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

[illustration]

M Burghers sculp.

SATYRS.

BOOK I.

The Heads of the first Satyr.

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

1. WHence comes, my Lord, this general dis∣content? Why All dislike the State that Chance hath sent, Or their own Choice procur'd? why All repent? The weary Souldier now grown old in Wars, With bleeding Eyes looks o're his Wounds and Scars; Curse that E're I the trade of War began, Ah me! the Merchant is a happy Man:

The Merchant, when the Waves and Winds are high, Crys, happy happy Men at Arms; for why, You fight, and streight comes Death, or joyful Victory. The Lawyer that's disturb'd before 'tis light By restless Clients, or that wakes all night, Grows sick; and when He finds his rest is gone, Crys, happy Farmers that can sleep till Noon: The weary Client thinks the Lawyer blest, And craves a City Life, for that's the best. So many Instances in every state, That mourn their own, but praise their Neighbours fate, 'Twould tire even bawling Fabius to relate. But to be short, see I'le adjust the Thing: Suppose some God should say I'le please you now, You Lawyer leave the Bar and take the Plough; You Souldier too shall be a Merchant made, Go, Go, and follow each his proper trade: How? what refuse? and discontented still? And yet They may be happy if They will. Now would not this vex Jove, and make him rage? Hath he not reason now to scourge the Age? And puff and swear He'd never hear again? No, They should vow, and pray, but pray in vain: Yet not to laugh, and let my Muse be loose, As 'twere my whole design to be jocose, Altho I may be grave when not morose: And mirth commends, and makes our Precepts take, Thus Teachers bribe their Boys with Figs and Cake To mind their books; these Things deserve to have A serious handling: Come now let's be grave:

2. The Souldier fights, the busy Tradesman cheats, And finds a thousand tricks and choice deceits;

The heavy Plough contents the labouring Hind, The Merchant strives with every Tide and Wind; And all this Toyl to get vast heaps of Gold, That They might live at Ease when they are old: When they have gotten store for numerous years, They may be free from Want, and from its fears: As the Small Ant (for she instructs the Man, And preaches Labor) gathers all she can, "And brings it to increase her heap at home "Against the Winter which she knows will come: For when that comes she creeps abroad no more, But lyes at home, and feasts upon her store. But neither Heat, nor Cold, nor Wars restrain, Nor Dangers fright Thee from purfuit of gain; Only that Thou may'st be the richest Man: What pleasure is't with busy toyl and care To gather heaps of Gold to hide with fear, Tho under ground scarce safe we think it there? Why, should I spend one Cross 'twould still wast on, 'Twould all run out, and I should be undone; Why prethee what is't good for till 'tis gone? In thy vast Barns great stores of Corn do ly, Yet thou canst eat perhaps no more than I: The Slaves that bear the weighty Flasks of bread, With small and barly Loafs are hardly fed. They sweat 'tis true, and with the burthen groan, But eat no more than He that carrys none: Besides, what difference prethee is't to Me That feed no more than Nature's Luxury, To plough three thousand Acres or but Three? Oh but 'tis sweet to take from Barns well stor'd; What, if You take no more than mine afford?

Mine but half full? why dost Thou praise thine My small one is as good as thy great store. (more? If you would fill a Cup come tell me why, Why not from this small Spring that runs hard by, As well as from that yonder rowling Flood, Since this will give enough, and quite as good? For Hence whilst eager on their useless prey The rapid stream whirls them and Banks away: He that seeks but enough, is free from fear, His Life is safe, and all his water clear: But most are lost in a Confounded Cheat, (great They would have more, for when their Wealth is They think their Worth as much as their Estate: Well then, what must we do to such a one? Why, let him, 'tis his Will to be undone: Since He, as the Athenian Chuff, will cry The People hiss me, True, but what care I? Let the poor fools hiss me where e're I come, I bless my self to see my bags at home: Poor wretched Tantalus, as Storys tell, (And that's the worst, the Cursed'st Plague in Hell) Stands up chin deep in an o're flowing Bowl, But cannot drink one drop to save his Soul: (free? What dost Thou laugh? and think that Thou art Fool change the Name, the Story's told of Thee: Thou watchest o're thy heaps, yet 'midst thy store Thou'rt almost starv'd for Want, and still art poor: You fear to touch as if You rob'd a Saint, And use no more than if 'twere Gold in paint: You only know how Wealth may be abus'd, Not what 'tis good for, how it can be us'd;

'Twill buy Thee Bread, 'twill buy Thee Herbs, and What ever Nature's Luxury can want: (grant But now to watch all day, and wake all night, Fear Thieves and Fire, and be in constant fright, If These are Goods, if these are a delight: I am content, Heavens grant me sleep and ease, If These are Goods, I would be poor of These: Ay, but suppose I should be sick; what then? Why then the richest are the happyest men: Then are the great advantages of Wealth, 'Twill make the Doctor ride, and bring me health: 'Twill get a Friend that may condole My pain, And tell me that I shall do well again: 'Twill get a Nurse, a Purge, and save my Life, And keep me well for my dear Friends and Wife: Prethee fond fool for this ne're vex thy Head, For she and all that know Thee wish Thee dead: And reason good, since you your Gold prefer To all your Friends, your Children, and to Her: How then canst Thou expect that They should prove So kind to Thee, when Thou deserv'st no Love? Why, to be Covetous yet keep thy Friends, That Chance or that indulgent Nature sends; It is a foolish hope, absurd and vain, As his, to teach an Ass to take the rein And freely run a race upon the Plain. Well, fix a bound at last to thy Estate; And then leave off when Thou hast gotten that; And let not, as Thou dost encrease thy store, Thy fears rise too that Thou shalt once be poor.

Act not Uvidius, (come, the Story's short, The tale is tragick, yet 'tis pretty sport) A Rogue as rich as if He had a Mine, He did not tell, but measure heaps of Coin: And yet so close, he went as meanly clad As any thread-bare Servant that he had; His Shoes still clouted, and He always cry'd, That He shou'd starve for want before he dy'd: Him his Whore snapt, and with a lusty blow (Well struck I'faith) she cleft the slave in Two: What then must I spend all? No, that's as bad: There's something betwixt staring and stark mad: Why still to the Extreams You madly run, For when I chide Thee for a greedy Clown, I do not bid Thee spend, and be undone: No, there are bounds when Nature did begin Then fixt, and all is Good that lyes within, And all without on either side is Sin.

3.

But to return to that where I began, Is none so pleas'd as the rich greedy Man? Is none like him contented with his state, But rather praise and crave another's sate? When others Cows do give more milk than his Is He not vext? doth He not pine at this? Doth He compare himself, and doth he see That almost all are poorer far than He? Doth He not strive to raise his vast Estate? Be richer now than this Man, now than that? Yet richer still appear as He goes on, And those He must Excel, or Nothing's done. Just as our Racers when They run the Course, Still keep their Eye upon the foremost Horse,

And strive to out-strip him; but never mind The lazy distanc't Jade that lags behind: Hence 'tis searce any thinks his state is blest, Nor when Death calls like a contented Guest Will rise from Life, and lay him down to rest: But stay, enough, and lest mine seems as long As Crispin's tedious Books, I'le hold my Tongue.

SATYR II.

The Heads of the second Satyr.

• 1. Men keep no mean, as He confirms by Examples.
• 2. He lashes the Adulterers.

1.

THe Players, Pimps, and Hectors of the Town, The Rooks, the Gamesters, all lament and moan For their Tigellius that is dead and gone: For He was a free Soul, a Prodigal, He had a fair Estate, and spent it all: Others t'avoid that Name refuse to spend One single Cross upon a needy Friend; Their heaps are Sacred, and they spare their Gold, Altho he dyes for Want, and starves with Cold: Now if you take the first to task, and say, Why dost Thou squander thy Estate away? Why wast thy Ancient Lands on Paltry guests, And borrow Money to maintain thy Feasts?

He answers streight, I hate to be confin'd, I have no sordid, nor a narrow Mind; No, I a free and generous humor love; And this some discommend, and some approve. Fusidius rich in Money out at Use, And Lands, yet fears to be esteem'd profuse; For five times double He would Sums ingage, And sues Young Heirs when newly come of Age: The greatest Prodigals He presses most, And lends them Money till their Lands are lost. Who when He hears all this would not complain, Good God! yet thus He damns himself for gain: "And one would scarce believe a Man for Pelf "Should be so great an Enemy to himself: That He in Terence when His Son was gone, Tho He laments, and crys He is undone, The most unhappy Man the Sun can see, Yet liv'd not half so bad a Life as He: And all this proves whil'st Fools one Vice condemn They run into the Opposite Extream: Malthin with Gowns below his heels is grac't, Another Humorist tucks them to his wast: Rufillus smells like any Civet Cat, Gorgonius like a Goat, or worse than that: Men keep no Mean; One, when his Blood boils o're, Will take a Matron only for his Whore, Whil'st others all but common Jades refuse, They fly the sober Whores, and rake the Stews: A certain famous Bully of the Town When He did leave the Stews, was often known To use old Cato's words, Go bravely on:

Here our hot Youths should come to cool their flame, And never use the marry'd City Dame: But Cupien says, I'le not be prais'd for this, That Cupien that admires a Matron Miss.

2.

Now you that wish these base Adulterers ill, And Punishment as bad as is their Will; Must needs be pleas'd to hear my Muse explain What small delight they with great danger gain, And how their Pleasure's sadly mixt with Pain: For one found faulty with another's Wife Must from a Window leap to save his life: Another's finely kickt and jilted too, Or taken, bribes the Slaves to let him go: Another's kickt into the Common Shore, There stifled, and a thousand Mischiefs more, Another's Guelt, his Dancing days are gone, And All but Galba say 'twas justly done.

But come let's see now how the Matter falls, Is't safer trading with the Abigals, Whom Salust so admires, and so adores, As much as those that use the marry'd Whores? Now did not this Man make his gifts too great, But fit, and equal to his small Estate: He might be counted kind, preserve his Name, Not ruine his Estate, nor lose his Fame: But what cares He for this? He boasts alone He knows no Matron, and He tempts not one: Or as Marsaeus whom a jilting Whore An Actress hath undone, and made him Poor: Methinks, says He, I lead a civil Life, I never meddle with another's Wife:

Ay, but with Whores and Players; and by that Thy Fame is ruin'd more than thy Estate:

Is it enough to say, when faults are done, I did it not with such or such a one; And not take Care to shun the Action still, The Action that's intrinsecally ill, And scandalous in its self? to wast thy Time, Thy Fame, or thy Estate is such a Crime, 'Tis bad on whomsoe're you lose it all, Or Matron, Common-Whore, or Abigal: Young Villius He to Sylla's Daughter kind, Almost a Son in Law, so oft He sin'd Poor wretch, thus cheated, smarted o're and o're; Being soundly beaten, stab'd, kickt out of Door, Whil'st poor Longarenus clasp't the jilting Whore: Suppose his Whore-Pipe now being vext at this, Should ask him, did I want a Noble Miss, A Whore of Quality to cool my Flame? No, I had been content with meaner Game: What answer could be given? what be said? Only, forsooth, She was a Noble Maid: But how much better Nature's Laws provide, How great the gifts bestow'd, how small deny'd? If you distinguish well, if well design, No things forbidden with the granted joyn: Is it all one? can you no difference see Whether the Fault be in the Things, or Thee? Then tempt no Matrons, for suppose you gain, The Sweet is little, but immense the Pain: 'Tis true her costly Jewels court our Eye, But yet She's not more soft, more plump her thigh,

No, tho such Gems as soft Cerinthus wore, She does no better than a trading Whore: Besides, her Trade is fair, I like it well, She freely shows what e're She has to sell: And you may turn her, and view every part, And see that all is Nature, and not Art: She does not show her best to tempt the Eye, And strive to cover a Deformity, All's seen, and if you like it, you may buy: Our Jockys, when a Horse is set to sale, Take off the Covering-Cloaths, and look on all; Lest by a well-shap't Neck and cleanly made The greedy Chapman be at last betray'd, And buys a spavin'd or a founder'd Jade: This care is good, thus when you choose a Lass, Be not too Eagle-ey'd to view a grace; And blind as Hypsea is to spy a fault, For such as judge by halves are often caught: How neat her Arm and Leg! 'tis true, but stay, Her Wast is short, Nose long, her Feet are splay.

Besides, a Matron's Face is seen alone But Kate's that Female Bully of the Town, For all the rest is cover'd with the Gown: But if you'ld tast, for that doth raise thy heat, A Dainty but forbidden Dish of Meat: There are a thousand stops, a thousand spyes, A Chamber-maid, a Foot-boys curious Eyes, These must be fee'd, and each will claim his share, Besides a Gown doth hide the precious Ware: But now a trading Girl is freely show'd, You see her Naked, or almost as good;

Her Coats are thin, and you may fairly try If strait her Wast, Feet Good, if plump her Thigh, There's free admission to the Chapman's Eye: Wou'd you be cheated? the Occasion's fair, Since you would buy before you see the Ware.

As Hunters trace their Hares thro frost & snow, Like not the Flesh as well as others do, As if they caught it only to bestow: Just so my Love, it scorns an easie prey, But hotly follows that that flyes away:

What can'st Thou think that this mean Verse can tame Thy wild Desires, that this can quench thy Flame? And doth not Nature steddy Rules ordain, Fixt Laws which should thy wildest wish contain, And which divide the solid Goods from vain? Doth She not tell, what she would have supply'd, And what She cannot bear to be deny'd? When Thirst doth burn thy Throat, and call for ease, Will nothing but a golden Goblet please? And when thy Hunger bites, and fain would eat, Is all refus'd but rare, and dainty meat? Or when thy Lust calls for a speedy Joy, And Thou hast ready a mean Girl or Boy, What wilt thou rather burn than those employ? I'm of another Mind, I'm not so nice, I love a Miss that comes at easie Price: And says, Yes, when my Husband's out of Doors, Or, Sir, One Guiney more, and I am yours: Says Philodem let patient Eunuchs Court Such formal Ladies, I'm for quicker Sport: I love a Miss that flies into my Arms, And sets at easie rate her tempting Charms,

Let her be strait and fair, of comely grace, And let her bring no more than Nature's face: Whil'st we embrace, whil'st She my Arms doth fill, She's my Egeria, or what e're I will: Then I'le fear nothing, for no harm can come, No jealous Husband is returning home, No Doors broke open, or the Servants rais'd, Whil'st She poor Wretch starts from my Arms amaz'd, And with a guilty shriek crys I'm undone, Oh now I'm caught, and all my Joynture's gone; (For that's the Punishment of marry'd Whores) Whil'st I poor guilty Rogue sneak out of Dores, Unbutton'd, and barefoot, to shun the Shame, And save my Purse, my Flesh, or else my Fame: Then leave the marry'd Women, be advis'd, 'Tis sad, ask Fabius else, to be surpris'd.

SATYR III.

The Heads of the Third Satyr.

