THE THIRD SATYR OF A. PERSIUS, IN WAY OF A DIALOGUE, OR, Dramatick INTERLUDE BETWEEN THE Serious, Careful TUTOR, and his Inconsiderate Slothfull PUPIL.
Rendred Paraphrastically into English; and humbly Recommended to the Serious Consideration and Perusal, as well of all young Gentlemen, as others of meaner Quality, whilst under Tutelage and Inspection of PARENTS, GOVERNOURS and TEACHERS.
By F. A.
Laudamus Monitores, sed odimus.
LONDON,
A. PERSII Increpatio, &c.
Tut.
NEmpe haec assidue? jam clarum mane Fenestra
Intrat, et angustas extendit lumine Rimas.
Stertimus, indomitum quod despumare Falernum
Sufficiat, quintâ dum Linea tangitur umbrâ:
En quid agis? siccas insana Canicula Messes
Jamdudum coquit, & patulâ pecus omne sub Ʋlmo est —
Discip.
— Verumne? itane? ocyus adsit
Huc aliquis. Nemon? turgescit vitrea bilis:
Findor. —
Tut.
— Ʋt Arcadiae pecuaria rudere credas.
Jam liber, & bicolor, positis Membrana Capillis,
Inque manus Chartae, nodosaque venit Arundo.
Tunc querimur, crassus Calamo quod pendeat humor,
Nigra quod infusa vanescat sepia lympha;
Dilutas querimur geminet quod fistula guttas.
O miser, inque dies ultra miser! huccine rerum
Venimus? at cur non potius, teneroque Columbo,
Et similis Regum pueris, paeppare minutum
Poscis, & iratus Mammae lallare recusas?
Discip.
An tali studeam Calamo? —
Tut.
—Cui verba? quid istas
Succinis Ambages?—
—Tibi luditur:—Effluis amens,
Contemnêre.—
—sonat Vitium percussa, maligne,
Respondet viridi non coct a fidelia limo.
Ʋdum & molle lutum es: nunc nunc properandus, & acri
Fingendus, sine fine, rota.—
—Sed rure paterno
Est tibi far modicum, purum, & sine labe Salinum.
Quid metuas? cultrixque foci secura patella est.
Hoc satis?—an deceat pulmonem rumpere ventis,
Stemmate quod Thusco ramum millesime ducis;
Censoremve tuum vel quod Trabeate salutas?
Ad populum Phaleras!—
—Ego te intus & incute novi.
Non pudet ad morem discincti vivere Natte?
Sed stupet Hic vitio, & fibris increvit opimum
Pingue,—
—caret culpa, nescit quid perdat, & alto
Demersus, summá rursus non bullit in undâ.
Magne Pater Divum, saevos punire Tyrannos
Haud aliâ ratione velis,
paena Damni.
cum dira libidoMoverit ingenium ferventi tincta veneno.
Virtutem videant, intabescantque relicta.
Anne magis Siculi gemuerunt aera Juvenci,
paena sensûs.
Aut magis auratis pendens laquearibus ensis
Purpureas subter cervices, terruit; Imus,
Imus praecipites, quam si sibi dicat, & intus
Palleat infoelix, quod proxima nesciat Ʋxor?
Saepe oculos, memini, tingebam parvus Olive
Grandia si nollem morituri verba Catonis
Discere, ab insano multum laudanda Magistro,
Quae Pater, adductis, sudans audiret, amicis.
Jure etenim id summum; quid dexter senio ferret,
Scire erat in votis, damnosa Canicula quantum
Raderet; angustae collo non fallier Orcae.
Neu quis callidior—
—Buxum torquere flagello.
Haud tibi inexpertum curvos deprendere mores,
Quaeque docet sapiens, braccatis illita Medis
Porticus, insomnis quibus & detonsa Juventus
Invigilat, siliquis, & grandi pasta polentâ.
Et tibi quae Samios diduxit litera ramos,
Surgentem dextro monstravit limite Callem.
