſgrace, If I am neither Covetous, nor Baſe; If innocent my life, if (to commend My ſelf) I live belov'd by every Friend: I thank my Father for't, for He being poor, His Farm but ſmall, the uſual ways forbore; He did not ſend me to Sir Fabius School To teach me Arts, and make me great by rule: Such as our Great-mens Sons and Nobles ſeek, With Book in hand, and Satchel round their Neck, And meanly pay their Maſter by the Week. But firſt He boldly brought me up to Town, To ſee thoſe ways, and make thoſe Arts my own, Which every Knight and Noble taught his Son: So well attended, and ſo richly dreſt I walkt thro Rome, that thoſe that view'd me, gueſt I was a Man of Wealth, a Knight at leaſt. Himſelf my carefull'ſt Guardian watcht me ſtill, In ſhort, He ſo ſuppreſt the growth of ill, That (Vertue's hight) not only kept me pure From vitious Deeds, but ill repute ſecure: Nor did He fear the Cenſuring World ſhould blame His high deſigns, or I be damn'd with ſhame, If after all his Coſt I ſhould be made A Common Cryer, or a meaner Trade; Or elſe, as He himſelf, have poorly liv'd A mean Exciſe-man, nor ſhould I have griev'd: I owe more thanks, and more reſpect for this, Nor ſhall I e're, whatever Fops adviſe, Repent of ſuch a Father if I'me wiſe. Therefore as Others when the haughty ſcorn, 'Twas not our fault we were not nobly born, I do no ſay, nor mind thoſe meaner cares; My words and thoughts are different far from theirs. 5. For ſhould kind Nature bid my Soul retire, Go back to Birth, and chuſe a Noble Sire, As great as Thought could frame, or Pride deſire; Content with thoſe I have, let others chooſe, I would the Noble and the Great refuſe: And this is fooliſh, this a wild deſign I'th' Crowd's Opinion, Wiſe perhaps in thine, Becauſe I love my eaſe, with prudent care, And ſhun a weight who am not us'd to bear: For ſtreight my ſmall Eſtate I muſt enlarge, Salute more Men, and live at greater charge, Companions get, leſt I, in Field or Town, The noble I, be ſeen to walk alone: More Grooms and Horſes keep, a Coach beſide, And all the coſtly Vanities of Pride: Now on my bob-tail'd Mule all gall'd and ſore, My Wallet galls behind, my Spurs before; I ride when e're I will, I ride at eaſe As far as ſoft Terentum if I pleaſe; None, as of Tully's baſeneſs, ſhall of mine complain, On whom, when Praetor, as a noble Train, In the Tiburtine way five Boys did wait, And bore a ſtool and flask of Wine in State: I live, Sir Noble, I can juſtly boaſt Better than you, and happier far than moſt: I walk alone where e're my fancies lead, And buſie ask the price of Herbs and Bread: Thro cheating Rome about the cloſe of day I freely walk, I go to Church and pray, Then home, where I ſhall find a ſparing Treat, And three ſmall pretty Boys bring up the Meat: Juſt by a White-ſtone-Table ſtands to bear Two Pots, one Cup, and equal to my fare A Cruiſe and Platter, all poor Earthen Ware. And then I go to bed, and take my reſt, No guilty Conſcience frets, no Cares moleſt, No ſad remembrance of my former Crimes; No Suits to bid me be at Court betimes: Where Marſya's Statue ſtands, and fears to brook The fury of the younger Novius look: "I ſleep till Ten, then walk, or read a while, "Or write for pleaſure, 'noint my ſelf with Oyl, Not ſuch as Natta pours, the rich, the baſe, Who robs the dying Lamps to greaſe his face. But when that heat invites to cooler ſtreams, I bath, and fly the fury of the beams; I eat not greedily, but juſt enough To ſtay my ſtomach, and keep hunger off; This is their life who are unloos'd from fears, Weighty Ambition, and its vexing Cares: This comforts me, this more contentment brings, Then if my Birth were high, my Race were Kings.
SATYR VII.

A Scolding Law-ſuit between Perſius and Rupilius, ſur-nam'd The King.

 HOw mungrel Perſius paid Rupilius off, Sur-nam'd the King, that baniſh't railing Huff, And gave him Quid for Quo, I think is known To all the Blind and Barbers ſhops in Town: This Perſius rich half Aſia did moleſt With Law-ſuits, and the King amongſt the reſt: Bold, Impudent He was, and ſtill at ſtrife, And as malicious as the King for's Life. Haughty, and ſuch a bitter Rogue to rail, That Piſo hardly could blow wind in's Tail: But to return, when nought could calm their rage, (For ſo 'tis ſtill when Two great Souls engage:) Thus in Achilles and in Hector's ſtrife, Their Emulation was as long as life; Becauſe they both were brave, their minds were great, Their courage equal, and alike their heat; But when two Cowards, or unequal Foes, As when ſoft Glaucus Diomed did oppoſe, The weaker yields unable to defend, And gives the other bribes to be his Friend. When Brutus Aſia rul'd, this railing Pair, Not Byth and Bacchus were a Match ſo fair, Began their Suit; away to Court they run Both hot, and gaz'd at both by every one. Perſius begins and doth the Cauſe explain, (We laugh, and as He ſpeaks we laugh again) And praiſeth Brutus much, and all his Train: He calls him Aſia's Sun, a glorious thing, And all were Stars benign except the King; The Dog-Star He, that Star that poiſon yields, And ſheds malicious Influence o're our fields. Thus heedleſly he ſtill purſu'd his Theme, As fierce and muddy as a Winters Stream. The King enrag'd at this, and ſwoln with hate, Empties his Stomach ſtraight in Billingſgate; The fineſt Rhetorick the World hath known, The very inſide of a Bawling Clown. But Perſius netled with his ſharp replies, At laſt, Brutus, ſince Thou art wont, He cries, To murther Kings; for Heavens ſake why not This? For this would prove a good and great deſign, Brutus, this ought to be an act of thine.
SATYR VIII.

The Heads of the Eighth Satyr. (1.) Priapus tells how He came to be a God. (2.) Diſcourſes how the Witches come at Night and trouble him. (3.) Diſcovers their Ceremonies.

1. LOng time I lay a uſeleſs Piece of Wood, Till Artiſts doubtful for what the Log was good, A Stool, or God; reſolved to make a God: So I was made, my Form the Log receives, A mighty Terror I to Birds and Thieves: My Hook and my vaſt Pole the Thieves affright, And keep the Garden ſafe from Rogues by night: My gaſtly Head is Crown'd with ſtaring Reed, To fright the Sparrows from the new-ſown Seed; 2. This Plat where now I ſtand was heretofore A Common Place of Burial for the Poor, Here by the Common Beadle of the Town The Poorer ſort, and Spendthrifts Corps were thrown, They got this Plat when they had ſpent their own. A thouſand Foot in length, three hundred broad As the Inſcription ſhows, by Will beſtow'd For Publick Uſe, and for the Common Good. But now where only frightful Bones were ſeen, That Checkred with a gaſtly White the Green, Mecaenas built a Summers ſoft retreat: The Air is Good, and 'tis a pretty Seat. And now I take but very little Care, For Thieves and Birds that come and rifle here; The troubleſome Witches vex me more then They, Thoſe Wretches I can never drive away: For when the Moon is up, each comes and pulls Her pois'nous Herbs, or gathers Bones and Skulls. 3. I oft have ſeen the Hag Canidia there, Bare-foot, Her Coat tuck't ſhort, and looſe her Hair: With elder Sagana, I ſaw them run, (They both were gaſtly, pale to look upon.) I heard them howl, and ſaw the furious Witch, Whilſt with her Nails ſhe ſcrap't a little Ditch, Then tear black Lambs, and pour in all the Blood, And call the hungry Ghoſts to take their Food, The Ghoſts that were to tell her what ſhe wou'd. Of Wool and Wax they made two Images, Which the bewitch't and Witches Forms expreſs, The Wool the greater, to torment the leſs: The Wax was to be whipt, and ſeem'd to bow, And there ſtood cringing as it fear'd the blow. One Hecate invokes with dreadful Pray'r, And one Tiſiphone, and ſtreight They hear Black Serpents hiſs and Hell-hounds barking there. The Moon skulk't ſtreight, and as afraid to view This gaſtly ſight, behind the Tombs withdrew. Now if I lye let Birds diſdain my Reed, And come and Perch, and dung upon my Head: Let me be ſpit, let me be piſs't upon By all the Rogues and Raſcals of the Town: Why ſhould I mention all I ſaw or heard? How in their Ditch They hid a Tyger's Beard; And Serpent's Tooth: how with a ſqueaking Voice The Witch and Ghoſt diſcours't? how harſh the Noiſe? How by ſlow Fires the Waxen Form did waſt: And frighted I reveng'd my ſelf at laſt. For loud, as a blown Bladder when 'tis broak, I ſtoutly farted from my Arſe of Oak; The frighted Witches ſtart and drop for fear Canidia Teeth, and Sagana falſe Hair; Away their Charms and pois'nous Herbs were thrown, Each takes her ambling Switch, and haſts to Town, It would have made you ſplit to ſee Them run.
SATYR IX.

The Deſcription of an Impertinent Fop that plagued Horace in his walk.

AS I was walking through the ſtreets of Rome, And muſing on I know not what nor whom, A Fop came up, by name ſcarce known to me, He ſeiz'd my hand, and cry'd, Dear Sir how d'ye: I thank you, pretty well as times go now; All happineſs: I wiſh the ſame to you: But when He follow'd me, I turn'd and cry'd, What farther buſineſs, Sir? And He reply'd, What don't you know me Sir? No faith: What no? Come Horace now you jeſt, I'me ſure you do; Why I'me a Scholar: Sir, I'me glad of that, 'Twill make me prize you at a higher rate: Uneaſie thus, and eager to be gone, Sometimes I walkt but ſlow, now faſter on, My Foot-boy whiſper'd now, and now I ſtopt, Now turn'd about, ſtill Sweating till I dropt: Ten thouſand times I ſoftly curſt my Fate, And envy'd deaf Bolanus happy State: Whilſt He, Eternal Clack, of all we meet Said ſomething, praiſing Houſes, Town, and Street: But when He ſaw me ſo uneaſie grown, And anſwer nothing; Sir, you would be gone, But faith, Dear Sir, We muſt not part ſo ſoon; I love your Company, I'le follow ſtill, I muſt make one, Dear Sir, go where you will: 'Tis too much trouble for you, I deſign Beyond the Bridge, to ſee a friend of mine Unknown to you, your kind attendance ſpare, It will be rude to trouble you ſo far: Sir I'me at leaſure, I have time to ſpend, And I can walk I'me ſure to ſerve a friend: I'le go: And thus when no releaſe appears, Like an o'reladen Aſs I hung my Ears. Then He, Sir, If I don't miſtake my Parts, Not Varius Wit, nor Viſcus great Deſerts Can claim your friendſhip half ſo much as mine; Which of the Wits can write ſo ſmooth a line, Which more than I, or which with greater eaſe? 'Tis almoſt natural in me to pleaſe: Who can his limbs to ſofter motions bring? Hermogenes might envy when I ſing: And then he ſtopt a while, and I put in: Have you a Mother Sir, or any Kin That would be glad to ſee you? I have none, For thanks kind Stars they all are dead and gone: Oh Happy They, and I the laſt remain, Come, pray Sir, quickly rid me of my pain; For now the fatal hour, the time is come, The Midwife told me when ſhe read my doom. She turn'd the Sieve, and ſaid, Nor Sword, nor Cough, Nor Poiſon, Plague, nor Charms ſhall take him off: Nor the Catarrh, nor Flux, nor Pox deſtroy, But an Eternal Tongue ſhall kill the Boy, And therefore would He have his life be long, When grown a Man avoid a talking Tongue: By this 'twas nine a Clock or ſomewhat paſt, And we to Veſta's Temple came at laſt. And there that day He had a Cauſe to hear, And was to loſe his Suit or elſe appear. Come pray, Sir, as you love me ſtop a while, Faith Sir I cannot ſtand, nor have I skill In any Point, and I'me oblig'd to go: Well then, What muſt I leave my Cauſe, or You? Me by all means: No, hang me if I do: And ſo march't on; and I (with one too ſtrong What Man can ſtrive?) look't blank, and ſneak't along. How doth Mecaenas (thence his Chat began) Affect you now? You are the ſubt'leſt Man: You make Hay whilſt it ſhines, but take my word, To have another always near my Lord, And next to You in favour, would ſecure My Lord's good Will, and make your Fortune ſure: Fix me the Man, and let them do their beſt, I'le lay my life on't you ſhall rout the reſt: Sir, you miſtake, that's not our Courſe of Life, We know no Jealouſies, no Brawls, no Strife; From all thoſe ills our Patrons Houſe is free, None 'cauſe more Learn'd or Wealthy troubles Me, We have our Stations, all their own purſue: 'Tis ſtrange, ſcarce credible: and yet 'tis true: This whets my wiſh, I'me eager for a place: I ſhall not reſt till I am near his Grace: Pray ſtand my Friend, I'me ſure of good ſucceſs, He may be wrought on if you pleaſe to preſs: But Sir, at firſt he is of hard acceſs: Well, when Occaſion ſerves, I'le play my part, I'le ſpare no coſt and charge, try every Art, Hang on his Coach, wait on him, all I can, Bribe, Flatter, Cringe, but I'me reſolv'd to gain, 'Tis only Labour, Sir, can raiſe a Man. As thus He talk't, a Friend of mine came by, Who knew the fellow's humour more than I. We ſtop't, and talk't a while, as How do'ſt do? Whence came you, Sir, I pray? and whither now? Mean while I ſhrug'd, a thouſand ſigns I ſhow'd, I ſqueez'd his hand, and did what e're I cou'd, I nodded, cough't, and wink't to let him ſee I ſtood in need of's help to ſet me free; He cruel Wag, tho knowing my intent, Pretended ignorance of all I mean't: I rag'd; at laſt, A little while ago You had ſome buſineſs, pray let's have it now: I mind it well, but, Sir, another day, My buſineſs calls me now a different way; 'Tis Holiday, I viſit yonder ſhrine, And muſt not mix Prophane with things Divine: I don't mind Holidays; but Sir I do, A little tender Conſcienc'd, Sir, I vow, One of the Crowd, I go to Church and pray, Your pardon, Sir, we'll talk another day: Did ever ſuch unlucky Beams ariſe! Ever ſo black a day! unkind He flies, And leaves me gaſping for a little life, Juſt at the mercy of the Butcher's knife: When lo his Adverſary cry'd, Oh, Oh! Sir Raſchal, have I caught you, whither now? Pray Sir bear witneſs, gladly I conſent, He's forc't to Court, and I as freely went: The People Crowd and Shout; but mid'ſt the ſtrife I ſcap't, and ſo Apollo ſav'd my Life.
SATYR X.

The Heads of the Tenth Satyr. (1.) He maintains the cenſure he had given of Lucilius. (2.) Diſcourſes of Poetry. (3.) Satyr is his proper Talent. (4.) He is content with the praiſe of the beſt Judges.

1. WEll, Sir, I grant I ſaid Lucilius Muſe Is uncorrect, his way of Writing looſe, "And who admires him ſo, what Friend of his "So blindly doats as to deny me This? "And yet in the ſame Page I freely own, "His Wit as ſharp as ever laſh't the Town; But This one ſort of Excellence allow'd, Doth not infer that all the reſt is good: "For on the ſame Account I might admit "Labenius Farce for Poems and for Wit. 2. Well then 'tis not enough to pleaſe the Crowd, And make them laugh to prove the Poem good: Yet this I grant a ſort of Excellence: He muſt be ſhort, nor muſt He clog his ſenſe With uſeleſs words, or make his Periods long, They muſt be ſmooth, and ſo glide o're the Tongue: And ſometimes He muſt uſe a graver ſtile, And then jocoſe, and He muſt laugh a while. Now like an Orator, a Poet now; Their different Vertues, and their Graces ſhow, Now like a Gentleman whoſe fine diſcourſe Deſign'dly eaſie is, and free from force, Inſtructive Mirth, and where a waggiſh ſneer Doth nick the great Ones more then a ſevere: "This was the drift of all our Ancient Plays, "In this They may be follow'd, and with Praiſe But theſe Hermogenes (thoſe blundring heads) Scarce knows; and t'other Ape-face never reads: Poor thick-skull'd Sots that ſing a Catch or two From Calvus, and that's all that they can do. Ay, but He's excellent; for many times He mixes Greek with Latine in his Rhimes. Dull Sots to think that Poetry and Wit, Which e'en the Rhodian poor Pitholeon writ. Ay, but the Speech thus mixt is neat and fine, 'Tis ſweet like Latine mixt with Greekiſh Wine. But you Sir, that can't think this Cenſure true, But do •• on Lucill, I appeal to you, Only in Verſe, or when you treat of Laws, Or plead ſuppoſe, Petillus deſp'rate Cauſe; Whilſt Pode and Corvin eagerly accuſe, Would you this mix't, this Mungrel Language uſe: As 'twere forget your own, and Greek confound With Latine, like the Apulians double ſound? When I, a Latin, once deſign'd to write Greek Verſes, Romulus appear'd at night; 'Twas after Twelve, the time when dreams are true, And ſaid; Why Horace, what do'ſt mean to do? 'Tis full as mad the Greeks vaſt heaps t'encreaſe, As 'tis to carry Water to the Seas. Whilſt ſwelling Alpin in his lofty way, Murders poor Memnon in his Barbarous Play; Or awkerdly deſcribes the head of Rhine; This pleaſant way of writing Satyr's mine. 'Tis not for glory, nor to pleaſe the Age, Nor get the Bays, nor often tread the Stage. True Comedy Fondanus only writes, Pollio the Acts of Kings, and Noble Fights, Strong Epic-Poems Varius beſt can raiſe, And Virgil's happy Muſe in Eclogues plays, Facetious, ſoft, and juſtly wins the Bays. In Satyrs I, which Varro try'd in vain, And others too, may have a happy ſtrain: Yet than Lucillius leſs I freely own, I would not ſtrive to blaſt his juſt renown, He wears and beſt deſerves to wear the Crown. Ay, but I ſaid his fancy muddy flow'd, And faulty Lines did oft exceed the good. Well Sir, and is e'en Homer all correct? Is He, Sir Critic, free from all defect? Doth not Lucillius Accius Rhimes accuſe? And blame our Ennius's correcter Muſe? For too much lightneſs oft his Rhimes deride, And when He talks of his own Verſe, for Pride? Then what's the Reaſon that his friend repines, That when I read Lucilius looſer lines, I try if 'tis his Subject won't permit, More even Verſe, or if 'tis want of Wit? But now if any is content to chime, And juſt put naked Words in Feet and Rhime, And write two hundred Lines in two hours time. As Caſſius did, that full o're-flowing Tide Of Wit, and who was burnt, (or fame hath ly'd) With Piles of his own Papers when he dy'd. Well then ſuppoſe Lucilius was a Wit, His Vertue's more than Faults in what He writ. Correcter than the Older Writers own, And that we Satyr owe to him alone, Satyr a Poem to the Greeks unknown. Yet did He now again new life Commence, He would correct, he would retrench his Senſe, And pare off all that was not Excellence; Take pains, and often when he Verſes made, Would bite his Nails toth quick, and ſcratch his Head. When you deſign a laſting Piece, be wiſe, Amend, Correct, again, again Reviſe: Ne're ſeek the Crowd's unthinking praiſe, delight 4. 'That few, and Judges, read the Verſe you write. Is't thy Ambition mean unthinking Fool, To be a Claſſick thumb'd in every School? That's not my wiſh, for 'tis enough for me, As hiſt Arbuſcula was wont to ſay, Well well hiſs on, for ſince I pleaſe the beſt, And thoſe approve me well, I ſcorn the reſt. Why ſhould I vex to hear Pontitius blame My Poems, or Demetrius carp my Fame? Or hungry Fannius at Tigellius Treat, Diſgrace my Verſe to get a little Meat? Let Plotius, Varius, and Mecoenas love, Let Caeſar, Virgil, Valgius all approve What I compoſe; to theſe would I could joyn The Viſci, and Meſſala's Learned Line, And Pollio, and ſome other Friends of mine, Whom I for modeſty forbear to name, My good acquaintance all, and Men of Fame, Commend my Lines, and I ſhould grieve to know They do not pleaſe Them, as I hope they do. I ſcorn Tigellius, and Demetrius noiſe, Dull Block-heads, let them Pipe among their Boys, And mind their Schools: Go Roger quickly run, Put this into my Book, and I have done.
The End of the firſt Book of Satyrs.
SATYRS. BOOK II.

The Heads of the firſt Satyr. (1.) He adviſeth with his Friend what He ſhall write. (2.) He concludes that his humour is for Satyr. (3.) Will hurt none unprovok't. (4.) No good Men have reaſon to be angry at Satyriſts.

1. SOme Fancy I am bitter when I jeer Beyond the Rules of Satyr too ſevere; Some that my Verſe is dull and flat, and ſay, A Man may write a Thouſand ſuch a day. What ſhall I do Trebatius? Why give o're, Thy ſcribling humor check, and write no more: The Counſel's good, and oh that I could chooſe, But I can't ſleep for my unruly Muſe: Why then (for that will lay a rambling Head) Go always tir'd, or elſe go drunk to Bed. Of if you needs muſt write, go raiſe thy Fame, By Caeſar's Wars, for that's a noble Theme, And that will get Thee Wealth and an Eſteem. I have the Will, but when I ſtrive to fly, My Wing's too weak, nor can I riſe ſo high. For 'tis not every one can paint a War, How Iron Armies dreadful gay appear; The Galli falling by a braver force, Or wounded Parthians tumbling from their Horſe. Yet Thou, for ſuch the wiſe Lucilius ſhow'd Great Scipio, may'ſt deſcribe him juſt and good: Well, when Occaſion ſerves my Muſe deſigns To try that way, but my unpoliſh't lines, Unleſs by chance a happy Time appears, Will never paſs the judging Caeſar's Ears, Whom if you try to ſtroak, He's free from Pride, And kicks you off, ſecure on every ſide: And this is better than with railing Rhymes, To laſh the faults and follies of the Times, Since all think they are hit, and all reſent, And hate Thee, tho perhaps They are not meant. 2. What ſhall I do? As moſt Men have their humours I have mine, Milonius Dances when He's full of Wine: Pollux on Foot, on Horſe-back Caſtor fights; As many Men, ſo many their delights: I love to Rhyme, and have a railing Wit, And chooſe the way that wiſe Lucilius writ: He did to's Book, as to a Truſty Friend, His ſecret Vertues, and his Faults Commend. And when a good or faulty deed was done, He truſted them with that, and them alone. And hence his Books do all his Life explain, As if we ſaw him live it o're again. This Man I imitate; but what I am Faith I can't tell, nor know from whence I came; For whether I my Birth t' Appulia owe, Or to Lucania, faith 'tis hard to know, Since we Venuſians live between theſe two; Plac't here, as Tales of Ancient Fame relate, When the Sabelli bow'd to ſtronger Fate, On this ſide to ſecure the Roman State: Leſt fierce Appulian or Lucanian Arms, Should take them unprovided for Alarms. 3. But yet this Pen of mine ſhall never wound If unprovok't, yet ſtill I'le keep my ground, Ready for all aſſaults, make this my guard, And ſtand on my defence, be ſtill prepar'd, As with a Sword, yet ſheath'd, and never draw Unleſs aſſaulted, to keep Rogues in Awe. Grant bounteous Heaven, Oh grant me welcome Peace, Oh grant this Sword of mine might ruſt in eaſe! Let none hurt Peaceful Me with envious Tongue, For if he does, He ſhall repent the wrong: The warning's fair, his Vices ſhall be ſhown, And Life expos'd to all the Cens'ring Town; Affronted Cervius threatens Suits of Law, Canidia Charms to keep her Foes in Awe. And Praetor Turius when he bears a grudge, If Thou ſhalt plead a Cauſe when He is Judge: Each fights with that with which he can prevail, And powerful Nature thus inſtructs us all. The Wolves with Teeth; with Horns the Bulls begin: And whence, but from a ſecret Guide within? Let Scoeva have (for this he counts a wrong) A Mother, that He thinks will live too long; His pious Hand ſhall never wound her Heart, No wonder this, 'tis not his proper Art. A Wolf ne're kicks, with Teeth a Bull ne're kills, But ſhe ſhall take a Doſe of poiſon'd Pills. In ſhort then, whether I live long or no, Or Rich, or Poor, howe're my Fortunes go, Live here at Rome, or baniſh't take my flight, Whatever is my ſtate of Life, I'le write: Well, Sir, I ſee your Life then can'nt be long, Some great Ones, faith, will ſtop your railing Tongue. 4. How, Sir, Lucilius that did firſt ingage In writing Satyrs, and that laſh't the Age, And ſtrip't our Foplings of their Lyons skin, In which they look't ſo gay, all foul within. Did Loelius, or did Scipio hate his Muſe? Or ſtorm, when He Metellus did abuſe? The Great-ones, and the Crowd did diſcommend, And valued Vertue only, and her Friend? No, no, They treated him, and thought him good, And when remov'd from buſineſs, and the Crow'd, Would keep him Company, would laugh and jeſt, And ſport until their little Meat was dreſt. What e're I am, altho I muſt ſubmit To wiſe Lucilius, in Eſtate and Wit, Yet I with Great-ones live, this all confeſs, And envy, tho unwilling grants no leſs. And tho ſhe thinks me ſoft, will find me tough, And break her Teeth, for I have ſtrength enough; I hope, Trebatius, this you grant is true, Yes, Sir, but 'tis my pious Care for You, My Love that makes me give you this advice, Take heed of Scandal, Horace, and be wiſe. Well, Sir, if any ſcand'louſly derides, Then let him ſuffer as the Law provides, If juſtly mighty Caeſar is his Friend, He loves ſuch Poems, and he will defend; And thus if You a Man of ſpotleſs Fame, Shall laſh another, that deſerves the ſhame: And He grows mad, Indicts or Sues Thee for't, The fooliſh Action ſhall be turn'd to ſport; He laugh't, and jeer'd at, You diſcharg'd the Court.
SATYR II.

The Heads of the Second Satyr. (1.) The profit of a ſpare Diet. (2.) The Difference between that and a ſordid Table. (3.) The advantages of it, in reſpect of Mind and Body. (4.) Againſt Luxury. (5.) Thrift, the beſt ſecurity againſt Fortune.

