The Odes, Satyrs, and Epistles of Horace Done into English.

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 pre∣fer Gold before Vertue.
• (4.) Why He cannot a∣gree 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.

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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 Ti∣bullus.

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 Mecae∣nas.
• (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. Com∣mends 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 re∣prieve, 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'e∣thrown, 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 de∣lights; 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 uncertain∣ty 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 be∣stow. 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 in∣crease, 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 be∣stows 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 In∣spire, 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 de∣ny'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 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 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 be∣fore, 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.

Notes

• I read, scripta; in honoratum, &c.
• Scriptor Cyclicus is not, as usually thought, Scriptor Circumforaneus, but the same with what the Greeks call'd 〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉, of whom see Langbain in his Notes on Longinus.