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

1. AMongst their Friends our Songsters all agree Of this one fault, not one of them is free;

Ask them to Sing you cannot have a Note, No, they have gotten Cold, or a soare Throat: But unrequested then They strain their Voice, And trouble all the Company with their Noise: This humour hath Tigellius often shown; If by his Father's Friendship and his own Caesar, that could Command, did beg a Song; 'Twas all in vain, He might have held his Tongue: Yet take him in the vein, and He would sing From Morn till Night, a Health to Charles our King: Sometimes to squeaking Treble his voice would raise, Then sink again into the deepest Base: A most unsettled fellow, He would run As if He fled a Robber, or a Dun; And streight as in Procession gravely go, Now with two hundred Servants, now but Two: Sometimes He'd talk of Heroes, and of Kings, In mighty swelling Numbers mighty Things: And then again, let gracious Fortune give A little Meat and Drink enough to live: Let her a Coat to keep out Cold present, Altho 'tis thick and course, yet I'm content: Yet give this sparing thing, this moderate, This Man of mean desires a vast Estate, In Nine days time 'tis every Penny gone, And He's grown Poor again, and is undone: He wakes all Night to Sing, to Drink, and Play, Then goes to Bed, and snores it all the Day: No Mans designs like his do disagree, None lives so contrary to himself as He.

2.

Ay, but says One, have you no fault like this? Yes, Sir, I have, Perhaps as great as his:

When Menius rail'd at Novius, how, says One, Do'st know thy self, or think thy faults unknown? Ay, but says Menius, I forgive my Own: This is a foolish, and a wicked Love, And such as sharpest Satyrs should reprove, When thou art Blind and Senseless to thine own, How do'st thou see thy Friend's Disease so soon: That scarce a Serpent can so quickly spy, Nor any Eagle hath so good an Eye. Well then go on, pursue thy mean design, As Thou do'st find their faults, so They will thine; Perhaps He's pettish, and He's apt to rage, He cannot bear the Railery of the Age, Perhaps he doth not wear his Cloaths gentile, His Shoe is not well made, nor sits it well: He may be flouted, and be jeer'd for this; Yet He's an honest Man as any is: He is thy Friend, and tho the Case be foul, It holds a Learned, and a Noble Soul. Lastly, look o're thy self with strictest Care, And see what seeds of Vice are rooted there, What Nature plants, and what ill Customs bear. This search is good, for a neglected Field, Or Thorns, or useless Fern will quickly yield.

3.

Well, let us bring our selves at last to this, As ardent Lovers when they Court a Miss; Or spy no faults, or love those faults they spy, Thus Agne's Polypus pleas'd Balbine's Eye; I wish this Error in our Friendship reign'd, Or had the credit of a Vertue gain'd, As Fathers hide Sons faults or else commend, We should excuse the failures of our Friend:

A Father that hath got a Squint-ey'd Boy Crys what a pretty Cast adorns my joy! And calls his dwarfish Son that's often sick, As that Abortive Sisyphus, his Chick: Is one too Close? be tender of his fame, And call him thrifty, 'tis the softer Name: If He will brag too much, if He is vain, Then say he is a brisk, and merry Man: If He will rage, if he will rudely flout, Then say He is a downright Friend, and stout: If He will huff, his Airy Soul commend, And this I think will get, and keep a Friend: But We unkindly and perversely nice, Do turn their very Vertues into Vice: If any lives a sober honest life, Puts up Affronts, and shuns disturbing Strise, A mean, we streight exclaim, and Chicken Soul: And one that's slow, We call a thick-scull'd Fool: Another in these evidencing Times When Envy loads our Honest Men with Crimes, Lives unsuspected, and with prudent Art He keeps himself secure on every part. Instead of Wise, of Provident, and Grave, Oh He's a Cunning and a Crafty Knave: If any man (as I have often done To you Mecaenas, and now freely own) Impertinent Discourse or Questions brings, Or jogs Another whil'st He reads or sings, Or sits a musing upon other things: We streight grow Mad, we'l hear no just defence; Pox, He's a Dolt, He wants even Common Sense;

What Customs, ah! what Rules have Men design'd? And how unjust, and to themselves unkind! There's none but hath some fault, and he's the best, Most Vertuous he, that's spotted with the least: A kind good natur'd Friend that strives to prove And know the Man that he intends to love, And weighs my Vertues, and my Faults, 'tis just (If happily my Vertues prove the most,) To let that Scale go down; and if on this He'l be a Friend, I'le bate some things amiss, And make the same allowance in weighing his: For those that would not have their Sores offend, Must not disgust the Pimples of their Friend: And 'tis but just, that he that hopes to find A Pardon for his Faults, should be as kind, And give the like, and with a willing mind.

4. But now since Passion's rooted in our Souls, As other faults that stick so close to Fools; Why doth not Reason poise and mend our thoughts? And see our rage proportion'd to the faults: When Supper's done a Slave removes the Dish, And spills the Broth, or else lets fall the Fish; Now should the Master stab the Slave for this, He would be thought more mad then Labeo is: But how more mad are we, and more severe! Our Friends but little, and but seldom Erre, (And such small Faults good Natures ne're resent; They sin as Men must do, and may repent.) But yet for this we hate, for this we shun, As Bankrupts, Risio, the notorious Dun; Who, when the Calends come, severely sues, And if the Debtor doth not pay the Use,

He's clapt in Jayl, and hears a tedious Bill, A killing Scroll, Item, and Item still: My Friend got drunk, perhaps hath foul'd my bed, Or bruis'd a Cup by neat Evander made, Or snacht away a Chicken from my Plate, And must I love my Friend the less for that? What should I do then if he prov'd unjust, Refus'd to bayl me, Thiev'd or broke his Trust? Those that hold Vices equal seem distress't, When leaving Sophistry they come toth' Test: This Fancy doth with Law and Custom fight, And Interest too, that spring of Just and Right: When Man first crept from Mother Earth's cold Womb, He was a miserable Thing, and dumb; Then they for Acorns fought, and shady Cave, With Nails, then Clubs, the Weapons Nature gave: And next with Swords which sad convenience found, And malice taught them they were fit to wound: Till Words and Names for Things, and Laws began, And civiliz'd the bruitish Creature Man: Then they built Towns, and settled Right and Just, And Laws to curb our Rapine, and our Lust; For long e're Helen's time a thousand dy'd, Then thousands fought to get a beauteous Bride: But unrecorded fell, like Beasts they stray'd, Each caught his willing Female and enjoy'd: Till one more strong kill'd him, and was preferr'd, Just as the greatest Bull amongst the Herd: Look o're the Word's old Records, there's the Cause. 'Twas fear of wrong that made us make our Laws:

By Naked Nature ne're was understood What's Just and Right, as what is Bad and Good, What fit and what unfit for Flesh and Bood: Nor Reason shews to break a Garden Hedge, Should be as great a Crime as Sacriledge: Let Rules be fixt that may our Rage contain, And punish faults with a Proportion'd pain: And do not flea him, do not run him through, That only doth deserve a kick or two: For I ne're fear that Thou wilt prove too kind, To too much Pity vitiously inclin'd, That can'st hold Vices Equal, and believe To Rob's no greater Crime than 'tis to Thieve; And who would punish all with equal hand If Thou wer't King, and had'st the full Command: If he that's wise and skilful in his Trade, Tho but a Cobler, must be neatly made, Be rich, be fair, be handsome and a King; Why do'st Thou wish for't since Thou hast the Thing? But what Chrysippus said Thou dost not know, No wise Man yet did ever make a shoe And yet the Cobler's a wise Man; how so? Why, as Hermogenes, tho He holds his Tongue, Is skill'd in Musick and can set a Song; And suffling Alfen though he lost his Awl, And threw away his Last, and shut his Stall; And broak his Threads, yet was a Cobler still; Thus every Tradesman if he hath but skill Is wise, and therefore only King: but stay, Unless you use your Club, with wanton play

The waggish Boys will pluck thy formal Beard, Thou shalt be kickt, derided, scorn'd and jeer'd, Till thou do'st burst when Rage or Envy Stings, And snarl thou greatest King of mighty Kings. In short, whilst Thou a King shalt walk in State, And only foolish Crispin on Thee wait, To get a farthing Bath, I nobly live, The Faults I Fool commit, my friends forgive, And I as easily will pardon theirs, And so I'le live secure, and free from Cares, A happier Private Man, Than Thou a King.

SATYR IV.

The Heads of the Fourth Satyr.

• (1.) Lucilius was bitter but uncorrect.
• (2.) Few read Satyrs, because they know they deserve the reproof.
• (3.) Whether Satyr be a Species of Poetry.
• (4.) A defence of his own Writings.
• (5.) The manner how his Father bred him to Vertue.

1. CRatin and Eupolis that lash't the Age, Those old Comedian Furies of the Stage; If they were to describe a vile, unjust, And cheating Knave, or scourge a Lawless Lust; Or other Crimes; regardless of his Fame They show'd the Man, and boldly told his Name;

This is Lucilius's way, He follows those, His Wit the same, but other numbers chose; I grant he was a sharp and ready Wit, But rude and uncorrect in all he writ: This was his fault, He hastily would rhyme (As if 'twere such a wondrous thing in him) Two hundred tedious lines in one hours time: Yet when with force his muddy fancy flow'd, Some few pure Streams appear'd amongst the mud: In writing much 'tis true his Parts excell, Too lazy for the task of writing well: But grant that rare, what then? Crispinus says You talk of writing, Sir, You claim the Bays, Come on Sir Critick, You shall have your fill, (The wager be as little as you will) Here's Pen and Ink, and Time and Place, let's try Which can write most and fastest, You or I: Thanks Heaven that made me slow, and gave a Pe•• That writes but little, and but now and then: But you, like Bellows, till the Gold's refin'd, Are puffing still, and all but empty wind.

2. Fannius was happy, whom the publick praise Preferr'd to Phoebus shrine, and Crown'd with Bays: But few read mine, and few my Books delight, And I scarce dare to publish what I write: Few like this way, for most know well enough, That they deserve, and fear my just reproof: Take any at a venture midst the Crowd, And you shall find him covetous or proud, One marry'd Whores, another Boys desires, One Silver's white, and Alpius Brass admires:

Another runs from East to West to cheat, Like Dust by Whirlwinds tost thro storms of Fate, And all to keep or better his Estate: All these hate Poets, these do fear our Rhimes, Look he's stark mad, they cry, fly, fly betimes; He spares no Friend, He will abuse the best, So he may laugh himself and have his Jest: And then what e're He writes flies o're the Town, To Pimps, to Hectors, and to Gamesters shown, To every one He meets He tells the Tale, Old Senseless Fops, Old Women, Boys and All: Now hear what may for t'other side be shown;

3. First, I'me no Poet, for to make me one 'Tis not enough to fetter words in Rhyme, And make a tedious and a jingling Chyme; And chiefly since my numerous feet enclose Such plain familiar Talk, and almost Prose; No, He alone can claim that name that writes With Fancy High, and bold and daring flights, And sings as nobly as His Hero fights. And therefore some do doubt, (though some allow) If Comedy be Poetry or no, Because it wants that Spirit, Flame, and Force, And bate the numbers, 'tis but plain discourse: Yet often there the careful Fathers rage, They storm, and swear, and crack the trembling Stage, A Rogue, a Dog, I'le kick him out of Door; When his young Stripling courts a Jilting Whore, And slights a noble Match; or stow'd with drink, E'en whilst 'tis day, He Sails behind his Link:

And would not Pompon, were his Father here, Expect as harsh a check, and as severe? Well then 'tis not enough to keep due time, Observe just feet, and put plain words in Rhyme; For break the Numbers, and the Verse affords But common angry talk, and usual words: Thus take what I, or what Lucilius writes, Tho now and then it Storms, and sometimes bites, Invert the Order and the Words transpose, No sign, as when you change (When violent Wars Had burst their Brazen Gates, and broke the Bars:) Of Poetry appears, 'tis naked Prose.

4. But now enough, another Time shall show If 'tis a part of Poetry or no: But now I will enquire how Men should hate This way of writing Satyr, and for what: Capri and Sulce, those Terrors of the Jayl, Both hoarse with pleading walk the Common-Hall, Their green Bags stusst with Bills, Indictments, Breves, A mighty Terror those to Knaves and Thieves; But yet an honest Man that keeps his Oath, Nor robs nor steals, may safely scorn them both: If Thou'rt a Thief, as Coele and Byrrhus are, I'me not like Sulce or Capri, why do'st fear, And why dread me? My Book's not set to Sale, Thumb'd by the Rabble upon every Stall, The Rascal scum, Hermogenes and All: I seldom do rehearse, and when I do, I'me forc't because my Friends will have it so: But then in private, to my Friends alone, Not every where, nor yet to every one:

Thousands i'th' publick Market-place recite, And trouble all they meet with what they write: Nay whilst they Bath, They studiously rehearse, The Eccho's raise the Voice and grace the Verse: Thus act our Fops, and without fear or wit, Never considering if the Season's fit, Or time convenient: Well, but what you write Doth hurt Mens fame, that's your perverse delight: Why this to me? Doth any Friend of mine Boldly affirm that this is my design? He that himself shall blame his absent Friends, Or hears them scandaliz'd, and not defends, Sports with their Fame, and speaks what e're He can, And only to be thought a Witty Man, Tells Tales, and brings his Friend in dis-esteem, That Man's a Knave, besure beware of him: Set Twelve to Supper, one above the rest Takes all the talk, and breaks a scurvy Jest On all, except the Master of the Feast: At last on him, when frequent Cups begin, T'unlock his Soul, and show the spight within: Yet him you count a Wag, a merry Soul, A pleasant, innocent, and harmless Droll: But if I smile perchance, if I presume To laugh because Rufillus doth perfume, That Female Man; or nasty Gorgon note For studied filthiness, and smell of Goat: My smiles are Satyrs, and what e're I write, In me 'tis all detraction, and 'tis spight: In common Talk, as we have often done, If we discourse how Petil stole the Crown;

And you, as you are wont, his Cause defend, He hath a kindness for me, He's my Friend, My old Acquaintance He, He is indeed, And faith I'me glad at heart that He is freed; And yet I wonder how He 'scapt; 'tis right, This, this is base detraction, this is spight: This, If I know my self, ne're relisht me, My Books from this, I'me sure my Mind is free, But if some things appear jocosely writ, This you must pardon, this you must permit.

5. For my good Father did instruct me so, And by Examples taught me how to know What was unfit, and what was fit to do: For when He tutor'd and advis'd to thrift, And live content with that which He had left: Mark Byrrhus, he would say, and Alpi's Son, How poor They live, now They are both undone! Two fit examples by unhappy Fates, To fright young Heirs from spending their Estates: When He would fright me from a lawless Love, And Whores, He said, Young Horace do not prove Like Sectan, do not lead so loose a Life, And seek stoln joys, and with another's Wife; Use what the Laws permit, and be advis'd, Trebonius got no credit when surpriz'd: Philosophers perhaps may show the Cause, And talk of Reason and of Nature's Laws, Why some things should be hated, some admir'd, And why avoided some, and some desir'd, But 'tis enough for me to form thy mind, And leave it to the Ancients rules inclin'd,

And whilst Thou want'st a Tutor, keep thy Name And manners spotless, and preserve thy Fame; For when a Man, then thou must walk alone, No prudent care to guide Thee but thy own: Thus he advis'd; What e're He'd have me do, He says, Look such a one doth so and so; And sets a Worthy Man before my Eyes, And when he would forbid a Thing, He crys, Is not this bad when such and such a One Is scandaliz'd for't over all the Town? Unruly Patients when They chance to hear Their Neighbour's lately dead, begin to fear, Grow orderly and check their Appetite; So others ill repute do often fright Young Men from following Vice and false delight: Hence 'tis that sound from greater faults I live, But small, and such as Friends may well forgive, I grant I have; yet even those grow less By my own Care, or by my Friends advice; For when I lye or when I walk alone, I usually revolve what I have done; This may be better'd sure, and this commend, And make me greater, and a pleasant Friend: Sure this is bad, and this is not well done; What shall I act like such and such a one? All this I use to think on when alone: At leasure times I write my foolish thoughts, And this is one of Those my little faults, Which if you won't forgive, but prove severe, A Band of Poets to my Aid I'll rear, (For we can make a Band) and like the Jews I'le force you take that side you now refuse.