1. HOw great a Vertue 'tis, how a great good, To live content, and with a little Food, (Theſe are not mine, but wiſe Ofellus Rules, An honeſt Man, but yet unlearn'd in Schools) Learn not when full, or when a ſumptuous Feaſt, With ſhow and ſight diſturbs the eager Gueſt: Or elſe oppreſs and leave the eaſie mind, Averſe to Good, and to ill Rules inclin'd, But ſeek with me, before that Thou haſt din'd. And why this Caution? If I can I'le tell, Brib'd Judges ne're Examine Cauſes well: Go take ſome Exerciſe, purſue the Chace, Or Hunt, ride the great Horſe, or run a Race, Handle the Roman Arms, thoſe heavier far Than Groecian Toys, or elſe go throw the Bar; Or play at Ball, be eager at the ſport, And make thy Game ſeem pleaſant, and but ſhort. Now when this Exerciſe hath made Thee ſweat, And rais'd thy Stomach, and thou fain would'ſt eat, Then ſcorn to taſt unleſs 'tis dainty Meat: When thirſty, ſcorn to drink, refuſe to Dine, Unleſs Thou haſt the beſt and racy Wine. Beſides the Butler's gone abroad to play, No coſtly Fiſhes can be caught to day; The Winds defend them, and the Seas are rough, Then Bread and Salt will pleaſe thee well enough. How ſo? And prithee how can this be done? Why Sir, the pleaſure that's in eating known, Is not i'th' Meat, but in thy ſelf alone. Make Exerciſe thy Sawce, let that excite, For fleamy and a ſqueaſy Appetite Nor Trout, nor Tench, nor Oyſters can delight. Yet I ſhall ſcarce perſwade our curious Men, Let me adviſe, and talk, and talk agen, Not to eat Peacock, rather than a Hen. For They are prejudic'd becauſe the price Is great, and his gay Feathers pleaſe the Eyes: As if thoſe made it better; do'ſt Thou Feaſt On thoſe prais'd Plumes? And do thoſe fill thy gueſt, Or doth it look as gawdy when 'tis dreſt? Then ſince Hens fleſh is quite as good, 'tis plain The Peacock is preferr'd for's gawdy Train. But grant ſome difference here, yet how do'ſt know If this ſame Pike be River Fiſh or no? Caught here in Tyber, or in open Seas, For Thou do'ſt make a difference too in theſe; Mad Fool, thou praiſeſt Mullets vaſtly great, Which thou muſt maſh, e're thou canſt dreſs or eat: The greatneſs pleaſes then, yet all diſlike Some bigger Fiſh, and ſcorn the larger Pike: Pray what's the Cauſe of this? Oh! let me ſee, Perhaps becauſe, as Nature's Laws Decree, One uſually is ſmall, the other great; Men ſeldom hungry ſcorn the common Meat: But ſays the Glutton, I love a larger Fiſh, It looks ſo Noble in a Lordly Diſh. But you moiſt Winds now hear, be kind and good, Corrupt their Meat, and taint their coſtly Food: Tho 'tis but newly taken taint their Bore, And let their Rhombus ſtink e're brought to ſhore: When plenty too profuſe in vain invites, And ſtrives to raiſe the ſqueaſy Appetites. When the full Glutton ſtrives in vain to eat, And takes ſharp Herbs before his dainty Meat. We do not always feed on Sole and Bore, But uſe cheap Eggs, and Olives midſt our ſtore, So greateſt Feaſts have ſomething that is poor. Firſt Gallio's Kitchin infamous did grow For dreſſing Sturgeon, 'twas not long ago, What had the Sea then fewer Soles than now? No, but the Soles did then ſecurely reſt, Then nothing did but Winds and Waves moleſt, And the poor Stork liv'd ſafely in his Neſt: Until a Proetor taught us how to uſe Theſe Things, and made us fooliſhly profuſe: And ſo if one would bring new ſorts of Food, And ſtoutly ſay, a roaſted Moor-hen's good: Our Fops would imitate, and praiſe his skill, Our Fops that are ſo eaſie bent to ill. 2. A ſordid Table, and a thrifty one, Ofellus thinks diſtinct, in vain they ſhun One Vice, that to the other madly run: Old Aviden, Surnam'd The Dog, eats Sloes, And Olives five years old, as bad as thoſe. Theſe are his Meat, and all the Wine He drinks Is eager ſtill; his Oyl corrupt, and ſtinks: And that (when very fine, when neatly dreſt, And at a Birth-day, or a Marriage Feaſt, When He would be Profuſe, and Prodigal) He pours himſelf upon his little Cale: Well then, what would you have a Wiſe Man do? What Table keep? you have propos'd me Two; And which, Sir, muſt I imitate of theſe? The choice is hard, and it is hard to pleaſe. Sir, He lives well that keeps the middle State, And neither leans too much to this, nor that: Such when he bids his Slaves do this and this, And tasks them too, as every Maſter his, Will not be cruel as old Albutius is: Nor yet like Noevius when he makes a Feaſt, With coſtly Oyntment will He waſh his gueſt, For that too is a fault, a vice at leaſt: 3. Now learn what good attends a ſparing Meal, What pleaſure, and what profit: Firſt thou'rt well, Thy Health improv'd, thy Body free from pain; But now that Meat confus'd doth hurt a Man, Thou haſt experience, and ſufficient proof; One ſingle Diſh did feed Thee well enough, Thy Stomach took it, but when boyl'd with ſtew'd, Fleſh mix't with Fiſh, the indigeſted load Is turn'd to Gall or Flegm, and ſpoyls the Blood: Obſerve how ſickly and how pale the Gueſts, How diſcompos'd they riſe from ſumptuous Feaſts? Beſides, the Body by the wild exceſs, Enfeebled, doth the nobler Mind oppreſs, It clogs it, and it makes its motions dull, And fixes here the breath of Heaven, the Soul: The others go to Bed, juſt cloſe their Eyes, Such little ſlumber Nature's wants ſupplies, Then vig'rous to their proper buſineſs riſe. Yet Thoſe can have their ſparing Meals increaſt On Holidays, or when they treat a Gueſt, Or would indulge, and when they pleaſe to Feaſt. Beſides, old Age will come, and that muſt crave, A ſofter treatment far than Youth ſhould have: But Thou, when ſickneſs comes, or feeble Age, In vain do'ſt hope, fond Youth, to calm their rage, By ſofter uſage, ſince thou doſt enjoy The ſofteſt, whilſt a young and vig'rous Boy: The Ancients did commend their ſtinking Bores, Yet not but that their ſmell was good as Ours, But 'cauſe they thought it better far to ſtay, (That was the thriftier, and the nobler way) And keep it till their tardy Gueſt was come, Than eat it ſweet, and by themſelves at home: Theſe, theſe were Heroes, theſe were generous Men, And Oh that Nature had produc'd me then: 4. Doſt Thou regard thy Fame which charms our Ears, With ſofter Muſick than the ſweeteſt Airs? Take heed, Luxurious Living ruins that, And waſts thy Name as much as thy Eſtate: It makes thy Neighbours angry, Friends diſtruſt, And Thee thy ſelf unto thy ſelf unjuſt, When Thou ſhalt wiſh for Death, of all bereft; And not enough to buy a Halter's left: 'Tis true, to ſome this is a juſt reproof, This may be ſaid to Tarſius well enough; But not to Me; I am ſecure from fate, For my Revenue's large, my Wealth is great, Enough to keep three Kings, a vaſt Eſtate. Then is there no way elſe to ſpend thy Store? Why ſince thou'rt Rich, is any good Man Poor? Why are not ruin'd Fanes rebuilt? And why Doth not thy Wealth thy Neighbours wants ſupply? And hath thy Country this ſuperfluous Coin? What meaſure hath it from this heap of Thine? Kind fortune ſtill, forſooth, ſhall ſmile on Thee, O future ſport unto thine Enemy! And which is better able to endure Uncertain Chance? And which lives moſt ſecure? He that doth never Fortune's ſmiles diſtruſt, But Pampers up himſelf, and feeds his Luſt? Or He that lives on little now, and ſpares; And wiſely when 'tis Peace, provides for Wars? But by one inſtance to confirm this Truth, I knew Ofellus when I was a youth; Then He was Rich, yet 'midſt his greateſt Store He liv'd as now, ſince Rapine made him Poor: Now you may ſee him with his Wife and Son, Till that Eſtate for hire which was his own: He Ploughs, he Sweats, and ſtoutly digs for Bread, Contented ſtill, and as he wrought, He ſaid, On working Days I never us'd to eat But Cale and Bacon, that was all my Meat: But when an old and honeſt Friend of mine, Or elſe my welcome Neighbours came to dine; When it was rainy, or my work was done, We feaſted not on coſtly Fiſh from Town; But took what I could eaſily provide From my own Field, a Pullet or a Kid: And then for ſecond courſe ſome Grapes were preſt, Or Nuts, or Figs, and that was all my Feaſt: And after this we drank a Health or two, As far as harmleſs ſober mirth would go; And then thank't Ceres for our preſent cheer, And beg'd a plenteous Crop the following year: And now let Fortune frown, I ſcorn her force, How can ſhe make our way of living worſe? Have we not had enough ſince we grew poor, Have we liv'd worſe, My Sons, then heretofore, Before a Stranger came, and ſeiz'd my ſtore? For Nature doth not Me or Him Create, The proper Lord of ſuch and ſuch Eſtate: He forc't us out, and doth poſſeſs my Plain; Another cheat ſhall force him out again, Or quircks in Law, or when thoſe fears are paſt, His long-liv'd Heir ſhall force him out at laſt: That which was once Ofellus Farm is gone, Now call'd Umbrena's, but 'tis no Mans own: None hath the Property, it comes and goes, As merry Chance, or ſtubborn Fates diſpoſe, As God thinks fit, and his firm Nods Decree, Now to be us'd by Others, now by Me: Then live Reſolv'd, my Sons, refuſe to yield, And when Fates preſs make Conſtancy your ſhield.
SATYR III.

The Heads of the Third Satyr. (1.) The Stoicks chide him for his Lazineſs. (2.) According to the Stoicks Opinion all are mad. (3.) The Covetous are mad. (4.) The Ambitious. (5.) The Spend-thrifts. (6.) Lovers. (7.) The Superſtitious. (8.) Concerning his own humor.

1. YOU write ſo ſeldom, ſcarce four ſheets a year, A lazy Writer, but a Judge ſevere! Still mending, and reviſing every Line, Still vex't that after all thy Sleep and Wine, Yet nothing comes that doth appear to be Worth publick view: What will become of Thee? You here at Winters firſt approach did come, And left the Mirth, and drunken Feaſts of Rome: Then ſober now write ſomething as you vow'd, Write ſomething that may make thy promiſe good Begin, nought comes, thou doſt in vain accuſe Thy Paper, Pen, and Ink, and angry Muſe: And yet you ſeem'd to promiſe ſomething great If e're you came to your warm Country Seat. Why comes Menander, Plato, Sophocles? And why ſuch Learned Company as Theſe? If Thou deſign'ſt to ſpend thy time in Eaſe? What wilt Thou write no more to live exempt From Envy? Blockhead Thou ſhalt meet Contempt The Siren ſloth thou muſt reſolve to ſhun, Or loſe that Fame thy better life has won. Thanks, Damaſippus, thou art grave, and wiſe, And let the Gods beſtow ('tis a ſmall price) A Barbar on thee for thy good advice: But how came you to know my mind ſo well? Why once I Traded till my Stock was gone, And now I mind, as here I live in Town, Others concerns ſince I have loſt my own. For heretofore I drove a mighty Trade In Ancient Pieces, knew what Piece was made By ſuch an Artiſt, and could tell what part Was rudely drawn, and what agree'd with Art. Then ſold them dear, I had the only skill To purchaſe Lands, and with Advantage ſtill. And hence among the Crowd my Name was known, The Mercury, the Trader of the Town: All this I know, and wonder now to view The Change: Why, Sir, a fancy ſtrangely New Hath cur'd the Old: Thus from another part, As Head or Side, pain falls into the Heart. 2. Thus this Lethargick ſometimes leaves his Bed, In frantick fitt, and breaks the Doctor's Head. Well, Sir, ſuppoſe You ben't as mad as He, And beat me too, be what you pleaſe to be. Good Sir, do not deceive your ſelf, for You, And All, if what Stertinius ſays be true, Are mad: He taught me This when firſt He cheer'd My drooping Mind, and bad me wear this Beard. For when by Trading I was quite undone, Thither I went, Poor Fool, reſolv'd to drown: But He ſtood by, and in a lucky time He cry'd, take heed Young Man, forbear the Crime, 'Tis fooliſh modeſty that makes Thee dread, Amongſt Mad-men to be accounted Mad: For firſt inquire what madneſs is, and ſee If every Man be not as mad as Thee, Tho They pretend to be ſo grave and wiſe, Then go and hang thy ſelf, that's my advice. He who's to Folly or to Vice inclin'd, Or whom dark Ignorance of Truth doth blind, The Stoicks call him mad; thus every one, Whether he holds the Plough, or fills the Throne, Is counted mad, but their Wiſe-man alone. Some call Thee mad, but thoſe that call Thee ſo, Obſerve, I'le prove them quite as mad as You: As Men that loſe their ways in Woods, divide; Some go on this, and ſome on t'other ſide, The Error is the ſame, all miſs the Road, Altho in different Quarters of the Wood. Thus as they call thee, think that thou art mad; But thoſe that call thee ſo are quite as bad. For firſt, one ſort of madneſs is to fear, When nothing frights, and when no danger's near; As if when on an even Field he goes, He ſhould complain that Flames and Rocks oppoſe. Others, altho through different ways They run, Are quite as Mad, for they ruſh boldly on, Thro Flames, and boiſterous Seas to be undone. And tho his Miſtreſs, Siſter, Father, Wife Should cry, Ah Dear, be cautious of thy Life; Look, there's a Ditch, take heed: he hears no more Then drunken Furius did, when heretofore He acted Hecuba, a lazy drone, He fell aſleep, and ſlept ſecurely on, Nor could be wak't, tho Catien's voice did rage, And Mother, hear, I call thee, crack't the Stage: Now grant this Madneſs I deſign to ſhow, If this Man's mad, then all the World is ſo. Firſt Damaſippus's mad, becauſe he buys Old Statues, true, for what's more plain than This? Is he that truſts him ſober? grant he is: Suppoſe here take this Sum of Gold, I ſaid, I never do expect to be repaid, Are you mad if you take it? No, but more If you neglect this eaſie offer'd ſtore. For twenty Bonds on cheating Nereus draw, 'Tis not enough, add all the chains of Law Cicuta can invent to hold him faſt, This Proteus will avoid theſe Bands at laſt; This Proteus Debtor, for when e're you bring Your Action, he's a Stone, or any thing, A Bore, a Bird, a Tree when e're he will, And thus deride your loſs, and cheat your skill. Now if He's mad that waſts, and ſober He That gets, Petillus is more mad than Thee, Who truſts thee ſo, and lets his Stock decay, By lending more than you deſign to pay. Sit ſtill and hear, thoſe whom proud thoughts do ſwell, Thoſe that look pale by loving Coin too well; Whom Luxury Corrupts, or fancy'd fears Oppreſs, and empty ſuperſtitious Cares; Or any other Vice diſturbs, draw near, I'le prove that all are mad, ſit ſtill, and hear. 3. Firſt give the Covetous the largeſt Doſe Of Hellebore, or rather let's ſuppoſe That whole Anticyra is deſign'd for thoſe. Saberius Heirs did write upon his Grave, How much He left, what Legacies he gave, Or were to give as He by Will allow'd, Two hundred Fencers to delight the Crow'd, And coſtly Treats as great as Arrus wou'd, And Corn as much as Afric yields a year: Now whether this be well, or ill, forbear To cenſure me, and be not too ſevere: For Saberus, I think, was wiſe enough To know that he deſerv'd and fear'd reproof: What did He mean when He his Heir injoyn'd, To write on's Tomb how much He left behind? Why whilſt he liv'd he thought the being Poor Was heinous, and avoided nothing more; And ſhould be guilty of a damn'd exceſs, If he had left behind one farthing leſs. For Honor, Vertue, Fame, and all Divine And Humane Things muſt follow lovely Coin; And he that gets but that is any thing, What e're he pleaſe, Juſt, Valiant, Wiſe, a King. And this He thought, as vertuous Acts, would raiſe His Fame, and get him an Immortal praiſe. This was his thought of Wealth; How far from this Did Ariſtippus think and do with his? Who bad his Slaves, as He o're Lybia paſt, Leave all his Wealth, becauſe it stopt his haſt. Which was moſt mad? Sir, that Example's vain, That ſolves old doubts by raiſing more again. He that buys Harps, and throws his Wealth away On Pipes, yet never does deſign to play: He that buys Awls, and Laſts, yet doth not know, And ne're deſigns to try to make a Shoe. Or Ships, and Oars, yet is averſe to Trade, All, and there's Reaſon for't, would count him Mad And what's He better, that ſtill ſtrives for more, Still heaps up Wealth, yet cannot uſe the Store, But fears to touch, as if 'twere Sacred Ore. He that all Night lyes ſtretcht on heaps of Wheat, And watches what he does not dare to eat, With Bill in hand; yet after all this pain, Tho 'tis his own, he cannot touch a Grain. But ſtill on Haws, and bitter Herbs doth Dine; And tho his Cellar's ſtor'd with racy Wine, Drinks Vinegar; and tho extreamly old, Yet lyes on Straw, or Flocks, and lyes acold; Whilſt his embroider'd Silks, and coſtly Cloaths, Lye rotting in his Cheſts, and feed the Moths. Yet few do think theſe mad, for moſt like Theſe, Are ſick and troubled with the ſame Diſeaſe: What doſt thou keep it for thy ſquandring Boy, Or for thy Slave, old Chuff, and ne're enjoy? He'll drink it out, and prove a mad Gallant? Or doſt thou keep't leſt thou thy ſelf ſhould'ſt want? Oh Fool! how little would thy Money waſt, If thou on better Cale and Oyl did'ſt feaſt? Wore better Cloaths, and went more neatly dreſt? If thou canſt live upon this little Store, Why doſt thou ſwear, and lye, and cheat for more? And are you Sober? If you walk't the Street, Throw Stones, and fight, and juſtle all you meet, Or ſtab your Slaves, you would be quickly known, Call'd Mad by every Boy and Girl i'th' Town. Now thou doſt hang thy Wife, and now doſt kill With Drugs thy Mother; art thou Sober ſtill? For why? Thou doſt not do this impious deed, At Argos Town, nor doſt thou make her bleed, With a ſharp Sword, as mad Oreſtes did. And doſt thou think Oreſtes, heretofore, After He ſtain'd his Sword in's Mother's gore, Grew mad alone, and was not mad before? Yet after that, when you ſuppoſe him Mad, What did he do? And were his Actions bad? What did He do, that you dare diſcommend? He neither ſtab'd his Siſter, nor his Friend, But only as his Frenzy forc't, did call One Rogue, the other Witch, and that was All. Opimius that old Chuff, and richly poor, Who wanted e'en the Wealth he had in ſtore: That on Feaſt-days did meaneſt Wine provide In Earthen Jugs, and Lees on all beſide; Lay in a Lethargy, all hope was gone, And now his joyful Heir ran up and down, And ſeiz'd the Keys and Cheſts as all his own. This the kind Doctor ſaw, and this deſign He us'd for Cure, he brought a Table in, And order'd ſome to tumble o're his Coin: This rous'd him, Then he crys, Sir you'r undone, Wake Sir, and Watch, or elſe your Money's gone: Your Heirs will ſeize it: What whilſt I'me alive? Then wake and ſhow it, Sir, come, come revive. What muſt I do? Eat, Sir, What are you loath? Pray take this little Diſh of Barley Broth. What doth it coſt? Not much upon my word, How much pray? Why Two Groats: Two Groats Oh Lord! 'Tis the ſame thing to me to be undone By Thieves or Phyſick, Doctor I'le have none. Who's Sober? He that's not fooliſh, that's my Rule. What is the Covetous? Both Mad and Fool. Suppoſe I am not Covetous, am I Streight Sober? No; Why Sir? I'le tell thee why: Suppoſe the Doctor ſays, this Patient's Thighs Are free from pain, What may he therefore riſe? No, tho his Thighs are free, yet violent pains May vex his Side, his Kidneys, or his Brains. So this Man neither Covets, nor Forſwears, He is not Perjur'd, let him thank his Stars; But He is Laviſh, he is Bold and Proud, Then to Anticyra let him croſs the Flood: For 'tis as great a fault to be profuſe, As 'tis to get, and keep, and never uſe. Opidius did, as S • ory goes, divide His Farms between his Sons before he dy'd; And ſaid, and as he ſaid he gravely ſmil'd, My Aulus I obſerv'd thee from a Child; And when I ſaw thee Careleſs of thy Toys, And free to give thy Nuts to other Boys: And you Tiberius tell them o're and o're, And hoard them up, and ſtill encreaſe thy Store: I fear'd both mad, would different Vices chuſe, And one be Covetous, and one Profuſe. Therefore I charge you both by all that's dear, As You my Bleſſing love, and Curſes fear, That neither You encreaſe your ſmall Eſtate, Nor You conſume, but live content on that; For that will all your proper wants ſupply, And Nature thinks enough as well as I. And leſt You be Ambitious, hear my Oath, Obſerve, I leave this Curſe upon you Both: He that of You ſhall be Aedilis firſt, Or elſe a Praetor, let him be accurſt; What would'ſt thou waſt thy Wealth? ſpend every Groat To Bribe the heedleſs Crowd, and get their Vote? That when thy Fathers Lands, his Ancient Rent, And all the Money he hath left, is ſpent, Poor naked Mad-man, thou may'ſt only gain A Brazen Statue, or a gawdy Train: Or be as fam'd (thus once the fooliſh Aſs Would be a Lyon) as great Agrippa was? 4. Great Agamemnon, why did you forbid A Tomb for Ajax? Why? Becauſe I did: I am a King, what I command is right, And just: Well, I a private Man Submit: Yet if I ſeem unjuſt, and too ſevere, Let any ſpeak, and I will fairly hear. Great King, may'ſt thou a happy Reign enjoy, And have a ſafe return from Conquer'd Troy. And may I freely ask, and anſwer Thee? Thou ſhalt, ſpeak what Thou wilt, Thou may'ſt be free Then why doth Ajax, He the Stout, the Brave, And who ſo oft the Grecian Ships did ſave, Achilles Second rot without a Grave? That joyful Troy and Priam laugh to ſee, That He, by whom their Youth, that mighty He Is now deny'd himſelf a Grave by Thee? Why? He ſlew Flocks of Sheep o're all the Field, And when in's Frantic fits, he thought He kill'd, My Brother, Me, Ulyſſes; and He ſmil'd; And You, when You your lovely Daughter led To Sacrifice, and o're her weeping head You pour'd the Salt and Meal, was ſober ſtill? Why not? When Frantic Ajax ſtrove to kill The Innocent Flocks, how was the Action ill? He curſt the both Atrides much 'tis true, But never e'en upon Ulyſſes drew, Nor Wife, nor Innocent Son, nor Brother ſlew: But I to get a Wind appeas'd the God, To have my Navy Sail I offer'd blood. Thy own Blood Frantick, 'twas that did Attone: My own, but yet not Frantic, tho my own: He that ſhall take apparent Good with Bad, Confus'dly mix't, muſt be accounted Mad. And 'tis all one, whate're theſe Crimes begin, Whether 'tis rage or folly makes him ſin: Whilſt Ajax kills the harmleſs flocks you blame, He's mad, whilſt Thou deſign'dly ſin'ſt for fame, And empty Titles, art thou not a Fool? Art Sober, whilſt Ambition ſwells thy Soul? If one ſhould bear a Lamb about the Town, Allow her a Sedan, and gawdy Gown, Call her his Daughter, Slaves and Gold provide, And a ſtout Husband, for the Youthful Bride, The Law would ſeize that wealth he wildly ſpends, And give it to the care of Sober Friends. And He that kills his Daughter for a Lamb, Canſt thou pretend him Sober? Fye for ſhame. Then where there's folly, greateſt madneſs rules, And wicked Men muſt needs be frantick Fools; He muſt be mad that Courts an empty Name, A very Bedlam He, that's Slave to Fame. 5. Now next the Fooliſh Spend-thrift's caſe propoſe, That he is mad e'en common Reaſon ſhows; The Squire when come of Age, He takes his Land, Amaz'd with Wealth, he ſends his ſtrict Command, Be't known to All that I have an Eſtate, And therefore let the Pimps and Tradeſmen wait To morrow Morning early at my Gate: What then? A Thouſand come at his deſire, And thus the crafty Pimp beſpeaks the Squire; We're proud to ſerve you, Sir, and all that's Ours, Thrice noble Squire, ſend when you pleaſe 'tis Yours And thus the eaſie Squire replies again, Good honeſt Men, you take a World of Pain: You watch in Snow to catch a Bore for Me, And You fiſh for Me in the boiſterous Sea: Whilſt I'me a Drone unworthy this Eſtate, Therefore do You take this, and You take that; And You theſe Farms, I freely give You Theſe, That I may uſe thy Wife, when e're I pleaſe: A coſtly Gem from his Metella's Ear, Aeſop's looſe Son diſſolv'd in Vinegar, And drank it down, and then profuſely laugh't, To think he drank a Province at a draught. Was't not as mad as to have thrown the Gem Into a Common-ſhore, or muddy Stream? The Sons of Arrus, thoſe of high renown, Thoſe famous Bully-Brothers of the Town: The moſt agreeing Pair in every Vice, Still fed on Nightingales of coſtly price, And were thoſe Mad or Sober, Fools or Wiſe? 6. If any grown a Man delights to raiſe Dirt Pyes, and like a Child, at Puſh-pin plays. Yokes Rats and Mice unto a little Plough, And rides upon an Hobby-Horſe, or ſo, Sure he is mad: now I can prove with eaſe, That Love is a more childiſh Thing than Theſe: And 'tis all one whether you Sport and Toy. Play wanton Tricks, as when a little Boy, Or court and labour for a jilting Miſs, Grow Pale and Whine: For let me ask thee this, Canſt thou, like Polemon reclaim'd, remove Thy foppiſh dreſs, thoſe Symptoms of thy Love; As He when drunk, and Garlands round his head, Chanc't once to hear the ſober Stoick read, Aſham'd he took his Garlands off, began Another Courſe, and grew a ſober Man? Offer an Apple to a peeviſh Boy, He will refuſe it; here my pretty Joy, Come prithee take it: No, Sir, I'le have none▪ Yet, if unoffer'd, he will beg for One. Like him's the Lover, who hath ask't in vain, Doubting if e're he ſhould return again: Altho deny'd, when he would gladly wait, Unask't, and linger at the hated Gate: Now ſhe invites, and Swears ſhe will be kind: What ſhall I go, or rather cure my Mind? She ſhuts me out, then asks me to return. What ſhall I go? No though ſhe begs, I'le ſcorn. But lo, his wiſer Slave did thus reprove, Sir, Reaſon muſt be never us'd in Love: Its Laws unequal, and its Rul • s unfit For Love's a thing by Nature oppoſite To Common Reaſon, Common Sence, and Wit. All that's in Love's unſteddy empty, vain, There's War and Peace, and War and Peace again. Now He that ſtrives to ſettle ſuch as Theſe, Meer things of Chance, and faithleſs as the Seas. He were as good deſign to be a Fo • l By Art and Wiſdom, and be mad by Rule. And 'cauſe thy Nut (a ſign that thou ſhalt prove A happy Man, and Conqueror in thy Love) Preſt thro thy fingers, ſtrikes the Roof above; You leap for joy, unable to contain, Is that the Action of a ſober Man? And when the old, and ſo tho wiſer grown, You prattle with her in a Childiſh Tone: Art thou not mad as He, that loves his Toys? And plays at Puſh-pin with the little Boys? To this add all the rage of wild deſire, The Murders that attend this frantick fire; Obſerve, poor Nerus lately ſtruck his Miſs, Then kill'd himſelf, what doſt thou think of This? Was this Man Frantick? or will you allow That He was ſober? in his Wits like you? Yet freely grant him guilty of a Sin? To the ſame thing adapting words akin? 7. A. Libertine, and old, ran every day To all the Temples in the Town to pray: Faſting he went, and he was neatly dreſt, His hands were clean, and he had one requeſt: Grant ye kind Gods, grant I may always live, It is an eaſie thing for Iou to give. Now he that ſold him, might have ſafely ſworn, He's ſound both Wind and Limb as e're was born. But cheated, if He ſwore him ſound in Soul And This Man too the Stoicks count a Fool. The Mother whoſe dear Son had lain oppreſt, With violent Quartan half a year at leaſt; Gets up betimes, and prays Thou mighty Jove, That doſt Diſeaſes bring, and doſt remove, If thou wilt ſtop the Fits, reſtore my Joy, And ſpare the Body of my lovely Boy, At thy next Solemn Faſt, kind mighty God I vow, and I will make my promiſe good, I'le ſet him naked in cold Tiber's Flood. And now let Chance or Phyſick's ſtrength releaſe, Or Doctor's care ſuppreſs the ſtrong Diſeaſe, The Frantic Mother will perform her vow, And her weak Son into cold Tiber throw; And this brings a Relapſe and kills the Lad, And hath not Superſtition made her mad? All this Stertinius taught me as a Friend, That Eighth Wiſe-man; and I my ſelf defend By his learn'd Rules; none vexes me in vain, Who calls me mad, I call him mad again: And He ſhall learn what He doth ſeldom mind, To ſee what a Fools Coat he wears behind. 8. Well Stoick, may you ſell at dearer rate Your Merchandize, and get your loſt Eſtate; So You (for there are many ſorts) explain What kind of madneſs 'tis that heats my Brain, For ſure methinks I am a ſober Man. Do'ſt think Agave when ſhe graſp't the head Of her own Son, thought ſhe her ſelf was mad? Well then I'me mad, 'tis true, but fain would know, Oblige me Stoick once, and freely ſhow What kind of Madneſs I'me addicted to. Then learn, tho you are dwarfiſh, thin, and ſmall, You raiſe your ſelf to be accounted tall: Yet laugh when Turbo in his Arms appears, Look how he ſtruts, and what a Port he bears! Tho He hath far a greater bulk than Thee, And therefore art thou not as vain as He? What e're Mecaenas does, and is it true, That He is Rivall'd by Pedantick you? When the old Frog was gone by chance abroad, An Ox came by and on her young ones trod: One ſcap't, and told her that a mighty Beaſt, Had trod upon her young, and kill'd the reſt: How big ſaid ſhe? As big as I am now: And ſwells, Yes, yes, as big again as You: What bigger ſtill? And then ſhe ſwells again, Yes bigger, bigger, and you ſtrive in vain; You'l never be as big, altho you ſwell Untill you burſt; This Image fits thee well: And thus to prove thee Frantic all conſpire, Now add thy Poems, that is Oyl to Fire, Thoſe prove thee mad, if nothing elſe were ſhown; If any Poet's ſober, thou art One. Thy malice I conceal, but why do'ſt wear A finer Suit than thy Eſtate will bear; Hold Damaſippus; I forbear to ſhew Thy burning Luſt, The greater Mad-man You, Spare me at laſt the Leſſer of the Two.
SATYR IV.

