Poems by Sir W.T.

The first of HORACE HIS SERMONS: BEING A Translation, or rather, Imitation of his Way of WRITING, Upon the Desire of My LADY TEMPLE, AND My LADY GIFFARD.

HOw is't, Mecenas, that no man abides The lot which Reason gives, or Chance divides

To his own share? Still praises others stars: Oh happy Merchants! Broken with the Wars And Age, the Soldier cries. On t'other side When the Ship's tost by raging winds and tide, Happy the Wars! There in an hour one dyes Or conquers, the repining Merchant cryes. The Lawyer past the fear of being poor, When early Clients taber at his door, And break his sleep, forgets his easie gains And mutters, Oh how blest are Country Swains, Their time's their own! But when th'unpractis'd Clown Summon'd by Writ enters the busie Town, Ev'ry man's prey or jest he meets; oh curst His hap, he cries, in fields so rudely nurst. The rest of the same kind would make a Theam As long and tedious as a Winter's dream; But to dispatch, if any God shall say Your Vows are heard, each has his wish, away,

Change all your stations, Soldier go and trade, Merchant go fight, Lawyer come take the Spade And Plough in hand; Farmer put on the Gown, Learn to be civil, and leave off the Clown. Why what d'ye mean good Sirs! make haste, you'll find Hardly one God another time so kind. Soft, and consider, they all stand and stare, Like what they would be, worse than what they are. Well, this is mirth, and 'tis confest, though few Can tell me what forbids jests to be true, Or gentle Masters to invite their Boys To spell and learn at first with Plumbs and toys. But to grow serious, He that follows Arms, Physick, or Laws, thriving by others harms, The fawning Host and he that sweats at Plough, Th'adventrous Merchant, all agree and vow Their end's the same, they labour and they care Onely that rest and ease may be their share

When they grow old, and have secur'd the main; Just so we see the wise and heedfull train Of busie Ants in restless journeys spend The Summer-months to gather and to mend Their little heap, foreseeing Winter's rage, And in their Youth carefull to store their Age. But when it comes, they snug at home, and share The fruits in plenty of their common care. A Council safe, and wise; when neither fire, Nor Sea, nor frost, nor steel tames thy desire Of endless gain, whilst there is any can So much as tell thee of one richer man. Where is the pleasure with a tim'rous hand And heart, to bury treasures in the sand? Who would be rich must never touch the bank; You rout an Army if you break a rank. But if ne'er toucht, what helps the sacred heap Of hidden Gold? thy sweaty Hinds may reap

Large fields of Corn, and fill whole tuns with Wine; But yet thy Belly holds no more than mine. So the tann'd Slave that's made perhaps to stoop Under the whole Provisions of the Troop, Upon their way, alas, eats no more bread Than he that carried none upon his head. Or tell me what 'timports the man that lives Within the narrow bounds that Nature gives To plough a Hundred or a Thousand fields? Oh! but to draw from a great heap that yields More than is askt, is pleasant sure: But why, If mine, though little, gives me more than I Or you can use, where is the difference? Why is your fortune better or your sense? As if some Traveller, upon his way Wanting one quart of water to allay His raging thirst, should scorn a little Spring And seek a River, 'twere a pleasant thing:

And what comes on't, that such as covet more Than what they need, perhaps are tumbled o'er Into the stream by failing banks, whilst he That onely wants what can't be spar'd is free, And drinking at the Spring, nor water fears Troubled with mud, nor mingled with his tears. Yet most men say, by false desire misled, Nothing's enough, because you're valued Just so much as you have. What shall one say Or doe to such a man? Bid him away And be as wretched as he please himself Whilst he so fondly dotes on dirty pelf. A sordid rich Athenian, to allay The scorn of all the Peoples Tongues, would say, They hiss me, but I hug my self at home, While I among my endless treasures rome. Tantalus catches at the flying streams That still beguile him like a Lover's dreams.

Why dost thou laugh? Of thee the Fable's told, Thou that art plunged in thy heaps of Gold, And gazest on them with such wakefull Eyes, And greedy thoughts, yet dar'st not touch the prize No more than if't were sacred, or enjoy'd Like Pictures which with handling are destroy'd. Dost thou not know what mony's worth? what use It yields? let bread be bought, and chearfull juice Of grapes, warm easie clothes, and wood to burn, As much of all as serves kind Nature's turn. Or else go spend thy nights in broken dreams Of Thieves or Fire, by day try all extreams Of pinching Cold and Hunger, make thy fare Of watchfull thoughts, and heart-consuming care. Are these thy Treasures! these thy Goods! May I In want of all such riches live and dye. But if thy Body shakes with aguish cold, Or burns with raging fevers, or grows old

Betimes with unkind usage, thou art sped With friends and Servants that surround thy bed, Make broaths, and beg Physicians to restore A health now so bewail'd, so lov'd before By all thy dear Relations. Wretched man! Neither thy Wife, nor Child, nor Servant can Endure thou shouldst recover; all the Boys And Girls, thy Neighbours hate thee, make a noise To break thy sleeps, and dost thou wonder, when Thou lov'st thy Gold far above Gods or Men? Canst thou teach others love, thy self have none? Thou maist as well get Children all alone. Then let there be some end of gain; the more Thou dost possess, the less fear to be poor. And end thy labour when thou hast attain'd What first thou hadst in aim, nor be arraign'd Like base Vmidius who was wont to mete His Money as his Neighbours did their Wheat,

By Bushels; yet a Wretch to such degree That he was cloath'd and sed as beggarly As the worst Slave, and to his very last His fear of downright starving ne'er was past; But as the Gods would have it, a brave Trull He kept, with a plain Hatchet cleft his skull. What is your counsel then, I pray, to swill Like Nomentanus, or like Maenius still To pinch and cark? Why go'st thou on to join Things so directly opposite? 'Tis fine, And does become thee, if I bid thee flye The Prodigal, a Miser thou must dye: Nor one nor t'other like my counsel sounds, There is a mean in things, and certain bounds, Short or beyond the which the truth and right Cannot consist, nor long remain in sight. But to return from whence I parted, where Is there one Miser does content appear

With what he is or has, and does not hate His own, or envy at his Neighbour's Fate? Never regards the endless swarm of those That so much poorer are, but still outgoes The next, and then the next, when he is past, Meeting still one or other stops his hast. Like a fierce Rider in a numerous Race That starts and spurs it on with eager pace, While there is one before him, vext in mind, But scorning all that he has left behind. Hence comes it that so seldome one is found Who says his Life has happy been and sound; And having fairly measur'd out the span Of posting-age, dyes a contented man; Or rises from the Table like a Guest That e'en has fill'd his belly at the feast.