SATYR V.

The Heads of the Fifth Satyr.

• (1.) A Description of his journey to Brundusium, with all the various occurrences in the way.

FRom stately Rome I walkt a little way, And reacht Aricia first, and there I lay; My Company as good as Man could seek, The Lawyer Heliodore a Learned Greek: Then Forum Apii, that's a paltry Town, With Tars and Pedlars throng'd, and those alone; We made two days on't hither, tho most but one; For to quick Travellers 'tis a tedious road, But if you walk but slow 'tis pretty good: Here 'cause the water did corrode the Tast, And hurt the Stomach, I resolv'd to fast; And envy'd those that Sup't, now Night appears And o're the Heaven spreads shades, and twinkling Stars: And then the Boys and Tars began to roar, A Boat, a Boat, so ho, you Son of a Whore, Pox, Thou wilt sink the Boat, enough, no more: And whilst They take the Fare we were to pay, And tye the Mule, a whole hour slips away: The Boat was full of Fleas, and those molest, And croaking Frogs all night disturb'd our rest: The Mule-man and the Boat-man sate up late, Both drunk, and sang a Catch of merry Kate:

At last the weary Mule-man rolls to Bed, With fiery Eyes, swoln Guts, and aking head: The Boat-man too resolv'd to work no more, But ty'd his Mule to graze along the shore, Then fell asleep, and there all night doth snore: And now the Sun climb'd o're the Eastern Hill, And show'd the Day, but yet our Boat stood still; Till one, a surly fellow, leapt from far, And back and side He cudgel'd drowzy Tar: This made him work and follow our Command, And so at ten a Clock we came to Land: Feronia was the place, and there we Dine; Thence three miles farther to another Inn: My kind Mecaenas was to meet me there, With good Cocceius sent on great Affair, On Embassies, 'twas their delightful toyl To make new Friends, and Enemies reconcile: And here because my travelling did inflame, I drest my Eyes, mean while Mecaenas came, Cocceius, Capito, and Fronto— That Fronto delicate in mind and face, And great with Antony as any was: At little Fundi we refus'd to bait, But laught at proud Aufidiu's Pomp and State; A Scrivener lately, now with Mace and Gown He huffs, and proudly Lords it o're the Town: To Formiae next; There Capito meat affords, Murena Lodging, so we liv'd like Lords: The next day was a happy joyful day, For then at Sinuessa on our way, Plotinus, Virgil, Varius too attends, All worthy Men, and my obliging Friends:

Oh how did we embrace! What shouts we gave! A Friend's the dearest thing a Man can have: Next night near Campan's Bridge our Stage was good, And there we Lodg'd, and as the Custom stood The Villagers presented Salt and Wood: Next Stage was Capua, there we made a stay, We came betimes, Mecaenas went to play, Virgil and I to Bed, my Eyes were sore, His stomach sick, and so we both forbore: And next we reach't Cocceius Farm at night; A pleasant Seat, and stor'd with all delight: But now assist my Muse, and now relate How two base fellows quarrell'd, and for what: But first their Pedigree; the generous, brave, And valiant Messius was a Noble Knave, An Oscian born; Sarmentus was a Slave: Thus nobly born these Two, and nobly bred Began the Brawl, And first Sarmentus said, Faith Messius Thou art like an untam'd Horse; We laugh; Well, well, says Messius, take your Course, And shakes his head; Oh were thy horns not gone, How thou wouldst push, since now when thou hast none Thou threatnest so? but that's a scurvy place, Those plaguy Scars thy brisly front disgrace. And then breaks many a jest upon his face: On every Pimple, and on every Wart, And bids him Mimick Polyphem; No Art, No Vizor thou dost need, for thou art rough, And Nature's given Thee ugliness enough. This Messius stomachs, and replies again, Well, Sir, when will you Consecrate the Chain

You vow'd the Lares? now you're mighty proud, A Scribe, yet still your Ladies claim is good: But why I wonder should'st Thou run away? A poor thin-gutted Rogue; sure he might stay That feasted on an half-penny Loaf a day. This made our Supper pleasant, thence we rod To Beneventum, there our Inn was good: But whilst our sedulous Host makes too much hast To roast our Meat, and makes too strong a blast, He had almost been burnt, the Chimny fir'd, And flames as hungry to the Roofs aspir'd: Then hungry We, and all our Servants came To save the Meat and House, and quench the flame: Next day the known Appulian Mountains rise, Which hot Atabulus scorches as He flies: To pass these Hills had prov'd too great a toyl, But small Trevicum gave us rest a while, We staid, quite blinded in a smoaky house, For all They had to burn was leaves and boughs: Here I poor Noddy half the night or more Expected a sorsworn, a jilting Whore, At last dull sleep did blunt my keen desire, His lazy hand spread o're, and check't my fire: But then some wanton Dreams, too loose to tell, Supply'd her place, and did the feat as well: Thence four and twenty Miles in four hours time, To a small place whose name wo'nt stand in Rhyme: But yet by Signs 'tis very eas'ly known: First then, the Water's scarce o're all the Town; The cheapest Thing that Nature hath bestow'd Here's dearly sold; the Bread is very good:

This oft the wary Traveller approves, And when He parts, He fills his Bag with Loaves: For none Canusium yields but gristy Bread, This Town was built by Valiant Diomed, The Nymphs averse, 'tis like the former, poor, Nor can it boast one Quart of Water more: Here Varius left us, but appear'd to be Concern'd to part, and all as much as He: Next night we reach't to Rubi, there we lay, All very weary, for the tedious way Was dirty, and besides it rain'd all day: Next Morn the Sky was fair, the Weather good As far as Bari's Town, but worse the Road: Here we had sport enough, and cause to smile, For some that would our easie Faith beguile, Would needs perswade that in their Sacred Quire Sweet Incence burns without the help of fire: Ay, let the Jews believe it if they please, Not I, I know the Gods must live at ease: Nor when strong Nature doth some wonders show, Can I believe They meddle here below: Hence to Brundusium, there I left my Friends, And so my Story and my Journey Ends.

SATYR VI.

To MECAENAS.

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

1. BEcause thy Veins are fill'd with Royal Blood, Thy Birth is Noble, Family as good As all Hetruria boasts, you are not proud: Because thy Ancestors did Armies guide, Kings by thy Fathers and thy Mothers side, Thou dost not slight a Man of mean Degree, As most Men use to do, for instance, Me, Whose Father was a Slave, and lately Free: For you believe, and you are right in This, No matter whence He comes, but what He is: No matter if his Race be low, his blood Be mean, if but his Mind be great and good: Before King Tully's time, by Birth a Slave, A thousand Men of mean descent were brave, And fill'd the Honors that the People gave: But Noble Laevin though Valerias Son (By whose wise Conduct this great State begun, When Tarquin They, the lofty and the Proud, Expell'd) was never valu'd by the Crowd:

The Crowd those Common Slaves to empty Fame, That more than the Deserts regard the Name, Dazled with Family and gawdy shows: Then what should We, what We the Wise propose, We that are thought a different Kind from Those? But at Elections grant the Crowd refuse Ignoble Decius, and Levinus chuse; And grant the surly Censor Appius scorn, And shove me off, because but meanly born Or else deserv'dly 'cause I would be brave, And seek a finer skin than Nature gave: Yet Glory's shining Chariot swiftly draws With equal Whirl the Noble and the Base:

2. What profit was it, Tully, to resume Thy once lost Honors, spread thy gawdy Plume And be a Tribune? Thence more hate began, More Envy rose than when a Private Man: For when a Fool shall make a mighty stir, Swagger and huff in Golden Chain and Fur; All Eyes streight turn to the unusual State, And studiously enquire, what Fellow's that? What Family? As one that shows a face Pox't, Meager, Pale, and such as Barrus has, Yet would be handsome thought. Where e're He goes The Ladies cry, look how the fellow shows, And streight examine his Leg, his Calf and Nose. Thus when one thrusts himself upon the State, And cries, Come I'll sustain the Nation's weight, The Empire and Religion be my Care, I'll manage all: This makes the People stare,

This makes them ask what is He, whence came He? What was his Mother? Of what Family? Or is He base, his Sire of mean Degree? And what shall base-born you, Sir, rule the Law, Lord it o're Citizens, and hang and draw? My Collegue Novius, Sir, is mean to me, He's what my Father was, a Slave made Free. What then, doth that enoble all thy blood, Make Thee Messala, Paulus, or as good? Yet did two hundred Drays, and all the Crowd Of two great Funerals meet, He bawls so loud That He would drown the Horns and Trumpets Noise; This pleases, we are taken with his Voice:

3. But to my self the Son of a Free'd-Man,— Whom Envious Eyes and Envious Tongues pursue, Because, My Lord, I am belov'd by you: But once because I had a good Command, And as a Tribune led a Roman Band: The cause unlike, for those that may pretend To envy me, for Honours Chance can send, Yet may not be displeas'd that you're my friend: Since neither Fancy nor the Pop'lar Voice, But prudent Care, and Worth doth guide your choice: And, Sir, this happiness I dare not own Was Chance, for 'twas not Chance that made me Known: For Virgil did commend me to your Grace, And Varius often told you what I was: When sent for, Sir, in few and broken words, In such as Infant Modesty affords,

I did not tell you my Descent was great, I did not say I had a vast Estate, But what I was; and your Reply was short, As 'tis your Custom; so I left the Court, And to my fields retir'd; at nine months end You sent for me, and bad me be your Friend: And this I think is great, this makes me proud, That I pleas'd you, who know what's bad from good, By Vertue, not by Nobleness of Blood:

4. If only little stains do spot my Soul, (As perfect Beauties often have a Mole) Tho I'me Secure and free from all the foul: If none on me can truly fix disgrace, If I am neither Covetous, nor Base; If innocent my life, if (to commend My self) I live belov'd by every Friend: I thank my Father for't, for He being poor, His Farm but small, the usual ways forbore; He did not send me to Sir Fabius School To teach me Arts, and make me great by rule: Such as our Great-mens Sons and Nobles seek, With Book in hand, and Satchel round their Neck, And meanly pay their Master by the Week. But first He boldly brought me up to Town, To see those ways, and make those Arts my own, Which every Knight and Noble taught his Son: So well attended, and so richly drest I walkt thro Rome, that those that view'd me, guest I was a Man of Wealth, a Knight at least. Himself my carefull'st Guardian watcht me still, In short, He so supprest the growth of ill,

That (Vertue's hight) not only kept me pure From vitious Deeds, but ill repute secure: Nor did He fear the Censuring World should blame His high designs, or I be damn'd with shame, If after all his Cost I should be made A Common Cryer, or a meaner Trade; Or else, as He himself, have poorly liv'd A mean Excise-man, nor should I have griev'd: I owe more thanks, and more respect for this, Nor shall I e're, whatever Fops advise, Repent of such a Father if I'me wise. Therefore as Others when the haughty scorn, 'Twas not our fault we were not nobly born, I do no say, nor mind those meaner cares; My words and thoughts are different far from theirs.

5.

For should kind Nature bid my Soul retire, Go back to Birth, and chuse a Noble Sire, As great as Thought could frame, or Pride desire; Content with those I have, let others choose, I would the Noble and the Great refuse: And this is foolish, this a wild design I'th' Crowd's Opinion, Wise perhaps in thine, Because I love my ease, with prudent care, And shun a weight who am not us'd to bear: For streight my small Estate I must enlarge, Salute more Men, and live at greater charge, Companions get, lest I, in Field or Town, The noble I, be seen to walk alone: More Grooms and Horses keep, a Coach beside, And all the costly Vanities of Pride: Now on my bob-tail'd Mule all gall'd and sore, My Wallet galls behind, my Spurs before;

I ride when e're I will, I ride at ease As far as soft Terentum if I please; None, as of Tully's baseness, shall of mine complain, On whom, when Praetor, as a noble Train, In the Tiburtine way five Boys did wait, And bore a stool and flask of Wine in State: I live, Sir Noble, I can justly boast Better than you, and happier far than most: I walk alone where e're my fancies lead, And busie ask the price of Herbs and Bread: Thro cheating Rome about the close of day I freely walk, I go to Church and pray, Then home, where I shall find a sparing Treat, And three small pretty Boys bring up the Meat: Just by a White-stone-Table stands to bear Two Pots, one Cup, and equal to my fare A Cruise and Platter, all poor Earthen Ware. And then I go to bed, and take my rest, No guilty Conscience frets, no Cares molest, No sad remembrance of my former Crimes; No Suits to bid me be at Court betimes: Where Marsya's Statue stands, and fears to brook The fury of the younger Novius look: "I sleep till Ten, then walk, or read a while, "Or write for pleasure, 'noint my self with Oyl, Not such as Natta pours, the rich, the base, Who robs the dying Lamps to grease his face. But when that heat invites to cooler streams, I bath, and fly the fury of the beams; I eat not greedily, but just enough To stay my stomach, and keep hunger off;

This is their life who are unloos'd from fears, Weighty Ambition, and its vexing Cares: This comforts me, this more contentment brings, Then if my Birth were high, my Race were Kings.

SATYR VII.

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

HOw mungrel Persius paid Rupilius off, Sur-nam'd the King, that banish't railing Huff, And gave him Quid for Quo, I think is known To all the Blind and Barbers shops in Town: This Persius rich half Asia did molest With Law-suits, and the King amongst the rest: Bold, Impudent He was, and still at strife, And as malicious as the King for's Life. Haughty, and such a bitter Rogue to rail, That Piso hardly could blow wind in's Tail: But to return, when nought could calm their rage, (For so 'tis still when Two great Souls engage:) Thus in Achilles and in Hector's strife, Their Emulation was as long as life; Because they both were brave, their minds were great, Their courage equal, and alike their heat; But when two Cowards, or unequal Foes, As when soft Glaucus Diomed did oppose,

The weaker yields unable to defend, And gives the other bribes to be his Friend. When Brutus Asia rul'd, this railing Pair, Not Byth and Bacchus were a Match so fair, Began their Suit; away to Court they run Both hot, and gaz'd at both by every one. Persius begins and doth the Cause explain, (We laugh, and as He speaks we laugh again) And praiseth Brutus much, and all his Train: He calls him Asia's Sun, a glorious thing, And all were Stars benign except the King; The Dog-Star He, that Star that poison yields, And sheds malicious Influence o're our fields. Thus heedlesly he still pursu'd his Theme, As fierce and muddy as a Winters Stream. The King enrag'd at this, and swoln with hate, Empties his Stomach straight in Billingsgate; The finest Rhetorick the World hath known, The very inside of a Bawling Clown. But Persius netled with his sharp replies, At last, Brutus, since Thou art wont, He cries, To murther Kings; for Heavens sake why not This? For this would prove a good and great design, Brutus, this ought to be an act of thine.

SATYR VIII.

The Heads of the Eighth Satyr.

• (1.) Priapus tells how He came to be a God.
• (2.) Discourses how the Witches come at Night and trouble him.
• (3.) Discovers their Ceremo∣nies.