The Argument of the Fourth Satyr. He makes Catius tell him the ſeveral Precepts that are to be obſerv'd in making a Feaſt, by this means ſhowing theſe, that pride themſelves in this Art, to be very ridiculous.

WHence Catius pray? and whither? Sir I vow I wiſh I had, but I han't leiſure now To tell my rules, the beſt that e're were known, Better than what Pythagoras has ſhown, Or Plato taught; but Sir I muſt be gone: I muſt confeſs 'twas rude Impertinence To interrupt a buſy Man of Senſe At ſuch a time, but pardon the offence: For, Sir, what ever 'tis you have forgot, You'l mind again, and ſoon recall the thought; Whether 'twas fixt on Nature, or on Art; For You are deeply skill'd in either part: I was conſidering how I ſhould retain What I have learn'd, it asks a ſubtle brain, A Man of deep contrivance, ſenſe, and thought, So fine the Precepts, and ſo finely wrought. His name, a Stranger, or a Roman tell, I'le ſing the Precepts, but the Man conceal: Chooſe Long Eggs ſtill, for thoſe are hard and ſound, Cock Eggs, more white and ſweeter than the round: The Cale that grows on Hills, or barren Fields, Is better far than what the Garden yields: Moiſt ground e'en Odcomb Plants will quickly ſpoyl, They taſtleſs grow and watriſh as the ſoil. Suppoſe a Friend an unexpected Gueſt Comes late, and You have nothing ready dreſt, Drown Hens in Wine, I learn't this Art at Court, 'Twill make the fleſh eat wonderfully ſhort. The Meadow Muſhrooms are the ſafer food, Poys'nous the reſt, at leaſt not half ſo good; I'le give him health, that when his Meals are done Eats juicy Mulberrys pluckt before the Sun Doth riſe too high, and ſcorch with heat of Noon: Aufidius, thus ſays Story, us'd to take His Mornings draught of Hony mixt with Sack, This was ill done, with Liquors only mild, E're breakfaſt Empty Veins are ſafely fill'd, What e're ſome fancy, I have Cauſe to think Smooth Mead in Morning is the better drink: When bound too much, ſweet Mallows quickly clear Thy Gutts from ſtoppage, and thy Mind from fear; Or Cockle Fiſh, or Sorrel newly ripe, With Coan white wine ſawce will eaſe the gripe, Better than the old Midwife Gliſter-pipe: The Shell-fiſh with the growing Moons encreaſe, Yet different ſorts are found in different Seas; All have not good: the Lucrine Shells exceed Thoſe various Purples that ſoft Baja breed, Oyſters low Crice, ſome Miſenian Coaſts And Scollops large ſoft. Tarent loudly boaſts: Let none pretend to have an Art in Feaſts Till He's exact, and Critical in Taſts: 'Tis vain for him to buy the deareſt Fiſh, That after knows not how to cook the diſh, What muſt be ſtew'd, what boyl'd will grace a Feaſt, And what the Stomach of the glutted Gueſt; Make him forget his Belly's full, reſtore Loſt Appetite, and tempt him on to more. Bores fed on Acorns, caught in Umbria's Wood; Bend down his diſhes with their weighty load, That would avoid dull, mean, or taſtleſs food: For no wiſe Palates the Laurentans chooſe, Vile meat and fat with plaſhy reeds and Ouze: Goats bred on Vines, not always dainty fare, Wiſe Palates chooſe the Wings of breeding Hare: What Fiſh of all the ſorts, what Birds are beſt, And at what Age, and how they ſhould be dreſt, Before the World ſaw me were hardly known, All thoſe are pure inventions of my own. Some ſpend their time, and hope to gain applauſe For minding nothing but new Cates, and Sawce, But Men of Art muſt ſtill their Cares divide, Not mind one thing, and neglect all beſide, Nor whilſt they're curious in their Wine and Ale, Ne're heed what Oyl they pour upon their Cale: If full of Lees, if thick your Maſsick Wine, Set it abroad by Night 'twill make it fine; Take off thoſe Smells that hurt the Nerves, and waſt The Spirits; Hemp-ſeed ſpoyls its proper taſt: Thoſe cheating Rogues, that when the Wine decays, With their Surrentine mix Falernian Lees, This daſht Wine quickly cleanſe with Pidgeous Eggs, Thoſe falling down precipitate the Dregs: You have drunk briskly, and your friend decays; Then give him pickled Hearings, thoſe will raiſe And whet his Stomach for another glaſs. For Lettice after Wine's not half ſo good, It ſwims on drink, and makes the Stomach crude: When He's too full, then Gammon's only fit, Sawſage provokes him to another bit; If theſe won't do, of it He ſcorns them both, He may be whetted with a diſh of Broth: To know both ſorts of Broth, 'tis worth your while, The Simple is compos'd of ſweeteſt Oyl, This Oyly Wine, and Caviare only asks Such as grows mellow in Byzantian Casks: To this ſhred Herbs, with Safforn mixt, and boyl, And when 'tis cool then add Venafrian Oyl: Some Grapes are beſt in Pots, all ways are try'd, In ſmoak the Aban Grape is better dry'd: This Grape with ſome ſharp Sawce, round Plates to ſtrew, With Salt and Pepper, I'me the firſt that knew, And told it others, as I tell it you. 'Tis a grand fault to buy the deareſt fiſh, And after crow'd them in too ſtraight a diſh: The Gueſts won't like to ſee one take the Cup, Who ſtole a Pidgeon, as He brought it up, With the ſame hand, for that will ſtain the place; Nor yet to ſee old duſt ſtick round the Glaſs: How little Beaſoms coſt? how quickly bought? Yet if not gotten, 'tis a grievous Fault. Doſt think it decent to neglect thy Houſe, Or ſweep the marble Floor with dirty boughs? Doſt think 'tis handſom, for the Page to ſpread A dirty covering o're a Gawdy Bed, Forgetful ſtill that ſince theſe things are mean, And ſuch as All muſt have that would be clean, Tis worſe to want theſe, than ſuch dainty meat Which only Luxury or Wealth can get: Learn'd Catius by the Gods I ask this boon, Where e're you go, Sir I muſt have it done, Pray bring me to this copious Spring of Truth, That I may heare it drop from his own mouth; For though you talk, as if you underſtood His Precepts well, and knew the rules for Food, Yet from your Lips, I'me ſure they can't be known As well, as if I heard them from his own, Beſides to ſee the Figure of the Man Would pleaſe me much, pray ſhow me if you can, A ſweet with which, bleſt you are almoſt cloy'd, And do not value, 'cauſe ſo oft enjoy'd; But eager I to unknown Fountains preſs, To draw from thence the Rules of Happineſs.
SATYR V.

The Heads of the Fifth Satyr. A Dialogue between Tireſias and Ulyſſes, where He inſtructs him, how to get an Eſtate.

TIreſias now indulge one favor more, And teach beſide what thou haſt taught before, How to regain my Wealth, now I'me poor: Why do You ſmile? Let me not beg in vain, Is't not enough that you have ſcap't the Main, And ſafely come to Ithaca again? Unerring Prophet, ſee as you fore-told, I am come home again, Grey, Wrinkled, Old, And Poor: my Wives Gallants have ſeiz'd my Gold: My Wealth is theirs, and what is Vertue worth Without a good Eſtate to ſet it forth? Well then, ſince to be poor you fear and hate, In ſhort learn how to get a good Eſtate. If thou doſt light on any thing that's rare, Send it thy old rich Neighbor, never ſpare, If He be rich and old, without an Heir: The firſt ripe Apples of thy choiceſt Tree Offer to him before thy Deity. The Rich Man muſt be reverenc't more than He. What tho He be a Villain, baſely bred, Hath kill'd his Brother, or his Country fled: Yet wait upon him when he pleaſe to call, And when you meet him, cringe, and give the Wall. What would you have me cringe to every Slave? At Troy I did not ſo my ſelf behave: Contending always with the Great, the Brave: Then thoul't be poor. Well Sir, my mind I'le force To ſuffer this: for I have ſuffer'd worſe. But, prithee, tell me, for I wiſh to know Which way I may be rich, and quickly too: Then as I told, I'le tell thee o're agen, Still ſtrive to pleaſe, the old and wealthy Men. Try ſtill to get into their Wills, ſecure Their Love, their Humors patiently endure; Tho two or three diſcerning Eyes perceive The Hook, and fly the Bait, yet never leave: Others will bite when thoſe ſly Fops are gone, Still bait thy hook, and urge thy purpoſe on. If any Cauſe, or great or ſmall be try'd, I'le teach thee how to chooſe the better Side. Be ſure to plead for him that's childleſs, old, And rich, tho He is impudently bold, And ſues his better, ſtill pervert the Laws, And ſtart new Quirks, and ſcorn the better Cauſe, And better Man, if He hath hopeful Boys To be his Hiers, or teeming Wife enjoys. Then Sir or Squire (for Title hugely takes Grave ſoftheads) Me your Friend your Vertue makes, I know the Law, and have a ready Tongue, And rather, Sir, then you ſhall ſuffer wrong I'le looſe theſe Eyes; My utmoſt Care be us'd That you be neither cheated nor abus'd. And you may take your pleaſure, ſit at eaſe, Ne're fear, I'le pawn my Life for your ſucceſs. Do you ſtill mind this Cauſe, and that alone What ever weather 'tis, or if, the Sun With Dog days beams cleaves e'en the marble Stone; Or (as fat Furius hath it) all below Is Ice, and Jove o'reſpews the Alps with ſnow. Whilſt one ſtands by, and jogs his Neighbor, ſee, How fine a Lawyer's that, That, that is He, How uſeful to his Friends, and how He ſweats, And Pleads! This brings more Gudgeons to thy Nets. Beſides, if any hath a ſickly Hier And good Eſtate, then make thy Intereſt there, Leſt courting childleſs Perſons ſtill, thy Arts appear. Creep gently in, untill your hopes you ſeize, Be ſecond Heir, and riſe by juſt degrees, And ſo if your young Boys diſeaſe prevails: Thou ſhalt have all: This method ſeldom fails. If any bids thee read his Will, deny; Yet ſlyly with the corner of thy Eye Run quickly ore, the two or three firſt lines, (There's Reaſon for't) and ſee if He deſigns Thee the ſole Hier, or elſe with many joyns. For time ſhall come, as years in order flow, When one a Scribe ſhall bob the gapeing Crow: What art thou mad, or doſt deſign to ſee, If ſuch abſtruſe diſcourſe can puzle me? Ulyſſes, what I ſing ſhall be the ſtate Of Things to come, I read the leaves of Fate, And diſtant Objects ſee in the event, Then prethee tell me, what that Riddle meant. When one, a Youth of Great Aenaeas Race, The Parthiane terror rules the Earth and Seas; Coranus weary of a ſingle Life, Takes chuff Naſica's ſtately maid to Wife; Coranus then ſhall beg him to peruſe The Will He makes, Naſica long refuſe, At laſt conſents, but what he reads, appears No Legacy to Him, and His, but Tears: Now if his Servants manage him; commend, And make his greateſt Favourite thy Friend, Beſure be laviſh in his praiſe, and then, When thou art gone, He'l praiſe Thee o're again. This Method's good, but 'tis the beſt deſign To ſtorm the Man himſelf, and take him in. If He makes Verſes tho extremely lewd, Admire, and ſwear his Fuſtian Rhymes are good, Or if He whores, beſure his wiſh prevent, Let thy Penelope be freely ſent: And doſt thou think, that ſhe the Wiſe, the Chaſt, Who all the numerous Woers Arts ſurpaſt, Will yield to him, and be a Whore at laſt? Ay, thoſe were artleſs Youths, they knew not how To treat, and rather came to eat then Woe; So ſhe was chaſt, but when ſhe ſhall perceive, And ſhare with Thee, the Preſents He can give, Like Dogs once blooded, ſhe will never leave. I'le tell the true, and what I chanc't to know, A woman dy'd at Thebes not long ago; And thus by Will She did injoyn her Heir, Firſt oyl my Corps, and to the Sepulcher, Upon thy naked back my Body bear. This ſpake the Will, and this, as moſt believ'd, That ſhe might then ſlip from him ſhe contriv'd, For He was too obſervant whilſt ſhe liv'd: Do you be cautious ſtill in your Addreſs: Too often, or too ſeldom will diſpleaſe, The grave Moroſe do hate a pratling Tongue, That ſpeaks unask't, yet be not dumb too long: But, like arch Davus in the Play attend, Your neck awry, as fearful to offend: Still ſhow the greateſt Care that can be ſhown, More careful of his Life than of your own: When e're the Air is ſharp beſure to mind, And eagerly requeſt him, pray be kind To your dear health, and me, nor truſt the Wind. If throng'd, thruſt Thou, and free him from the Throng, If talkative, endure his tedious Tongue: If he be vain, and loves his own dear praiſe, Be ſure commend and high Encomiums raiſe, Still blow the Bladder never leave him off, Till He ſhall bleſs himſelf, and cry, enough: Now when he dyes, and frees thee from thy Care, Thy dreaming Hopes, and melancholly Fear, And broad awak't, you find that you are Heir: Then ſigh, and is my dear Campanion gone! Where ſhall I have ſo kind, ſo good a One! If poſſible, your greateſt Art imploy To ſhed ſome tears, 'tis good to mask your joy: And if you are to make the Funeral, Be ſure be noble, that will take with All: Or if thy fellow Heir's a ſickly Man, Then wheedle thus, and chouſe him if you can: I want that ready Mony you can ſpare, And if you pleaſe, Sir you ſhall buy my ſhare; But hold fierce Pluto calls me back to Hell, And I can talk no more, good ſpeed, farewell.
SATYR VI.

The Heads of the Sixth Satyr. (1.) His moderate wiſhes. (2.) The troubles of a City Life. (3.) The Pleaſures of the Country. (4.) Little without fear, is beſt.

1. THeſe were my Prayers, and theſe my conſtant Vows, A pretty Seat, a Fountain near my Houſe, A Garden, and a little Grove of Trees, 'Tis well, the Gods have given more than theſe; Enough kind Mercury, no more I crave, Only continue ſtill, what now I have. If I am not profuſe, and waſt, or raiſe My moderat Fortune, by unlawful Ways. If I ne're wiſh, Oh that the Gods would yield, That Nook that ſpoyls the Figure of my Field: Or, oh that I a pot of Gold had found, As he who hir'd to Till anothers Ground, By the aſſiſtance of a lucky God Grew rich, and bought the very Land he plow'd. But if I live content, preſerve my ſtore, And be my Guard, as thou haſt been before; Defend my Cattle, and my Flocks, be kind, And fatten all I have, except my Mind: Then when I from the noiſy Town retreat, And free from Bus'neſs take my Country Seat: What ſhall I do but write, what Subject chooſe, But eaſy Satyr, and improve my Muſe. Here no Ambition kills, no heavy Wind, Affects my Body and corrupts my Mind. To Fields the Gods long Life, and plenty gave, No ſickly Autumns here inrich the Grave. 2. Old Father Janus (thus the Gods decree) We Men begin our Years and Toyl with Thee. With Thee my Verſe, you hurry me to Town, To be a Witneſs, and I muſt be gone, Tho't Snows, and Winter whirls the freezing day In ſhorteſt Circles, yet I muſt away. And then when my ungrateful task is done, Preſs thro the Crowd, and juſtle every One That doth not make me room, and thro 'em down, Whylſt He that's kick't, crys Plague! and why ſo faſt? Pox! What d'ye mean, and why in ſo much Haſt? When you run to my Lord, you ſcour the Street Preſs on, and kick and juſtle all you meet, And this I ſwear is pleaſant, this is ſweet! But when I come a buſy Crowd appears Of loud impertinent Petitioners, And their requeſts dance thick about my Ears, One begs that you would be at Court betime To morrow morning, and appear for him. The Scribes requeſt, that I would get your Ear, About a public, new, and great Affair: Another crys, good Horace, get this Bill Sign'd by Mecoenas. If I can I will. But he ſeems diſcontent, and urges on, Nay, if you will, I'me ſure it may be done. 'Tis eight Years ſince almoſt Mecoenas choſe, And made me a Retainer to his Houſe: Yet only ſuch a One, as free from Care, He'd ſometimes take in's Coach to take the Air, Talk common Talk, as how d'ye like the Play, The Fencers were well matcht, what news to day, The Morning's cold, and we muſt have a Care, And ſuch like common Things, as theſe appear, That may be truſted in a leaky Ear. Hence every day Men envy more my State, He at the Play with great Mecoenas ſate, Or Bowl'd, cry all, He's Fortunes darling Son, And thus the ſilly Chat runs o're the Town. Then all that meet me, come and ask the News, My Patience and my pretious Time abuſe: Pray Sir (For you ſo much at Court muſt know,) D'ye hear what News from warlike Dacia? No. Come, You're a Wag. Pox take me if I do. Pray Sir, the Lands that Caeſar vow'd to ſhare, Amongſt the Souldiers to reward the War, What muſt they be in Sicily or here? When I profeſs my Ignorance, Moroſe They all imagine me, and plaguy cloſe; And thus I looſe my days, but wiſh repeat, 3. Oh! When ſhall I enjoy my Country Seat? Oh! when remov'd from noiſe to quiet Peace, Amidſt my learned Books, my ſleep and eaſe; Whilſt hours do ſmoothly flow and free from ſtrife, Forget the Troubles of a buſy Life? Oh Beans Pythagoras his neareſt kin, You lovely Herbs, and moſt delicious Chine When ſhall I ſee, when feed on you agen? Oh ſweet, Oh heavenly Feaſts, where I and mine, Before my houſhold Gods ſecurely dine; When I my ſelf ſhall taſt a diſh of meat, Then give't my wanton Slaves, and bid 'em eat: When all my Gueſts drink freely what they pleaſe, No Glaſs is mark't or fill'd, but more or leſs, As mirth invites; No drunken Laws to force, And all the time is full of good diſcourſe, We talk of no Mans Farms, or Wealth, or Skill, Or whether Caeſar's Fool danc't well or ill. But we diſcourſe, of what we ought to do, And what 'tis fault and folly not to know; As whether Wealth or Vertue brings a Man To happineſs, or whether Leagues began From Intereſt or Right, what cheats the Crowd, And what is good, and what the greateſt Good: 4. My Neighbor Gerrius, as the Matter falls, Mixes his merry, pat, inſtructive Tales: And thus for Inſtance, when by chance he hears Old Alpius wealth admir'd, tho full of Cares, He tells this Story. Once upon a Time, (As Tales begin) and in a moderate clime: A Country Mouſe a City entertain'd, His old Acquaintance, and his ſpecial Friend, This Mouſe was thrifty, yet would kindly Feaſt When time requir'd, and nobly treat his Gueſt: In ſhort, now ſtriving every way to pleaſe, He freely brought his hoarded Oats and Peaſe, His nibbled Bacon in his mouth he brings, His Apples and a thouſand pretty things, His Nuts, his Grapes well-dry'd, and try'd his beſt, By choice variety to pleaſe his Gueſt. Who ſate, and as affraid to hurt his mouth, Did nibble here and there with dainty Tooth: Whilſt he lys by in ſtraw, and Barley eats, Or Chaff; and leaves his Gueſt the better Meats. At laſt the City Mouſe, begins; My Friend Pray how can You delight, how love to ſpend A Life in Woods, and this unwholſome Cave? 'Tis Melancholy, 'tis ſo like a Grave. Now would you rather live in Town than here, And Mens converſe, before the Woods prefer; Come, go with me, I'le get thee better Chear. Since all must dye, and muſt reſign their Breath, Nor great, nor little is ſecure from Death; Then ſpend thy days in Pleaſure, Mirth and Sport. And live like One, that Minds his Life is ſhort. Theſe Words prevail'd upon the Country Mouſe, So ſhe grows jocand ſtrait, and leaves the Houſe, Longing for thoſe fine things; fō both go on, Eager whilſt now 'twas Night to reach the Town. 'Twas Midnight full; when now the Mice are com • They take a Rich Mans houſe, a ſtately Room, Where Purple Covering ſhone on Ivory Seats, And in the Pantry lay whole heaps of Meats, The ſumptuous Relics of his noble treats. The City Mouſe ſtrait ſeats his country Gueſt On Cloath of State, and waits, and carves the Feaſt Courſe after Courſe, a thouſand dainty Things, And like a Servant, taſts what e're he brings. The Country Mouſe pleas'd with his Bed of State, And various dainties, bleſt his change of Fate. Feeds heartily, when lo the Servants come, And Dogs ruſh in and bark about the Room. Both ſtart, both leave their Beds with eager haſt, Both fly for Life, and hardly 'ſcape at laſt. Then ſays the Country Mouſe, falſe Joys farewel, I do not like this Life, my quiet Cell Is better, I can feaſt and wanton there, On Chaff or Acorns, free from Noiſe and Fear.
SATYR VII.

The Heads of the Seventh Satyr. (1.) A Servant inſtructs his Maſter, about his unſettledneſs in humour. (2.) His Luſt. (3.) The vicious Man, the greatest Slave.

1. WEll Sir, I hear, and have ſome News to tell But I'me affraid, you will not like it well From me your Slave: Who Davus is it you? Davus the faithful Servant and the true, Davus that fancys that ſufficient ſtore, Which nature wants ſupplies, and ask no more; Go to, and as our Ancient Laws decree, Uſe boldly thy December's Liberty, Speak fairly what thou wilt, thou mayſt be free. Some Men are conſtant in their Vice, and run The ſame Courſe ſtill, and urge their purpoſe on: Some are unſteddy, various in a Trice, Now all for Vertue, and now all for Vice. Fop Priſcus with himſelf doth diſagree, Sometimes he wears no Rings, and ſometimes three. He changes every hour his Cloaths and Gown, Now takes the beſt Houſe, now the worſt in Town, And there he goes as naſty as a Clown. Now ſtudies hard at Athens, now does come, And turns a great Gallant, and whores at Rome, The moſt unſteddy, fickle Man on Earth, As if Vertumnus ſelf had rul'd his Birth. Juſt oppoſite to him Vulturius ſtands, For he when the juſt Gout had lam'd his hands, Did hire a Boy, ſo much he lov'd the Vice, To take up for him, and to throw the Dice. He that is conſtant in his vicious race, Runs the ſame Courſe, and keeps an equal pace; Is certainly not half ſo great a wretch, As He that now rides looſe, and now on ſtretch. Well now you Rogue, ſuppoſe this railing true, What doth it mean? Sir it reflects on you. How ſo you Raſcal? Sir you uſe to praiſe The Antients living, and commend their ways, Yet if ſome God would give you leave to chooſe, Or force you to the like, you would refuſe. 'Cauſe you don't think that right you now commend, Or elſe are too unſteddy to defend, What once you thought; you ſtick, and ſtrive in vain From this deep mire to free your foot again: At Rome, Oh how you praiſe the country Air! And fickly Rome commend, when you are here: If uninvited, Oh what dainty fare Your little Sallat yields, and free from Care; Theſe troubleſome Lords at Rome invite me ſtill, I go 'tis true, but 'tis againſt my will. And happy, happy me you uſe to ſay, That I have leave to Sup at home to day; But if my Lord Mecoenas doth invite, Tho you are not to go before 'tis Night; Yet eager you by peep of day prepare, The houſe ſtraight rings, So ho, Jack, Tom, whoſe there? Who brings me Oyl, you Dogs, does no one hear? My Lords waits for me; then in haſt you run, Whilſt thy Retainers curſe, when thou art gone: Well then, I grant a Feaſt's, a powerful Charm, Oh the reſiſtleſs force of Meat that's warm, It leads me captive, and my Senſe does ſeize, I'me Glutton, Toſpot, and what e're you pleaſe: So you but freely grant your Vice at leaſt, As bad, altho in ſofter Terms 'tis dreſt; Suppoſe I'me not ſo wiſe, as thee my Slave, Then ceaſe to look ſo haughty and ſo brave, And do not rage, and do not break my head, Whilſt I diſcourſe what Criſpin's Porter ſaid: 2. You love Mens Wives, and I, my little Whores, Which is the greateſt Fault now, mine or yours? When Nature Fires, and they have quencht my flame▪ I'me ſatisfi'd, nor do I looſe my Fame, Nor fear that they will Jilt, and entertain A wittier, richer, and a finer Man. But when you ſlily ſneak abroad by night, Your Rings and all the Habit of a Knight, Thy Roman Garb thrown off; from nobly brave You ſink into the Figure of a Slave: A naſty Vail thrown o're thy fragrant Head, And ſoftly brought to the Adulterous Bed, Are you not ſuch a One as you appear? When introduc't you ſhake and tremble there, Thy raging Luſt diſputing with thy Fear: What difference is it whether you engage To fight for hire, and bear the Victor's rage, Be cut and ſlaſh't and kill'd upon the Stage? Or by the Conſcious Chamber-Maid be preſt Quite double, neck and heels into a Cheſt? Hath not the injur'd Husband of the Whore To puniſh both a right and Lawful Power? And will not all his fierceſt rage be juſt On thee, that didſt debauch her to thy Luſt? Yet ſhe ne're changes Garb, nor ſhifts her place, Nor takes ſuch pains to get the foul embrace; Nor injures Heaven, nor ſwears ſuch Oaths as you, Whilſt the fond Creature doubts you'l prove untrue. But wiſe you venture Slaves ſevereſt Fate, And to a Man enrag'd, and ſwoln with hate, Commit thy Fame, thy Life, and thy Eſtate. Haſt thou eſcap't? I hope the warning's fair, And you'l prevent the like with greateſt care, What nothing do? What doſt Thou ſtrive to run, The ſame mad Courſe, and be once more undone? 3. Oh! Slave ſo oft! What Beaſt that breaks the Chain, Once free, will come and take the Clog again? You ſay you'r no Adulterer, nor I A Thief, becauſe when ſome Obſerver's nigh, I leave your Plate, though with a longing Eye. Remove the danger and reſtraining force, And Nature looſe will run an evil Courſe. Are you my Maſter? you that do appear, A worſe and greater Slave than me by far, Whom nothing can redeem from wretched fear? Three ſtroaks of th' Praetor's Rod can make me free, Whilſt Tyrant Paſſion ſtill will Maſter Thee. Beſides, If He's a Vicar, as you pleaſe to phraſe, (This Reaſon's good) that other Slaves obeys, Or fellow Slave; Sir, I would gladly know What 'tis that I am in reſpect of you? For you, my Maſter, others baſely ſerve, Like Puppets moving by anothers Nerve. Who then is free? The Wiſe, that can controle, And Govern all the Paſſions of the Soul: Whom Poverty, nor Chains, no Death affright, And proof againſt the Charms of vain delight. Whom feeble Fortune ſtrives in vain to wound, So cloſely gather'd in a perfect Round, And ſo exactly ſmooth'd by honeſt Arts, That nought without can ſtick upon the even Parts. Obſerve this Free-man's Character, and ſee If any part of it belongs to Thee: A Thouſand Pound beg'd by thy coſtly Whore, And if deny'd, ſhe turns thee out of Door, Throws Water in thy Face, then change her mind, And call thee back, and vow ſhe will be kind. Now looſe your Neck from this Ignoble Chain, And boldly ſay that you are free; in vain, You can't, for Tyrant Lords thy Will controle, They prick thee on, and ſcourge thy wav'ring Soul. You, when you ſpend whole hours and trifle days, Whilſt You upon a piece of Painting gaze: Why do not you commit as great a fault, As I that ſtare upon a meaner draught? Admire how Janus and how Fulvius ſtand, In Fencing Poſtures, drawn by a rude hand, In Chalk or Char-coal Paint, and there they look As if they fought, and mov'd to ſhun the ſtroak: But I'me call'd lazy Rogue, and beaten ſtill, A Judge in Painting You, and Man of skill. If I but trivial Cakes delight to Eat, 'Tis Gluttony, whilſt your Luxurious Treat Is Vertue, for it ſhows your Mind is great. Why now to ſerve my Palate ſhould it be, (For I am whipt) a greater Crime in Me, Than You? Since thine's more coſtly Luxury, Why then are you not ſcourg'd as well as I? Becauſe, perhaps, thy Feaſts corrupt thy Blood, Diſeaſes ſpring from thy Luxurious Food, And weakned Legs refuſe the ſickly Load. Doth that Boy ſin that ſteals a Comb by night, To buy ſome Grapes to pleaſe his Appetite? And is He faultleſs that when Luſt Commands, To pleaſe his laviſh Belly ſells his Lands? Beſides all this, You with your ſelf can't ſtay One Hour, nor rightly ſpend a leaſure day, You like a Vagrant ſhun your ſelf, deſign, Now by forgetful ſleep, and now by Wine, To ſteal from Cares: Poor Slave! In vain you try, Black Care purſues as faſt as you can fly. Death! Where's my Stick? Why ſo? Death! Where's my Sword? He's mad, or elſe makes Verſes: Dog, one word, One tittle more! You cenſure my Deſigns? Fly Raſcal, fly, or thou ſhalt to the Mines.
SATYR VIII.