Stertis adhuc?—
—Laxumque caput, compage solutâ,
Oscitat hesternum, dissutis undique malis?
Est aliquid, quò tendis?—
—Et in quod dirigis arcum?
An passim sequeris corvos testáque, lutoque,
Securus quo pes ferat,—
—atque extempore vivis?
Helleborum frustrà, cum jam cutis aegra tumebit,
Poscentes videas,—venienti occurrite morbo.
Et quid opus Cratero magnos promittere Mentes?
Disciteque, O miseri,—
—& causas cognoscite rerum,
Quid sumus, aut quidnam victuri gignimur—
—ordo
Quis datus,—
—aut metae quam mollis flexus,—
—& unde:
Quis modus Argento,—
—quid fas optare; quid asper
Ʋtile nummus habet; patriae, charisque propinquis
Quantum elargiri deceat:—
—quem te Deus esse
Jussit, & humanâ quâ parte locatus es in re.
Disce:—
—Nec invideas, quod multa fidelia putet
In locuplete penu,—
—defensis pinguibus umbris,
Et piper, & Pernae Marsi monumenta Clientis;
Moenaque quod primâ nondum defecerit Orcâ.
Heic, aliquis de gente hircosâ Centurionum
Dicat:—
Centurio.
—Quod sapio satis est mihi;—
—non ego curo
Esse quod Arcesilas, aerumnosique Solones:
Obstipo capite, & figentes lumine terram,
Murmura cum secum, & rabiosa silentia rodunt.
Atque exporrecto trutinantur verba labello,
Aegroti veteris meditantes Somnia:—Gigni
De Nihilo Nihil;—in Nihilum Nil posse reverti.
Hoc est, quod palles,—cur quis non prandeat hoc est?
His populus ridet;—multùmque Torosa Juventus
Ingeminat tremulos, Naso Crispante, Cachinnos.
Aegrotus.
Inspice; nescio quid trepidat mihi Pectus, & aegris
Faucibus exsuperat gravis halitus;—Inspice sodes,
Qui dicit Medico,—
—Jussus requiescere,—
—Postquam
Tertia compositás vidit nox currere venas,
De majore domo, modicè sitiente lagenâ,
Lenia loturo sibi Surrentina rogavit.
Medicus.
Heus bone, tu palles.—
Aegrotus.
—Nihil est.—
Medicus.
—Videas tamen istud?
Quicquid id est. Surgit tacitè tibi lutea pellis.
Aegrot.
At tu deteriùs palles:—Ne sis mihi Tutor:
Jampridem hunc sepeli; tu restas.—
Medicus.
—Perge, tacebo.
Tut.
Turgidus hic Epulis, atque albo ventre—
—Lavatur.
Gutture sulfureas lentè exhalante Mephites.
Sed tremor inter vina subit, calidumque trientem
Excutit è manibus.—
—Dentes Crepuere retecti.
Ʋncta cadunt laxis tunc pulmentaria labris.
Hinc Tuba, Candelae; tandemque Beatulus ille
Compositus Lecto, Crassisque lutatus amomis,
In portam rigidos calces extendit:—
—At illum
Hesterni, capite induto, subiêre Quirites.
Discip.
Tange, miser, venas, & pone in pectore dextram.
[Page 12]Nil calet hîc;—
—Summosque pedes attinge, manusque;
Non frigent.—
Tut.
—Visa est si fortè pecunia;—
—Sive
Candida Vicini subrisit molle puella;
Cor tibi ritè salit?—
—Positum est algente Catinâ
Durum Olus, & populi Cribro decussa Farina;
Tentemus fauces: Tenero latet Ʋlcus in ore
Putre, quod haud deceat plebeïâ radere betâ.
Alges, cum excussit membris Timor albus aristas.
—quod ipse,
Non sani esse hominis, non sanus juret Orestes.
Explicit A. Persii Satyra Tertia.
THE THIRD SATYR OF A. PERSIƲS, &c.