1.

LOng time I lay a useless Piece of Wood, Till Artists doubtful for what the Log was good, A Stool, or God; resolved to make a God: So I was made, my Form the Log receives, A mighty Terror I to Birds and Thieves: My Hook and my vast Pole the Thieves affright, And keep the Garden safe from Rogues by night: My gastly Head is Crown'd with staring Reed, To fright the Sparrows from the new-sown Seed;

2.

This Plat where now I stand was heretofore A Common Place of Burial for the Poor, Here by the Common Beadle of the Town The Poorer sort, and Spendthrifts Corps were thrown, They got this Plat when they had spent their own. A thousand Foot in length, three hundred broad As the Inscription shows, by Will bestow'd For Publick Use, and for the Common Good.

But now where only frightful Bones were seen, That Checkred with a gastly White the Green, Mecaenas built a Summers soft retreat: The Air is Good, and 'tis a pretty Seat. And now I take but very little Care, For Thieves and Birds that come and rifle here; The troublesome Witches vex me more then They, Those Wretches I can never drive away: For when the Moon is up, each comes and pulls Her pois'nous Herbs, or gathers Bones and Skulls.

3.

I oft have seen the Hag Canidia there, Bare-foot, Her Coat tuck't short, and loose her Hair: With elder Sagana, I saw them run, (They both were gastly, pale to look upon.) I heard them howl, and saw the furious Witch, Whilst with her Nails she scrap't a little Ditch, Then tear black Lambs, and pour in all the Blood, And call the hungry Ghosts to take their Food, The Ghosts that were to tell her what she wou'd. Of Wool and Wax they made two Images, Which the bewitch't and Witches Forms express, The Wool the greater, to torment the less: The Wax was to be whipt, and seem'd to bow, And there stood cringing as it fear'd the blow. One Hecate invokes with dreadful Pray'r, And one Tisiphone, and streight They hear Black Serpents hiss and Hell-hounds barking there. The Moon skulk't streight, and as afraid to view This gastly sight, behind the Tombs withdrew. Now if I lye let Birds disdain my Reed, And come and Perch, and dung upon my Head:

Let me be spit, let me be piss't upon By all the Rogues and Rascals of the Town: Why should I mention all I saw or heard? How in their Ditch They hid a Tyger's Beard; And Serpent's Tooth: how with a squeaking Voice The Witch and Ghost discours't? how harsh the Noise? How by slow Fires the Waxen Form did wast: And frighted I reveng'd my self at last. For loud, as a blown Bladder when 'tis broak, I stoutly farted from my Arse of Oak; The frighted Witches start and drop for fear Canidia Teeth, and Sagana false Hair; Away their Charms and pois'nous Herbs were thrown, Each takes her ambling Switch, and hasts to Town, It would have made you split to see Them run.

SATYR IX.

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

AS I was walking through the streets of Rome, And musing on I know not what nor whom, A Fop came up, by name scarce known to me, He seiz'd my hand, and cry'd, Dear Sir how d'ye: I thank you, pretty well as times go now; All happiness: I wish the same to you:

But when He follow'd me, I turn'd and cry'd, What farther business, Sir? And He reply'd, What don't you know me Sir? No faith: What no? Come Horace now you jest, I'me sure you do; Why I'me a Scholar: Sir, I'me glad of that, 'Twill make me prize you at a higher rate: Uneasie thus, and eager to be gone, Sometimes I walkt but slow, now faster on, My Foot-boy whisper'd now, and now I stopt, Now turn'd about, still Sweating till I dropt: Ten thousand times I softly curst my Fate, And envy'd deaf Bolanus happy State: Whilst He, Eternal Clack, of all we meet Said something, praising Houses, Town, and Street: But when He saw me so uneasie grown, And answer nothing; Sir, you would be gone, But faith, Dear Sir, We must not part so soon; I love your Company, I'le follow still, I must make one, Dear Sir, go where you will: 'Tis too much trouble for you, I design Beyond the Bridge, to see a friend of mine Unknown to you, your kind attendance spare, It will be rude to trouble you so far: Sir I'me at leasure, I have time to spend, And I can walk I'me sure to serve a friend: I'le go: And thus when no release appears, Like an o'reladen Ass I hung my Ears. Then He, Sir, If I don't mistake my Parts, Not Varius Wit, nor Viscus great Deserts Can claim your friendship half so much as mine; Which of the Wits can write so smooth a line,

Which more than I, or which with greater ease? 'Tis almost natural in me to please: Who can his limbs to softer motions bring? Hermogenes might envy when I sing: And then he stopt a while, and I put in: Have you a Mother Sir, or any Kin That would be glad to see you? I have none, For thanks kind Stars they all are dead and gone: Oh Happy They, and I the last remain, Come, pray Sir, quickly rid me of my pain; For now the fatal hour, the time is come, The Midwife told me when she read my doom. She turn'd the Sieve, and said, Nor Sword, nor Cough, Nor Poison, Plague, nor Charms shall take him off: Nor the Catarrh, nor Flux, nor Pox destroy, But an Eternal Tongue shall kill the Boy, And therefore would He have his life be long, When grown a Man avoid a talking Tongue: By this 'twas nine a Clock or somewhat past, And we to Vesta's Temple came at last. And there that day He had a Cause to hear, And was to lose his Suit or else appear. Come pray, Sir, as you love me stop a while, Faith Sir I cannot stand, nor have I skill In any Point, and I'me oblig'd to go: Well then, What must I leave my Cause, or You? Me by all means: No, hang me if I do: And so march't on; and I (with one too strong What Man can strive?) look't blank, and sneak't along. How doth Mecaenas (thence his Chat began) Affect you now? You are the subt'lest Man:

You make Hay whilst it shines, but take my word, To have another always near my Lord, And next to You in favour, would secure My Lord's good Will, and make your Fortune sure: Fix me the Man, and let them do their best, I'le lay my life on't you shall rout the rest: Sir, you mistake, that's not our Course of Life, We know no Jealousies, no Brawls, no Strife; From all those ills our Patrons House is free, None 'cause more Learn'd or Wealthy troubles Me, We have our Stations, all their own pursue: 'Tis strange, scarce credible: and yet 'tis true: This whets my wish, I'me eager for a place: I shall not rest till I am near his Grace: Pray stand my Friend, I'me sure of good success, He may be wrought on if you please to press: But Sir, at first he is of hard access: Well, when Occasion serves, I'le play my part, I'le spare no cost and charge, try every Art, Hang on his Coach, wait on him, all I can, Bribe, Flatter, Cringe, but I'me resolv'd to gain, 'Tis only Labour, Sir, can raise a Man. As thus He talk't, a Friend of mine came by, Who knew the fellow's humour more than I. We stop't, and talk't a while, as How do'st do? Whence came you, Sir, I pray? and whither now? Mean while I shrug'd, a thousand signs I show'd, I squeez'd his hand, and did what e're I cou'd, I nodded, cough't, and wink't to let him see I stood in need of's help to set me free; He cruel Wag, tho knowing my intent, Pretended ignorance of all I mean't:

I rag'd; at last, A little while ago You had some business, pray let's have it now: I mind it well, but, Sir, another day, My business calls me now a different way; 'Tis Holiday, I visit yonder shrine, And must not mix Prophane with things Divine: I don't mind Holidays; but Sir I do, A little tender Conscienc'd, Sir, I vow, One of the Crowd, I go to Church and pray, Your pardon, Sir, we'll talk another day: Did ever such unlucky Beams arise! Ever so black a day! unkind He flies, And leaves me gasping for a little life, Just at the mercy of the Butcher's knife: When lo his Adversary cry'd, Oh, Oh! Sir Raschal, have I caught you, whither now? Pray Sir bear witness, gladly I consent, He's forc't to Court, and I as freely went: The People Crowd and Shout; but mid'st the strife I scap't, and so Apollo sav'd my Life.

SATYR X.

The Heads of the Tenth Satyr.

• (1.) He maintains the censure he had given of Lu∣cilius.
• (2.) Discourses of Poetry.
• (3.) Satyr is his proper Talent.
• (4.) He is content with the praise of the best Judges.

1.

WEll, Sir, I grant I said Lucilius Muse Is uncorrect, his way of Writing loose, "And who admires him so, what Friend of his "So blindly doats as to deny me This? "And yet in the same Page I freely own, "His Wit as sharp as ever lash't the Town; But This one sort of Excellence allow'd, Doth not infer that all the rest is good: "For on the same Account I might admit "Labenius Farce for Poems and for Wit.

2.

Well then 'tis not enough to please the Crowd, And make them laugh to prove the Poem good: Yet this I grant a sort of Excellence: He must be short, nor must He clog his sense With useless words, or make his Periods long, They must be smooth, and so glide o're the Tongue: And sometimes He must use a graver stile, And then jocose, and He must laugh a while. Now like an Orator, a Poet now; Their different Vertues, and their Graces show,

Now like a Gentleman whose fine discourse Design'dly easie is, and free from force, Instructive Mirth, and where a waggish sneer Doth nick the great Ones more then a severe: "This was the drift of all our Ancient Plays, "In this They may be follow'd, and with Praise But these Hermogenes (those blundring heads) Scarce knows; and t'other Ape-face never reads: Poor thick-skull'd Sots that sing a Catch or two From Calvus, and that's all that they can do. Ay, but He's excellent; for many times He mixes Greek with Latine in his Rhimes. Dull Sots to think that Poetry and Wit, Which e'en the Rhodian poor Pitholeon writ. Ay, but the Speech thus mixt is neat and fine, 'Tis sweet like Latine mixt with Greekish Wine. But you Sir, that can't think this Censure true, But do•••• on Lucill, I appeal to you, Only in Verse, or when you treat of Laws, Or plead suppose, Petillus desp'rate Cause; Whilst Pode and Corvin eagerly accuse, Would you this mix't, this Mungrel Language use: As 'twere forget your own, and Greek confound With Latine, like the Apulians double sound? When I, a Latin, once design'd to write Greek Verses, Romulus appear'd at night; 'Twas after Twelve, the time when dreams are true, And said; Why Horace, what do'st mean to do? 'Tis full as mad the Greeks vast heaps t'encrease, As 'tis to carry Water to the Seas. Whilst swelling Alpin in his lofty way, Murders poor Memnon in his Barbarous Play;

Or awkerdly describes the head of Rhine; This pleasant way of writing Satyr's mine. 'Tis not for glory, nor to please the Age, Nor get the Bays, nor often tread the Stage. True Comedy Fondanus only writes, Pollio the Acts of Kings, and Noble Fights, Strong Epic-Poems Varius best can raise, And Virgil's happy Muse in Eclogues plays, Facetious, soft, and justly wins the Bays. In Satyrs I, which Varro try'd in vain, And others too, may have a happy strain: Yet than Lucillius less I freely own, I would not strive to blast his just renown, He wears and best deserves to wear the Crown. Ay, but I said his fancy muddy flow'd, And faulty Lines did oft exceed the good. Well Sir, and is e'en Homer all correct? Is He, Sir Critic, free from all defect? Doth not Lucillius Accius Rhimes accuse? And blame our Ennius's correcter Muse? For too much lightness oft his Rhimes deride, And when He talks of his own Verse, for Pride? Then what's the Reason that his friend repines, That when I read Lucilius looser lines, I try if 'tis his Subject won't permit, More even Verse, or if 'tis want of Wit? But now if any is content to chime, And just put naked Words in Feet and Rhime, And write two hundred Lines in two hours time. As Cassius did, that full o're-flowing Tide Of Wit, and who was burnt, (or fame hath ly'd) With Piles of his own Papers when he dy'd.

Well then suppose Lucilius was a Wit, His Vertue's more than Faults in what He writ. Correcter than the Older Writers own, And that we Satyr owe to him alone, Satyr a Poem to the Greeks unknown. Yet did He now again new life Commence, He would correct, he would retrench his Sense, And pare off all that was not Excellence; Take pains, and often when he Verses made, Would bite his Nails toth quick, and scratch his Head. When you design a lasting Piece, be wise, Amend, Correct, again, again Revise: Ne're seek the Crowd's unthinking praise, delight

4. 'That few, and Judges, read the Verse you write. Is't thy Ambition mean unthinking Fool, To be a Classick thumb'd in every School? That's not my wish, for 'tis enough for me, As hist Arbuscula was wont to say, Well well hiss on, for since I please the best, And those approve me well, I scorn the rest. Why should I vex to hear Pontitius blame My Poems, or Demetrius carp my Fame? Or hungry Fannius at Tigellius Treat, Disgrace my Verse to get a little Meat? Let Plotius, Varius, and Mecoenas love, Let Caesar, Virgil, Valgius all approve What I compose; to these would I could joyn The Visci, and Messala's Learned Line, And Pollio, and some other Friends of mine, Whom I for modesty forbear to name, My good acquaintance all, and Men of Fame,

Commend my Lines, and I should grieve to know They do not please Them, as I hope they do. I scorn Tigellius, and Demetrius noise, Dull Block-heads, let them Pipe among their Boys, And mind their Schools: Go Roger quickly run, Put this into my Book, and I have done.

The End of the first Book of Satyrs.

SATYRS.

BOOK II.

The Heads of the first Satyr.

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

1. SOme Fancy I am bitter when I jeer Beyond the Rules of Satyr too severe; Some that my Verse is dull and flat, and say, A Man may write a Thousand such a day. What shall I do Trebatius? Why give o're, Thy scribling humor check, and write no more: The Counsel's good, and oh that I could choose, But I can't sleep for my unruly Muse: Why then (for that will lay a rambling Head) Go always tir'd, or else go drunk to Bed. Of if you needs must write, go raise thy Fame, By Caesar's Wars, for that's a noble Theme, And that will get Thee Wealth and an Esteem.

I have the Will, but when I strive to fly, My Wing's too weak, nor can I rise so high. For 'tis not every one can paint a War, How Iron Armies dreadful gay appear; The Galli falling by a braver force, Or wounded Parthians tumbling from their Horse. Yet Thou, for such the wise Lucilius show'd Great Scipio, may'st describe him just and good: Well, when Occasion serves my Muse designs To try that way, but my unpolish't lines, Unless by chance a happy Time appears, Will never pass the judging Caesar's Ears, Whom if you try to stroak, He's free from Pride, And kicks you off, secure on every side: And this is better than with railing Rhymes, To lash the faults and follies of the Times, Since all think they are hit, and all resent, And hate Thee, tho perhaps They are not meant.

2. What shall I do? As most Men have their humours I have mine, Milonius Dances when He's full of Wine: Pollux on Foot, on Horse-back Castor fights; As many Men, so many their delights: I love to Rhyme, and have a railing Wit, And choose the way that wise Lucilius writ: He did to's Book, as to a Trusty Friend, His secret Vertues, and his Faults Commend. And when a good or faulty deed was done, He trusted them with that, and them alone. And hence his Books do all his Life explain, As if we saw him live it o're again.

This Man I imitate; but what I am Faith I can't tell, nor know from whence I came; For whether I my Birth t' Appulia owe, Or to Lucania, faith 'tis hard to know, Since we Venusians live between these two; Plac't here, as Tales of Ancient Fame relate, When the Sabelli bow'd to stronger Fate, On this side to secure the Roman State: Lest fierce Appulian or Lucanian Arms, Should take them unprovided for Alarms.