The Argument of the Eighth Satyr. A Deſcription of a ſordid Feaſt, with which one Fuſcus Naſidenus Entertain'd them.

HOw do you like rich Naſidenus cheer? For when I thought laſt night to have you here, 'Twas ſaid, that e're ſince Noon you had been there. Troth never merrier; Pray Sir grant my wiſh, And, if no trouble, what was the firſt Diſh? "The firſt Diſh, Sir, was a Lucanian Bore, "Caught whilſt the Wind was South, the Maſter ſwore, And round the brim lay Lettice to excite, And Betes to raiſe the lazy Appetite; Anchove, Pickled-Herrings, mixt with theſe Lay Raddiſh, bitter Herbs, and Coan Lees. This Diſh remov'd, two ready Servants come, One clean'd the Table, t'other ſwept the Room, And gather'd up the Relicts of the Feaſt, The Bones, and all that might offend the Gueſt: Juſt as at Ceres Feaſt th' Athenian Maid, Comes black Hydaſpes bearing on his Head Large Falks of White, and Alcon Flasks of Red. Then ſays mine Hoſt; My Lord, if more than theſe You like another, call for what you pleaſe, My Cellar's ſtor'd; Poor Wealth, diſhoneſt Pride, But prethee tell me who was there beſide? Sir, I ſate firſt, and, ſtay, I think 'twas ſo, Turinus next, Vibidius ſate below, Next Balatro; below him Porcius lyes, Porcius the merry'ſt archeſt Wag that is, To ſwoop whole Cuſtards, and to ſwallow Pies. All uninvited, but as Lords are wont, Mecoenas brought them all on his account. Next above theſe Nomentan takes his place, He that could point at every hidden Sawce; For we, the reſt, on Fiſh and Fowl did feaſt, Concealing different from their proper taſt. This ſtreight appear'd, when by his luſcious rules He carv'd for me th' untaſted guts of Soles. And after to inſtruct me, gravely ſaid, Figs pluck't before the Moon is full, look red; But thro this difference would you nicely pry He'l tell you more, He's more expert than I. Mean while Vibidius in a jeering tone Crys; Balatro, come prethee nothings done, Unleſs we drink him dry; a Bigger Glaſs; At that Death-pale ſpread o're our Fuſcus face, For good ſtout drinkers He did chiefly fear, 'Cauſe ſuch, when full, with greater freedom jeer; Or 'cauſe hot Liquors pall the ſubtle taſt, And ſo would ſpoyl the goodneſs of his feaſt: Yet on it goes, the Bowls are freely crown'd, And ſupernaculum the health goes round: The chiefeſt Gueſts the while few bumpers toſt, They ſpar'd the Bottles, and the bleeding Hoſt. Now comes midſt ſwimming Shrimps a Lampry ſpread In a large Diſh, and thus the Maſter ſaid; This Fiſh was caught when full of Spawn, (that Courſe Is good) for after Spawning's done, 'tis worſe: The Broth is made of Oyl, the beſt that flow'd From the Venafrian Preſs; to make it good, Wine five years old, and Caviare I joyn, In boyling, Sirs, I uſe Italian wine, But when 'tis boyl'd, with Pepper ſpic'd and dreſt With Vinegar, the Chain Pickle's beſt: To boyl green Rockets, with't was never known Before my time, I'me ſure that Art's my own. Salt water Crawfiſh firſt Cotillus ſtew'd, And kept them whole, for they are better food Then when ith' Shell, the Pickle makes them good. But whilſt he talkt, and whilſt He prais'd the Fiſh The Hangings tumbling down fell o're the Diſh: Bringing black duſt, as much, as Whirlwinds raiſe When nimble Storms ſweep o're the duſty ways: We ſtarted all, and thought it worſe than 'twas, But when no harm appear'd, each kept his place: Our Hoſt ſtreight hung his head, He wept and ſigh'd As if his darling Son had lately dy'd; He had wept on, his Grief have known no end, But wiſe Nomentan thus reliev'd his Friend; Unlucky Chance what God is ſo unkind, Thou lov'st to break the measures Man deſign'd; Some bit their Napkins, yet could ſcarce forbear To laugh aloud, whilſt with a bitter Sneer Crys jeering Balatro, Well, we ſtrive in vain, 'Tis the ſad fate of Life, and none can gain By Labour, Fame that anſwers to their Pain. That ever I ſhould prove ſo troubleſome For one fine Treat, when I could dine at home? That I ſhould vex you to provide a Feaſt, To ſee your Broth well boyl'd, your Servants dreſt, Beſides th' unlucky chance that waits on all, As if, as but juſt now, the Hangings fall; The Footboy ſtumbling ſpoyl a coſtly fiſh, Or Plowman Servant trip and break the diſh. But as in Captains oft ill chance reveals The Entertainers Wit, which good conceals; Then ſays mine Hoſt, Ah, may'ſt Thou ſtill be bleſt, Thou art ſo good a Man, ſo kind a Gueſt: And calls for's Shoes; then you may quickly hear Divided whiſpers ſpread thro every Ear. No Play could ever pleaſe me half ſo well, But what you laught at after prethee tell: Whilſt hot Vibidius with a waggiſh look Crys to the Servants, is the Bottle broak That I can get no Wine to this dry Feaſt; And merry Balatro promotes the jeſt; Mine Hoſt comes in, and with a ſmiling face, About to mend by Art his late diſgrace, His Servants following brought a Charger fill'd With one poor little Crane cut up and grill'd, Cover'd with Salt and Meal; another brings Pluck't off and by themſelves a Rabbets wings, For thoſe, forfooth, when by themſelves are beſt, And ſweeter far than eaten with the reſt: Then roaſted Blackbirds Doves their rumps cut off, All pretty ſorts of Meat, and ſweet enough; But he with long harangues to every gueſt Explain'd their Natures, how and why 'twas dreſt; Whom thus we puniſh'd, each Man left his ſeat, We fled the Banquet, and refus'd to eat; As if the Witch Canidia's poyſnous breath Had blown upon't, and fill'd the Feaſt with Death.
The End of the Second Book of Satyrs.
EPISTLES.
BOOK I.

The Heads of the firſt Epiſtle. (1.) He ſhews his deſire for Philoſophy. (2.) 'Tis to be preferr'd before all. (3.) The People prefer Gold before Vertue. (4.) Why He cannot agree with the Crowd.

MY Lord Mecaenas whom I gladly chooſe, The firſt, and the laſt labour of my Muſe; Tho I have fought enough, and well before, And now diſmiſt, have leave to fight no more: You ſtrive to bring me on the Stage again; My Age is not alike, unlike my Brain, Unlike my Mind, and now I write in Pain: The Fencer Vejan now grown weak with Age, Lives quietly at home, and leaves the Stage; His Arms in great Alcides Temple plac't, Leſt after all his former Glorys paſt, He worſted, meanly beg his life at laſt: And ſtill methinks ſounds thro my well purg'd Ear, A little voice, Fond Horace have a Care, And whilſt 'tis well releaſe thy aged Horſe, Leſt when He runs but with unequal force, And ſtretches hard to win, He breaks his Wind, Derided, diſtanc't, baſely lags behind: 1. And therefore all my trifling Songs adieu, I now deſign to ſeek what's good and true, And that alone; I ſcorn my wanton Muſe, And lay up Precepts, ſuch as I may uſe; But if you ask me now what Sect I own, I ſwear a blind obedience unto none: But as the Tempeſt drives me ſo I Steer, This way or that, not ſetled any where: Sometimes an Active Life my Fancy draws, A ſtrict obſerver of true Vertue's Laws: Then gently ſlide to Ariſtippus School, And ſtrive not to be rul'd by Things, but Rule: As Night to thoſe their Miſtreſs fails appears, As Days to Labourers, and as long the Years, When Jealous Mothers curb, to eager Heirs: So dull, and ſo ingrate my Time doth flow, Which hinders what I hope and wiſh to do: What done will profit Rich and Poor, what long Forborn, prove equal harm to Old and Young: Well, then I muſt content my ſelf with this, Yours cannot be as good as Lynceus Eyes, What then, when Sore muſt I fit Cures deſpiſe? You cannot Hope to have your Limbs as great As Glyco's, nor ſo ſtrong and firmly ſet, Yet to prevent the Gout haſt Thou no care? What, if of farther progreſs you deſpair, 'Tis ſomewhat ſurely to have gone thus far: Doth creeping Avarice thy mind engage? Or doth it boyl with fiery Luſt, and rage? Why, there are Rules and Precepts that can Eaſe Thy Pain, and Cure great part of thy Diſeaſe: Or art Thou Vain? Books yield a certain Spell, To ſtop thy Tumor; You ſhall ceaſe to ſwell, When you have read them thrice, and ſtudied well: The Raſh, the Lazy, Lover, none's ſo wild, But may be tame, and may be wiſely mild, If they conſult true Vertue's Rules with care, And lend to good advice a patient ear. 2. 'Tis Vertue, Sir, to be but free from Vice, And the firſt ſtep tow'rds being truly Wiſe Is to want folly; You uſe all your skill, To ſhun what you ſuppoſe the greateſt ill, A ſmall Eſtate, or whilſt you ſeek to gain An Office, a Repulſe; You ſpare no pain, You try your utmoſt Wit, and rack your Brain: You Sail to India, You forſake your eaſe, Thro raging Storms, thro Rocks and boiſterous Seas, Thro Heat and Cold, and gather every Wind, To get more Wealth, and leave pale Want behind; And yet thou wilt not take the pains to hear A wiſer Man adviſe Thee how to Steer: Who kindly bids Thee check thy wild deſire, And leave what Thou doſt fooliſhly admire: What Wreſtler that ſhall ſtrive in every Town, At every Wake will ſcorn th' Olympian Crown? Who doth not cheap and eaſie wreaths diſdain? And who would have a Crown without the Pain 3. The ſaying's true, and hath been often told, Silver's more baſe than Gold, than Vertue Gold: O Romans, Romans, Gold muſt firſt be ſought, Then Vertue, that's worth but a ſecond thought: This is the Tune of every Trading Fool, Old Men, and every Boy repeats this Rule, That with his Books and Satchel goes to School: If you have not Ten Thouſand Pound in ſtore, But want a Thouſand or a little more, Tho you have Vertue, Conſtancy, and skill In Arts, thou ſhalt be thought a Common ſtill: And yet our Boys another Tale will tell, And ſay, You ſhall be King if you do well; Be this thy Guard, and this thy ſtrong defence, A vertuous Heart, and unſtain'd Innocence; Not to be conſcious of a ſhameful ſin: Nor yet look pale for Scarlet Crimes within. Now prethee tell me which you think is beſt, Or Otho's Law, or this by Boys expreſt, This Song which makes the Vertuous Man a King And which the Noble Ancients us'd to ſing? Which beſt adviſeth, He that bids thee hate Thy Common rank, and get a vaſt Eſtate, Juſtly, if canſt; if not, at any rate; Only that at a Play or Puppet Show, You may ſit nearer by a Seat or two? Or He that bids Thee Steer a Vertuous Courſe, And nobly ſcorn, proud feeble Fortune's force? 4. Should the Crowd ask, why ſince I live in Town, Walk the ſame Streets with them, I do not own The ſame Opinion? Why I don't approve, And hate the Things that they do hate and love? My Anſwer muſt be what ſly Reynard ſaid To the old ſickly Lion, I'me afraid, Great King of Beaſts, for all the treads I ſee Are to thy Den, none back, that frightens me: Thou art a Many-headed Monſter, Rome, I know not what to imitate, or whom: Some love to Farm Revenues, others Bait With Gifts to catch a Widdows great Eſtate: Whilſt others ſpread their Nets for wealthy Fools, And catch them, and ſecure the doating Shoals: Some by baſe Uſury their Wealth increaſe: But grant that various Humors various pleaſe: Yet are They conſtant ſtill, do they approve For one hours time together what They love? For inſtance, If the wealthy Wanton ſays, This little Baiae is the pleaſant'ſt place; His haſty wiſhes no delays afford, And the Sea quickly ſees her loving Lord: There if his fancy leads another way, As if a Sign from Heaven He muſt obey; Come Work-men gather up your Tools, and drive To morrow to Theanum, there I'le live: Doth He deſign to day to take a Wife? No life, He cries, is like a ſingle life: If not, He Swears the marry'd only bleſt; What Chain can hold this varying Proteus faſt? What doth the Poor Man? Laugh, he ſhifts his home, His Baths, His Barbers, and his eating Room, Or hires a paltry Sculler for a Groat, And ſpews like Nobles in their Pleaſure-Boat: Suppoſe ſome blundering Barbers notch my hair And then I meet you, ſtreight you ſmile and ſtare Or if my Gown is botch't, my Veſt unfit, My Cloaths ill made, You laugh at ſuch a ſight: What when my Mind is with it ſelf at ſtrife, And diſagrees in all the Courſe of Life; When what it hated now, it now deſires, What now it threw away, it now admires, Unſettled as the Sea, or flitting Air, It razes, builds, and changes round to ſquare; You count me mad in Faſhion, you forbear To laugh, nor think I need a Doctor's care; Or Guardian from the Praetor, tho my Friend, On whom my Fortunes, and my Life depend, Who grieves if I but cut my Finger's end. In ſhort, the Wiſe Man's leſs than Jove alone, For all is His, and He himſelf's his own; Rich, King of Kings, and of a Noble Stem, But chiefly well, unleſs when vex't with Flegm.
EPISTLE II.

The Heads of the Second Epiſtle. (1.) He commends Homer to his Friend Lollius. (2.) Delivers ſeveral Praecepts for a good Life.

1. WHilſt you to plead at Rome, my Friend, remain, I here have read my Homer o're again: Who hath what's baſe, what decent, juſt and good, Clearer than Crantor or Chryſippus ſhow'd: My reaſons for't, if you have leiſure, hear; That Part that tells us how in tedious War, For Paris Luſt, Greece ſtrove with Phrygia, ſings The Paſſions of the Crowd, and fooliſh Kings: Antenor thinks it beſt to end the Wars, And give back Helen; wanton Paris Swears, He can't be happy if He lives alone, His Kingdom can't content when ſhe is gone: Atrides and Achilles chide, and hate, And Neſtor ſtrives to cool the hot debate: One rob'd of what He eagerly deſir'd, Was rais'd by Love; but both by fury fir'd: He counſels both, and ſtrives to make them Friends, The People ſuffer when the Prince offends: By Luſt and Rage were thouſand miſchiefs done, By Pride and Treachery, in Camp and Town: And then what Courage, and what Wit can do, He uſefully doth in Ulyſſes ſhow; Who, Troy o'rethrown, to many Countrys went, And ſtrictly view'd their Towns and Government And whilſt thro raging Seas He ventur'd home, Met thouſand dangers, and did ovecome: Still careful of his Men He did advance, And ſafely ſtem'd the Waves of dang'rous Chance: The Sirens Songs, and Circe's Bowl you know, Which like his Mates had He but taſted too, Baſe and unthinking He had ſerv'd the Whore, In ſhape of naſty Dog, or mi'ry Bore: We are the Number, born to drink and eat, The Woers of Penelope, the ſpruce, the neat, The lazy Raſcals; and whoſe whole deſign, Was to get vicious pleaſure, and be fine: Who thought it vertuous to ſleep half the Day, And lull their Cares with Muſick, Dance and Play. 2. Rogues riſe before 'tis light to kill and Thieve, Wilt Thou not wake to ſave thy ſelf alive? If now, when well, you will not leave your Eaſe, In vain you'l try when preſt with a Diſeaſe: And when you cannot ſleep, except you read, And in good things employ your watchful head, Pale Treacherous Sins will ſwift approaches make, And Luſt or Envy vex Thee whilſt awake: For why, when any thing offends thy Eyes, Doſt thou ſtreight ſeek for eaſe, and ſtreight adviſe Yet if it ſhall oppreſs thy Mind, endure The ills with Patience, and defer the Cure? He that hath once begun a good deſign, Hath finiſh't half; dare to be wiſe, begin: He that deferrs to live is like the Clown, Who waits, expecting till the River's gone: But that ſtill rouls its Streams, and will roul on. We ſeek for Wealth, a good and fruitful Wife, The pleaſures, comforts, and ſupports of Life; Our Woods are tam'd, and plough'd encreaſe our ſtore; He that hath got enough deſires no more: Did ever Lands, or heaps of Silver eaſe The feav'riſh Lord? Or cool the hot Diſeaſe? Or free his Mind from Cares, He muſt have health, He muſt be well, that would enjoy his wealth. He that deſires or fears, diſeas'd in mind, Wealth profits him as Pictures do the blind; Plaiſters the Gouty Feet; and charming Airs And ſweeteſt ſounds the ſtuft and troubled Ears: The muſty Veſſels ſour what they contain; Scorn Pleaſure, Pleaſure hurts that's bought with pain. The Greedy want, to Wiſhes fix an End; The Envious pine at th' fatneſs of their Friend. The fierceſt Tyrants never yet could find, A greater rack than Envy to the mind: The Man that doth too haſtily engage, That is all fire, and cannot curb his rage, Baffles his own deſign, whilſt weaker grown, With malice unreveng'd He ſtrikes too ſoon: Anger's a ſhort frenzy, curb thy Soul, And check thy rage, which muſt be rul'd or rule: Uſe all thy Art, with all thy force reſtrain, And take the ſtrongeſt Bitt, and firmeſt Rein: The Jocky trains the young and tender Horſe, Whilſt yet ſoft mouth'd He breeds him to the Courſe: The Whelp ſince when i'th' Hall He learn'd to bark At Bucks-skins ſtuff'd, now ranges o're the Park: Now, now, whilſt young, with vertuous Rules begin; Such holy Precepts now, and free from ſin. What ſeaſon'd firſt the Veſſel keeps the Taſt; Now if you lag behind, or run too faſt, I ſtay not for the ſlow, I mind my Race, Nor preſs on thoſe that run a ſwifter pace.
EPISTLE III.

To his Friend Julius Florus. A familiar Epiſtle enquiring about ſeveral matters.

MY Julius Florus, I would gladly hear, Where Claudius Caeſar's kinſman kindles War; Doth Thrace or Hebrus bound in Chains of Snow, Or doth the Helleſpont, I wiſh to know, Or Asia's fruitful Fields detain you now? What do the Wits deſign? Who nobly dares, (This I would know) to write great Caeſar's Wars: And who inſpir'd with an unuſual rage, Shall ſpread his Fights and Leagues thro future Age. And what doth Titius, He of growing Fame, Who doth not fear to drink of Pindar's Stream? Who ſcorns known Springs and Lakes, that glorious He, And is He well, and doth He think of Me? Doth He, the Muſe propitious, nobly ſing, And fit to Roman Harps the Theban ſtring? Or is he writing Plays, and treads the Stage, In murd'ring Verſe, and ſwells with Tragick rage? And how doth Celſus do? Whom I ſtill warn, as I have often done, To get ſome Stock, ſome riches of his own: And not from others labours kept for fame, In wiſe Apollo's Temple ſteal a name: Leſt all the Birds ſhould come, and claim their own, And th'Chough be his, when her ſtoln Plumes are gone. What do you do? What will your Mind produce? From what ſweet Beds of Thyme ſuck pretious juice? For you have Wit enough, your ſence is great, And not deform'dly rough, but fine and neat, Whether with poynant Tongue you plead a Cauſe, Defend the Innocent, and teach the Laws: Or chooſe ſoft Numbers, and ſmooth Poetry, The chiefeſt Crown ſtill juſtly waits on Thee. If You could leave thoſe Cares that num thy Mind, Shake off thy fears, and leave the Clog behind, Then you would live as Wiſdom's rules adviſe: This is the Work, the noble Study this, This rich and poor, ſhould make their greateſt care, If we would live ſecure, and free from fear, To honeſt Men, and to our Country dear. 〈1 page duplicate〉 〈1 page duplicate〉 Pray write me whether, for I wiſh to know, You love Numenius, as you ought to do. Or if the former difference clos'd in vain, Was never fully cur'd, but breaks again. But you in whatſoever part you live, Whether 'tis heat or raſhneſs makes you ſtrive, Both brave and hot, and, Oh! too dear, to prove How frail are all the bands of Brothers love: Where e're you now reſide, return to Rome, I feed a Steer to offer when you come.
EPISTLE IV.

A familiar complement to his Friend Albius Tibullus.

ALbus, the faireſt Critic that I know, What ſhall I ſay that you are doing now? In Pedan fields do you deſign to write, More great than Caſſius, and with higher flight? Or doſt thou gravely walk the healthy Wood, Conſidering what befits the Wiſe and Good? For You are not all Body, void of Mind, The Gods have given a Soul of Noble kind; And Wealth and Skill enough to uſe thy Store: What could a Nurſe for her dear Child wiſh more? Than that He might be Sober whilſt He lives, And able to expreſs what He conceives: Enjoy the Love of all, and Fame and Health, And cleanly Diet, with ſufficient Wealth? Whilſt mid'ſt ſtrong hopes and fears thy time doth waſt, Think every riſing Sun will be thy laſt; And ſo the grateful unexpected Hour Of Life prolong'd, when come, will pleaſe the more: Then come and ſee me, now grown plump and fine, When you would laugh at one of Epicurus Swine.
EPISTLE V.

To his Friend Torquatus.

He invites his Friend to a ſmall Collation.

IF you can ſit upon a paultry Seat, My Friend Torquatus, and endure to Eat A homely Diſh, a Sallad all the Treat: Sir, I ſhall make a Feaſt, my Friends invite, And beg that you would Sup with me to Night. My Liquor flow'd from the Minturnian Vine, In Taurus Conſulſhip, 'tis Common Wine; If you have better, let the Flasks be ſent; Or let what I, the Lord, provide content: My Servants ſweep and furniſh every Room, My Diſhes all are cleans'd againſt you come: Forbear thy wanton hopes, and Toyl for gain, And Moſchus Cauſe; 'tis all but idle Pain: To morrow Caeſar's Birth-day comes, to give Releaſe to Cares, and a ſmall time to live. Then we may ſleep till Noon, and gay delight, And merry talk prolong the Summer's Night. What is my Wealth, if I muſt always ſpare? He that lives Poor, to leave a Wealthy Heir Is near a-kin to mad. I'le drink and play, Enjoy my ſelf, and fling my Gold away. I'le frolic (let the ſparing be thought wiſe) Content to be eſteem'd a fool for this: What cannot drunkenneſs effect, 'tis free of Secrets, and turns hope to certainty; It puſhes on the unarm'd Man to Wars, It frees the troubled mind from weighty Cares: It teaches Arts, it teaches how to think, And what Man is not Eloquent in's Drink? And who tho cramp't in narrow want's not free? Now I'le provide (pray leave that task to me) I'me willing, and I'me fit for ſuch a Care) Your Seats ſhall be as clean as any are; Your Napkins good, no ſpot ſhall foul the Cloth, Whoſe ſight might make you ſnuff your Noſe, and loath. The Cups well ſcour'd, the modeſt Table grace, The diſhes ſhine that you may ſee your face. None ſhall be there that ſhall have treacherous Ears, And carry o're our Threſhold what he hears: And that thy Boon Companions may be fit, Septimius too, and Brutus I'le invite: And if no dearer Miſs, or better Feaſt, Holds Sabin, He ſhall make another Gueſt: I've Room enough, and each may bring his Friends, But ſweat at Tables too much throng'd offends: Pray ſend me word what time you will be here, How many Friends you'l bring; forget thy Care, And whilſt thy Clients throng about thy Hall, Creep forth thro the Back-door, and bob 'em All.
EPISTLE VI.

To his Friend Numicus, where he ſhows the method to gain true happineſs.

