Poems and songs by Thomas Flatman.

Translated out of a Part of Petronius Arbiters Satyricon.

I.

AFter a blustring tedious night, The winds now hush't, & the black tempest o're' Which the crazy vesiel miserably tore, Behold a lamentable sight! Rolling far off, upon a briny wave Compassionate Philander spi••d

A floating Carcass ride, That seem'd to beg the kindness of a grave.

II.

Sad, and concern'd Philander then Weigh'd with himself the frail, uncertain state Of silly, strangely disappointed men, Whose projects are the sport of Fate, Perhaps (said he) this poor man's desolate Wife In a strange Conntry far away, Expects some happy day, This gastly thing, the comfort of her life:

III.

His Son it may be dreads no harm, But kindly waits his Fathers coming home, Himself secure, he apprehends no storm, But fancies that he sees him come. Perhaps the good Old man, that kist this Son, And left a blessing on his head, His arms about him spread, Hopes yet to see him e're his glass be run.

IV.

These are the grand intrigues of man, These his huge thoughts, and these his vast desires Restless, and swelling like the Ocean From his birth till he expires. See where the naked, breathless Body lies To every puff of wind a slave, At the beck of every wave, That once perhaps was fair, rich, stout, and wise!

V.

While thus Philander pensive said, Touch't only with a pity for Mankind, At nearer view, he thought he knew the Dead, And call'd the wretched Man to mind: Alas, said he, art Thou that angry Thing, That with thy looks did'st threaten Death, Plagues and destruction breath, But two dayes since, little beneath a King!

VI.

Ai me! where is thy fury now, Thine insolence, and all thy boundless power, O most ridiculously dreadful thou! Expos'd for Beasts and Fishes to devour. Go sottish Mortals, let your Breasts swell high, All your designs laid deep as hell, A small mischance can quel, Out witted by the deeper plots of Destiny.

VII.

This haughty lump a while before Sooth'd up It self, perhaps with hopes of Life, What It would do, when It came safe on shore, What for It's Son, what for It's Wife; See where the Man, and all his Politicks lie! Ye Gods! what Gulphs are set between, What we have, and what we ween, Whilst lull'd in dreams of years to come, we die!

VIII.

Nor are we lyable alone, To misadventures on the mercyless Sea, A thousand other things our Fate bring on, And shipwrack't every where we be. One in the tumult of a Battel dies Big with conceit of victory, And routing th'Enemy, With Garlands deckt, himself the Sacrifice.

IX.

Another, while he pays his vows On bended knees, & Heaven with tears invokes, With adoratious as he humbly bowes, While with gums the Altar smokes, In th' presence of his God, the Temple falls, And then religious in vain, The flatter'd Bigot slain, Breaths out his last within the sacred walls.

X.

Another with gay Trophies proud, From his triumphant Chariot overthrown, Makes pastime for the Gazers of the Croud, That envy'd him his purchas'd Crown, Some with full meals, & sparkling bowls of wine, As if it made too long delay, Spur on their fatal day, Whilst others, (needy Souls) at their's repine.

XI.

Consider well and every place, Offers a ready Road to thy long home, Sometimes with frowns, sometimes with smiling face Th' Ambassadors of Death do come. By open force or secret ambuscade, By unintelligable wayes, We end our anxious dayes, And stock the large Plantations of the Dead,

XII.

But (some may say) 'tis very hard, With them, whom heavy chance has Cast away, With no solemnities at all interr'd, To roam unburi'd on the sea: No—'tis all one wherereceive our doom, Since, some where, 'tis our certain lot Our Carcases must rot, And they whom heaven covers need no Tombe,