3. But yet this Pen of mine shall never wound If unprovok't, yet still I'le keep my ground, Ready for all assaults, make this my guard, And stand on my defence, be still prepar'd, As with a Sword, yet sheath'd, and never draw Unless assaulted, to keep Rogues in Awe. Grant bounteous Heaven, Oh grant me welcome Peace, Oh grant this Sword of mine might rust in ease! Let none hurt Peaceful Me with envious Tongue, For if he does, He shall repent the wrong: The warning's fair, his Vices shall be shown, And Life expos'd to all the Cens'ring Town; Affronted Cervius threatens Suits of Law, Canidia Charms to keep her Foes in Awe. And Praetor Turius when he bears a grudge, If Thou shalt plead a Cause when He is Judge: Each fights with that with which he can prevail, And powerful Nature thus instructs us all. The Wolves with Teeth; with Horns the Bulls begin: And whence, but from a secret Guide within? Let Scoeva have (for this he counts a wrong) A Mother, that He thinks will live too long;

His pious Hand shall never wound her Heart, No wonder this, 'tis not his proper Art. A Wolf ne're kicks, with Teeth a Bull ne're kills, But she shall take a Dose of poison'd Pills. In short then, whether I live long or no, Or Rich, or Poor, howe're my Fortunes go, Live here at Rome, or banish't take my flight, Whatever is my state of Life, I'le write: Well, Sir, I see your Life then can'nt be long, Some great Ones, faith, will stop your railing Tongue.

4. How, Sir, Lucilius that did first ingage In writing Satyrs, and that lash't the Age, And strip't our Foplings of their Lyons skin, In which they look't so gay, all foul within. Did Loelius, or did Scipio hate his Muse? Or storm, when He Metellus did abuse? The Great-ones, and the Crowd did discommend, And valued Vertue only, and her Friend? No, no, They treated him, and thought him good, And when remov'd from business, and the Crow'd, Would keep him Company, would laugh and jest, And sport until their little Meat was drest. What e're I am, altho I must submit To wise Lucilius, in Estate and Wit, Yet I with Great-ones live, this all confess, And envy, tho unwilling grants no less. And tho she thinks me soft, will find me tough, And break her Teeth, for I have strength enough; I hope, Trebatius, this you grant is true, Yes, Sir, but 'tis my pious Care for You, My Love that makes me give you this advice, Take heed of Scandal, Horace, and be wise.

Well, Sir, if any scand'lously derides, Then let him suffer as the Law provides, If justly mighty Caesar is his Friend, He loves such Poems, and he will defend; And thus if You a Man of spotless Fame, Shall lash another, that deserves the shame: And He grows mad, Indicts or Sues Thee for't, The foolish Action shall be turn'd to sport; He laugh't, and jeer'd at, You discharg'd the Court.

SATYR II.

The Heads of the Second Satyr.

• (1.) The profit of a spare Diet.
• (2.) The Difference between that and a sordid Table.
• (3.) The ad∣vantages of it, in respect of Mind and Body.
• (4.) Against Luxury.
• (5.) Thrift, the best se∣curity against Fortune.

1. HOw great a Vertue 'tis, how a great good, To live content, and with a little Food, (These are not mine, but wise Ofellus Rules, An honest Man, but yet unlearn'd in Schools) Learn not when full, or when a sumptuous Feast, With show and sight disturbs the eager Guest: Or else oppress and leave the easie mind, Averse to Good, and to ill Rules inclin'd, But seek with me, before that Thou hast din'd. And why this Caution? If I can I'le tell, Brib'd Judges ne're Examine Causes well:

Go take some Exercise, pursue the Chace, Or Hunt, ride the great Horse, or run a Race, Handle the Roman Arms, those heavier far Than Groecian Toys, or else go throw the Bar; Or play at Ball, be eager at the sport, And make thy Game seem pleasant, and but short. Now when this Exercise hath made Thee sweat, And rais'd thy Stomach, and thou fain would'st eat, Then scorn to tast unless 'tis dainty Meat: When thirsty, scorn to drink, refuse to Dine, Unless Thou hast the best and racy Wine. Besides the Butler's gone abroad to play, No costly Fishes can be caught to day; The Winds defend them, and the Seas are rough, Then Bread and Salt will please thee well enough. How so? And prithee how can this be done? Why Sir, the pleasure that's in eating known, Is not i'th' Meat, but in thy self alone. Make Exercise thy Sawce, let that excite, For fleamy and a squeasy Appetite Nor Trout, nor Tench, nor Oysters can delight. Yet I shall scarce perswade our curious Men, Let me advise, and talk, and talk agen, Not to eat Peacock, rather than a Hen. For They are prejudic'd because the price Is great, and his gay Feathers please the Eyes: As if those made it better; do'st Thou Feast On those prais'd Plumes? And do those fill thy guest, Or doth it look as gawdy when 'tis drest? Then since Hens flesh is quite as good, 'tis plain The Peacock is preferr'd for's gawdy Train.

But grant some difference here, yet how do'st know If this same Pike be River Fish or no? Caught here in Tyber, or in open Seas, For Thou do'st make a difference too in these; Mad Fool, thou praisest Mullets vastly great, Which thou must mash, e're thou canst dress or eat: The greatness pleases then, yet all dislike Some bigger Fish, and scorn the larger Pike: Pray what's the Cause of this? Oh! let me see, Perhaps because, as Nature's Laws Decree, One usually is small, the other great; Men seldom hungry scorn the common Meat: But says the Glutton, I love a larger Fish, It looks so Noble in a Lordly Dish. But you moist Winds now hear, be kind and good, Corrupt their Meat, and taint their costly Food: Tho 'tis but newly taken taint their Bore, And let their Rhombus stink e're brought to shore: When plenty too profuse in vain invites, And strives to raise the squeasy Appetites. When the full Glutton strives in vain to eat, And takes sharp Herbs before his dainty Meat. We do not always feed on Sole and Bore, But use cheap Eggs, and Olives midst our store, So greatest Feasts have something that is poor. First Gallio's Kitchin infamous did grow For dressing Sturgeon, 'twas not long ago, What had the Sea then fewer Soles than now? No, but the Soles did then securely rest, Then nothing did but Winds and Waves molest, And the poor Stork liv'd safely in his Nest:

Until a Proetor taught us how to use These Things, and made us foolishly profuse: And so if one would bring new sorts of Food, And stoutly say, a roasted Moor-hen's good: Our Fops would imitate, and praise his skill, Our Fops that are so easie bent to ill.

2. A sordid Table, and a thrifty one, Ofellus thinks distinct, in vain they shun One Vice, that to the other madly run: Old Aviden, Surnam'd The Dog, eats Sloes, And Olives five years old, as bad as those. These are his Meat, and all the Wine He drinks Is eager still; his Oyl corrupt, and stinks: And that (when very fine, when neatly drest, And at a Birth-day, or a Marriage Feast, When He would be Profuse, and Prodigal) He pours himself upon his little Cale: Well then, what would you have a Wise Man do? What Table keep? you have propos'd me Two; And which, Sir, must I imitate of these? The choice is hard, and it is hard to please. Sir, He lives well that keeps the middle State, And neither leans too much to this, nor that: Such when he bids his Slaves do this and this, And tasks them too, as every Master his, Will not be cruel as old Albutius is: Nor yet like Noevius when he makes a Feast, With costly Oyntment will He wash his guest, For that too is a fault, a vice at least:

3. Now learn what good attends a sparing Meal, What pleasure, and what profit: First thou'rt well,

Thy Health improv'd, thy Body free from pain; But now that Meat confus'd doth hurt a Man, Thou hast experience, and sufficient proof; One single Dish did feed Thee well enough, Thy Stomach took it, but when boyl'd with stew'd, Flesh mix't with Fish, the indigested load Is turn'd to Gall or Flegm, and spoyls the Blood: Observe how sickly and how pale the Guests, How discompos'd they rise from sumptuous Feasts? Besides, the Body by the wild excess, Enfeebled, doth the nobler Mind oppress, It clogs it, and it makes its motions dull, And fixes here the breath of Heaven, the Soul: The others go to Bed, just close their Eyes, Such little slumber Nature's wants supplies, Then vig'rous to their proper business rise. Yet Those can have their sparing Meals increast On Holidays, or when they treat a Guest, Or would indulge, and when they please to Feast. Besides, old Age will come, and that must crave, A softer treatment far than Youth should have: But Thou, when sickness comes, or feeble Age, In vain do'st hope, fond Youth, to calm their rage, By softer usage, since thou dost enjoy The softest, whilst a young and vig'rous Boy: The Ancients did commend their stinking Bores, Yet not but that their smell was good as Ours, But 'cause they thought it better far to stay, (That was the thriftier, and the nobler way) And keep it till their tardy Guest was come, Than eat it sweet, and by themselves at home:

These, these were Heroes, these were generous Men, And Oh that Nature had produc'd me then:

4. Dost Thou regard thy Fame which charms our Ears, With softer Musick than the sweetest Airs? Take heed, Luxurious Living ruins that, And wasts thy Name as much as thy Estate: It makes thy Neighbours angry, Friends distrust, And Thee thy self unto thy self unjust, When Thou shalt wish for Death, of all bereft; And not enough to buy a Halter's left: 'Tis true, to some this is a just reproof, This may be said to Tarsius well enough; But not to Me; I am secure from fate, For my Revenue's large, my Wealth is great, Enough to keep three Kings, a vast Estate. Then is there no way else to spend thy Store? Why since thou'rt Rich, is any good Man Poor? Why are not ruin'd Fanes rebuilt? And why Doth not thy Wealth thy Neighbours wants sup∣ply? And hath thy Country this superfluous Coin? What measure hath it from this heap of Thine? Kind fortune still, forsooth, shall smile on Thee, O future sport unto thine Enemy! And which is better able to endure Uncertain Chance? And which lives most secure? He that doth never Fortune's smiles distrust, But Pampers up himself, and feeds his Lust? Or He that lives on little now, and spares; And wisely when 'tis Peace, provides for Wars?

But by one instance to confirm this Truth, I knew Ofellus when I was a youth; Then He was Rich, yet 'midst his greatest Store He liv'd as now, since Rapine made him Poor: Now you may see him with his Wife and Son, Till that Estate for hire which was his own: He Ploughs, he Sweats, and stoutly digs for Bread, Contented still, and as he wrought, He said, On working Days I never us'd to eat But Cale and Bacon, that was all my Meat: But when an old and honest Friend of mine, Or else my welcome Neighbours came to dine; When it was rainy, or my work was done, We feasted not on costly Fish from Town; But took what I could easily provide From my own Field, a Pullet or a Kid: And then for second course some Grapes were prest, Or Nuts, or Figs, and that was all my Feast: And after this we drank a Health or two, As far as harmless sober mirth would go; And then thank't Ceres for our present cheer, And beg'd a plenteous Crop the following year: And now let Fortune frown, I scorn her force, How can she make our way of living worse? Have we not had enough since we grew poor, Have we liv'd worse, My Sons, then heretofore, Before a Stranger came, and seiz'd my store? For Nature doth not Me or Him Create, The proper Lord of such and such Estate: He forc't us out, and doth possess my Plain; Another cheat shall force him out again,

Or quircks in Law, or when those fears are past, His long-liv'd Heir shall force him out at last: That which was once Ofellus Farm is gone, Now call'd Umbrena's, but 'tis no Mans own: None hath the Property, it comes and goes, As merry Chance, or stubborn Fates dispose, As God thinks fit, and his firm Nods Decree, Now to be us'd by Others, now by Me: Then live Resolv'd, my Sons, refuse to yield, And when Fates press make Constancy your shield.

SATYR III.

The Heads of the Third Satyr.

• (1.) The Stoicks chide him for his Laziness.
• (2.) According to the Stoicks Opinion all are mad.
• (3.) The Covetous are mad.
• (4.) The Ambiti∣ous.
• (5.) The Spend-thrifts.
• (6.) Lovers.
• (7.) The Superstitious.
• (8.) Concerning his own humor.

1.

YOU write so seldom, scarce four sheets a year, A lazy Writer, but a Judge severe! Still mending, and revising every Line, Still vex't that after all thy Sleep and Wine, Yet nothing comes that doth appear to be Worth publick view: What will become of Thee?

You here at Winters first approach did come, And left the Mirth, and drunken Feasts of Rome: Then sober now write something as you vow'd, Write something that may make thy promise good Begin, nought comes, thou dost in vain accuse Thy Paper, Pen, and Ink, and angry Muse: And yet you seem'd to promise something great If e're you came to your warm Country Seat. Why comes Menander, Plato, Sophocles? And why such Learned Company as These? If Thou design'st to spend thy time in Ease? What wilt Thou write no more to live exempt From Envy? Blockhead Thou shalt meet Contempt The Siren sloth thou must resolve to shun, Or lose that Fame thy better life has won. Thanks, Damasippus, thou art grave, and wise, And let the Gods bestow ('tis a small price) A Barbar on thee for thy good advice: But how came you to know my mind so well? Why once I Traded till my Stock was gone, And now I mind, as here I live in Town, Others concerns since I have lost my own. For heretofore I drove a mighty Trade In Ancient Pieces, knew what Piece was made By such an Artist, and could tell what part Was rudely drawn, and what agree'd with Art. Then sold them dear, I had the only skill To purchase Lands, and with Advantage still. And hence among the Crowd my Name was known, The Mercury, the Trader of the Town: All this I know, and wonder now to view The Change: Why, Sir, a fancy strangely New

Hath cur'd the Old: Thus from another part, As Head or Side, pain falls into the Heart.

2. Thus this Lethargick sometimes leaves his Bed, In frantick fitt, and breaks the Doctor's Head. Well, Sir, suppose You ben't as mad as He, And beat me too, be what you please to be. Good Sir, do not deceive your self, for You, And All, if what Stertinius says be true, Are mad: He taught me This when first He cheer'd My drooping Mind, and bad me wear this Beard. For when by Trading I was quite undone, Thither I went, Poor Fool, resolv'd to drown: But He stood by, and in a lucky time He cry'd, take heed Young Man, forbear the Crime, 'Tis foolish modesty that makes Thee dread, Amongst Mad-men to be accounted Mad: For first inquire what madness is, and see If every Man be not as mad as Thee, Tho They pretend to be so grave and wise, Then go and hang thy self, that's my advice. He who's to Folly or to Vice inclin'd, Or whom dark Ignorance of Truth doth blind, The Stoicks call him mad; thus every one, Whether he holds the Plough, or fills the Throne, Is counted mad, but their Wise-man alone. Some call Thee mad, but those that call Thee so, Observe, I'le prove them quite as mad as You: As Men that lose their ways in Woods, divide; Some go on this, and some on t'other side, The Error is the same, all miss the Road, Altho in different Quarters of the Wood.