Tut.
STill the old wont!—For shame, rouse up, and see,
The blushing Morn upbraids thy Lethargie;
The Sun thy Sloth bewrays, with his broad Light
Wid'ning the narrow Chinks to, force thy Sight.
We snore, till the fifth shadow clouds the Line,
Enough t' evaporate the strongest Wine.
Rouze up, for shame; the Dog-star long hath beat
Upon the parched Fields with raging heat:
The fainted Herds for shelter cool do hie
To the next bordering shady Elm, they spie.
Disc.
But speak in earnest;—is't indeed—so late?
Abominable Sluggard!—ô,—I hate—
This Canker-worm of precious Time, —Foul Sloth,
The Bane of Studies, and sound Manners both—
[Page 2]But— is't indeed so late?—some-body then
Come hither—quickly,—reach my Cloaths,— why when!
No body come!—O—I am split with Ire!—
My Choler swells, my Eyes are all on Fire.
Tut.
Some great Arcadian Beast Thus might you hear,
To yell, and bray, when hungry,—or through fear.
After some Pause,—with much a-do,—at last,
Comes me his Book in hand;—and then in haste,
His Paper with two-colour'd Parchment,—and,
His knotty Reed are brought him at command.—
Now we complain,—our Pen's stark naught;—and then,—
Our Ink's too thick;—it sticks upon the Pen:—
Put water in't;—and then— the sepian Juice
Too white and washy writes,—and too profuse;—
Writes double,—blurrs the Letters.—And still— thus,—
Thinks by these idle shifts,—to baffle us. —
Ignoble—wretched Youth!—art come to this?
To Melt in Vice,—and Love to do amiss!
Prethee, why dost not, like an unfledg'd Dove,
Dr tender Babe of some nice Madam, love
Thy Mam should dandle thee upon her Lap,
Feed thee with sweet-Meats, and soft sugar'd Pap [...]
Dr n'angry with thy Teat, wriggle and cry,
And kick and sprawl at her soft Lullaby?
Discip.
I pray, Sir, who can write with such a Quill?
Tut.
And wilt thou with thy Shams be fooling still?
Alas! whom dost thou mock?—it is not me:
It is thy self thou mock'st,—and wilt not see.
Th'art like a crazed earthen Jar that leaks,
Which, when the Potter soundeth it, he breaks:
And so shalt Thou be scorn'd as refuse Stuff,
By all Contemn'd, and vanish in a Snuff.
Discourage thee I will not, for all that,
The way to manners good is ne'r too late.
Yet thou art soft,—moist Clay,—now, now's the time
To mold and fashion thee,—in this thy Prime.
Dare to be good;—and Vertue be thy Guide;
No way to daring Vertue is deny'd.
Now 'tis, or never, thou the moist Clay, must feel
Sound Discipline's effigiating Wheel.—
But, you will say,—I am my Father's Heir;—
Born to a Fair Estate; what need I care?
I have besides rich Plate and Houshold-stuff,
In ready Cash what Heart can wish, enough.
And think'st thou this enough?—wilt therefore swell,
And burst thy Lungs—ambitiously to tell
That thou the thousandth of thy Pedigree
Dost fetch from Thuscan high Nobility:
And when thou meet'st Rome's Censor all in State,
Boldly caress him as thy Intimate?
Away,—fond Fool!—go prance before the Rout,
In these thy Trappings, for the vulgar shout:
I know thy inside better,—nor can be
Deluded by thy out-side Sophistry.
Art not asham'd to live thus at the rate
Of lewd confounded Natta?—Yet his Fate
Yields some Excuse;—He wants a Sense within;
Has no restraint upon him,—not to sin:—
He stands amaz'd in Vice, —nor can he tell
When he does ought amiss,—nor when 'tis well.
His Heart's so clos'd in Fat and Brawn, that he
Sins more of Ignorance than Industry.
He's gone,—he's sunk—down to the depth of Vice;
From whence he ne'r again must hope to rise.