NOt to admire, as moſt are wont to do, It is the only method that I know, To make Men happy, and to keep 'em ſo. Some view this glittering Sun, and glorious Stars, And all the various Seaſons free from fears; Well then, thoſe Gifts of Earth the Gums and Gold, Which ſweet Arabia, and the Indies hold, Applauſe and Office, that miſtaken good, That great Preferment of the Roman Crowd; When theſe are view'd with all their gawdy ſhow, How calm ſhould be our Thoughts, how ſmooth our Brow! Now thoſe that fear their Oppoſites, admire Theſe Toys, as much as He that doth deſire; For both ſides fear leſt Things their Hopes deceive, And both at ſudden diſappointments grieve. Whether one joy or grieve, or hate or love, Or ſtrive to ſhun, or eagerly approve, 'Tis all alike if the Event appears, Or worſe or better than He hopes or fears, He ſtands amaz'd with fix't and ſtaring Eyes, His Limbs and Soul grow ſtiff at the ſurpriſe: The juſt will be unjuſt, wiſe void of Wit, That ſeek e'en Vertue more than what is fit: Now go, let Gold and Statues charm thine Eyes, Go, and admire thy Gems and Tyrian Dyes: Rejoyce that when you ſpeak Men gape and wait; Go to the Court betimes, and come home late; Leſt Mutius reap a greater Crop of Corn, For 'tis unſit, ſince not ſo nobly born. Rather let him be wonder'd at by you, Than you by him, 'tis better of the Two: Whatever's under Ground Age brings to light, And that will bury too, and hide the bright: When Appius way, and Grippa's Porch ſhall know, And ſee thee famous, Thou muſt walk below, As Numa, and as Ancus long ago. If vexing pains thy Sides, or Kidneys ſeize, Then ſeek ſome preſent Cure for thy Diſeaſe. Would'ſt thou live well? Who not? Then quickly ſtrive, And now ſince Vertue only this can give, Then leave thy falſe delights, and that purſue: But if you think their wild Opinion true, (As heedleſs Minds the vaineſt things approve) That Words make Vertue juſt as Trees a Grove. Then follow Wealth, make that thy chiefeſt Care, See none foreſtall, and none ingroſs the Fair, Or bate the prizes of thy pretious Ware. Then get one Thouſand Talents, then one more, And then Another, and then ſquare the Store; For by this Empreſs Wealth is all beſtow'd, A rich and honeſt Wife, and every Good, As Beauty, Friends, and nobleneſs of Blood: The Rich and Monyed Man hath every grace, Perſwaſion in his Tongue, and Venus in his Face. The Cappadocian King is poor in Coin, Tho rich in Slaves, let not his way be Thine: Lucullus once deſir'd to lend the Stage A Thouſand Suits, ſays, How can I engage, So many Suits? And yet I'le quickly ſend, I'le ſearch my ſtore, and ſee what I can lend: And ſtreight writes word, I have five thouſand good, And they might take as many as They wou'd. That's an unfurniſht Houſe, that Maſter poor, Which hath Things neceſſary, and no more, And whoſe Superfluous plenty not deceives, And ſcapes the Maſter's Eye, and profits Thieves. If Wealth can make Thee bleſt, and keep Thee ſo, Mind it the firſt, and the laſt Thing you do. If Offices, and all their gawdy Pride, Then buy a witty Slave to guard thy ſide; To tell thee great Mens Names, and Nobles ſhow, And warn Thee to bow Popularly low; Sir, that's a Lord, and this, Sir's ſuch a One, He bears the greateſt ſway in all the Town: Unleſs you cringe and get his Voice, deſpair, His Vote diſpoſes of the Conſul's Chair: Sir, as their Years require ſome Fathers call, Some Sons, and pleaſantly adopt them all: If He lives well that eats well, come 'tis light, Let's go, led by our ruling Appetite. Let's Fiſh and Hunt as Gargil us'd to do, Who every morning bad his Servants go, With Poles, and Nets, and Spears, and march along The well fill'd Market place, and buſie throng. That One of many Mules might carry home, A Bore, that he had bought, thro gazing Rome. Let's Bath e'en whilſt the undigeſted load, Lyes crude, forgetting what is juſt and good: Fit to be wax't, Ulyſſes Mates outright, Who lov'd their Country leſs than baſe delight. If nothing, as Mimernus ſtrives to prove, Can e're be pleaſant without wanton Love; Then live in wanton Love, thy Sport purſue, Let that employ thy pretious Time; Adieu. If you know better Rules than theſe, be free, Impart them, but if not, uſe theſe with Me.
EPISTLE VII. (1.) He excuſeth himſelf for not waiting on Mecaenas. (2.) Commends his generoſity. (3.) His moderate deſires. 1. IN five days time I promis'd You, My Lord, To be in Town— And yet all Auguſt paſt have broak my word; But, Sir, if you deſign that I ſhould live, Whilſt now I fear I ſhall be ſickly, give That pardon to me which you would allow, Suppoſe, My Lord, I were already ſo: Whilſt Autumn burns, and Dog-ſtars beams do rage, Whilſt all Diſeaſes that attend on Age Are waiting now upon the Aged year, Whilſt frequent Mourners in ſad Pomp appear, And careful Parents for their Children fear. When each Officious Viſit ſurely kills, It raiſeth Feavers and unſeals our Wills; If Winter's ſharp, and ſpreads the fields with Snows Down to the warm Sea ſide thy Poet goes, There ſtudy little, and take ſoft repoſe. And then when Spring returns, and Swallows come, I'le ſee you, if you pleaſe, My Lord, at Rome: 2. Your kindneſs makes me rich, unlike to theirs Who thus invite their Gueſts to Eat their Pears. Come, pray Sir eat: Sir I'me content with theſe; Then pray, Sir, take as many as you pleaſe: Your little Boys will eat them tho but ſmall, Thanks, Sir, as much as if I took them All: Then pray, Sir, take them, yet as you think fit, But all the Pears you leave my Hogs muſt eat: Fools only give what they do ſcorn and hate, This Seed ſtill hath, and ſtill will bear ingrate: But when the Wife Men and the good beſtow, Tho They true worth, from bare pretences know, They tell you, you deſerv'd it long ago. If you would have me ſtill attend you train, Reſtore my Vigour and my Youth again: My curl'd black Locks ſpread o're my narrow face, Reſtore my merry talk, and ſmiling grace; And make me fit again for Loves deſign, And t'mourn coy Cynera o're a glaſs of Wine. A hungry Fox when pincht for want of Meat Crept thro a little hole to heaps of Wheat, And there well fill'd he would return again Thro the ſame chink; He ſtrove, but ſtrove in vain: 3. When lo the Weeſel cry'd, abſur'd deſign, Fox, you were thin and lean when you got in, And if you would get out be quite as thin. Is this apply'd to me? I now reſtore The Gifts that came from You, and ask no more. The common People's ſleep I do not praiſe, Cauſe full my ſelf and ſure of happy Days. Nor would I ſell my freedom and my Eaſe, For rich Arabia, or the richer Seas. My Lord Mecoenas, you do oft admire And praiſe the Modeſty of my deſire, You King and Father I do oft confeſs, When preſent, and when abſent ſpeak no leſs: Now try if I can quietly reſign What e're I have, be poor, and not repine: Telemachus ſaid well, a barren place I rule, unfit for Horſe, it yields no graſs; Nor is it ſpread into a ſpacious Plain. Atrides take your Preſents back again: Mean Things do ſuit mean Men. Unmov'd I ſee Rome's Pomp and State, they are no Charms to Me. But unfrequented Tybur's quiet eaſe, The ſhady Plains, and ſoft Tarentum pleaſe. Philip the famous Lawyer coming home, (And as He walk't the tedious ſtreets of Rome; Now old, complaining from his Houſe to Court Did ſeem a tedious way, tho once but ſhort) He ſaw a ſpruce neat fellow of the Town Paring his Nails hard by, and all alone. Demetrius (he then waited on his Lord) Go quickly, run, enquire and bring me word, Who that Man is, what Trade, and what Eſtate, Who is his Patron, go, and tell me ſtraight. He runs, comes back, and ſays; the Man by Name, Vulteius Menas, ſpotleſs in his Fame, By Trade a Cryer, his Eſtate but ſmall, Enough for Nature's Wants, and that's his All. Now takes his Eaſe, and now his Game purſues, Knows how to get him Wealth, and how to uſe His Friends, his Equals, and his Houſe his own; And when his Bus'neſs and his Cares are gone, He freely takes the pleaſures of the Town. Well, I muſt talk with him, go ſtreight invite, Go tell him He muſt Sup with me to night. He went, but Mena ſcarce believes the Boy, Silently wondering betwixt Fear and Joy: At laſt pleads buſineſs: What am I deny'd? Yes he denys you out of Fear, or Pride: Next Morning early Philip chanc't to meet Ulteius, ſelling Toys about the Street. He comes up to him there, and kindly ſaid, Good-morrow, firſt. Mena excus'd his Trade, The Clog that hindred that he did not wait This Morning early at his Worſhip's Gate; And laſtly that He had not ſeen him firſt. Says Philip, If you'l Sup with me to night, I will forgive you: Sir, what you think fit: I'le wait on you; Then come at Three, he ſaid; Beſure you come, now go, and mind your Trade. He came and Sup'd, and talk't, and well content, He thankt his Worſhip, and away he went. When after this he was obſerv'd to wait, And often come to taſt the Treacherous Bait. Each Morn a Client, and a Gueſt at Noon; One Feaſt when no Court buſineſs could be done; His Patron ask't him to ride out a Town. He yields, and mounted on a ſtately Horſe, He entertains him with a long diſcourſe; The Sabine healthy Air, and fruitful Field He praiſeth; Philip ſaw his drift and ſmil'd, And ſo to end the talk, and make more ſport, He gives him, (and to cut the Story ſhort) Lends him two hundred pounds; and then perſuades To buy a Farm, and leave his former Trades; He takes the Counſel, buys, and leaves the Town, Puts off the modiſh Spark, and turns a Clown: Talks nothing but of Furrows and of Vines, Improvement of his Land, and ſuch deſigns: He minds his Trees, and takes a World of Pain, Grows Grey upon his Cares, and thoughts of Gain; But when his Sheep were loſt he knew not how, His Goats Diſeas'd, his Corn refus'd to grow, And labouring Oxen dy'd beneath the Plough: Vex't at the various loſs, away He goes, At midnight in a rage to Philip's Houſe; When Philip ſaw him haſtily appear, Deform'd and rough his Face, untrim'd his Hair; Mena, ſays he, You ſpend Your ſelf with Care. Good Patron, He cry'd out in wild affright, Pray call me Wretch, if you would call me right; By Thee, by all that's good, and all that's dear, By all you Love, My Lord, and all you fear, I beg your pitty; eaſe my vexing Pain, And turn me to my former Life again: He that hath once perceiv'd the treacherous Bait, And how his firſt excells his preſent State, Let Him return unto his former Care, And follow what He left; 'tis juſt and fair, By our own foot to meaſure what we are.
EPISTLE VIII.

To his Friend Celſus.

He complains of the ſickneſs of his Mind, and gives his Friend advice.

GO prithee, Muſe, my loving thoughts expreſs, And wiſh my Celſus Health and good ſucceſs: And if by chance He asks thee how I do, Tell him I make a noiſe, a gawdy ſhow; I promiſe mighty Things, I nobly ſtrive; Yet ſay what ill, unpleaſant Life I live: Not cauſe the Hail doth break my Vines, or beat My Corn, nor cauſe my Olives ſhrink with heat; Or Herds grow ſickly in my Foreign Plain; No, but becauſe my Soul is vex't with Pain, (The Body ſound) it is a ſharp Diſeaſe, And yet I can't endure to hear of eaſe: I ſtrom at my Phyſitian, hate my Friend, Becauſe they ſtrive to wake my drowſie Mind: What's good I hate, and what will hurt approve, Unſettled ſtill, and as wild fancies rove, At Tyber, Rome, at Rome I Tyber love. Then ask him how He doth with his Command, And how he pleaſeth Claudius and his Band; If He ſays well, then firſt be ſure rejoice, And after with a ſmall inſtructive voice Infuſe this Precept at his liſt'ning Ear, We will bear You, as You Your Fortune bear.
EPISTLE IX.

He Commends his Friend Septimius to Claudius Nero.

 I Think my Friend, my Dear Septimius knew, How great an Intereſt, Sir, I have in You; For He ſtill asks and begs me as a Friend, He importunes me that I would Commend, And bring him to your Service; He is fit For Nero's Train and Love, who does admit None but good Men, and Men of Senſe and Wit. He thinks me Intimate, my Intereſt good, And more than I my ſelf e're underſtood: I long deny'd, a thouſand tricks I us'd, And urg'd a thouſand things to be excus'd; But fearing I ſhould ſeem too ſhy, to own My Power with you, kind to my ſelf alone, And ſcandals of a worſer fault prevent, I'me turn'd, my Lord, a modeſt Impudent, I boldly ask; now if you dare Commend My boldneſs in the Service of my Friend, Accept Septimius, let him fill your Train, I promiſe him a ſtout and honeſt Man.
EPISTLE X.

To his Friend Fuſcus Ariſtius. (1.) Prefers the Country before the City. (2.) The Covetous muſt be Slaves.

ALL Health I lover of the Country ſend, To Fuſcus the gay City's greateſt Friend; Brothers in all things elſe, what one approves, Or flies, the other likewiſe hates or loves, We Nod together like old acquainted Doves. And now we diſagree in this alone, Our humors differ here; you love the Town, And I the pleaſant Plains, and purling Flood, The Groves, and moſſy Banks, and ſhady Wood. In ſhort, I Live, I Reign, ſince I'me retir'd, From that which you as much as Heaven admir'd. "Like one at laſt from the Prieſts ſervice fled, "Loathing the hony'd Cakes, I long for Bread: Do You a Life to Natures Rules deſign, And ſeek ſome fit Foundation to begin, Some Baſis where this happy Frame to raiſe? The quiet Countrey is the fitteſt place. Where is the Winter's Cold more mild than here? And when the Sun aſcends, and burns the year, Where does a more delightful Wind aſſwage The furious Dog-ſtars, or the Lions rage? Or where do envious Cares break fewer dreams? Do Flowers ſhine leſs, or ſmell leſs ſweet than Gems? Are Streams more pure that Leaden Pipes convey, Than thoſe fair Springs that with their wanton play, And gentle murmurs eat their eaſie Way? E'en midſt our Palaces we plant a Grove, And Gardens dreſs; our Care ſhows what we love: That Houſe is moſt eſteem'd, He wiſely builds That hath a Proſpect to the open fields. Strive to expel ſtrong Nature, 'tis in vain, With doubled force ſhe will return again, And conquering riſe above the proud diſdain. Not thoſe that drive a Trade in Tyrian dyes, Yet know not Counterfeits, nor how to prize; More vexing and more certain Cheats purſue, Than Thoſe that can't diſtinguiſh falſe from True. Thoſe whom the ſmiles of Fate too much delight, Their ſudden Frowns more ſhake and more affright. What you admire, You will be loath to loſe; Greatneſs and Fortune's guilded ſnares refuſe: "An humble Roof, plain Bed, and humble Board, "More clear and more untainted ſweets afford, "Than all the Tumult of vain greatneſs brings, "To Kings, or the ſwoln Favourites of Kings: 2. Both fed together, till with injur'ous force, The ſtouteſt Deer expell'd the weaker Horſe: He beaten, flyes to Man to right his Cauſe, Begs help, and takes the Bridle in his Jaws. Yet tho He Conquer'd, tho He rul'd the Plain, He bore the Rider ſtill, and felt the Rein. Thus the mean Wretch, that fearing to be poor, Doth ſell his Liberty for meaner Ore: Muſt bear a Lord, He muſt be ſtill a Slave, That cannot uſe the little Nature gave. Him whom his Wealth doth not exactly fit, Whoſe ſtores too cloſely, or too looſely ſit, Like Shoes ill made and faulty, if too great They overturn, and pinch him if too ſtrait. Content Ariſtus with thy preſent ſtore, Thou wilt live wiſely and not wiſh for more; And let me prithee feel thy ſharp reproof, If I ſhall ſtrive for more than juſt enough. Money muſt rule, or muſt obey the Mind, More fit for Service than for Rule deſign'd: Behind Vacuna's Fane theſe lines I drew; Well pleas'd with every thing, but wanting you.
EPISTLE XI.

To his Friend Bullatus, who had been Travelling; That happineſs may be had any where.

BUllatus, how did pretty Samos ſhow, Chios and ſtately Sardis, let me know, If They are ſuch as Fame reports, or no? Or can you find more pretty things at home? Are all theſe places mean compar'd to Rome? Or elſe doth ſome Attalian City pleaſe, Or Lebedus, where tir'd with boiſt'rous Seas, And tedious Roads, You firſt ſat down to eaſe? Now Deſert Lebedus contains but few, And leſs than Gabii or Fidenoe knew. Yet there my days I with Content could ſpend, Forget, and be forgot by every Friend. There ſafe at ſhore ſee Winds and Storms engage, And ſmile from Land at diſtant Neptune's rage: But he that comes to Rome thro Rain and Mire, Would not live always by a Kitchin Fire. And he that's cold commends not Baths and Heat, As if they made a happy life compleat. Nor 'cauſe Storms toſs ſhould'ſt thou ſtraight ſeek thy eaſe, And ſell thy Ship beyond Aegaean Seas. Fair Mytelene will prove as great a good To Men of ſober Minds, as Tyber's Flood To Swimmers, when cold Winds ſeverely blow, As Freeze in Summer, Silks in Froſt and Snow. Whilſt Fortune ſmiles, and gives Thee happy days, Chios at Rome, and abſent Samos praiſe. Take thankfully thoſe hours the Gods ſhall give; Uſe whilſt you may, and be not ſlow to live. For if 'tis Reaſon, and not change of Air, That brings ſoft Reſt, and frees our Souls from Care, Thoſe that beyond Sea go ſhall ſadly find, They change their Climate only, not their Mind. A buſie idleneſs deſtroys our eaſe, We Ride and Sail to ſeek for happineſs. Yet what we ſeek with every Tide and Wind, We can e'en here, or at Ulubra find, If we can have but a contented Mind.
EPISTLE XII. 1. Deſires his Friend Iccius to be content. 2. Commends Pompey Groſphus to him. 3. Tells how the Affairs in Italy ſtand. 1. IF You can uſe Agrippa's vaſt Eſtate, Which now you manage, 'tis the height of Fate, Not Jove himſelf could give a greater ſtore, Tho grown profuſe; my Friend complain no more, He that hath things for uſe is never poor. If Thou haſt cleanly Food and Cloaths enough, What more than this can kingly Wealth beſtow? If at full Tables ſtor'd with dainty meat You can contain, and Herbs and Mallows eat, Thus thou wilt live, if prodigal of her ſtore, The Golden Streams of Fortune guild Thee o're: 'Cauſe Mony cannot Natures ſtamp deface, And all things you below true Vertue place: Why ſhould we wonder, is it ſtrange to find, Democritus grown poorer, whilſt his mind Was gone abroad, and left his Limbs behind? Whilſt You thro Clogs of gain can nobly climb, And midſt dull Avarice think on Things Sublime? What bounds the raging Sea, what rules the Year, Whether by their own force the Planets err, Or ſome Superior Guide; what ſpreads the Night? What hides the Moon? What fills her face with Light? What diſagreeing Seeds of Things can make, The Stoicks or Empedocles miſtake. Whatever Life you live, or Fiſhes dreſt, Or Leeks and Onions pill'd do make your Feaſt? 2. Be kind, let Pompey Groſphius be your Gueſt. What he ſhall ask (he'll ask but little) grant, Friends are in ſmall eſteem where good Men want. 3. But now to tell how Rome's Affairs ſtand, Cantabria yields to ſtout Agrippa's hand; Armenia Claudius Nero's Courage feels, The haughty Parthian now to Caeſar kneels: And Golden plenty with a bounteous hand, Rich Harveſts freely ſcatters o're our Land.
EPISTLE XIII.

To his Friend Vinnius Aſella about preſenting his Books to Caeſar.

 ASI advis'd you oft before you went, I beg Thee Vinnius now my Books preſent To Caeſar, Seal'd; when vexing Cares are fled, If well, if merry, if he asks to read: Leſt over-buſie in thy kind deſigns, You choſe ill hours, and make him hate my lines: But if the Pack ſhall pinch Thee throw it down, Refuſe to bear it, and the weight diſown, Rather than having paſt the tedious Road, Thy Saddle ſhake, and ſtrive to caſt the Load; And thus make good thy Father's Ancient Name, Be Aſs indeed, a publick talk and ſhame: With all thy ſtrength o're Lakes and Mountains run, And when thoſe Streights are paſt you reach the Town, Take heed, and what you bring diſcloſe to none: Be ſhy, and cautious, nor my Books proclaim, Nor bear them as a Ruſtick would a Lamb: Under thy Arm, as if thy hands were full, As drunken Pythia carries pilfer'd Wool: As when invited to his Landlord's houſe, A Country Tenant bears his Hat and Shoes: Proclaim not that you ſweat thoſe Lines to bear, Which will detain Great Caeſar's Eyes and Ear; Make all the haſt my eager Wiſh requires, Farewell, take heed you Anſwer my deſires.
EPISTLE XIV.

To his Steward, that He preferrs the Country before the City, and why.

YOu Steward of my Woods and pleaſant Plain, Which when I reach, I am my ſelf again: Contemn'd by You, tho it hath kept alone, Five Ancient dwellers, and is often known, To ſend five Senators to Baria's Town. Come, now 'tis Time, let's ſee which of the Two, I from my Mind, or from my Paſtures You, Can pluck Thorns beſt, and which is better Till'd, And which is better, Horace, or his Field: Tho Lamia's Piety, and mournful Care, That weeps his Brother's Fate detains me here: Yet ſtill my Mind's abroad, my Soul doth ſtrive, To break the Bars and get free Room to live. I praiſe the Country, You the happy Town: He that loves others States diſlikes his own: We blame the places, both deceiv'd and Fools, 'Tis undeſerv'd, the fault is in our Souls. Our Souls that are their own Companions ſtill, And groan beneath their Native load of ill: In Town your wiſhes beg'd the Fields and Plain, A Farmer now You ask the Town again. I conſtant to my ſelf part griev'd from home, When hated buſineſs forces me to Rome. We Two do very diff'rent Things admire, We widely diſagree in our deſire. What you call lonely Melancholly Seats, A Man of my Opinion, as he hates What you think fair, accounts them fine retreats. The Oyly Ord'narys the Stews do move Thy wiſhes for the Town, they raiſe thy Love: And' cauſe my little Farm doth bear no Vine, But Frankincenſe, I ſee thy wild deſign: No neighbouring Tavern there to ſell thee Wine. No wanton Songſtreſs there to pleaſe thy Senſe, And raiſe thy heavy Limbs into a Dance: Yet Thou doſt Labour, thou doſt Toyl and Sow, And break thy Fields, that never felt the Plough: Yet you take Care, you waſh my bleating Flocks, And gather boughs to feed my weary'd Ox. And if the River run above the bound, Swoln big with Rain, you raiſe a ſtronger Mound, And teach it to forbear the Meadow ground. Now why theſe Things ſo differently appear To Us and what divides our Fancies, hear; I that lov'd all the Frolicks of the Town, Curl'd powder'd Locks, a fine and gawdy Gown: That pleas'd coy Cynera without a price, That lov'd debauch, and courted every Vice, Now like ſhort Suppers, and at civil hours, And ſleep by purling Streams, on Banks of Flowers, Once to be wild is no ſuch foul diſgrace, But 'tis ſo ſtill to run the frantick Race: There on my Joys no Squint-ey'd Envious wait, None frowns, none looks askew, no ſecret hate, With venom'd Tooth doth bite. My Neighbours ſmile, To ſee me buſie at my little Toil. But you had rather be remov'd to Town, That way your Mind and eager Wiſhes run: The City ſlaves, the while the Country love, And envy Thee, thy Garden, and thy Grove: The Ox the Saddle asks, the Aſs the Plough, Let All (that's beſt) purſue the Arts they know.
EPISTLE XV.

To his Friend Vala, inquiring what he can have in the place whither he deſigns to retire for his Health.

DEar Vala prithee quickly ſend me word, What Velia, what Salernum can afford; How hot the Winter? If the Air be good, What manner'd Men live there? and what's the Road: (True, my Phyſician tells me I may uſe The Bajan Baths, but thoſe their help refuſe, Becauſe in Winter cooler Streams I chooſe. That I ſhould leave their Groves, their Sulphurous Stream, So fam'd for curing knotty Gouts, contemn; The whole Town mourns, and curſes the Diſeaſe, That makes us ſeek the Cluſian Springs for Eaſe: That makes us leave her Groves, her warmer Seat, For unfrequented Gaby's cool retreat. To change my Station now I muſt begin, And force my Horſe beyond my uſual Inn: So ho, where now the angry Riders ſay, And ſtifly pull the Rein, that's not the way, I'me not for Bay or Cume: then gently ſooths, But bridled Horſes Ears are in their mouths) Which yields the moſt, and which the ſweeteſt Grain, Whether they ſet out Tubs to catch the Rain, Or elſe have conſtant Springs, their Water clear, For I don't like the Wine they fancy there: (True, when at home, then any Drink will pleaſe, But when I go abroad to take my Eaſe, Enjoy Seas warmth, my thoughts from Cares reprieve, My Liquor muſt be good, if I would Live: Such as will fill my Veins with gen'rous fire, Bring certain hopes of Health, and thoughts inſpire: Such as may make my wanton Wiſhes riſe, And ſhow me young and grateful to my Miſs:) Where moſt Hares run, moſt Bores infeſt the Plains, Which Sea moſt Oyſters, which moſt Fiſh contains, That whilſt I live I may be plump and gay; You write me word, I'le credit what you ſay: Menius when all his little Lands were gone, All looſely ſpent, and He a Man o'th' Town; A Bully, at no certain board He Din'd, No houſe to lodge, but rail'd at Foe and Friend; A bitter Rogue to Jeer, and ſharp to Feign, Severe to Scandalize; the very Bane And Ruine of the Shambles; what He got He ſwallow'd; all went down his greedy Throat. He when his Cheats not anſwer'd his deſires, When little came from Fops, and bubbl'd Squires, Would feed on Guts, and on the vileſt Meat, Swallowing as much as three large Bears could Eat; And ſober He, whilſt thus he hardly far'd, Would have forſooth the Spend-thrifts Bellies ſear'd: Yet the ſame Menius when his gains were more, And on his Gut he waſted all his Store, Turn'd all to Smoak and Aſhes, us'd to cry, No wonder, faith, to ſee that Men feed high, When not the World a fairer ſight can ſhow, Than the large pickled Belly of a Sow: I'me juſt like him, when poor, Oh how I love, The ſafe and little Store, and how approve! When Rich, then thoſe are bleſt, and only thoſe, Whoſe ſtately Houſe their hidden Treaſure ſhows, None live ſo well, none take ſuch ſoft repoſe.
EPISTLE XVI. (1.) To his Friend Quintus, a Deſcription of his little Farm. (2.) Advice concerning a happy life. 1. ASk me not, Quintus, what my Farm doth yield, Whether 'tis Hay or Corn that crowns my Feild; Elms cloath'd with Vines, or Fruit, or Olives riſe, I'le tell you what it is, and how it lies. A ridge of Hills a ſhady Rale divides, And takes the Suns kind Rays on both her ſides; The right hand opens to the riſing day, The left hand gently takes the ſetting Ray; You like the Clime: If every Hedge that grows Doth bluſh in Cornoils, or doth mourn in Sloes, If Beechen Groves and fruitful Oaks afford Meat for my Cattle, Shades for me their Lord, You'd think Tarentum's pleaſant Feilds remove To wait on me, and ſpread a ſhady Grove. A pleaſant Spring, almoſt a River flows, Not Heber's Streams the Thracian Feilds incloſe With waves more cool and clear; The waters ſpread To purge the Stomach good, and cleanſe the Head. Theſe pleaſant (nay 'tis true) theſe ſweet retreats, Preſerve my Health amid'ſt the Summers Heats. 2. And you live well if what Fame ſays be true, For all admire, and Rome doth boaſt of you. She calls you happy, but, my Friend, I fear You more believe what others ſay you are, Than what you know your ſelf: Eſteem none happy but the Wiſe and Good. Nor when you're flatter'd by the heedleſs Crowd That you look well, diſſemble thy diſeaſe, Sit down to feaſt, and give it time to ſeize, Until it ſhakes, and thou canſt eat no more: 'Tis fooliſh ſhame to hide a feſt'ring Sore. Suppoſe one ſpeaks of Wars and noble Fights, And with theſe words thy empty Ears delights; Jove who for You, and for the People cares Leaves ſtill in doubt whoſe ſafety most prefers, The People Yours, or elſe the People's you, Doſt ſee his praiſe is only Caeſar's due? Yet when they call the Good canſt Thou agree? Canſt Thou conſent that That belongs to Thee? For you and I both love the Crowd ſhould ſay That we are good, but what that gives to day, To morrow if it pleaſe it takes away: As when it Offices on Fools beſtows, They call them back, and ſcorn the Man they choſe: Lay down, tis ours They cry, I lay it down Poor naked Wretch, and griev'd depart, and frown: The ſame Crowd calls me Thief, they paſs a vote That I'me unchaſt, or cut my Fathers throat; And with falſe Scandals bite me; muſt I fear, Muſt I look pale for this? or ſhed a tear? Falſe honors pleaſe, and falſe reports diſgrace And trouble, Whom? The vitious and the baſe: Who then is Good? Why He that keeps the Laws, And antient Rites; whoſe Word ſecures a Cauſe: Who reconciles his Neighbours, free from Strife, And ſeems to lead a fair and honeſt Life: Yet all his Neighbours know him baſe within, His outſide's fair, his inſide's black with Sin. Suppoſe my Slave ſhould ſay, I neither fly, Nor ſteal: Well, Thou haſt thy reward ſay I, Thou art not Scourg'd, I never kill'd a Man, Well, Thou ſhalt not be hang'd, or torn with pain, But I am thriſty, honeſt, good, and wiſe, Sabellus cannot grant it, nay denys: For crafty Foxes dread the ſecret Snare, The Kite and Hawk, altho the bait be fair, Yet never ſtoop where they ſuſpect a Gin; The Good for Vertue's ſake abhor a Sin. 'Tis fear of Puniſhment reſtrains thy Will, Give leave, how eagerly would'ſt thou be ill? Suppoſe you ſteal few Grains from ſtores of Wheat, The Loſs, 'tis true, is leſs, the Crime's as great: The Man that's honeſt in the Peoples Eyes, When e're He kills a coſtly Sacrifice, A Pig or Bull, and whilſt his Vows are good, Apollo, Janus hear, he prays aloud. But murmurs ſoftly, to be heard afraid, Good, Good Laverna hear me, grant me aid For ſuch a Cheat, let all believe me Good, Let me ſeem juſt and honeſt to the Crowd, And o're my Cheats, and Forgeries ſpread a Cloud. How are the Covetous than Slaves more free, That baſely ſtoop for every Pin they ſee I can't imagine. He that ſtill doth crave Muſt fear, and He that fears muſt be a Slave; For He hath loſt his Arms, and baſely fled, Left Vertues Camp, and all her Laws betray'd; That's eager to be rich, that ſtrives for more, Goes on, and dyes beneath the weighty Store: Forbear to kill the Captive thou canſt ſell, His work will bring thee gain, He'll ſerve Thee well: Whether He Tills thy Field, or Feeds thy Sheep, Or Sails, and Winters in the raging Deep: A Man that's Good and Wiſe will boldly ſay, Well Pentheus King of Thebes, Why this delay? Pray what muſt I expect? What muſt I fear, What undeſerv'd muſt I be forc't to bear? I'le take away thy Goods: My Flocks, my Land, You may, 'tis ſubject all to Your Command: I'le Chain and Rob Thee of thy Liberty, Ah God, when e're I pleaſe, will ſet me free, I think I know what theſe his words deſign, I'le dye, of Things Death is the utmoſt Line.
EPISTLE VII.