Thus as they call thee, think that thou art mad; But those that call thee so are quite as bad. For first, one sort of madness is to fear, When nothing frights, and when no danger's near; As if when on an even Field he goes, He should complain that Flames and Rocks oppose. Others, altho through different ways They run, Are quite as Mad, for they rush boldly on, Thro Flames, and boisterous Seas to be undone. And tho his Mistress, Sister, Father, Wife Should cry, Ah Dear, be cautious of thy Life; Look, there's a Ditch, take heed: he hears no more Then drunken Furius did, when heretofore He acted Hecuba, a lazy drone, He fell asleep, and slept securely on, Nor could be wak't, tho Catien's voice did rage, And Mother, hear, I call thee, crack't the Stage: Now grant this Madness I design to show, If this Man's mad, then all the World is so. First Damasippus's mad, because he buys Old Statues, true, for what's more plain than This? Is he that trusts him sober? grant he is: Suppose here take this Sum of Gold, I said, I never do expect to be repaid, Are you mad if you take it? No, but more If you neglect this easie offer'd store. For twenty Bonds on cheating Nereus draw, 'Tis not enough, add all the chains of Law Cicuta can invent to hold him fast, This Proteus will avoid these Bands at last;

This Proteus Debtor, for when e're you bring Your Action, he's a Stone, or any thing, A Bore, a Bird, a Tree when e're he will, And thus deride your loss, and cheat your skill. Now if He's mad that wasts, and sober He That gets, Petillus is more mad than Thee, Who trusts thee so, and lets his Stock decay, By lending more than you design to pay. Sit still and hear, those whom proud thoughts do swell, Those that look pale by loving Coin too well; Whom Luxury Corrupts, or fancy'd fears Oppress, and empty superstitious Cares; Or any other Vice disturbs, draw near, I'le prove that all are mad, sit still, and hear.

3. First give the Covetous the largest Dose Of Hellebore, or rather let's suppose That whole Anticyra is design'd for those. Saberius Heirs did write upon his Grave, How much He left, what Legacies he gave, Or were to give as He by Will allow'd, Two hundred Fencers to delight the Crow'd, And costly Treats as great as Arrus wou'd, And Corn as much as Afric yields a year: Now whether this be well, or ill, forbear To censure me, and be not too severe: For Saberus, I think, was wise enough To know that he deserv'd and fear'd reproof: What did He mean when He his Heir injoyn'd, To write on's Tomb how much He left behind? Why whilst he liv'd he thought the being Poor Was heinous, and avoided nothing more;

And should be guilty of a damn'd excess, If he had left behind one farthing less. For Honor, Vertue, Fame, and all Divine And Humane Things must follow lovely Coin; And he that gets but that is any thing, What e're he please, Just, Valiant, Wise, a King. And this He thought, as vertuous Acts, would raise His Fame, and get him an Immortal praise. This was his thought of Wealth; How far from this Did Aristippus think and do with his? Who bad his Slaves, as He o're Lybia past, Leave all his Wealth, because it stopt his hast. Which was most mad? Sir, that Example's vain, That solves old doubts by raising more again. He that buys Harps, and throws his Wealth away On Pipes, yet never does design to play: He that buys Awls, and Lasts, yet doth not know, And ne're designs to try to make a Shoe. Or Ships, and Oars, yet is averse to Trade, All, and there's Reason for't, would count him Mad And what's He better, that still strives for more, Still heaps up Wealth, yet cannot use the Store, But fears to touch, as if 'twere Sacred Ore. He that all Night lyes stretcht on heaps of Wheat, And watches what he does not dare to eat, With Bill in hand; yet after all this pain, Tho 'tis his own, he cannot touch a Grain. But still on Haws, and bitter Herbs doth Dine; And tho his Cellar's stor'd with racy Wine, Drinks Vinegar; and tho extreamly old, Yet lyes on Straw, or Flocks, and lyes acold;

Whilst his embroider'd Silks, and costly Cloaths, Lye rotting in his Chests, and feed the Moths. Yet few do think these mad, for most like These, Are sick and troubled with the same Disease: What dost thou keep it for thy squandring Boy, Or for thy Slave, old Chuff, and ne're enjoy? He'll drink it out, and prove a mad Gallant? Or dost thou keep't lest thou thy self should'st want? Oh Fool! how little would thy Money wast, If thou on better Cale and Oyl did'st feast? Wore better Cloaths, and went more neatly drest? If thou canst live upon this little Store, Why dost thou swear, and lye, and cheat for more? And are you Sober? If you walk't the Street, Throw Stones, and fight, and justle all you meet, Or stab your Slaves, you would be quickly known, Call'd Mad by every Boy and Girl i'th' Town. Now thou dost hang thy Wife, and now dost kill With Drugs thy Mother; art thou Sober still? For why? Thou dost not do this impious deed, At Argos Town, nor dost thou make her bleed, With a sharp Sword, as mad Orestes did. And dost thou think Orestes, heretofore, After He stain'd his Sword in's Mother's gore, Grew mad alone, and was not mad before? Yet after that, when you suppose him Mad, What did he do? And were his Actions bad? What did He do, that you dare discommend? He neither stab'd his Sister, nor his Friend, But only as his Frenzy forc't, did call One Rogue, the other Witch, and that was All.

Opimius that old Chuff, and richly poor, Who wanted e'en the Wealth he had in store: That on Feast-days did meanest Wine provide In Earthen Jugs, and Lees on all beside; Lay in a Lethargy, all hope was gone, And now his joyful Heir ran up and down, And seiz'd the Keys and Chests as all his own. This the kind Doctor saw, and this design He us'd for Cure, he brought a Table in, And order'd some to tumble o're his Coin: This rous'd him, Then he crys, Sir you'r undone, Wake Sir, and Watch, or else your Money's gone: Your Heirs will seize it: What whilst I'me alive? Then wake and show it, Sir, come, come revive. What must I do? Eat, Sir, What are you loath? Pray take this little Dish of Barley Broth. What doth it cost? Not much upon my word, How much pray? Why Two Groats: Two Groats Oh Lord! 'Tis the same thing to me to be undone By Thieves or Physick, Doctor I'le have none. Who's Sober? He that's not foolish, that's my Rule. What is the Covetous? Both Mad and Fool. Suppose I am not Covetous, am I Streight Sober? No; Why Sir? I'le tell thee why: Suppose the Doctor says, this Patient's Thighs Are free from pain, What may he therefore rise? No, tho his Thighs are free, yet violent pains May vex his Side, his Kidneys, or his Brains. So this Man neither Covets, nor Forswears, He is not Perjur'd, let him thank his Stars;

But He is Lavish, he is Bold and Proud, Then to Anticyra let him cross the Flood: For 'tis as great a fault to be profuse, As 'tis to get, and keep, and never use.

Opidius did, as S••ory goes, divide His Farms between his Sons before he dy'd; And said, and as he said he gravely smil'd, My Aulus I observ'd thee from a Child; And when I saw thee Careless of thy Toys, And free to give thy Nuts to other Boys: And you Tiberius tell them o're and o're, And hoard them up, and still encrease thy Store: I fear'd both mad, would different Vices chuse, And one be Covetous, and one Profuse. Therefore I charge you both by all that's dear, As You my Blessing love, and Curses fear, That neither You encrease your small Estate, Nor You consume, but live content on that; For that will all your proper wants supply, And Nature thinks enough as well as I. And lest You be Ambitious, hear my Oath, Observe, I leave this Curse upon you Both: He that of You shall be Aedilis first, Or else a Praetor, let him be accurst; What would'st thou wast thy Wealth? spend every Groat To Bribe the heedless Crowd, and get their Vote? That when thy Fathers Lands, his Ancient Rent, And all the Money he hath left, is spent, Poor naked Mad-man, thou may'st only gain A Brazen Statue, or a gawdy Train:

Or be as fam'd (thus once the foolish Ass Would be a Lyon) as great Agrippa was?

4. Great Agamemnon, why did you forbid A Tomb for Ajax? Why? Because I did: I am a King, what I command is right, And just: Well, I a private Man Submit: Yet if I seem unjust, and too severe, Let any speak, and I will fairly hear. Great King, may'st thou a happy Reign enjoy, And have a safe return from Conquer'd Troy. And may I freely ask, and answer Thee? Thou shalt, speak what Thou wilt, Thou may'st be free Then why doth Ajax, He the Stout, the Brave, And who so oft the Grecian Ships did save, Achilles Second rot without a Grave? That joyful Troy and Priam laugh to see, That He, by whom their Youth, that mighty He Is now deny'd himself a Grave by Thee? Why? He slew Flocks of Sheep o're all the Field, And when in's Frantic fits, he thought He kill'd, My Brother, Me, Ulysses; and He smil'd; And You, when You your lovely Daughter led To Sacrifice, and o're her weeping head You pour'd the Salt and Meal, was sober still? Why not? When Frantic Ajax strove to kill The Innocent Flocks, how was the Action ill? He curst the both Atrides much 'tis true, But never e'en upon Ulysses drew, Nor Wife, nor Innocent Son, nor Brother slew: But I to get a Wind appeas'd the God, To have my Navy Sail I offer'd blood.

Thy own Blood Frantick, 'twas that did Attone: My own, but yet not Frantic, tho my own: He that shall take apparent Good with Bad, Confus'dly mix't, must be accounted Mad. And 'tis all one, whate're these Crimes begin, Whether 'tis rage or folly makes him sin: Whilst Ajax kills the harmless flocks you blame, He's mad, whilst Thou design'dly sin'st for fame, And empty Titles, art thou not a Fool? Art Sober, whilst Ambition swells thy Soul? If one should bear a Lamb about the Town, Allow her a Sedan, and gawdy Gown, Call her his Daughter, Slaves and Gold provide, And a stout Husband, for the Youthful Bride, The Law would seize that wealth he wildly spends, And give it to the care of Sober Friends. And He that kills his Daughter for a Lamb, Canst thou pretend him Sober? Fye for shame. Then where there's folly, greatest madness rules, And wicked Men must needs be frantick Fools; He must be mad that Courts an empty Name, A very Bedlam He, that's Slave to Fame.

5. Now next the Foolish Spend-thrift's case propose, That he is mad e'en common Reason shows; The Squire when come of Age, He takes his Land, Amaz'd with Wealth, he sends his strict Command, Be't known to All that I have an Estate, And therefore let the Pimps and Tradesmen wait To morrow Morning early at my Gate: What then? A Thousand come at his desire, And thus the crafty Pimp bespeaks the Squire;

We're proud to serve you, Sir, and all that's Ours, Thrice noble Squire, send when you please 'tis Yours And thus the easie Squire replies again, Good honest Men, you take a World of Pain: You watch in Snow to catch a Bore for Me, And You fish for Me in the boisterous Sea: Whilst I'me a Drone unworthy this Estate, Therefore do You take this, and You take that; And You these Farms, I freely give You These, That I may use thy Wife, when e're I please: A costly Gem from his Metella's Ear, Aesop's loose Son dissolv'd in Vinegar, And drank it down, and then profusely laugh't, To think he drank a Province at a draught. Was't not as mad as to have thrown the Gem Into a Common-shore, or muddy Stream? The Sons of Arrus, those of high renown, Those famous Bully-Brothers of the Town: The most agreeing Pair in every Vice, Still fed on Nightingales of costly price, And were those Mad or Sober, Fools or Wise?

6.

If any grown a Man delights to raise Dirt Pyes, and like a Child, at Push-pin plays. Yokes Rats and Mice unto a little Plough, And rides upon an Hobby-Horse, or so, Sure he is mad: now I can prove with ease, That Love is a more childish Thing than These: And 'tis all one whether you Sport and Toy. Play wanton Tricks, as when a little Boy, Or court and labour for a jilting Miss, Grow Pale and Whine: For let me ask thee this,

Canst thou, like Polemon reclaim'd, remove Thy foppish dress, those Symptoms of thy Love; As He when drunk, and Garlands round his head, Chanc't once to hear the sober Stoick read, Asham'd he took his Garlands off, began Another Course, and grew a sober Man? Offer an Apple to a peevish Boy, He will refuse it; here my pretty Joy, Come prithee take it: No, Sir, I'le have none▪ Yet, if unoffer'd, he will beg for One. Like him's the Lover, who hath ask't in vain, Doubting if e're he should return again: Altho deny'd, when he would gladly wait, Unask't, and linger at the hated Gate: Now she invites, and Swears she will be kind: What shall I go, or rather cure my Mind? She shuts me out, then asks me to return. What shall I go? No though she begs, I'le scorn. But lo, his wiser Slave did thus reprove, Sir, Reason must be never us'd in Love: Its Laws unequal, and its Rul••s unfit For Love's a thing by Nature opposite To Common Reason, Common Sence, and Wit. All that's in Love's unsteddy empty, vain, There's War and Peace, and War and Peace again. Now He that strives to settle such as These, Meer things of Chance, and faithless as the Seas. He were as good design to be a Fo••l By Art and Wisdom, and be mad by Rule. And 'cause thy Nut (a sign that thou shalt prove A happy Man, and Conqueror in thy Love) Prest thro thy fingers, strikes the Roof above;

You leap for joy, unable to contain, Is that the Action of a sober Man? And when the old, and so tho wiser grown, You prattle with her in a Childish Tone: Art thou not mad as He, that loves his Toys? And plays at Push-pin with the little Boys? To this add all the rage of wild desire, The Murders that attend this frantick fire; Observe, poor Nerus lately struck his Miss, Then kill'd himself, what dost thou think of This? Was this Man Frantick? or will you allow That He was sober? in his Wits like you? Yet freely grant him guilty of a Sin? To the same thing adapting words akin?

7. A. Libertine, and old, ran every day To all the Temples in the Town to pray: Fasting he went, and he was neatly drest, His hands were clean, and he had one request: Grant ye kind Gods, grant I may always live, It is an easie thing for Iou to give. Now he that sold him, might have safely sworn, He's sound both Wind and Limb as e're was born. But cheated, if He swore him sound in Soul And This Man too the Stoicks count a Fool. The Mother whose dear Son had lain opprest, With violent Quartan half a year at least; Gets up betimes, and prays Thou mighty Jove, That dost Diseases bring, and dost remove, If thou wilt stop the Fits, restore my Joy, And spare the Body of my lovely Boy,

At thy next Solemn Fast, kind mighty God I vow, and I will make my promise good, I'le set him naked in cold Tiber's Flood. And now let Chance or Physick's strength release, Or Doctor's care suppress the strong Disease, The Frantic Mother will perform her vow, And her weak Son into cold Tiber throw; And this brings a Relapse and kills the Lad, And hath not Superstition made her mad? All this Stertinius taught me as a Friend, That Eighth Wise-man; and I my self defend By his learn'd Rules; none vexes me in vain, Who calls me mad, I call him mad again: And He shall learn what He doth seldom mind, To see what a Fools Coat he wears behind.

8. Well Stoick, may you sell at dearer rate Your Merchandize, and get your lost Estate; So You (for there are many sorts) explain What kind of madness 'tis that heats my Brain, For sure methinks I am a sober Man. Do'st think Agave when she grasp't the head Of her own Son, thought she her self was mad? Well then I'me mad, 'tis true, but fain would know, Oblige me Stoick once, and freely show What kind of Madness I'me addicted to. Then learn, tho you are dwarfish, thin, and small, You raise your self to be accounted tall: Yet laugh when Turbo in his Arms appears, Look how he struts, and what a Port he bears! Tho He hath far a greater bulk than Thee, And therefore art thou not as vain as He?

What e're Mecaenas does, and is it true, That He is Rivall'd by Pedantick you? When the old Frog was gone by chance abroad, An Ox came by and on her young ones trod: One scap't, and told her that a mighty Beast, Had trod upon her young, and kill'd the rest: How big said she? As big as I am now: And swells, Yes, yes, as big again as You: What bigger still? And then she swells again, Yes bigger, bigger, and you strive in vain; You'l never be as big, altho you swell Untill you burst; This Image fits thee well: And thus to prove thee Frantic all conspire, Now add thy Poems, that is Oyl to Fire, Those prove thee mad, if nothing else were shown; If any Poet's sober, thou art One. Thy malice I conceal, but why do'st wear A finer Suit than thy Estate will bear; Hold Damasippus; I forbear to shew Thy burning Lust, The greater Mad-man You, Spare me at last the Lesser of the Two.