Great Sovereign of the Skies,—vouchsafe but thus
To scourge the Pride of Tyrants:—
—For once—
Let them behold fair Vertues Face;
poena damni.
then seeIn her lost Grace, their lost Felicity,—
And then turn pale,—and pine away, and dye.
Ne'r did the brazen,
poena sensus.
hot Sicilian Bull—Bellow his Torments from a Throat more full:
Ne'r did the Sword hung by a Horses hair
Up in the vaulted golden Roof, so scare
The proud crown'd—Flatterer underneath,—and make,
With Panick Fear,—his every Limb to quake:
As when a Man—shall with amazement call
Thus to himself;—I fall,—O—I do fall—
Down headlong,—headlong downwards, past recall!
And when the Wretch turns pale within, to tell
His near dear Wife the cause of what's befell.
But to return from this Digression
To th' matter I but now insisted on.
I well remember, when I was a Child
I'd noint my eyes with oyl,—so to beguild
My fond, kind Mother,—when I had no mind
To learn my book,—for fear't should make me blind:
It made me shrug, that I must say the part
Of dying Cato's lofty words—by heart,
Before my Father and his Friends, which he
Sweating, brought with him to admi-re me.
'Twas then the top of my Ambition, how
To play at Chess, or Cock-all,—or to throw
The lucky Ams-ace, or the winning Sice;
What Cast would save, and what would win at Dice;
Or else with Cherry-stones, or Nuts to play,
At Chock, half in, half out, to win the day;
And for the Scourge-stick none more arch could be
To drive his Top with such dexterity.
Thus, when I was a Child, I childish things
Pursu'd, and such as little profit brings.
But now thou art not at these years to learn
'Twixt good and bad the difference, and discern
Vertue from Vice:—No; thou art taught thy Lore
From the wise Porch, with picture all dawb'd ore,
Of Trouzed M [...]des; where, in the Quest of Truth,
Th' industrious close-shorn Ascetick Youth,
Contented with hard fare, and course b [...] Ca [...],
Early and late do o're their Studies wake;
And, unto thee, the branched Samian Y
Points out the right hand Path to Vertue high.
And art thou snoring still, as over-charg'd
With Wine and Surfet, crop-sick, undisgorg'd?
Are thy Jaws faln? and is thy Head grown slack,
Yawning, as thou wouldst make their Frame to crack?
Hast in thine eye but any fixed end
At which thy Shaft to aim, and Bow to bend?
Or dost thou rove at random here and there,
In chase of Crows, not once regarding where
Thou tak'st thy steppings, thorough thick and thin;
And but to live to day, to day begin?
Now let me freely give my thoughts, what I
Do read, will prove, in fine, thy destiny.
Th'art well (thou think'st) in health, alas, poor Sot!
Thou art diseas'd, and sick, and know'st it not.
When a Disease is creeping on, be sure
In time to meet with't, and 'tis half the cure:
If once thy pale Hydropick skin do swell,
No Hellebore's enough to make thee well.
Delay a while, not all thy Golden Fee
Will do; though Graterus thy Doctor be,
Not Craterus himself can cu-re thee.
Learn then, unhappy Youth, betimes to know
The Causer of all Causes here below.
Next under him, with Loyalty and Fear
Thy Soveraign Lord the King love and revere.
Learn what we are,—and to what end we live;
T' our selves, or him who life to us did give?
Next, in what order learn to steer thy Course,
Nor circumvented be by Fraud or Force,
Till thou hast gain'd the wished Goal;—and then
With nimble Turn smoothly wheel off agen.
Let not the tempting Bait of Riches hold
Thee basely fetter'd in a Chain of Gold.
Learn what 'tis fit to ask in Prayer, and so
The lawful use of Money thou shalt know;
How much on thy lov'd Country to expend,
What on thy self, thy Kinsfolk and thy Friend;
Whether a Prince or Peasant, learn with Art
In this Life's Play wisely to act thy part;
A due Decorum keep in that degree
The provident,—wise—God hath placed thee.