Adviſeth his Friend Scaeva to chooſe, and how to behave himſelf in the Great-Mens acquaintance.

THo Scaeva Thou haſt Wit enough to chooſe The Great-Mens favour, and art skill'd to uſe; Yet hear what thy unskillful Friend can ſay, As if one Blind pretends to ſhow the way; Yet ſee a while if what is fairly ſhown Be good, and ſuch as you may make your own: If you delight in Eaſe, and quiet joys, If ratling Coaches, and the Tavern's noiſe Diſturbs Thee, Scaeva, then refuſe the Charms Of Greatneſs, live upon thy little Farms; "For Pleaſures do not follow only Wealth: "Nor lives He ill, that lives and dyes by ſtealth: But if you love to aim at nobler Ends, And would be able to aſſiſt your Friends, Live well thy ſelf, and better thy Eſtate, Now thou art dry, go ſoak upon the Fat: If Ariſtippus patiently could Dine On Herbs, He would the Courts of Kings decline: If He that cenſures me knew how to uſe The Courts of Kings, He would his Herbs refuſe: Now which of theſe you think is beſt declare; Or elſe, my Junior you, with patience hear Why Ariſtippus humor's beſt; for thus He bob'd the Cynick, as the ſtory goes: I for my ſelf, to pleaſe the People you Break Jeſts; my way's the better of the Two: I do my Duty, free from fear or force; To carry me the King provides a Horſe, Whilſt you beg ſcraps; and tho you boaſt you live, And nothing want, art leſs than thoſe that give: All Fortune fitted Ariſtippus well, Aiming at greater, pleas'd with what befell: But for the Cynick, I ſhould think it ſtrange, If He could look but comely in a change: The One will not expect a Purple Coat, But howſoever cloath'd, He walks about, Thro Court and Town, and with a decent Art, In either habit neatly acts his Part: But Purple, or a Gown of Cloth of Gold, The other hates, and He will dye with Cold, Unleſs you will his tatter'd Rags reſtore, Go give him Rags, and let the Fool be poor: To War, and Triumph's near Jove's glorious Throne, 'Tis all Divine, 'tis Caeſar's work alone: To pleaſe the Great is not the ſmalleſt praiſe, Not all can go to Corinth now adays; He never ſtrives that doth deſpair to gain, Well, doth He bravely act that doth obtain? Yet here or no where we may hope to find What we deſire: By one the weight's declin'd, Too great for his ſmall ſtrength, and little mind: Another ventures, takes, and bears the ſame, Or Vertue is a ſhow, an empty name, Or He that trys, walks right to Wealth and Fame. The Man that's ſilent, nor proclaims his want, Gets more than him that makes a loud complaint: It differs whether fairly you receive, Or rudely ſnatch the things the Great can give, Yet that's the chifeſt meaſure how to live: My Mother's poor, my Farm's too mean to ſell, And yet not yields enough to keep me well, My Niece a Portion wants, my Fortune's low, He that ſays thus, He crys aloud, Beſtow: And when He hath it, others riſe and ſay, Divide the Booty, We will ſhare the Prey; But could the talking Crow in quiet eat, His Envy had been leſs, but more his Meat: A ſmall retainer in a Noble's Train To fair Surrentum, that doth ſtill complain, The Road is bad, it Rains, 'tis very Cold; My Cheſt is rifled, and I've loſt my Gold; Does like the Jilting Whores that often mourn, Ah me! my Garter's loſt, my Hood is torn, Until at laſt unheeding the Complaint, We give no credit to their real want: A Man that hath been once abus'd grows ſhy, He views a Cripple with an heedleſs Eye; Nor lends a helping hand, altho He Swears By Iſis, ſoft'ning every Oath with Tears, Believe me I'me no Cheat, and ſadly crys, O Cruel, help the Lame: The Crowd replies, Go ſeek a Stranger to believe thy Lyes.
EPISTLE XVIII.

To his Friend Lollius.

Advice to his Friend how to behave himſelf, and get the Love of all.

FRee Lollius if I rightly hit thy mind, You will be always ſuch as you pretend, Not prove a Flatterer, and profeſs a Friend: For Friends and faithleſs Flatterers differ more, Unliker than a Matron and a Whore. But ſtay my Friend there is another Vice Juſt oppoſite, and almoſt worſe than this: A Clowniſh roughneſs, and unkindly cloſe, Unfriendly, ſtiff, and peeviſhly moroſe; Which doth commend her ſelf and ſtrive to pleaſe, With blackiſh Teeth, ſtretch't skin and Ruſtick dreſs, It prides its ſelf, and would be thought to be Clean perfect Vertue, and meer Liberty. Vertue doth Vice, as two Extreams, divide, Drawn up from both, and leans to neither ſide. This headlong to obey at every Feaſt, To pleaſe the great Ones jeers the meaner Gueſt, The rich Man's Nod doth ſo ſeverely dread, Corrects himſelf, and takes up what he ſaid, As if you heard a trembling School-boy ſay His Part, or the Rehearſal of a Play. That ſtrives for Trifles, and for Toys contends, He is in earneſt, what He ſays, defends: That I ſhould not be truſted right or wrong, Or be debarr'd the freedom of my Tongue; And not bawl what I pleaſe! To part with this I think another life too mean a price. The Queſtion is, Pray what? why which can boaſt Or Docilis or Caſt of knowing moſt Or whether thro Numicum been't as good To fair Brunduſium as the Appian road: Whom coſtly wenching, or a gawdy whore, Or whom the race, whom Dice makes quickly poor: Or who's a Fop, and who perfumes his hair Or's finer dreſt than his Eſtate will bear; Who for meer thirſt of Gold doth gather ſtore, And who out of pure fear of being poor: Thy rich friend better ſtor'd in all defects And Vice than Thee, or hates Thee or corrects, And as good Mothers he will oft adviſe, I wiſh you'd be more vertuous and more wiſe Than I my ſelf am now, I vow I doe; And faith, to ſpeak the truth, moſt times 'tis ſo. My wealth will lear my folly (ceaſe to ſtrive With me) Sir, you have ſcarce enough to live; Contract your Vices Sir, forbear to vye You muſt not take ſo great a range as I. The Man Cutrapelus would have undone He ſtreight preſented with a gawdy gown, That He grown happy in his fine attire, Might take new hopes and raiſe his wiſhes higher, Forgoe his honeſt trade for eaſy Vice, Sleep on till noon, and follow Whores and Dice, Take money up, till he hath ſpent his All, And drives a Cart for bread, or rots in Jayl: Pry not thro Secrets; What thou learn'ſt conceal Tho Wine and Anger rack Thee to reveal: Praiſe not thine own, or ſcorn thy friends delight; Nor, when he'd have thee hunt keep home and write. Thus Zethus once with his Amphion ſtrove, Twin brothers, till at laſt they joyn'd their Love; The ſofter harp grew mute, he left his quill, Amphion yielded to his Brother's will: Humor the great Ones, quick obedience yield To ſlight Commands, and when he takes the field With Nets, or Hawks, or Hounds, no ſport refuſe, Shake off thy lazy and ill-humor'd Muſe: That Thou may'ſt eat at night what Thou haſt Caught, And ſup with them; for this the Ancients taught, And this the Romans uſe, tis free from ſhame, 'Tis good for life, and health, and gets Thee fame. Since thou art well in health, art ſtrong to wound And fight the Bore, or to out-run the hound, None more genteil than You can caſt a Spear, You know when you within the liſts appear The Crouds all clap; Nay e'en your tender Age Endur'd the Wars, and fierce Cantabrian rage, Your Captain He, the brave and the Divine, Who brought our Enſigns from the Parthian Shrine, Redeem'd our Fame, and what e're Land remains Reſolves to make it feel the Roman Chains. But leſt you part and no excuſe can ſhow, Altho I muſt confeſs what e're you do Is fit, and decent, and becoming You: Sometimes you toy at home, your Boats divide, A ſquadron ſtands drawn up on either ſide: By your direction fir'd with martial rage As in the Actian fight, the Boys ingage, With Souldiers fury, and with Souldiers art; You one, your Brother leads the other part: Your Lake's rough Adria's flood, till one's or'ethrown, And ſudden Victory doth the other Crown: He that thinks you agree with his deſign, Will clap with both his hands, and favor thine. But to adviſe you, if you want advice, Take heed of whom you ſpeak, and what it is, Take heed to whom, avoid the buſy Men, Fly the inquiſitive, they'l talk agen, And tell what you have ſaid, a leaky Ear Can never hold what it ſhall chance to hear, 'Twill run all out, and what you once let fall It flys, and tis impoſſible to recall; If thy great friend keeps handſom Maid or Boy Be not in Love, and eager to enjoy, Leſt He beſtow that little gift to pleaſe, Or elſe deny, and highten thy diſeaſe. Praiſe none till well approv'd on ſober thoughts, Leſt after you ſhould bluſh for others faults. You prais'd a Raſcal, there you chanc't to err, Then don't defend him when his Crimes appear: But one approv'd when Scandals preſs, defend, Let him on Thee, and on thy Fame depend Whom envy bites, for thou may'ſt plainly ſee The danger will at laſt come o're to Thee: For your'e in danger when the Next's on fire, And Flames neglected often blaze the higher. To Court the Great-ones, and to ſooth their Pride, Seems a ſweet task to thoſe that never try'd; But thoſe that have, know well that danger's near, It is a tickliſh point, and mixt with fear. Do you endeavour whilſt you cut the Main, That no croſs Storm ſhould toſs Thee back again, The Active hate the Dull, the Sad Jocoſe, The Dull the Active, Merry the Moroſe; Stout Jolly Topers ſcorn the Sober Aſs, They hate thoſe fellows that refuſe their Glaſs; Altho they beg, altho they ſwear they dread The nightly fumes, fur'd mouth, and aching head: Put off all Clouds and Darkneſs from thy brow, Be Jolly, Gay, and Mirth and Humour ſhow, For modeſt Men are oft thought cloudy Souls, And Men of little talk, ill natur'd Fools: In every ſtate of Life beſure of this, Read o're thy moral Books, conſult the wiſe, How thou may'ſt live, how ſpend thine Age in Peace, Leſt fierce deſire, ſtill poor, diſturb thine Eaſe; Or Fears ſhould ſhake, or Cares thy Mind abuſe, Or ardent hope for things of little uſe. If Arts do Vertue breed, or Nature ſend, What leſſens Cares, what makes thy ſelf thy Friend, What calms Thee, Honor, or admired Wealth; Or cloſe retirement, and a life by ſtealth. When I, my Friend, do go to take repoſe, At cold Medela, where Degentia flows; Medela my belov'd, but little Town, With Cold and Froſt all gray and wrinkled grown: For what do you imagine that I care? What think, what make the ſubject of my prayer? Let me have what I have, or ſomewhat leſs, 'Twill ſtill be great enough for happineſs; And that I may, if Heaven more years will give, Live to my ſelf the time I have to live: Eſtate in Books, and Food to ſerve a year, Leſt I ſhould wavering hang 'twixt hope and fear: And this is all for which Mankind ſhould pray, And beg of Jove who gives and takes away; Let him but Life, and moderate Plenty find, And I'le provide my ſelf an happy mind.
EPISTLE XIX.

TO MECAENAS. 1. Of Poetry. 2. His own Excellencies. 3. Why not lik'd.

1. MY Lord, if what Cratinus ſays be right, Thoſe Verſes cannot live, thoſe Lines delight, Which Water drinkers Pen, in vain they Write. For e're ſince Bacchus did in wild deſign, With Fauns and Satyrs half-mad Poets joyn, The Muſes every morning ſmelt of Wine. From Homer's praiſe his love of Wine appears, And Ennius never dar'd to write of Wars Till heated well, let ſober dotards chooſe The Plodding Law, but never tempt a Muſe, This Law once made, the Poets ſtreight begin, They drunk all night, all day they ſtunk of Wine: Suppoſe a Man the courſeſt Gown ſhould wear, No Shoes, his Forehead rough, his look ſevere, And Ape great Cato in his Form and Dreſs; Muſt He his Vertues and his Mind expreſs? Whilſt dull Hyarbit wiſh't, and vainly ſtrove To ſpeak as ſmoothly, and as aptly move As ſweet Timagenes, and reach his Arts, He overſtrain'd himſelf, and broak his Parts: Examples Vice can imitate deceive: Should I by Chance, or a Diſeaſe be pale, The Sots would drink their bloodleſs Cummin all. Baſe Imitators, Slaves to others Wills, How oft you move my frowns, how oft my ſmiles? 2. I trod new paths, to others feet unknown; He that firſt ventures, leads the others on: I firſt the Romans keen Iambicks taught, In numerous ſmoothneſs, and in hight of thought, I match't Archilocus, I ſhow'd the Age His numbers, but forbore his murdering rage. But leſt you ſay that I fall ſhort of fame, Becauſe my Number's his, my Verſe the ſame; The Saphick ſweetens all his bitter vain, And grave Alcaick ſmooths his rougher ſtrain: The ſubject's different, different the Deſigns, And tho thro all a vertuous freedom ſhines, With no black Lines he daubs, no envious breath Doth ſoil Mens ſame, or Rhyme a Spouſe to death. This Verſe ne're heard by Latine Ears before, I firſt diſcover'd from the Grecian ſtore; And this delights me now that I am known, And read for theſe inventions of my own. 3. Now would you know why our ungrateful Rome, Doth praiſe my Poems when with me at home, But flout abroad; I'le freely tell the Cauſe: I do not beg the empty Crowd's Applauſe: I do not often treat, nor do I ſend My old caſt Suits, and bribe them to commend. I do not crowd to hear our Fops rehearſe, Nor do I praiſe, and clap our Nobles Verſe: I cannot run to every Pedant Fool, And beg that He would read my Book in's School: Hence ſprings my Wo; now if I ſay I fear, To bring dull Lines t'a crowded Theatre, And vaunt my Trifles, ſtreight, You jeer, you cry, And keep your Verſe alone for Caeſar's Eye: And proud you think that you alone can write Sweet hony lines, fine in thy own conceit: A tart reply to this I fear to give, Leſt his ſharp Nails ſhould ſcratch me whilſt I ſtrive. I do not like the place I freely ſay, Forbear a while, let's take another day; For Jeſt diſlike, Diſlike Contention bears, Contention Hate, and Hate breeds dreadful Wars.
THE CONCLUSION To his BOOK. I Know you long to viſit every Stall, You would be neatly bound, and ſet to Sale; The bars, that pleaſe the modeſt, trouble you, And you Commend, and Court the publick view, And mourn that you are hid, and ſeen by few. Go to the publick then, go where you ſtrive, Tho thou wert not bred thus, or taught to live: There ſhall be no return when once thour't gone, And thou wilt cry, Ah me! What have I done! What have I beg'd! When one ſhall call thee dull, And ſqueeze Thee when his Belly's quickly full. But now unleſs fond rage beſots my mind, Unleſs meer hatred to thy faults does blind, I Propheſie, and I am ſure 'tis true; You ſhall be lik'd and prais'd at Rome whilſt new; But when thou ſhalt be ſoil'd by every hand, Then ſlighted, and to common uſe prophan'd; To bind up Letters, and be torn, be toſt, And fly to other Countries every Poſt. Then I who have advis'd in vain, ſhall ſmile, As He that drove his Aſs t'a craggy Hill: For who would ſave a thing againſt its Will? At laſt in Schools thou ſhalt be thumb'd by Boys, And there grow fooliſh, old, and deaf with noiſe. But when at Evening many come to read, Tell them that I was meanly born and bred, My Father poor, of ſmall Eſtate poſſeſt, And that I ſtretch't my Wings beyond my Neſt. But as you cut me ſhort in Wealth, increaſe My Vertues, tell them I the greateſt pleaſe, A little Man, and ſtudious of my eaſe. And pettiſh too, I can be angry ſoon, My Paſſion's quickly rais'd, but quickly gone. Grown gray before my time, I hate the cold, And ſeek the warmth; and if they ask how old, Now Lepidus and Lollius are in Power, Tell them I'me Four and Forty and no more.
The End of the Firſt Book of Epiſtles.
EPISTLES. BOOK II.
Epiſtle I.

To Auguſtus. A Diſcourſe of Poetry.

WHen you alone ſuſtain the weighty Cares Of all the World, and manage Peace and Wars, The Roman State by Vertue's Rules amend, Adorn with Manners, and with Arms defend, To write a long Diſcourſe, to waſt your time, Would hinder publick good, and turn a Crime: The Ancient Heroes, though bleſt aboads Receiv'd when dead, exalted into Gods; Yet whilſt they liv'd with Men, and whilſt beſtow'd The greateſt Cares, and did the greateſt Good, Built Towns, made Laws, and brought delightful eaſe, And civiliz'd the Rational Savages; Complain'd that They ingrateful Maſters ſerv'd, And met far leſs rewards than They deſerv'd: He that kill'd Hydra, He deſign'd by Fate To quell the Monſters rais'd by Juno's hate; Tho He, the mighty He, had all ways try'd, Found Envy could be vanquiſht only when He dy'd: For thoſe are hated that excell the reſt, Altho when dead they are belov'd, and bleſt; The vigorous Ray torments the feeble ſight, Yet when the Sun is ſet, They praiſe the light: To Thee, great Caeſar, now we Altars give, We vow and ſwear by Thee e'en whilſt alive: For never yet the Gods kind hands beſtow'd, Nor ever will a Prince ſo great, ſo good: That ſhe prefers, that ſhe eſteems Thee more Than all the Heroes ſhe enjoy'd before, Than all that ſhe hath bred, or Greece can boaſt, In this, 'tis true, thy Rome is Wiſe and Juſt: But not in other things; the Ancient Plays, And Foreign Poets only ſhe can praiſe; The Preſent or Contempt, or Hate receive, 'Tis Crime enough that they are yet alive: Thus Old-Loves do admire the Ancient Laws, The Sabines Leagues have their deſerv'd applauſe; On muſty Leaves at awful diſtance look, Age makes it Reverend, and exalts the Book: Give him the Bards old Songs, Oh Rare! Divine! I ſwear 'tis good, a Muſe ſang every Line: But if becauſe the oldeſt are the beſt Amongſt the Greeks, the ſame unequal Teſt Muſt try the Latines too; in ſhort, No doubt Plumes have nought hard within, nor Nuts without: We ſit on Fortune's Top, We ſing, We write, And Wreſtle better than the Greeks can Fight. If length of Time will better Verſe like Wine, Give it a brisker Taſt, and make it fine; Come tell me then, I would be gladly ſhow'd, How many years will make a Poem good: One Poet writ an Hundred years ago, What is He Old, and therefore Fam'd or no? Or is He New, and therefore Bald appears? Let's fix upon a certain term of Years. He's good that liv'd an Hundred Years ago, Another wants but One, is He ſo too? Or is He New, and Damn'd for that Alone? Well, He's Good too, and Old that wants but One. And thus I'le argue on, and bate no more, And ſo by one and one waſt all the ſtore: And ſo confute him, who eſteems by Years, A Poem's goodneſs from the date it bears. Who nor admires, nor yet approves a Line But what is Old, and Death hath made Divine. Ennius, the lofty Ennius, and the Wiſe, That ſecond Homer, in our Criticks Eyes, Is looſe in's Poems, and correct in few, Nor takes he care to prove his Dreams were true, He ſhows ſo little of great Homer's Soul. "Naevius is learn'd by heart, and dearly ſold, "So Sacred is his Book, becauſe 'tis Old. When Accius and Pacuvius are compar'd, Both are eſteem'd, both meet with great reward; Pacuvius all the Criticks Voices gains For Learning, Accius for his lofty ſtrains. Afranius ſhows us ſoft Menander's Flame, And Plautus rivals Epicharmus Fame: Cecilius grave, and Terence full of Art, Theſe Rome admires, and theſe ſhe learns by heart. Theſe are the Worthies of her Theater, Theſe ſhe applauds with heat, and crowds to hear: Theſe ſhe eſteems the Glories of the Stage, And counts from Livy's to our preſent Age. The Critic Mobile will be medling ſtill, Sometimes their Judgment's good, and ſometimes ill: Thus when they praiſe the Old, and when prefer, Beyond compare to all the New, They Erre: But when they grant the Ancients Books and Plays Are often dull, and uncorrect in Phraſe, Their words unfits, or elſe their main deſign, Their Judgment's rational, and jumps with mine: I do not damn old Livy's Rhymes as dull, For which I often ſmarted when at School; But that he ſhould be thought Correct, Sublime, And far before the Poems of our Time; That one poor Chance-good Line or two at moſt, The only Thing that all his Books can boaſt, Not only ſhould attone for what's amiſs, But recommend the whole; I'me vext at this. I hate a Fop ſhould ſcorn a faultleſs Page, Becauſe 'tis New, nor yet approv'd by Age: And then admiring all the Ancient Plays, Not only pardon their defects, but Praiſe. Should I but doubt if Atta's Plays are good. Our Old-Loves ſtraight would cry the Youngſter's Proud; He's impudent, nor thinks thoſe Plays exact, Which Roſcius, and grave Aeſop us'd to act: Becauſe they Judge by their own Appetites, And think nought ſweet, but what their taſt delights; Or to ſtoop to their Juniors Rules diſdain, Or elſe to think what once they learn't was vain, And only fit to be forgot again; Thoſe that applaud the Songs of former Times, The dotiſh Bards old Verſe, or Monkiſh Rhimes; Who would be thought to have a ſharper Eye, And in thoſe Poems numerous Graces ſpy, In which They ſee no more fine Things than I; 'Tis not to praiſe the Old, but ſcorn, abuſe, And hate New Books, and damn the Modern Muſe. Had Greece done thus, had ſhe ſtill ſcorn'd the New, What had been Old, what worthy Publick View? When Wars were done, and Greece diſſolv'd in Peace, When Fortune taught them how to live at Eaſe, They wreſtled, Painted, ſung, theſe Arts they lov'd, Theſe They did much admire, and theſe improv'd; In every Picture vulgar Eyes could find The Face exact, and almoſt ſaw the Mind; Then Racing Vaulting then, the Plays and Stage, Each took their turn to pleaſe the wanton Age; Like Boys at Nurſe, they eagerly deſir'd, But ſtraight were cloy'd, and left what they admir'd. For what diſguſts our fancies, what doth pleaſe, But may be chang'd? theſe are the fruits of Eaſe, This happy fortune bears, this ſprings from Peace. 'Twas heretofore a credit here at Rome, To mind a Shop all day, and keep at home; Attend Ones Client, and promote his Cauſe, Inform his Ignorance, and teach the Laws; To make good Debts, and drive a gainful Trade, And know what Intereſt may be juſtly paid: Inſtruct the Young, and hear the Old Debate, What will increaſe, what ruine an Eſtate: This Humor's chang'd, now Reigns a New delight, All muſt be Authors now, and all muſt Write: All ſtrive to get the Bays, and all Rehearſe, They Dine, they Sup in Rhyme, and drink in Verſe. E'en I that ſwear I never try'd a Muſe, E'en I'me forſworn, my Deeds my Words accuſe; My Quill is ſcribling too; before 'tis light I call for Paper, Pen, and Ink, and write. He that's no Pilot is afraid to Sail, Urge him to guide a Ship, you ſha'nt prevail, And only Doctors will pretend to heal. By Smiths alone, are Locks and Staples made, And none pretend but Artiſts in the Trade. But now for Poetry we all are fit, And skilful, or unskilful all muſt write; And yet this Madneſs thouſand Goods commend, A thouſand pleaſures wait, and all attend; A Poet's ſeldom Covetous, or Nice, Safe and ſecure within himſelf he lyes. He minds and loves his Rhymes, and thoſe alone; Tell him his Goods are burnt, his Slaves are gone, Or his Fields loſt; He laughs, nor ſtrives to cheat His Ward, or Friend, a ſtranger to deceit: He's thrifty, feaſts upon a diſh of Peaſe, And lives content with Houſhold-Bread and Cheeſe: Unfit for War, yet they are good in Peace. (For great things by the help of ſmall increaſe) Inſtruct our looſeneſs, and inform our Eaſe. They teach our Boys to hate all words Obſcene, To follow generous Rules, and ſpeak like Men. And then ſlide gently down with Vertuous Rules Into the tender Breaſt, and form their Souls; Reſtrain their Envy, and correct their rage, Tell them what's good, inſtruct their tender Age, With fit Examples, and their griefs aſſwage. How had our Sacred Songs and Hymns been made, And how our Pray'rs as high as Heav'n convey'd; Did not the Muſes Poets ſancies raiſe, To teach us how to pray, and how to praiſe? In Verſe the fawning Quire her Plagues bewails, And begs a ſpeedy comfort, and prevails; Good Weather, happy years, and much encreaſe; Their Pray'rs are ſtreightway heard, all ſmile in Peace. The Year is rich, the Fields with Plenty flow, Verſe ſoftens Gods above, and Gods below. The Ancient Swains, thoſe temperate happy Swains, Contented Sovereigns of their little Plains. When all their Corn was hous'd would make a Feaſt, Unbend their Minds, and lay them down to reſt; Their Cares diſſolv'd into a happy Thought, And Minds enjoy'd, the reſt their labour ſought. A Pig on Tellus's Altars left his Blood, And Milk from large brown Bowls to Sylvan flow'd: Their Wife, their Neighbours, and their pratling Boys Were call'd, all taſted of the Country Joys: They Drank, they Danc't, they Sang, made wanton Sport, Enjoy'd their ſelves, for life they knew was ſhort. Hence grew the Liberty of the looſer Muſe, Hence they grew Scurrilous, and would abuſe; Hence thoſe looſe Dialogues at Marriage Feaſts, Yet ſtill they were but Mirth, and Country Jeſts. At laſt they ſhew'd their Teeth, and ſharply bit, And Railery uſurp't the Place of Wit. Good Perſons were abus'd, and ſuffer'd wrong, They loudly talk't, no Law to curb their Tongue: The wounded griev'd, the ſmart provok't their Hate, And all untoucht bewail'd the Common Fate. Till Laws commanded to regard Mens Fame, Severely laſh the Vice, but ſpare the Name. Fear made them civil, and deſign to write With modeſty; ſpeak well, and to delight: Greece conquer'd did the Conqueror o'recome, Poliſh't the rude, and ſent her Arts to Rome: The former roughneſs flow'd in ſmoother Rhymes, And good facetious Humor pleas'd the Times: Yet they continu'd long, and ſtill we find, Some little marks of the old Ruſtick mind, Some of the Scurrilous Humor left behind. 'Twas long before Rome read the Graecian Plays, For Cares took up her Nights, and Wars her Days: Till Carthage ruin'd ſhe grew ſoft in Peace, And then inquir'd what weighty Sophocleſs, What Eſchylus, what Theſpis taught the Age, What good, what profit did commend the Stage. And then they turn'd their Plays, their thoughts were high, By Nature great, and fit for Tragedy. But to review, to blot what once was writ, Oh that was mean, it was a ſhame to Wit: The Comic then was thought the eaſier way, Becauſe 'tis common Humor makes the Play; Yet 'tis the hardeſt, for the faults appear So Monſtrous, and the Criticks ſo ſevere, That e'en their greateſt Mercy cannot ſpare. Plautus, 'tis true, obſerves the Rules of Art, His well drawn Figures ſuit with every part; He Paints an Amorous Fop, a Jilting Jade, A careful Father, or deſigning Bawd: But Dorſen rudely draws his Paraſites, How looſe his Lines, how uncorrect he writes! He writes for Gold, and if his Pocket's cram'd, He cares not, let the Play be Clap't or Damn'd: But He that Writes to have applauſe for Wit, If unconcern'd the grave Spectator ſit, He dyes; but if attentive, then He's proud, They like my Fancy, and my Plays are good: So ſmall, and ſo contemn'd a thing will raiſe, Or damp Mens eager Thoughts that write for Praiſe: I like not this, and I forſwear the Stage, If clap't I muſt be proud, if damn'd muſt rage. And who would be ſo bold to write, that knew The Judging Men of Honor are but few? The Vulgar Thouſands, who might hiſs the Play, And if our Nobles ſhould diſlike their way, Would huff, and ſwear, and quarrel ſtraight and fight; Or leave the Stage to ſee a Puppet-ſight; Or to the Bears, for that's the Crowds delight. But now our Nobles too are Fops and Vain, Neglect the Senſe, but love the Painted Scene; Four hours are ſpent in Show to pleaſe the ſight, A tedious Battle, and at laſt a Flight; Then Kings in Chains, and to reward their Toil, Corinthian Statues, and a world of Spoil. Would not Democritus if now alive, Split here, would He theſe Fooleries forgive? And if the Vulgar with a wild amaze, Neglect the Actors, and forſake the Plays, And on an Elephant or a Panther gaze: Sure He would look, and in the gaping Crowd, Find better Humor than the Actor ſhow'd. Beſides, He needs muſt think they write in vain, And teach deaf Aſſes, prodigal of their pain: For who can judge, or who can hear the Wit, When Noiſe and ſtrange Confuſion fills the Pit? As when the Winds daſh Waves againſt the Shore, Or laſh the Woods, and all the Monſters Roar; So great the ſhout when rich and ſtrangely dreſt, The Player comes, they clap his gawdy Veſt. Well hath the Actor ſpoken? Not a Line: Why then d'ye clap? Oh, Sir, his Cloaths are fine. But leſt you think that I that write no Plays, Or envy their Deſign, or poorly Praiſe; I fairly grant thoſe Poets Wit that Rule My Paſſions as they pleaſe, diſturb my Soul; And then by a ſhort turn my thoughts relieve, Whoſe lively Fiction makes me laugh or grieve. Whoſe well wrought Scenes natural and juſt appear; I ſee the place, and fancy I am there. But thoſe that hate and fly the cenſuring Stage, Yet Write to pleaſe the Readers of the Age. Make them, Great Caeſar, to improve their vein, Review their Poems o're and o're again. If you would have them live, be great in praiſe, And by juſt Study ſtrive to win the Bays. We Poets often damn our ſelves that dare, (As I have done) when you are full of Care, To offer Verſe; or when we oſt repine, If a good friend finds but one faulty Line. Or when rehearſing we with ſighs complain, My fancy's not perceiv'd, I write in vain; And then unask't repeat it o're again. Or when we think, when once our Fame is known, We ſtraightway ſhall be ſent for up to Town; Enjoy a Penſion, or a piece of Land, And write new Poems at the King's Command. And yet, Great Sir, 'tis worth your while to know, What, Caeſar, future times muſt think of you. And who muſt be diſpoſer of your Fame, Who tell to diſtant Worlds your glorious Name: By whom your Life; by whom your Wars be Writ, Actions too Sacred for a Common Wit. Cherillus the Pelloean Youth approv'd, Him He rewarded well, and him He lov'd. His dull uneven Verſe, by great good Fate, Got him his favour, and a fair Eſtate. Tho juſt as Ink when touch't ſtill leaves a ſtain, Dull Rhymes beſmear, and noble Acts prophane: Yet He the ſame that bought dull Rhimes ſo dear, In meaner things he took a greater care, Let none but learn'd Apelles paint my Face, Lyſippus only muſt Deſign't in Braſs. Thus ſpake his Laws, in this I grant he ſhow'd His Skill ſufficient, and his Judgment good. But when for Verſe, he choſe ſo mean a Thing, How poor his Judgment? How below a King? But Virgil, Varius, and the learned few, That are applauded, and belov'd by You; Declare your Skill is great, your Judgment true. The Honors you beſtow do raiſe your Fame, They gratefully reflect upon your Name, And kindly praiſe the Author whence they came: Nor can Ones Face be with more Art deſign'd In Braſs, than in a Poem thoughts and mind: E'en I deſire to leave the humble Plain, I would be high, and write a lofty ſtrain. I wiſh I could deſcribe your Wars, and ſhow How Barbarous Nations fear, and how they bow. How you have raz'd their Towns, their Ocean ſtain'd With Blood, and with ſtrong Towers bound up their Land. How War's Exil'd, and Peace and Plenty reign, And Janus Temple now is ſhut again: How mean, and how ſubmiſſive Parthians come, How under Thee they fear and honor Rome: All this I would, but Oh I want the Wit Your Deeds muſt be by ſome high Genius Writ. Whoſe lofty Soul, his tow'ring thoughts can raiſe, As high as You have done, and take the Bays, 'Tis Treaſon, Sir, to give you meaner Praiſe. I know my weakneſs, and I muſt refuſe, A task too weighty for my tender Muſe, A ſordid Commendation hurts our Friend, And thoſe that meanly praiſe, do diſcommend: For what's derided by the Cenſuring Crowd, Is thought on more than what is juſt and Good: I hate thoſe obligations that diſgrace: I am not fond to have an ugly Face Deſign'd for me expos'd to public View: Nor Praiſe in dull Verſe, tho the Praiſe be true. I would not ly at every Grocer's door, To wrap Tobacco, or do ſomething more. I would not have a Verſe that bears my Name Lye under Pies; 'tis an ill way to Fame.
EPISTLE II.