SATYR IV.

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

WHence Catius pray? and whither? Sir I vow I wish I had, but I han't leisure now To tell my rules, the best that e're were known, Better than what Pythagoras has shown, Or Plato taught; but Sir I must be gone: I must confess 'twas rude Impertinence To interrupt a busy Man of Sense At such a time, but pardon the offence: For, Sir, what ever 'tis you have forgot, You'l mind again, and soon recall the thought; Whether 'twas fixt on Nature, or on Art; For You are deeply skill'd in either part: I was considering how I should retain What I have learn'd, it asks a subtle brain, A Man of deep contrivance, sense, and thought, So fine the Precepts, and so finely wrought. His name, a Stranger, or a Roman tell, I'le sing the Precepts, but the Man conceal: Choose Long Eggs still, for those are hard and sound, Cock Eggs, more white and sweeter than the round:

The Cale that grows on Hills, or barren Fields, Is better far than what the Garden yields: Moist ground e'en Odcomb Plants will quickly spoyl, They tastless grow and watrish as the soil. Suppose a Friend an unexpected Guest Comes late, and You have nothing ready drest, Drown Hens in Wine, I learn't this Art at Court, 'Twill make the flesh eat wonderfully short. The Meadow Mushrooms are the safer food, Poys'nous the rest, at least not half so good; I'le give him health, that when his Meals are done Eats juicy Mulberrys pluckt before the Sun Doth rise too high, and scorch with heat of Noon: Aufidius, thus says Story, us'd to take His Mornings draught of Hony mixt with Sack, This was ill done, with Liquors only mild, E're breakfast Empty Veins are safely fill'd, What e're some fancy, I have Cause to think Smooth Mead in Morning is the better drink: When bound too much, sweet Mallows quickly clear Thy Gutts from stoppage, and thy Mind from fear; Or Cockle Fish, or Sorrel newly ripe, With Coan white wine sawce will ease the gripe, Better than the old Midwife Glister-pipe: The Shell-fish with the growing Moons encrease, Yet different sorts are found in different Seas; All have not good: the Lucrine Shells exceed Those various Purples that soft Baja breed, Oysters low Crice, some Misenian Coasts And Scollops large soft. Tarent loudly boasts: Let none pretend to have an Art in Feasts Till He's exact, and Critical in Tasts:

'Tis vain for him to buy the dearest Fish, That after knows not how to cook the dish, What must be stew'd, what boyl'd will grace a Feast, And what the Stomach of the glutted Guest; Make him forget his Belly's full, restore Lost Appetite, and tempt him on to more. Bores fed on Acorns, caught in Umbria's Wood; Bend down his dishes with their weighty load, That would avoid dull, mean, or tastless food: For no wise Palates the Laurentans choose, Vile meat and fat with plashy reeds and Ouze: Goats bred on Vines, not always dainty fare, Wise Palates choose the Wings of breeding Hare: What Fish of all the sorts, what Birds are best, And at what Age, and how they should be drest, Before the World saw me were hardly known, All those are pure inventions of my own. Some spend their time, and hope to gain applause For minding nothing but new Cates, and Sawce, But Men of Art must still their Cares divide, Not mind one thing, and neglect all beside, Nor whilst they're curious in their Wine and Ale, Ne're heed what Oyl they pour upon their Cale: If full of Lees, if thick your Massick Wine, Set it abroad by Night 'twill make it fine; Take off those Smells that hurt the Nerves, and wast The Spirits; Hemp-seed spoyls its proper tast: Those cheating Rogues, that when the Wine decays, With their Surrentine mix Falernian Lees, This dasht Wine quickly cleanse with Pidgeous Eggs, Those falling down precipitate the Dregs:

You have drunk briskly, and your friend decays; Then give him pickled Hearings, those will raise And whet his Stomach for another glass. For Lettice after Wine's not half so good, It swims on drink, and makes the Stomach crude: When He's too full, then Gammon's only fit, Sawsage provokes him to another bit; If these won't do, of it He scorns them both, He may be whetted with a dish of Broth: To know both sorts of Broth, 'tis worth your while, The Simple is compos'd of sweetest Oyl, This Oyly Wine, and Caviare only asks Such as grows mellow in Byzantian Casks: To this shred Herbs, with Safforn mixt, and boyl, And when 'tis cool then add Venafrian Oyl: Some Grapes are best in Pots, all ways are try'd, In smoak the Aban Grape is better dry'd: This Grape with some sharp Sawce, round Plates to strew, With Salt and Pepper, I'me the first that knew, And told it others, as I tell it you. 'Tis a grand fault to buy the dearest fish, And after crow'd them in too straight a dish: The Guests won't like to see one take the Cup, Who stole a Pidgeon, as He brought it up, With the same hand, for that will stain the place; Nor yet to see old dust stick round the Glass: How little Beasoms cost? how quickly bought? Yet if not gotten, 'tis a grievous Fault.

Dost think it decent to neglect thy House, Or sweep the marble Floor with dirty boughs? Dost think 'tis handsom, for the Page to spread A dirty covering o're a Gawdy Bed, Forgetful still that since these things are mean, And such as All must have that would be clean, Tis worse to want these, than such dainty meat Which only Luxury or Wealth can get: Learn'd Catius by the Gods I ask this boon, Where e're you go, Sir I must have it done, Pray bring me to this copious Spring of Truth, That I may heare it drop from his own mouth; For though you talk, as if you understood His Precepts well, and knew the rules for Food, Yet from your Lips, I'me sure they can't be known As well, as if I heard them from his own, Besides to see the Figure of the Man Would please me much, pray show me if you can, A sweet with which, blest you are almost cloy'd, And do not value, 'cause so oft enjoy'd; But eager I to unknown Fountains press, To draw from thence the Rules of Happiness.

SATYR V.

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

TIresias now indulge one favor more, And teach beside what thou hast taught before, How to regain my Wealth, now I'me poor: Why do You smile? Let me not beg in vain, Is't not enough that you have scap't the Main, And safely come to Ithaca again? Unerring Prophet, see as you fore-told, I am come home again, Grey, Wrinkled, Old, And Poor: my Wives Gallants have seiz'd my Gold: My Wealth is theirs, and what is Vertue worth Without a good Estate to set it forth? Well then, since to be poor you fear and hate, In short learn how to get a good Estate. If thou dost light on any thing that's rare, Send it thy old rich Neighbor, never spare, If He be rich and old, without an Heir: The first ripe Apples of thy choicest Tree Offer to him before thy Deity. The Rich Man must be reverenc't more than He.

What tho He be a Villain, basely bred, Hath kill'd his Brother, or his Country fled: Yet wait upon him when he please to call, And when you meet him, cringe, and give the Wall. What would you have me cringe to every Slave? At Troy I did not so my self behave: Contending always with the Great, the Brave: Then thoul't be poor. Well Sir, my mind I'le force To suffer this: for I have suffer'd worse. But, prithee, tell me, for I wish to know Which way I may be rich, and quickly too: Then as I told, I'le tell thee o're agen, Still strive to please, the old and wealthy Men. Try still to get into their Wills, secure Their Love, their Humors patiently endure; Tho two or three discerning Eyes perceive The Hook, and fly the Bait, yet never leave: Others will bite when those sly Fops are gone, Still bait thy hook, and urge thy purpose on. If any Cause, or great or small be try'd, I'le teach thee how to choose the better Side. Be sure to plead for him that's childless, old, And rich, tho He is impudently bold, And sues his better, still pervert the Laws, And start new Quirks, and scorn the better Cause, And better Man, if He hath hopeful Boys To be his Hiers, or teeming Wife enjoys. Then Sir or Squire (for Title hugely takes Grave softheads) Me your Friend your Vertue makes, I know the Law, and have a ready Tongue, And rather, Sir, then you shall suffer wrong

I'le loose these Eyes; My utmost Care be us'd That you be neither cheated nor abus'd. And you may take your pleasure, sit at ease, Ne're fear, I'le pawn my Life for your success. Do you still mind this Cause, and that alone What ever weather 'tis, or if, the Sun With Dog days beams cleaves e'en the marble Stone; Or (as fat Furius hath it) all below Is Ice, and Jove o'respews the Alps with snow. Whilst one stands by, and jogs his Neighbor, see, How fine a Lawyer's that, That, that is He, How useful to his Friends, and how He sweats, And Pleads! This brings more Gudgeons to thy Nets. Besides, if any hath a sickly Hier And good Estate, then make thy Interest there, Lest courting childless Persons still, thy Arts ap∣pear. Creep gently in, untill your hopes you seize, Be second Heir, and rise by just degrees, And so if your young Boys disease prevails: Thou shalt have all: This method seldom fails. If any bids thee read his Will, deny; Yet slyly with the corner of thy Eye Run quickly ore, the two or three first lines, (There's Reason for't) and see if He designs Thee the sole Hier, or else with many joyns. For time shall come, as years in order flow, When one a Scribe shall bob the gapeing Crow: What art thou mad, or dost design to see, If such abstruse discourse can puzle me?

Ulysses, what I sing shall be the state Of Things to come, I read the leaves of Fate, And distant Objects see in the event, Then prethee tell me, what that Riddle meant. When one, a Youth of Great Aenaeas Race, The Parthiane terror rules the Earth and Seas; Coranus weary of a single Life, Takes chuff Nasica's stately maid to Wife; Coranus then shall beg him to peruse The Will He makes, Nasica long refuse, At last consents, but what he reads, appears No Legacy to Him, and His, but Tears: Now if his Servants manage him; commend, And make his greatest Favourite thy Friend, Besure be lavish in his praise, and then, When thou art gone, He'l praise Thee o're again. This Method's good, but 'tis the best design To storm the Man himself, and take him in. If He makes Verses tho extremely lewd, Admire, and swear his Fustian Rhymes are good, Or if He whores, besure his wish prevent, Let thy Penelope be freely sent: And dost thou think, that she the Wise, the Chast, Who all the numerous Woers Arts surpast, Will yield to him, and be a Whore at last? Ay, those were artless Youths, they knew not how To treat, and rather came to eat then Woe; So she was chast, but when she shall perceive, And share with Thee, the Presents He can give, Like Dogs once blooded, she will never leave. I'le tell the true, and what I chanc't to know, A woman dy'd at Thebes not long ago;

And thus by Will She did injoyn her Heir, First oyl my Corps, and to the Sepulcher, Upon thy naked back my Body bear. This spake the Will, and this, as most believ'd, That she might then slip from him she contriv'd, For He was too observant whilst she liv'd: Do you be cautious still in your Address: Too often, or too seldom will displease, The grave Morose do hate a pratling Tongue, That speaks unask't, yet be not dumb too long: But, like arch Davus in the Play attend, Your neck awry, as fearful to offend: Still show the greatest Care that can be shown, More careful of his Life than of your own: When e're the Air is sharp besure to mind, And eagerly request him, pray be kind To your dear health, and me, nor trust the Wind. If throng'd, thrust Thou, and free him from the Throng, If talkative, endure his tedious Tongue: If he be vain, and loves his own dear praise, Be sure commend and high Encomiums raise, Still blow the Bladder never leave him off, Till He shall bless himself, and cry, enough: Now when he dyes, and frees thee from thy Care, Thy dreaming Hopes, and melancholly Fear, And broad awak't, you find that you are Heir: Then sigh, and is my dear Campanion gone! Where shall I have so kind, so good a One! If possible, your greatest Art imploy To shed some tears, 'tis good to mask your joy:

And if you are to make the Funeral, Be sure be noble, that will take with All: Or if thy fellow Heir's a sickly Man, Then wheedle thus, and chouse him if you can: I want that ready Mony you can spare, And if you please, Sir you shall buy my share; But hold fierce Pluto calls me back to Hell, And I can talk no more, good speed, farewell.

SATYR VI.

The Heads of the Sixth Satyr.

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

1.

THese were my Prayers, and these my con∣stant Vows, A pretty Seat, a Fountain near my House, A Garden, and a little Grove of Trees, 'Tis well, the Gods have given more than these; Enough kind Mercury, no more I crave, Only continue still, what now I have. If I am not profuse, and wast, or raise My moderat Fortune, by unlawful Ways. If I ne're wish, Oh that the Gods would yield, That Nook that spoyls the Figure of my Field:

Or, oh that I a pot of Gold had found, As he who hir'd to Till anothers Ground, By the assistance of a lucky God Grew rich, and bought the very Land he plow'd. But if I live content, preserve my store, And be my Guard, as thou hast been before; Defend my Cattle, and my Flocks, be kind, And fatten all I have, except my Mind: Then when I from the noisy Town retreat, And free from Bus'ness take my Country Seat: What shall I do but write, what Subject choose, But easy Satyr, and improve my Muse. Here no Ambition kills, no heavy Wind, Affects my Body and corrupts my Mind. To Fields the Gods long Life, and plenty gave, No sickly Autumns here inrich the Grave.

2.

Old Father Janus (thus the Gods decree) We Men begin our Years and Toyl with Thee. With Thee my Verse, you hurry me to Town, To be a Witness, and I must be gone, Tho't Snows, and Winter whirls the freezing day In shortest Circles, yet I must away. And then when my ungrateful task is done, Press thro the Crowd, and justle every One That doth not make me room, and thro 'em down, Whylst He that's kick't, crys Plague! and why so fast? Pox! What d'ye mean, and why in so much Hast? When you run to my Lord, you scour the Street Press on, and kick and justle all you meet, And this I swear is pleasant, this is sweet!

But when I come a busy Crowd appears Of loud impertinent Petitioners, And their requests dance thick about my Ears, One begs that you would be at Court betime To morrow morning, and appear for him. The Scribes request, that I would get your Ear, About a public, new, and great Affair: Another crys, good Horace, get this Bill Sign'd by Mecoenas. If I can I will. But he seems discontent, and urges on, Nay, if you will, I'me sure it may be done. 'Tis eight Years since almost Mecoenas chose, And made me a Retainer to his House: Yet only such a One, as free from Care, He'd sometimes take in's Coach to take the Air, Talk common Talk, as how d'ye like the Play, The Fencers were well matcht, what news to day, The Morning's cold, and we must have a Care, And such like common Things, as these appear, That may be trusted in a leaky Ear. Hence every day Men envy more my State, He at the Play with great Mecoenas sate, Or Bowl'd, cry all, He's Fortunes darling Son, And thus the silly Chat runs o're the Town. Then all that meet me, come and ask the News, My Patience and my pretious Time abuse: Pray Sir (For you so much at Court must know,) D'ye hear what News from warlike Dacia? No. Come, You're a Wag. Pox take me if I do. Pray Sir, the Lands that Caesar vow'd to share, Amongst the Souldiers to reward the War, What must they be in Sicily or here?