Learn well these practick Points, by Heart, and so,
Thou'lt bid Defiance to thy deadly'st Foe.
Thou wilt not Then envy the too great store
Of Presents new sent in, more after more,
From the rich Umbrian Churl, and the fat Marsian Boor:
Fat Ven'son, dry'd Neats-Tongue, West-phaly-Ham,
Sturgeon, Anchove, with else what you can name,
To grease the Lawyer, and to oyl his Tongue
[...]
But after all my Counsel to thee lay'd,
Still I mistake the man, I am afraid.
Thou'lt say, (it's like) as the bold man of War,
Some Huffing, Rough-Centurion-Swaggerer:
Centurio.
What tell you me of these things? What care I
A F—ig for all your Crab-Philosophy?
I've Wit enough, I trow, to serve my turn,
Fore I'ld be such as you describe, I'ld burn.
I value not your whining Solons,—I
Your dull Arcesil—Asses all defie,
Observe their Posture just,—and then refrain,
If possible, from laughing—out amain.
Like Mad-men (as they are) their Necks awry,
Down lowting on the ground,—with fixed eye;
Poysing, on Lips outstretch'd, each Syllable,
And, in a buzzing tone, scarce audible,
Champing, and muttering softly, to themselves,
The Dreams of old—sick—men,—and Frantick Spells:
That out of Nothing, Nothing e're began,
And into Nothing, Nothing returns again.
Is This it—makes them look so pale?—Is't this,
Their Dinners they so oft on purpose miss?
How scorn'd these Fellows are, about the Town,
To see, and hear, is richly worth a Crown.
The People flout them;-And our Gallants,-they,
Crisping their Noses, in Ironick way,
Deride them with a Trembling Ha-ha-he.
Tut.
Well,—be it so;—But let them laugh that win;
These little know the danger they are in:
But—do not Thou scorn Learning,—lest thy Fall,
With such as These,—prove sadly Tragical.
I told thee once, (if thou hast not forgot)
Thou wast Diseas'd and Sick,—and knew'st it not:
What more I have to tell thee—well attend;
Wisely apply it to a better End.
Aegrot.
One in a Feaver, once to's Doctor said,
Pray, good Sir, feel my Pulse: I am afraid,
All is not as it should be; good Sir, see,
My Throbbing Heart beats at a strange degree;
And my sick Jaws a fulsome stench exhale
From my parch'd Entrails, though my Skin look pale.
The Doctor try'd the utmost of his Skill
On this his Patient,—charg'd him to be still,
And to keep in five or six dayes at least;
By then, he hop'd the danger would be past.
'Soon as he finds himself in better plight,
His Veins in order flow, his Pulse beat right,
His heat's abated,—Now, on the third Night,
Nothing would serve him, but he needs must send
His Man, Post-haste, to such a wealthy Friend,
To send him of his mild Surrentine Wine,
A full Quart Flagon, that was Brisk and Fine:
This soon quaff'd off,—away to Bath goes he,
Where, in the nick, his Doctor chanc'd to be.
The Honest good Physician startled was,
To see his Patient there,—in such a case.
Medicus.
D'y' hear, good Sir, —Why you look wonderous pale,
Aegrotus.
Phugh,—Sir,—That's nothing,—no,— I nothing aile.
Med.
Yet pray, look to't, that Nothing do not tend
To Something you'll repent of in the End:
Your Life lies on't, to me 'tis plain enough;
Your Sallow tawny Skin begins to huff.
Aegrot.
But you look paler, to a worse degree,
Pray, good Sir, be not Tutor unto me:
I come not here thus to affronted be.
I've follow'd one already to his Grave;
Next turn is Yours, good Tutor, mine to have.
Med.
Nay, If indeed upon these Points you go,
Then,—Take your Course;—I'l say no more but so.
Tut.
Now—Gentle Sir,—Observe in this your Plea
For such young Gallants the Catastrophe.