To his Friend Julius Florus. (1.) He makes an excuſe for not ſending the Odes he promiſed. (2.) Why He wrote no more. (3.) The faults of the Poets. (4.) Directions for Writing. (5.) He deſigns graver Studies. (6.) Againſt Covetouſneſs. (7.) The uncertainty of every thing.

1. DEar Florus, Nero's Friend, the Great, the Brave, Suppoſe one come to ſell a Clowniſh Slave, And ſpeak Thee thus, This Boy is neatly made, He's ſound from Head to Foot, a pretty Lad. For Twenty Pound he's Yours, the Bargain's fair, He'll ſerve, and fit your humor to a hair: He's yet ſoft Clay, he'll take a Stamp with eaſe, And you may form him, Sir, to what you pleaſe. He ſpeaks ſome Greek, and at a drinking Match He'll bear the Bob, and ſing a merry Catch. To praiſe too much like a deſign appears, When He extolls that would put off his Wares: I a' n't in want, I am in debt to none, What e're I have, tho little, 'tis my own; Few, Sir, would tell you this, and tell you true, Nor I my ſelf to any one but you; This Boy was faulty once, He ſtay'd at play, And when He fear'd the laſh he run away: Buy if you like him now his faults are told. The dealing's fair, and he may take your Gold, And ne're be thought a cheat for what He ſold. You bought a faulty Rogue, he told you ſo, And yet you vex him, and unjuſtly ſue. At parting, Sir, I ſaid I was unfit, Grown lazy, impotent, and ſlow to write: Leſt for not Writing You ſhould chide, accuſe My ſilence as unkind, and ſcorn my Muſe; Ah what did that avail to ſet me free! Yet if You ſue me, Sir, the Law's for me. But You complain beſide, you ſay, my Lord; I promis'd you ſome Odes, yet break my word. Thro thouſand dangers and a world of pain, 2 Lucullus Souldier, who had ſtrove to gain A little mony, what with care he kept, Once tir'd, loſt every penny as he ſlept. Thence He a very Wolf and angry grown Both with himſelf and Foe ruſht boldly on, And with his Teeth as 'twere o'rethrew a Town Tho ſtrong and well provided with a Guard, This got him credit, and a large reward; Soon after when they were to ſtorm a Town The Captain choſe out him, and eg'd him on, With ſuch affection, ſuch warm words he preſt As might inflame the coldeſt Coward's breaſt: Go where thy Vertue calls, go Conqueror go, Thy Friends ſhall give rewards, and ſpoyls thy Foe. But Crafty He reply'd, No Town I'le force, No Sir, He'l venture that hath loſt his purſe. Rome bred me firſt, ſhe taught me Grammar rules, And all the little Authors red in Schools. A little more than this learn'd Athens ſhow'd, And taught me how to ſeparate Bad from Good; The Academick Sect poſſeſt my Youth, And 'midſt their pleaſant ſhades I ſought for Truth. But rough Times drove me from my bleſt retreat, And toſt me thro the Troubles of the Great. Tho rude in Arms, and tho well learn'd in fears, The tide yet bore me on to Civil Wars. When thoſe had clipt my wings and brought me down, My ſmall Farm loſt, and all my mony gone; Thoſe with my Shield I left by ſhameful flight; Bold Poverty firſt ſet me on to write. But now I have enough to keep off want, (That is as much as Heaven it ſelf can grant) What Helebore could cure my wild diſeaſe, Should I prefer a Muſe before my Eaſe! On me each circling Year does make a prey, It ſteals my Humor, and my Mirth away. And now at laſt would ſteal my Poems too From my Embrace; what would You have me do? Beſides not all admire, not all approve One ſort; You Odes, Iambics others love, Others in keeneſt Satyrs rage delight; Sharp ſalt alone can raiſe their appetite: Methinks I've three envited to a Feaſt, A different palate too, to every Gueſt. What ſhall, what ſhall I not provide? What You Commend and eat, diſguſts the other two. Beſides, do'ſt think that I can mind a Song Whilſt here at Rome 'midſt all the noiſe and throng. Of different Cares, one beggs me paſs my word For him, then I muſt wait upon my Lord, To hear his Verſes, and I muſt be gone, Leave all my other work and cares alone, And march from one to t'other end of Town "But, Sir, there's room, the Street is clean and ſtill, "And you may walk and think on what you will. Yes, here a Waggon bears a logg of Wood Or weighty Stone, and groans beneath the Load. Sad Funeral here do juſtle with a Dray, And there the ſweaty Carman bawls for way. Here a Mad Dog, and there a Sow doth fright, Go now 'midſt this, and lofty Verſes write. Each Writer hates the Town and Woods approves, Right Son of Bacchus pleas'd with ſhades and groves. Yet 'midſt theſe Tumults You would have me try To trace the narrow ſteps of Poetry. The Man that takes learn'd Athens cloſe retreat, Who by himſelf doth ſtudy to be great; When he hath ſtudy'd ſeven full tedious Years, Grown old and grey upon his Books and Cares: Yet after all this time and pains beſtow'd, Grows a meer ſtock, and's laught at by the Crowd. Then 'midſt the Waves and Tempeſts of the Town, Where Cares do toſs and vexing buſineſs drown, Can I compoſe my thoughts, can I aſpire, And Joyn fit words to tune the Roman Lyre? 3. Two Brothers liv'd at Rome, a Lawyer one, And one a Rhetor noted both in Town, Vain glorious both, and ſtudious of a name, They blew their Trumpets to each others Name. They one another did extreamly pleaſe; And are not Poets frantick quite like Theſe? I Odes, and one writes Elegy; Divine, A curious work, poliſht by all the Nine. See how we ſtrut, and what a port we bear, With what high ſcorn look, o're the Theater, The other Poets ſneak and ſcarce appear. But if You've leaſure ſtand aſide and know Why each admires and praiſes t'other ſo, Why wreath the Crown, and why the Bays beſtow. We quarrel, and with equal Fortune fight, True Samnites draw the lingring War till Night. Then ſtrait in his Opinion I'me divine Alcaeus, well, and what is He in Mine. Callimachus, or would he more? Mimnermus Fame He gets, and glorys in his borrow'd Name. A Thouſand things I ſuffer to aſſwage The waſpiſh Poets, and to cool their rage; Becauſe I write my ſelf, I plead their Cauſe, I ſmooth, and humbly beg the Crowds applauſe; But when grown ſober I ſhake off my Muſe, I'le ſtop my Ears, and unleſs hir'd to hear, refuſe: Dull Rhymes are laugh't at, yet we ne're give o're, Our Writers ſmile, and e'en themſelves adore, If you are ſlow to clap they ſwear 'tis ſpite, And praiſe themſelves what happy they have writ. 4. But He that hath a curious Piece deſign'd, When He begins muſt take a Cenſor's mind. Severe and honeſt, and what words appear, Too light and trivial or too weak to bear The weighty ſenſe, nor worth the Readers care, Shake off; tho ſtubborn, they are loth to move, And tho we fancy dearly, tho we love. Good words, now grown obſcure, bring gently forth, Relieve them from the dark, and ſhow their worth Us'd by the Antients tho conſum'd by rage Of eating time, and grown deform'd with Age: And take new words begot by Parent uſe, Prune the luxuriant, and Correct the looſe. Pure, flowing, as a River roul along, And bring new plenty to the Roman Tongue; Reform, and cut ſuperfluous Branches off; Strengthen the weaker words, and ſmooth the rough: Now pain'd, now eas'd, as one that muſt put on Now wanton Satyrs, now a heavy Clown: Now I had rather be a little Witt, So my dull Verſe my own dear ſelf delight, Then know my Faults, be vext, and dy with ſpight. An Argive Gentleman as Stories ſay, Did always fancy that he ſaw a Play, The Actors dreſs, and well wrought Scenes appear, And clap't and ſmil'd in th' empty Theater. In all Things elſe he ſhew'd a ſober Mind, A loving Neighbor and an honeſt Friend; Kind to his Wife, and generous to his Slave, Nor when he ſaw the Barrel broach't would rave. Would ſhun an open Well, and dangerous Pitts, And ſeem a perfect Man, and in his Witts, Him when his tender Friends with Coſt and Pains Had cur'd, and Phyſic gently purg'd his Brains, He cry'd, Ah me! my Friends I am undone, You've ruin'd me, now all my pleaſure's gone; You have deſtroy'd, whilſt you deſign'd to ſave, Y've loſt the pleaſant'ſt Cheat that man could have. 5. 'Tis time now to be wiſe, forſake my Toys, And leave my Verſes proper ſport for Boys. Not follow Words and Numerous Songs contrive, But ſeek fit meaſures, and true rules to live. 6. If what you drink ſhould make your heats increaſe, Would you not tell the Doctor your diſeaſe? Now when the more you have, you crave the more, When Floods of Store, ſhall make you thirſt for ſtore, Won't you confeſs and this diſtemper own? All this I uſe to think on when alone. Suppoſe You had a Wound, and One had ſhow'd An Herb, which you apply'd but found no good, Would You be fond of this, increaſe your pain, And uſe the fruitleſs remedy again? Thus when You hear on whom kind Heaven beſtows Great heaps of Wealth, they ſtreight their folly looſe. And yet you cannot find your ſelf more wiſe, Becauſe more rich, you I follow their advice. Could Wealth with God-like Prudence Minds Inſpire, Cure them of vexing Fear, and fond Deſire. Then you ſhould bluſh, if all the World could ſhow, A ſober Man, more covetous than You. If that's o • r own, which powerful Coin procures, And Uſe, as Lawyers ſay, makes ſomething ours; The Field that feeds thee's thine; rich Orbus ploughs, His Servant that Manures his Land, and Sows, Harrows the fruitful Clod, that muſt afford Good Corn to Thee, confeſſes thee his Lord: One pays his Money, and receives agen, Eggs, Pullets, Grapes, or elſe a flask of Wine. And thus by theſe degrees the Farm he buys, Bought at three Thouſand pound, or at a greater price. Well then, what difference is it whether now, You pay for what you have, or did it long agoe? Thoſe Purchaſers that Veijs Fields have gain'd, And large Aricia's Plains, tho rich in land, Yet even now buy every Herb they eat, They buy each ſtick of Wood to boyl their Meat. Altho they think not ſo, and call the Grounds Their own, which yonder friendly Poplar bounds. As if that could be thine, that call'd thy own, Which every Moment's hurry'd up and down, And now to this, and now to 'tother thrown, Which Money, Fraud or Flattery command, And ſnatch from one, to fill another's Hand: So ſince perpetual Uſe to none's allow'd, But Heir crowds Heir, as in a rowling Flood Wave urges Wave, ah what doth it avail, To joyn large Groves to Grove, and Vale to Vale, If Death with equal hand, ſtrikes Great and Small, Death unrelenting, and that never ſpares, Not to be brib'd with Gold, or won by Tears: Gold, Jewels, Statues, Marble, Ivory, Paint, Cloth of Gold, and Suits of pretious dye, Gay Purple, Silver, ſome are wont to crave, Yet cannot get, and ſome don't care to have. Why of two Twins, the one his Pleaſure loves, Prefers his Sports to Herod's fragrant Groves; The other rich, and greedy of his Gain, With Fire and Iron tames his woody Plain, He drives the heavy Plough from Morn till Night, His Labour's pleaſure, and his Pain delight: That Genius only knows, that's wont to wait, On birth-day Stars, the guider of our Fate, Our Nature's God, that doth his Influence ſhed, Eaſy to any Shape, or good or bad: When Natures wants require, I will be free, Nor care what my bold heir will think of me, I'le uſe my little Heap, tho he be griev'd, Becauſe I leave no more than I receiv'd, Yet I the ſame would know, what difference lyes Between free ſpending, and looſe ſquandring vice, And how far Thrift's remov'd from Avarice. For ſure it differs much to waſt our Store, And to ſpend freely, and not ſtrive for more: And as i'th' five days feaſt, of old, the Boy, Take the ſhort Sweets, and as in haſt enjoy. I am not rich, nor do I gape for more, But let me not be ſcandalouſly poor, And let my Ship be great, or be it ſmall, If I the ſame, the very, I can ſail.
EPISTLE III.

To the Piſones, or the Art of Poetry.