When I profess my Ignorance, Morose They all imagine me, and plaguy close; And thus I loose my days, but wish repeat,

3. Oh! When shall I enjoy my Country Seat? Oh! when remov'd from noise to quiet Peace, Amidst my learned Books, my sleep and ease; Whilst hours do smoothly flow and free from strife, Forget the Troubles of a busy Life? Oh Beans Pythagoras his nearest kin, You lovely Herbs, and most delicious Chine When shall I see, when feed on you agen? Oh sweet, Oh heavenly Feasts, where I and mine, Before my houshold Gods securely dine; When I my self shall tast a dish of meat, Then give't my wanton Slaves, and bid 'em eat: When all my Guests drink freely what they please, No Glass is mark't or fill'd, but more or less, As mirth invites; No drunken Laws to force, And all the time is full of good discourse, We talk of no Mans Farms, or Wealth, or Skill, Or whether Caesar's Fool danc't well or ill. But we discourse, of what we ought to do, And what 'tis fault and folly not to know; As whether Wealth or Vertue brings a Man To happiness, or whether Leagues began From Interest or Right, what cheats the Crowd, And what is good, and what the greatest Good:

4. My Neighbor Gerrius, as the Matter falls, Mixes his merry, pat, instructive Tales: And thus for Instance, when by chance he hears Old Alpius wealth admir'd, tho full of Cares,

He tells this Story. Once upon a Time, (As Tales begin) and in a moderate clime: A Country Mouse a City entertain'd, His old Acquaintance, and his special Friend, This Mouse was thrifty, yet would kindly Feast When time requir'd, and nobly treat his Guest: In short, now striving every way to please, He freely brought his hoarded Oats and Pease, His nibbled Bacon in his mouth he brings, His Apples and a thousand pretty things, His Nuts, his Grapes well-dry'd, and try'd his best, By choice variety to please his Guest. Who sate, and as affraid to hurt his mouth, Did nibble here and there with dainty Tooth: Whilst he lys by in straw, and Barley eats, Or Chaff; and leaves his Guest the better Meats. At last the City Mouse, begins; My Friend Pray how can You delight, how love to spend A Life in Woods, and this unwholsome Cave? 'Tis Melancholy, 'tis so like a Grave. Now would you rather live in Town than here, And Mens converse, before the Woods prefer; Come, go with me, I'le get thee better Chear. Since all must dye, and must resign their Breath, Nor great, nor little is secure from Death; Then spend thy days in Pleasure, Mirth and Sport. And live like One, that Minds his Life is short. These Words prevail'd upon the Country Mouse, So she grows jocand strait, and leaves the House, Longing for those fine things; fō both go on, Eager whilst now 'twas Night to reach the Town.

'Twas Midnight full; when now the Mice are com•• They take a Rich Mans house, a stately Room, Where Purple Covering shone on Ivory Seats, And in the Pantry lay whole heaps of Meats, The sumptuous Relics of his noble treats. The City Mouse strait seats his country Guest On Cloath of State, and waits, and carves the Feast Course after Course, a thousand dainty Things, And like a Servant, tasts what e're he brings. The Country Mouse pleas'd with his Bed of State, And various dainties, blest his change of Fate. Feeds heartily, when lo the Servants come, And Dogs rush in and bark about the Room. Both start, both leave their Beds with eager hast, Both fly for Life, and hardly 'scape at last. Then says the Country Mouse, false Joys farewel, I do not like this Life, my quiet Cell Is better, I can feast and wanton there, On Chaff or Acorns, free from Noise and Fear.

SATYR VII.

The Heads of the Seventh Satyr.

• (1.) A Servant instructs his Master, about his un∣settledness in humour.
• (2.) His Lust.
• (3.) The vi∣cious Man, the greatest Slave.

1.

WEll Sir, I hear, and have some News to tell But I'me affraid, you will not like it well From me your Slave: Who Davus is it you? Davus the faithful Servant and the true, Davus that fancys that sufficient store,

Which nature wants supplies, and ask no more; Go to, and as our Ancient Laws decree, Use boldly thy December's Liberty, Speak fairly what thou wilt, thou mayst be free. Some Men are constant in their Vice, and run The same Course still, and urge their purpose on: Some are unsteddy, various in a Trice, Now all for Vertue, and now all for Vice. Fop Priscus with himself doth disagree, Sometimes he wears no Rings, and sometimes three. He changes every hour his Cloaths and Gown, Now takes the best House, now the worst in Town, And there he goes as nasty as a Clown. Now studies hard at Athens, now does come, And turns a great Gallant, and whores at Rome, The most unsteddy, fickle Man on Earth, As if Vertumnus self had rul'd his Birth. Just opposite to him Vulturius stands, For he when the just Gout had lam'd his hands, Did hire a Boy, so much he lov'd the Vice, To take up for him, and to throw the Dice. He that is constant in his vicious race, Runs the same Course, and keeps an equal pace; Is certainly not half so great a wretch, As He that now rides loose, and now on stretch. Well now you Rogue, suppose this railing true, What doth it mean? Sir it reflects on you. How so you Rascal? Sir you use to praise The Antients living, and commend their ways, Yet if some God would give you leave to choose, Or force you to the like, you would refuse. 'Cause you don't think that right you now commend,

Or else are too unsteddy to defend, What once you thought; you stick, and strive in vain From this deep mire to free your foot again: At Rome, Oh how you praise the country Air! And fickly Rome commend, when you are here: If uninvited, Oh what dainty fare Your little Sallat yields, and free from Care; These troublesome Lords at Rome invite me still, I go 'tis true, but 'tis against my will. And happy, happy me you use to say, That I have leave to Sup at home to day; But if my Lord Mecoenas doth invite, Tho you are not to go before 'tis Night; Yet eager you by peep of day prepare, The house straight rings, So ho, Jack, Tom, whose there? Who brings me Oyl, you Dogs, does no one hear? My Lords waits for me; then in hast you run, Whilst thy Retainers curse, when thou art gone: Well then, I grant a Feast's, a powerful Charm, Oh the resistless force of Meat that's warm, It leads me captive, and my Sense does seize, I'me Glutton, Tospot, and what e're you please: So you but freely grant your Vice at least, As bad, altho in softer Terms 'tis drest; Suppose I'me not so wise, as thee my Slave, Then cease to look so haughty and so brave, And do not rage, and do not break my head, Whilst I discourse what Crispin's Porter said:

2.

You love Mens Wives, and I, my little Whores, Which is the greatest Fault now, mine or yours? When Nature Fires, and they have quencht my flame▪ I'me satisfi'd, nor do I loose my Fame,

Nor fear that they will Jilt, and entertain A wittier, richer, and a finer Man. But when you slily sneak abroad by night, Your Rings and all the Habit of a Knight, Thy Roman Garb thrown off; from nobly brave You sink into the Figure of a Slave: A nasty Vail thrown o're thy fragrant Head, And softly brought to the Adulterous Bed, Are you not such a One as you appear? When introduc't you shake and tremble there, Thy raging Lust disputing with thy Fear: What difference is it whether you engage To fight for hire, and bear the Victor's rage, Be cut and slash't and kill'd upon the Stage? Or by the Conscious Chamber-Maid be prest Quite double, neck and heels into a Chest? Hath not the injur'd Husband of the Whore To punish both a right and Lawful Power? And will not all his fiercest rage be just On thee, that didst debauch her to thy Lust? Yet she ne're changes Garb, nor shifts her place, Nor takes such pains to get the foul embrace; Nor injures Heaven, nor swears such Oaths as you, Whilst the fond Creature doubts you'l prove untrue. But wise you venture Slaves severest Fate, And to a Man enrag'd, and swoln with hate, Commit thy Fame, thy Life, and thy Estate. Hast thou escap't? I hope the warning's fair, And you'l prevent the like with greatest care, What nothing do? What dost Thou strive to run, The same mad Course, and be once more undone?

3.

Oh! Slave so oft! What Beast that breaks the Chain, Once free, will come and take the Clog again? You say you'r no Adulterer, nor I A Thief, because when some Observer's nigh, I leave your Plate, though with a longing Eye. Remove the danger and restraining force, And Nature loose will run an evil Course. Are you my Master? you that do appear, A worse and greater Slave than me by far, Whom nothing can redeem from wretched fear? Three stroaks of th' Praetor's Rod can make me free, Whilst Tyrant Passion still will Master Thee. Besides, If He's a Vicar, as you please to phrase, (This Reason's good) that other Slaves obeys, Or fellow Slave; Sir, I would gladly know What 'tis that I am in respect of you? For you, my Master, others basely serve, Like Puppets moving by anothers Nerve. Who then is free? The Wise, that can controle, And Govern all the Passions of the Soul: Whom Poverty, nor Chains, no Death affright, And proof against the Charms of vain delight. Whom feeble Fortune strives in vain to wound, So closely gather'd in a perfect Round, And so exactly smooth'd by honest Arts, That nought without can stick upon the even Parts. Observe this Free-man's Character, and see If any part of it belongs to Thee: A Thousand Pound beg'd by thy costly Whore, And if deny'd, she turns thee out of Door,

Throws Water in thy Face, then change her mind, And call thee back, and vow she will be kind. Now loose your Neck from this Ignoble Chain, And boldly say that you are free; in vain, You can't, for Tyrant Lords thy Will controle, They prick thee on, and scourge thy wav'ring Soul. You, when you spend whole hours and trifle days, Whilst You upon a piece of Painting gaze: Why do not you commit as great a fault, As I that stare upon a meaner draught? Admire how Janus and how Fulvius stand, In Fencing Postures, drawn by a rude hand, In Chalk or Char-coal Paint, and there they look As if they fought, and mov'd to shun the stroak: But I'me call'd lazy Rogue, and beaten still, A Judge in Painting You, and Man of skill. If I but trivial Cakes delight to Eat, 'Tis Gluttony, whilst your Luxurious Treat Is Vertue, for it shows your Mind is great. Why now to serve my Palate should it be, (For I am whipt) a greater Crime in Me, Than You? Since thine's more costly Luxury, Why then are you not scourg'd as well as I? Because, perhaps, thy Feasts corrupt thy Blood, Diseases spring from thy Luxurious Food, And weakned Legs refuse the sickly Load. Doth that Boy sin that steals a Comb by night, To buy some Grapes to please his Appetite? And is He faultless that when Lust Commands, To please his lavish Belly sells his Lands? Besides all this, You with your self can't stay One Hour, nor rightly spend a leasure day,

You like a Vagrant shun your self, design, Now by forgetful sleep, and now by Wine, To steal from Cares: Poor Slave! In vain you try, Black Care pursues as fast as you can fly. Death! Where's my Stick? Why so? Death! Where's my Sword? He's mad, or else makes Verses: Dog, one word, One tittle more! You censure my Designs? Fly Rascal, fly, or thou shalt to the Mines.

SATYR VIII.

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

HOw do you like rich Nasidenus cheer? For when I thought last night to have you here, 'Twas said, that e're since Noon you had been there. Troth never merrier; Pray Sir grant my wish, And, if no trouble, what was the first Dish? "The first Dish, Sir, was a Lucanian Bore, "Caught whilst the Wind was South, the Master swore, And round the brim lay Lettice to excite, And Betes to raise the lazy Appetite; Anchove, Pickled-Herrings, mixt with these Lay Raddish, bitter Herbs, and Coan Lees.

This Dish remov'd, two ready Servants come, One clean'd the Table, t'other swept the Room, And gather'd up the Relicts of the Feast, The Bones, and all that might offend the Guest: Just as at Ceres Feast th' Athenian Maid, Comes black Hydaspes bearing on his Head Large Falks of White, and Alcon Flasks of Red. Then says mine Host; My Lord, if more than these You like another, call for what you please, My Cellar's stor'd; Poor Wealth, dishonest Pride, But prethee tell me who was there beside? Sir, I sate first, and, stay, I think 'twas so, Turinus next, Vibidius sate below, Next Balatro; below him Porcius lyes, Porcius the merry'st archest Wag that is, To swoop whole Custards, and to swallow Pies. All uninvited, but as Lords are wont, Mecoenas brought them all on his account. Next above these Nomentan takes his place, He that could point at every hidden Sawce; For we, the rest, on Fish and Fowl did feast, Concealing different from their proper tast. This streight appear'd, when by his luscious rules He carv'd for me th' untasted guts of Soles. And after to instruct me, gravely said, Figs pluck't before the Moon is full, look red; But thro this difference would you nicely pry He'l tell you more, He's more expert than I. Mean while Vibidius in a jeering tone Crys; Balatro, come prethee nothings done, Unless we drink him dry; a Bigger Glass; At that Death-pale spread o're our Fuscus face,

For good stout drinkers He did chiefly fear, 'Cause such, when full, with greater freedom jeer; Or 'cause hot Liquors pall the subtle tast, And so would spoyl the goodness of his feast: Yet on it goes, the Bowls are freely crown'd, And supernaculum the health goes round: The chiefest Guests the while few bumpers tost, They spar'd the Bottles, and the bleeding Host. Now comes midst swimming Shrimps a Lampry spread In a large Dish, and thus the Master said; This Fish was caught when full of Spawn, (that Course Is good) for after Spawning's done, 'tis worse: The Broth is made of Oyl, the best that flow'd From the Venafrian Press; to make it good, Wine five years old, and Caviare I joyn, In boyling, Sirs, I use Italian wine, But when 'tis boyl'd, with Pepper spic'd and drest With Vinegar, the Chain Pickle's best: To boyl green Rockets, with't was never known Before my time, I'me sure that Art's my own. Salt water Crawfish first Cotillus stew'd, And kept them whole, for they are better food Then when ith' Shell, the Pickle makes them good. But whilst he talkt, and whilst He prais'd the Fish The Hangings tumbling down fell o're the Dish: Bringing black dust, as much, as Whirlwinds raise When nimble Storms sweep o're the dusty ways: We started all, and thought it worse than 'twas, But when no harm appear'd, each kept his place: Our Host streight hung his head, He wept and sigh'd As if his darling Son had lately dy'd;

He had wept on, his Grief have known no end, But wise Nomentan thus reliev'd his Friend; Unlucky Chance what God is so unkind, Thou lov'st to break the measures Man design'd; Some bit their Napkins, yet could scarce forbear To laugh aloud, whilst with a bitter Sneer Crys jeering Balatro, Well, we strive in vain, 'Tis the sad fate of Life, and none can gain By Labour, Fame that answers to their Pain. That ever I should prove so troublesome For one fine Treat, when I could dine at home? That I should vex you to provide a Feast, To see your Broth well boyl'd, your Servants drest, Besides th' unlucky chance that waits on all, As if, as but just now, the Hangings fall; The Footboy stumbling spoyl a costly fish, Or Plowman Servant trip and break the dish. But as in Captains oft ill chance reveals The Entertainers Wit, which good conceals; Then says mine Host, Ah, may'st Thou still be blest, Thou art so good a Man, so kind a Guest: And calls for's Shoes; then you may quickly hear Divided whispers spread thro every Ear. No Play could ever please me half so well, But what you laught at after prethee tell: Whilst hot Vibidius with a waggish look Crys to the Servants, is the Bottle broak That I can get no Wine to this dry Feast; And merry Balatro promotes the jest; Mine Host comes in, and with a smiling face, About to mend by Art his late disgrace,

His Servants following brought a Charger fill'd With one poor little Crane cut up and grill'd, Cover'd with Salt and Meal; another brings Pluck't off and by themselves a Rabbets wings, For those, forfooth, when by themselves are best, And sweeter far than eaten with the rest: Then roasted Blackbirds Doves their rumps cut off, All pretty sorts of Meat, and sweet enough; But he with long harangues to every guest Explain'd their Natures, how and why 'twas drest; Whom thus we punish'd, each Man left his seat, We fled the Banquet, and refus'd to eat; As if the Witch Canidia's poysnous breath Had blown upon't, and fill'd the Feast with Death.

The End of the Second Book of Satyrs.