He, and his pale-white Belly,—strutting out,
And cramm'd with Belly-Cheer up to the Throat,
Needs, after Supper, into Bath must go;
And next the Iliad follows of his Woe.
Foul stench he breaths, with Exhalations raw,
In sowre Belchings, from a putrid Maw:
A Trembling seizes him, the while he stands
Drinking, and shakes the Bowl out of his hands;
Through parched Lips (which were before a Screen
To h's Teeth)—his chattering Teeth are naked seen.
And then, through his laxe Jaws he vomits up
The greasie Morsels whereon he did Sup.
Next news we hear,-our gallant Youth Reverse,
Laid out in state upon his pompous Herse,
Richly Embalm'd; Extending tow'rds the Gate,
His Rigid-Cold-stiff Heels;—and (growing late)
Aloud the Trumpets an Alarum sound,
Whose Echo from the neighbouring Hills rebound.
The blazing Flambeaus counterfeit a Day;
The Heraulds, marshalled along the way,
His high Aspirings; and th' exalted Fame
Of his Renowned Ancestors proclaim;
This done;—his yesterdays new bond-freed-men,
Gay in their Bonnets, their dead Lord attend;
Hoise up his Corps upon their backs,—and So,
Next way with him, to h's Funeral Pile they go.
And here's the end of Him would not submit,
To h's Doctors Rules, for his own benefit!
Disoip.
What! then (belike) this Story's lay'd to me?
But, (silly Man) y'are out: for I am free
From all Distemper: Feel my Pulse, and try;
My blood in every vein flows orderly;
[Page 12]Nor hands, nor feet affected are with Cold,
But still one constant even Temper hold.
No Flushing Heats, no Trembling of the Heart,
But sound, both Wind and Limb, in every part.
Tut.
All this may be, I grant;—and still I say,
Thou art Diseas'd, and Sick,—another way.
Thy Body's but the Case;—poor sorry Pelf!
It is thy Soul, I mean thy better Self:
Thy Soul,—that Particle Divine in Man!
'Tis that is sick;—deny it, if thou can.
For,—let me ask thee:—Shouldst thou hap to spy
New minted Gold, a Bank, before thee lye;
No Eye upon thee, free Access unto't;
As free, and safe Retreat, suppose, to boot;
Would then thy Heart beat right? So there's on Vice,
The slie Disease of Craving Avarice.
Again,—Should some deft, lovely Girl, by chance,
An amorous dimpled Smile upon thee glance;
How would thy Feverish flushing heats discover
The frail Distempers of a fond sick Lover?
Suppose again, some one should bring to eat,
In a cold Pan, some sapless, raw cold Beet,
With course brown Bread, and Colewort for thy Dinner,
And tell thee:—These are Dainties for a Sinner:
Let's try thy Chaps:—Lo! there's an Ulcer grown,
Too sore for such rough Beets to grate upon!
So thou that nothing ailedst, add to these
A third, Soft Luxury, that She-Disease.
When a damp Aguish Fear strikes through thy Heart,
Sets thee all o're a shivering, every part;
And makes thy Hairs, in this amazing Fright,
Like Beards of Corn, stiff, staring bolt-upright,
Thou nor affected art with Heat, nor Cold,
But dost one constant, even temper hold.
Look up, Man! Fie!—What!—So whiteliver'd art?
Some Cordial Spirits fetch to chear his Heart!
Is This He, nothing ailes!—Behold a Vice,
Transforms Men into Stone!—Base Cowardise!
And now the Cold Fit's over comes the Hot,
Thy blood enflam'd, boyls over like a Pot
With brands put under;—and with burning Ire
Thy fierce, revengeful, sparkling Eyes dart Fire
Thou say'st and dost what Rage and Fury can
Force on thee in this boisterous Hurrican;—
That Bedlam-mad Orestes now would Swear,
None, but one Bedlam-mad, would ever dare.
Here Ends the Third Satyr of A. Persius.