 SUppoſe a Painter ſhould a Canvas ſpread, To draw a Piece, and paint a Womans head, Then a Mares neck; and then from different things, Take different Parts, and cover all with Wings: Then a Fiſh tail; purſue his ſenſeleſs thought, And mix the whole Creation in a draught, And all theſe Parts in ſtrange proportion joyn, Would you not laugh to ſee this wild Deſign? Believe me, Sirs, that Book is like this Piece, Where every Part ſo ſtrangely diſagrees, Like ſick Mens Dreams, there's neither head nor tail, But ſtrange Confuſion, ſhapeleſs Monſters all: Poets and Painters equally may dare, In bold Attempts, they claim an equal ſhare, And may do any thing: All this we know, This freedom too, we mutually allow; And yet this leave can give no juſt pretence, To fight the ſteddy Rules of Common Senſe, And joyn quite Oppoſites, the Wild and Tame; The Snake and Dove, the Lion and the Lamb. Next great Beginnings, and in high Deſigns, Some ſcatter here and there few gawdy lines, Which gliſter finely, when a Grove's their Theme, A pleaſant wood, or elſe a purling Stream: How with the Flood, their Fancies ſmoothly flow! How variouſly they paint the Heavenly Bow! But now perhaps none of theſe Themes agree, Perhaps thou haſt ſome skill to paint a Tree, But what of that? what will this Art perform? Wert thou to draw a Shipwrack, or a Storm, Deſcribe a Mariner, how with panting breath, He blows the Floods, and keeps out entring Death; Whilſt with one hand deſpairing Life he ſaves, The other graſps his Riches on the Waves? When you a mighty Butt reſolv'd to caſt, Why doth it dwindle to a Pint at laſt? In ſhort, in all you write let Art controul, And keep the ſame juſt Tenor thro the whole. But Sirs, moſt Poets now are finely caught, By ſhow of right deluded to a fault: By ſtriving to be ſhort, obſcure they grow; And when they would be ſmooth, they ſink too low; Their Spirits fail: and ſome that would be high, Streight ſwell; and when they ſhould but walk, they fly: Whilſt ſome too cautious fear the Winds will roar, And waters toſs; nor dare to leave the Shore. Another Staring fancy wildly roves, And placeth Bores in Floods, and Trouts in Groves: Thus, if it wants juſt Art, a cautious Fear Of Erring is a certain way to Err. That Graver yonder in th' Emilian Square, Can hit the Nails, or imitate the hair, But he's a Sot, unhappy in his Art; Becauſe he cannot faſhion every part, And make the whole compleat; ſhould I compoſe, I'de rather freely chooſe an ugly noſe With two black Eyes, black hair exactly trim, To make me more deform'd, than be like him. You Writers try the vigor of your Muſe, And what her ſtrength will bear, and what refuſe, And after that an equal Subject chooſe. For he that doth this well, and chuſes right, His Method will be clear, his Words be fit. In this, or I miſtake, conſiſts the grace, And force of Method, to aſſign a place, For what muſt now, what by and by be ſaid, What for the preſent time muſt be delaid; What Thoughts they muſt improve, what Notions ſlight, If they will aim at praiſe in all they write. Be cautious in your Words, invent but few, We're puzled rather, than we're pleas'd with new: Yet 'twill be Art, and 'twill procure thee praiſe, If well apply'd, and in a handſome Phraſe, You make new Words ſeem eaſy, plain, and known: We all will clap, and cry 'twas bravely done. But if you would unheard of things expreſs; And cloath new Notions in a Modern dreſs; Invent new Words, we can indulge a Muſe, Until the Licence riſe to an Abuſe: And thoſe are beſt, that do but gently fall, Juſt vary'd from the Greek Original: For why ſhould Varius, why ſhould Virgil be deny'd, What Plautus and Cecilius wiſely did? And for what reaſon ſhould the Fops reſent, If I but few, and modeſtly invent. When Cato's Stile and Ennius lofty Song, With various ſtore enrich't our Mother Tongue, 'Twas ſtill allow'd, and 'twill be ſtill allow'd, To make new Words, plain to be underſtood: As Leaves on Trees do with the turning Year, The former fall, and others will appear; Juſt ſo it is in Words, one Word will riſe, Look green, and flouriſh, when another dyes. All We, and Ours, are in a changing State, Juſt Nature's Debt and muſt be paid to Fate: Great Caeſar's Mole, that braves the furious Tides, Where now ſecure from Storms, his Navy rides: E'en that drain'd Lake, where former Ages row'd, A great unfruitful Waſt, tho now 'tis plough'd, Bears Corn, and ſends the neighbouring Citys food: Thoſe new Canales, that bound fierce Tiber's force, That teach the Streams to take a better Courſe, And ſpare the Plough-man's hopes: e'en theſe muſt waſte, Then how can feeble Words pretend to laſt? Some words that have, or elſe will feel decay, Shall be reſtor'd, and come again in play, And words now fam'd, ſhall not be fancy'd long, They ſhall not pleaſe the Ear, or move the Tongue: As Uſe ſhall theſe approve, and thoſe condemn, Uſe the ſole Rule of Speech, and Judg ſupreme. How we ſhould write of Battles, Wars and Kings, And ſuit with mighty Numbers, mighty Things, Firſt Homer ſhow'd, and by Example taught, He wrote as nobly, as his Heroes fought: In Verſes long and ſhort, Grief firſt appear'd, In thoſe they mourn'd paſt Ills, and future fear'd: But ſoon theſe lines with Mirth and Joy were fill'd, And told when Fortune, or a Miſtriſs ſmil'd: But who theſe Meaſures was the firſt that wrote, The Criticks doubt, and cannot end the doubt: Archilochus was arm'd, by injur'd Rage, With keen Iambicks, He did firſt engage With that ſharp foot, and left it to the Stage; For 'tis a ſounding Foot, and full of force, And fit, as made on purpoſe, for diſcourſe: In Lyrick numbers Gods, and Heroe's ſound, The ſwifteſt Horſe is prais'd or Wreſtler crown'd: Feaſts, Wine, and open Mirth, or Myrtle Shades, The Cares of Love, or Tears of ſighing Maids. Unleſs all Matters I exactly hit, What juſt Pretence have I to be a Wit? What claim have I to the Poetick Name? What fair Pretenſions to put in for Fame? Or why ſhould I conceal my want of Skill, Abſurdly modeſt, and be fooliſh ſtill, Rather than ſhow my Want, demand Supplies, From richer Parts, and ſo at laſt be Wiſe? A Conick Story hates a Tragick Stile, Bombaſt ſpoyls humer, and diſtorts a Smile: And Tragical Thyeſtes barbarous Feaſt, Scorns Mean and Common words, and hates a Jeſt; Let every Subject have what fits it beſt: Yet Comedy may be allow'd to riſe, And rattle in a Paſſion or Surprize; And Tragedy in humble words muſt weep, The Stile muſt ſuppliant ſeem, and ſeem to creep: Peleus and Telephus exil'd and poor, Muſt leave their Flights, and give their Bombaſt o're; If they would keep their well-pleas'd Audience long, And raiſe their juſt Reſentments for their wrong: 'Tis not enough, that Plays are neatly wrought, Exactly form'd, and of an even Plot, They muſt be taking too, Surpriſe, and Seize, And force our Souls which way the Writers pleaſe. We laugh or weep, as we ſee others do, Our Souls agree, and take their Paſſions too: My grief with others juſt proportion bears, To make me weep, you muſt be firſt in Tears: Then Telephus I can believe thy moan, And think thy Miſeries are all my own: But if thy part be ill, or acted ill, Unheeding thy Complaint, I ſleep or ſmile: Sad words ſuit well with Grief, with Joy the looſe, Grave the Severe, and Merry the Jocoſe: 'Tis Nature ſtill that doth the Change begin, She faſhions, and ſhe forms our Souls within, To all the Changes, and the Turns of Fate; Now ſcrews our Minds to an unuſual height, And ſwells us into rage; or bending low, She cramps our Souls with dull contracting Woe; She makes us ſtoop beneath a weighty wrong, Then tells the various Paſſions with the Tongue: Now if his Speech doth not his Fortune fit, He will be hiſt by Gallery, Box, and Pit. You muſt take care, and uſe quite different words, When Servants ſpeak, or their commanding Lords, When grave old Men, or head-ſtrong Youths diſcourſe, When ſtately Matrons, or a buſy Nurſe; A cheating Tradeſman, or a labouring Clown, A Greek or Aſian, bred at Court or Town: Keep to old Tales, or if you muſt have new, Feign things coherent, that may look like true: If you would draw I read, ſcripta; in honoratum, &c. Achilles in diſgrace, Then draw Achilles, as Achilles was; Impatient, fierce, inexorable, proud, His Sword his Law, his own right hand his God: Medea muſt be furious, ſhe muſt rave: Crafty Ixion a deſigning Knave; Io a wandring Cow, and Ino ſad: And poor Oreſtes melancholy mad: But if you'l leave thoſe Paths where moſt have gone, And dare to make a Perſon of your own, Take care you ſtill the ſame proportions ſtrike, Let all the Parts agree, and be alike: Unuſual Subjects, Sir 'tis hard to hit, It asks no common Pains, nor common Wit, Rather on Subjects known your Mind employ, And take from Homer ſome old tales of Troy, And bring thoſe uſual things again in view, Than venture on a Subject wholly new: Yet you may make theſe common Themes your own, Unleſs you treat of things too fully known; Show the ſame humors, and that uſual State, Or word for word too faithfully tranſlate; Or elſe your Pattern ſo confin'dly chooſe, That you are ſtill condemn'd to follow cloſe, Or break all decent meaſures to be looſe: Firſt ſtrain no higher, than your voice will hold, Nor as that Scriptor Cyclicus is not, as uſually thought, Scriptor Circumforaneus, but the ſame with what the Greeks call'd 〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉 , of whom ſee Langbain in his Notes on Longinus. Cyclick writer did of old, Begin my mighty Muſe, and boldly dare, I'le ſing great Priam's Fate, and noble War. What did He worth a Gape ſo large produce? The travailing Mountain yields a ſilly Mouſe. Much better Homer, who doth all things well, Muſe tell the Man, for you can ſurely tell, Who, Troy once fall'n, to many Countrys went, And ſtrictly view'd the Men, and Government. As one that knows the Laws of writing right, He makes Light follow Smoak, not Smoak the Light; For ſtreight, how fierce Charybdis rolls along! How Scylla roars thro all his wondrous Song! Nor doth He, that He might ſeem deeply read, Begin the fam'd Return of Diomed, From Meleager's death; nor dives as far, As Leda's Eggs, For the beginning of the Trojan War: He always haſtens on to the Events, And ſtill the middle of the Tale preſents, As 'twere the firſt, then draws the Reader on, Till the whole Story is exactly known, And what he can't improve he lets alone. And ſo joyns Lyes and Truth, that every part agrees, And ſeem no Fiction, but a real Piece: But Sir, obſerve; (ſhame waits on the neglect,) This I, and all, as well as I, expect, If you would have a judging Audience ſtay, Be pleas'd, and clap, and ſit out all the Play: Obſerve what Humor in each Age appears, Then draw your fit, and lively Characters, And ſuit their changing Minds, and Changing Years. A Boy that juſt ſpeaks plain, and goes alone, Loves childiſh Play-mates, he is angry ſoon, And pleas'd as ſoon: and both for nothing ſtill, Changing his Humor, various is his Will: A Youth juſt looſned from his Tutor's care, Leaves off his Books, and follows Hound and Hare; The Horſe is his delight, or Cards and Dice, Rough to reproof, and eaſy bent to Vice: Inconſtant, eager, haughty, fierce and proud; A very ſlow provider for his good, And prodigal of his Coin, and of his Blood. The full grown Man, doth aim at different ends, He betters his Eſtate, and gets him Friends; He courts gay Honor, and He fears to do, What he muſt alter on a ſecond view: An Old man's Character is hit with eaſe, For he is pettiſh, and all one Diſeaſe: Still covetous, and ſtill he gripes for more, And yet he fears to uſe his preſent Store: Slow, long in Hope, ſtill eager to live on, And fond of no mans Judgment but his own: On Youths gay frolicks peeviſhly ſevere, And oh when He was young, what Times they were! The Flow of Life brings in a wealthy Store, The Ebb draws back, what e're was brought before, And leaves a barren Sand, and naked Shore. And therefore when you repreſent a Youth, Leſt you draw lines, that fit a Man of growth; Obſerve the juſt decorum of the Stage, And ſhow thoſe Humors ſtill that ſuit the Age: For otherwiſe 'twill ſeem as fond and wild, As 'tis to clap a beard upon a Child: What e're a Play can comprehend, is ſhown Upon the open Stage, or told alone; Things only told, tho of the ſame degree, Do raiſe our Paſſions leſs than what we ſee: For the Spectator takes in every part, The Ey's the faithfull'ſt Servant to the Heart: Yet do not every Part too freely ſhew, Some bear the telling, better than the view: Things wild or cruel do diſpleaſe the Eyes, And yet when only told, the ſame ſurpriſe; Medea muſt not draw her murdering Knife, And on the Stage attempt her Childrens life: Nor Progne fly transform'd into a Fowl, Nor Hecuba turn'd Bitch begin to howl: Nor Cadmus there his ſnaky folds advance, I hate ſuch wild improbable Romance: The Play that you deſign ſhould often pleaſe, Muſt have five Acts, and neither more nor leſs; No God appear to mend an ill-wrought Scene, Unleſs ſome weighty Cauſe ſhall force him in: To crowd the Stage, is odious and abſurd, Let no fourth Actor ſtrive to ſpeak a word. The Chorus muſt ſupply an Actors place, And take his Part, this gives a natural Grace; Leſt any thing between the Acts ſhould ſeem, Not fitly ſuited to the common Theme: Let him commend the Good, and Friends and Eaſe, Praiſe wholſome Juſtice, and love open Peace: Tame Paſſion, all mens Thoughts to vertue win, And cheriſh thoſe that are afraid to ſin: Extenuate Faults, and pray to mighty God, That Fate would raiſe the Poor, and ſink the Proud: The Pipe of old, was not as large as now, Nor gather'd all the Breath a Man could blow: It's hollow, ſmall, and fill'd with feeble wind, It cheer'd the Audience with the Chorus joyn'd; Not made of Braſs, nor like the Trumpet loud, With pleaſing Airs it fill'd the little Croud: For then this new delight was known to few, And you could number thoſe that came to view. No wanton Luxury did taint the Stage, But that was mean, and modeſt as the Age. But when ſtrange Nations felt our Conquering hand, When Rome enlarg'd the bounds of her Command, When ſtatelier Walls, ſhe did begin to raiſe, And Mirth, and Wine, & ſport imploy'd our Days, The modiſh Luxury ſpread o're the Plays: For what could pleaſe ſo mixt, ill-matcht a Crowd, Where Citt and Clown were mixt, the Learn'd and Rude, As ſenſeleſs as the Ox with which he plough'd? Hence did our Muſick, and our Songs increaſe, Our Dance was artful, noble was our Dreſs: Our Harps improv'd, and lofty Eloquence, In high ſtrong Lines convey'd unuſual Sence: And pithy Sentences ſhort Truth fore-ſhow'd, As clear and uſeful as the Delphian God: The Men that firſt did ſtrive in Tragedies, When a mean Goat was all the Conquerors prize; Brought Satyrs naked in, or looſely dreſt, And though ſtill grave, would venture at a Jeſt: This was the Bait to bribe the Crowd to ſtay, When Drunk and Wanton, and ſit out the Play. Yet Satyrs ſhould obſerve this decent Rule, And ſo turn ſerious things to Ridicule; As not to bring a God or Hero down, Or make a Perſon grac'd with Robe and Crown, Talk common Talk, and ſink into a Clown: Or whilſt he doth affect a lofty hight, Fly up in bombast, and ſoar out of ſight: For Tragedy too high to ſtoop to Jeſt, (As Matrons dancing at a ſolemn Feaſt, Keep decent Steps) it different will appear, From wanton Satyrs, modeſtly ſevere: Yet bitter Words, and domineering Phraſe, Is not the thing that I in Satyrs praiſe: Nor would I have the Difference drawn too far, And free the Satyrs from the Tragicks ear; They muſt not make all Perſons talk alike, The Citty Vallet, and the Country Dick; The Chamber-maid grown impudently bold, When ſhe has bob'd the Lecher of his Gold: The down-right Farmer, and the dowdy Sot, Or elſe the brisk Companion o're his Pot: I'le take a Common Theme, and yet excell, Tho any Man may hope to write as well; Yet let him try, and He ſhall ſweat in vain, Idle his Labor, fruitleſs prove the Pain: So great the force of Art and Method ſeems, So much we may improve the Common Themes: Be ſure you never make a Satyr ſport, And talk, and dance, and jeſt, as bred at Court; But let him ſpeak, as if in Woods he ſpoke, And lately taken from his Mother Oak: Yet never make him wantonly abſurd, Nor let him ſlyly drop one bawdy Word: For all our Nobles hate ſuch filthy Wit, They ſcorn to bear ſuch Words, the choice delight Of ſottiſh Tradeſmen, and the fooliſh Citt. A foot, one long, one ſhort, Iambus nam'd; Of which thoſe meaſures, thoſe ſo juſtly fam'd, Call'd Trimeter Iambick lines, are fram'd; When juſt ſix Feet, and when thro all the Song, The ſelf ſame meaſure's kept, one ſhort, one long: This Foot to make the Cadence more ſevere, And with a graver touch ſalute the Ear, Receding ſomewhat from her natural right, The graver Spondy kindly did admit, Yet ſo as to forbid it to be put, Or in the fourth, or in the ſecond Foot: Yet this is ſeldom ſeen in the ſublime, High Accius verſe, or Ennius noble rhyme: And yet in this ſome ſhow their want of Skill, And make their Verſes ſcandalouſly ill: And whilſt their ſounding Rhymes tranſgreſs this Rule, The wretched Actor's hiſt, and thought a fool. It is not every Judg knows what's amiſs, And Rome is too indulgent to her Sons in this: What then? Shall I be looſe? Neglect my Rules, In hopes to find my Judges ſenſeleſs fools? To beg an Alms which they can chooſe to grant, Shall I ſubmit to voluntary want? Or rather think, that all my Faults will ſpy, And ſafe within mine own perfection ly, Nor need that pardon which they can deny? For make the beſt on't, I avoid the ſhame, I am'nt diſcover'd, yet deſerve no Fame: Read o're the Greeks by day, digeſt at night, For thoſe are Standards, and juſt Rules of Wit: 'Tis true, as I have heard, the former times Clapt Plautus wanton and uneven Rhymes; With too much Patience both, (to ſay no more And call it folly) thoſe our Fathers bore: Some think this harſh, but 'tis approv'd by you Learn'd Sir, and I am ſure the Cenſure's true, If you and I know what is juſt and fit, Are skill'd in Cadence, and diſtinguiſh right, Between dull Bawdry, and facetious Wit: Theſpis the firſt, that did ſurprize the Age With Tragedy, n'ere trod a decent Stage: But in a Waggon drove his Plays about, And ſhow'd mean antick tricks to pleaſe the Rout; His Songs uneven, rude in every Part, His Actors ſmutted, and the Scene a Cart: Next Aeschilus did greater Art expreſs, He built a Stage, and taught them how to dreſs; In decent motions He his Parts convey'd, And made them look as great, as thoſe they play'd: Next theſe Old Comedy did pleaſe the Age, But ſoon their Liberty was turn'd to Rage; Such Rage, as Civil Power was forc'd to tame, And by good Laws ſecure Mens injur'd Fame: Thus was the Chorus loſt, Their railing Muſe Grew ſilent, when forbidden to abuſe. Our Latin Poets eager after Praiſe, Have boldly ventur'd, and deſerv'd the Bays: They left thoſe Paths, where all the Greeks have gone, And dar'd to ſhow ſome Actions of their own: And vvould our Poets be inur'd to pain, And vvhat they once have form'd, file o're again; Let it lie by them, Cand reviſe vvith are, Our Rome vvould be as fam'd, for Wit as War: Sirs, damn thoſe Rhymes that haſty Minds do give, E're Time and Care have form'd them fit to live; Let many a Day, and many a Blot confine, And many a Nail be par'd o're every Line: Becauſe Democritus once fondly taught, (Who ever heard He had one ſober Thought) That naked Nature with a frantick ſtart, Would Rhyme more luckyly than feeble Art; And did allow none leave to taſt a drop Of Helicon, unleſs a crazy Fop: The foppiſh humor now o're moſt prevails, And few will ſhave their Beards or pair their Nails; They ſhun Converſe, and fly to Solitude, Seem frantick Sots, and are deſign'dly rude: For if they go but naſty, if they gain The reputation of a crazy Brain, Streight Poets too, they muſt be thought by all; Oh Block-head I that purge at Spring and Fall! For elſe perhaps I had been fam'd for Rhymes, And been the greateſt Poet of the Times: But I had rather keep that Senſe I have, Than to be thought a Poet, Rhyme and Rave: I'le play the Whet ſtone, uſeleſs and unfit To cut my ſelf, I'le ſharpen others Wit, Unwriting I will teach them how to write: What gives them Matter, what exalts their Thoughts, And what are Ornaments, and what are Faults? Of writing well theſe are the chiefeſt Springs, To know the Nature, and the uſe of Things: Right judging Morals will the Subject ſhow, And when the Subject's found, Words freely flow: He that can tell what Care our injur'd Fame, And what our Mothers, what our Siſters claim; With what degrees of Zeal we ſhould defend, Our Country, Fathers, Brothers, or a Friend, What ſuits a Senator's, what a Judge's care, What Soldier's, what a Leader's in the War: Secure of Honor he may boldly write, For he is ſure to draw the Image right: 'Tis my advice, let every Painter place, The Life before him that will hit the Face: So let a Writer look o're Men, to ſee What various Thoughts to various Kinds agree; And thence the different Images derive, And make the fit Expreſſions ſeem to live: A Play exactly drawn, tho often rough, Without the Dreſs of Art to ſet it off, Takes People more, and more delight affords, Than noiſy Trifles, and meer empty Words. The Muſes lov'd the Greeks, and bleſt with Senſe, They freely gave them Wit, and Eloquence; In thoſe They did Heroick fancies raiſe, For they were covetous of nought but Praiſe; But as for Us, our Roman Youths are bred To Trades, to caſt Account, to Write and Read: Come hither, Child, (ſuppoſe 'tis Albine's Son) Hold up thy Head; take five from forty one, And what remains? juſt thirty ſix: well done. Add ſeven, what makes it then? juſt forty eight: Ah thou muſt be a Man of an Eſtate! And when this care for Gain all thoughts controuls, When this baſe Ruſt hath cruſted o're their Souls; Ne're think that ſuch will reach a noble hight, Theſe clogs muſt check, theſe weights retard their flight: Poets would profit, or delight alone, Or joyn both Profit and Delight in one: Let all your Rules be ſhort, laid plainly down; That docil Minds may comprehend them ſoon, And faithful Memories retain with eaſe, Short Precepts profit much, as well as pleaſe: For when we fill the narrow Mind too full, It runs again out of the o're-charg'd Soul: Beſure what ever pleaſant Tales you tell, Be ſo like Truth, that they may ſerve as well: And do not Lamias eating Children feign, Then ſhow them whole, and make them live again: Our grave Men ſcorn the looſe and meer jocoſe; Our Youth deſpiſe the ſtiff and the moroſe: But He's the Man, He with a Genius writes That takes them Both, and profits and delights: That in one Line inſtructs and pleaſes all; That Book will eaſily be ſet to ſale, See diſtant Countrys, ſpread the Author's name, And ſend him down a Theme to future Fame: Yet there are Faults, and Men may ſometimes Err; And I'le forgive, I'le not be too ſevere. An Artist allways can't command his Harp, But when he ſtrikes a Flat, He hears a Sharp: The greateſt Archers ſometimes miſs the Whites, If numerous Graces ſhine in what he writes, I'le not condemn tho ſome few Faults appear, Which common frailty leaves, or want of Care: But if tho warn'd He ſtill repeats the ſame, Who can endure, and who forbear to blame? Juſt as that Fidler muſt be call'd a Sot, That always errs upon the ſelf ſame Note: So He that makes a Book one copious fault, As Cherilus, the greateſt Dunce that ever wrote, In whom if e're I ſee two lines of Wit, I ſmile, and wonder at the lucky hit: But fret to find the mighty Homer dream, Forget himſelf a-while, and loſe his Theme: Yet if the work be long, ſleep may ſurprize, And a ſhort Nod creep o're the watchfull'ſt Eyes: Poems like Pictures, ſome when near delight, At diſtance ſome, ſome ask the cleareſt light; And ſome the ſhade; ſome Pictures pleaſe when new, And ſome when old; ſome bear a tranſient view; Some bid the Men of Skill ſeverely pry, Some pleaſe but once, ſome always pleaſe the Eye: But you, dear Sir, tho you your ſelf are wiſe, Tho by your Father's care, and kind advice Secure from Faults, yet pray believe me this: In other things a Mean may be allow'd, Not Beſt may ſtill be tolerable good: A Common Lawyer, though he cannot plead Like ſmooth Meſſala, nor's ſo deeply read As learn'd Caſſelius, yet the Man may pleaſe, Yet He may be in vogue, and get his Fees: But now the Laws of God and Man deny A middle State, and Mean in Poetry, For as at Treats, or as at noble Feaſts, Bad Perfumes, and bad Songs diſpleaſe the Gueſts; Becauſe the Feaſt did not depend on theſe, So Poetry, a thing deſign'd to pleaſe, Compos'd for meer delight, muſt needs be ſtill Or very good, or ſcandalouſly ill: He that's unskilful will not toſs a Ball, Nor run, nor wreſtle for He fears the fall; He juſtly fears to meet deſerv'd diſgrace, And that the Ring will hiſs the baffled Aſs: But every one can Rhyme, He's fit for that; Why not? I'me ſure he hath a good Eſtate, And that may give him juſt pretence to write, It makes a Poet, as it dubs a Knight: But you, Sir, know your ſelf, will wiſely chooſe, And ſtill conſult the Genius of your Muſe; And yet when e're you write, let every line Paſs thro your Fathers, Mecca's Ears or mine: Keep it long by you, and improve it ſtill, For then you may correct what e're you will: But nought can be recall'd when once 'tis gone, It grows the Publick's, 'tis no more your own: Fame ſays, Inſpired Orpheus firſt began To ſing Gods Laws, and make them known to Man; Their fierceneſs ſoftned ſhow'd them wholeſom food, And frighted all from lavvleſs Luſt and Blood; And therefore Fame hath told, his charming Lute Could tame a Lion, and correct a Brute: Amphion too, (as Story goes) could call Obedient Stones to make the Theban Wall; He led them as he pleas'd, the Rocks obey'd, And danc't in order to the Tunes he play'd: Tvvas then the vvork of Verſe to make Men vviſe, To lead to Vertue, and to fright from Vice: To make the Savage, Pious, Kind and Juſt; To curb wild Rage, and bind unlavvful Luſt; To build Societys, and force confine, This vvas the noble, this the firſt Deſign; This vvas their Aim, for this they tun'd their Lute, And hence the Poets got their firſt repute: Next Homer and Tyrte did boldly dare, To whet brave Minds and lead the ſtout to War: In verſe their Oracles the Gods did give, In verſe we were inſtructed how to live: Verſe recommends Us to the Ears of Kings, And eaſeth Minds when clog'd with ſerious things; And therefore, Sir, Verſe may deſerve your care, Which Gods inſpire, and Kings delight to hear. Now ſome diſpute to which the greateſt part A Poem owes, to Nature, or to Art; But faith, to ſpeak my thoughts, I hardly know, What witleſs Art, or Artleſs Wit can do: Each by it ſelf is vain I'me ſure, but joyn'd Their force is ſtrong; each proves the others friend: The Man that is reſolv'd the Prize to gain, Doth often run, and take a world of pain; Bear Heat and Cold, his growing ſtrength improve, Nor taſt the Joys of Wine, nor Sweets of Love: The good Muſician too that's fam'd for Song, Hath con'd his Tune, and fear'd his Maſter long: But amongſt Poets 'tis enough to ſay, Faith I can write an admirable Play, Pox take the hindmoſt, I am foremoſt ſtill, And tho 'tis great, conceal his want of skill: As Tradeſmen call in Folks to buy their Ware, Good Penny-worths, the beſt in all the Fair; So wealthy Poets when they read their Plays, Get Flatterers in, for they are paid for Praiſe: And faith a Man that has a good Eſtate, That can oblige a Friend, and nobly Treat, Be Surety for the Poor, his Cauſe defend, Shall never know a Flatterer from a Friend: If you have been, or promis'd to be kind To any one, whilſt joy perverts his Mind Ask not his Judgment, for He'l ſtreight conſent, And cry tis good, 'tis rare, 'tis Excellent; Grow pale, and weep, and ſtamp, at every line, Oh Lord! 'tis more than Man, 'tis all Divine! As Hired Mourners at the Grave will howl, Much more than thoſe that grieve with all their Soul, Thus Friends appear leſs mov'd than Counterfeits, And Flatterers out-do, and ſhow their Cheats: Kings (thus ſays Story) that of old deſign'd, To raiſe a Favourite to a Boſome Friend; Did ply him hard with wine, unmaskt his thoughts, And ſaw him Naked, and with all his Faults: So when you write, take heed what Friend you have, And fear the Smiles of a deſigning Knave: Let good Quintilius all your lines reviſe, And he will freely ſay, mend this and this; Sir I have often try'd, and try'd again, I'me ſure I can't do better, 'tis in vain: Then blot out every word, or try once more, And file theſe ill turn'd Verſes o're and o're: But if you ſeem in love with your own Thought, More eager to defend than mend your Fault, He ſays no more, but lets the Fop go on, And Rival-ſree admire his lovely own: An honeſt Judg will blame each idle line, And tell you, you muſt make the Cloudy ſhine; Show you what Words are harſh, blot out the rough, And cut the uſeleſs gawdy painting off: Look thro your Faults with an impartial Eye, And tell you what you muſt correct, and why: Critique indeed, nor ſay, ſhall I diſpleaſe My honeſt Friend for ſuch ſmall Toys as theſe? Theſe Toys will once to ſerious miſchiefs fall, When He is laught at, when He's jeer'd by all: For more than Mad or Poxt Men hate the Dull, And ſwiftly fly the ſenſeleſs rhyming Fool: And fear to touch him, Men of Senſe retire, The Boys abuſe, and only Fools admire: Suppoſe he fir'd with his Poetick flame, Juſt as a Fowler eager on his Game, Doth fall into a Pit, and bawls aloud, And calls for pitty to the laughing Crowd; He may bawl on, for all will ſtand and flout, And not one lend an hand to help him out; But yet if any ſhould; what? was't deſign, Or elſe meer Chance, pray Sir, that threw him in? I'le tell my Reaſons, and in ſhort relate, A poor Sicilian Poet's wretched Fate: Empedocles muſt needs be thought a God, And therefore in a melancholly Mood, Leapt into Aetna's Flames: let Poets have The Priviledg to hang, and None to ſave; For 'tis no greater cruelty to kill, Than 'tis to ſave a Man againſt his Will: Nor was it Chance the heedleſs Fool betray'd, Nor the ſtrange efforts of a crazy head; For draw him out, reſtore his life again, He would not be content to be a Man, He would be eager to be thought divine, And gladly burn in Hopes to gain a Shrine: Now 'tis not known for what notorious Crime, Theſe brainleſs Fellows are condemn'd to Rhyme; Whether they piſs'd upon their Fathers Grave, Or rob'd a Shrine; 'tis certain that they rave; And like wild Bears if once they break their Den, And can get looſe, worry all ſorts of Men; Their killing Rhymes they barbarouſly obtrude, And make all fly, the Learn'd, as well as Rude: But then to thoſe they ſeize, They ſtill reherſe, And murder the poor Wretches with their Verſe; They Rhyme and Kill, a curſed murd'ring Brood, Like Leeches, ſucking ſtill, till full of Blood.
FINIS.
A CATALOGUE OF BOOKS Printed for Jacob Tonſon at the Judges-Head in Chancery-Lane. 1684. PLutarch's firſt Volume, newly Tranſlated from the Greek. Plutarch Written by Mr. Dryden. Theſeus, Tranſlated by Mr. Duke. Romulus, Mr. Smallwood. Lycurgus, Mr. Chetwood. Numa Pompilius, Mr. Ricaut. Solon, Mr. Creech. Poplicola Mr. Dodſwell. Themiſtocles, Dr. Brown. Furius Camillus, Mr. Pain. Pericles, Dr. Littleton. Fabius Maximus, Mr. Carryl. Plutarch's ſecond Volume, newly Tranſlated from the Greek. Alcibiades Coriolanus, Tranſlated by Dr. Bloomer. Paulus Emilius, Mr. Arrowſmith. Timoleon, Dr. Bloomer. Pelopidas, Mr. Creech. Marcellus, Dr. Charlton. Ariſtides, Mr. Cooper. Marcus Cato, Mr. Lydcot, Philopemen. Dr. Short Titus Flaminius, Mr. Whitaker. Plutarch's Third Volume newly Tranſlated from the Greek. Pyrrhus, Tranſlated by Dr. Cru. Caius Marius, Mr. Stapleton. Lyſander, Mr. Leman. Sylla, Mr. Davis. Cimon, Mr. Morgan. Lucullus, Mr. Thornburgh. Nicias, Mr. Rimer. Craſſus, Mr. Amhurſt. Eumenes. Sertorius, Dr. Brown. The Fourth and Fifth Volumes of Plutarch, Tranſlated by ſeveral eminent Hands, are now in the Preſs, and will with all poſſible ſpeed be Publiſhed. Remarks upon a Tract Intituled, a Treatiſe of Humane Reaſon, and upon Mr. Warren's late defence of it; by Sir George Blundell. A Critical Hiſtory of the Old Teſtament, in three Books: The firſt treating at large concerning the ſeveral Authors of the Bible: The ſecond, containing the Hiſtory of the chief Tranſlations of the Bible, made either by Jews or Chriſtians. The third, laying down Rules whereby a more Exact Tranſlation may be made of the Scripture than hitherto has been, Written Originally by Father Simon of the Oratory. With a ſuppliment, being a defence of the Critical Hiſtory in anſwer to Mr. Spanhem's Treatiſe againſt it: both Tranſlated into Engliſh by H. D. Poems upon ſeveral occaſions with a Voyage to the Iſland of Love by Mrs. A. Behn. Ovids Epiſtles Engliſhed by the Earl of Mulgrave Sir Car. Scrope, Mr. Dryden. and ſeveral other Eminent hands. Divine Contemplations upon the Life of our Saviour, Written by the Biſhop of Exceter. A Chronicle of France from the beginning of that Kingdom; Written by Monſieur Mezeray, Chronologer to the preſent French King. The firſt part of the Inſtitutes of the Laws of England or a Commentary upon Littleton, By Sir Edward Coke Kt. Theninth Edition carefully corrected with an Alphabetical Table. To this Edition is added two Learned Tracts of the ſame Author; the firſt his Reading upon the 27 of Edward the firſt, Entituled The Statute of Levying Fines; and the ſecond, of Bail and Mainpriſe. The Lord Cokes Reports, in French and Engliſh— The Reports by the Lord Chief Juſtice Vaughn in Engl. Hettly's Reports— Dalton's Juſtice of Peace— Dalton's Sheriffs— Shepard's Abridgment of the Law. Brown's Entries, in 2 Parts— Miſcellaneous Poems, containing a New Tranſlation of Virgil's Ecologues, Ovid's Love Elegies, Odes of Horace, and other Authors; with ſeveral Original Poems by the moſt Eminent hands. The Works of Horace, Tranſlated into Engliſh by Mr. Creech of Oxford, are now in the Preſs and near Printed. Now in the Preſs. The Decay of the Weſtern Empire, Tranſlated out of French. Will ſpeedily be Publiſhed. The Hiſtory of the League, Written in French by Monſieur Maimburgh, Tranſlated into Engliſh uppon his Majeſties Command by Mr. Dryden.