Decimus Junius Juvenalis, and Aulus Persius Flaccus translated and illustrated as well with sculpture as notes / by Barten Holyday ...

SATYRE IV.

ARGUMENT.

Young Rulers: The complaint of Lust On Avarice, unsit though just.

ARt thou a Common-wealths cheif Governor? (Suppose the bearded grave Philosopher, Whom the cold draught of Hemlock forc'd to dye, Thus to demand) On what dost thou rely? VVhat are thy grounds? speak Alcibiades, Pupil unto the famous Pericles. Oh, wit and grave discretion, I have heard Indeed, do many times prevent a Beard! And so Thou knowest no doubt, though th'art but young, Both when to speak, and when to hold thy tongue. VVhen therefore the vext multitude grow hot VVith choller, and their duty have forgot: Thou dost but lift up thy Majestick hand, And straight a general silence doth command O're the tumultuous rout. Then what dost say? O ye Quiritians (if prevail I may) I think this is not just that's done by you: Nor This: 'twere better if you Thus did do. For thou can'st weigh truth in the double scale Of the most doubtful ballance. If it fail, Straightways thou know'st it: yea, though hid it lye Between a double crooked falsity: Of if a Rule (so perfect is thy sight) Measure not ev'ry thing exactly right. And the (1) black Theta signe of deadly shame Thou can'st prefix 'fore an offenders name.

Thou canst do this. Oh, 'twere a crime to Doubt. Come, come: Thou being fair only without And in the skin, in vain: leave off to shake Thy tail, before the flatt'ring rout, or make Suit for great offices, 'till age and cares Have made thee Fit to manage such affairs. Thou being fitter yet to drink good store Of pure unmixt brain-purging Hellebore.

Wherein consists thy last, thy greatest wish? In having ev'ry day a full fat dish: Then with sweet oyl to 'noint my skin, and lye In the Suns pleasant warmth till it be dry.

VVhy had'st thou with the self same question try'd This poor old woman; she had so reply'd. Go now and boast how thy Nobilitie Comes from th' Illustrious Dinomache. Puff out thy vaunts, and say, I'me comely, fair, To grant thee such vain praises I'le not care. When ragged gran'ame Baucis, that does cry Unto the looser servants, Will ye (2) buy Any sweet herbs, has as much wit as thee, That thus doth boast of thy vain pedegree.

That no man will descend to his own heart, And search the secrets of that hidden part! No man! But have their eies fixt evermore Upon his back and bagg that goes before! For do but ask a man, by chance; d'ye know Vectidius farmes? Hel' say, Vectidius? Who? The Chuff of Cures, he whose grounds they say A kite can scarce fly o're in a whole day? Him ev'n the Gods oppose and the sure fate Of an unlucky Genius. Who (the date Of time, bringing again the Plow-mens feast, VVhen from their painful labors they have ceas'd, And now hung up their weary Oxens yoke By the worn path upon some aged oke) When he should freely laugh, and make good chear For other Plow-men ('tis but once a year) Most basely fearing to pull off the clay From his small Wine-vessel; he'l sigh, and say, Pray Jove, that this my Prodigality Bring me not in the end, to beggery! A coated oignion then with salt he eats; (His servants much applauding such brave meats: Nay, and rejoycing for their happy lot And for the Barly-pudding in the pot) Then sparingly he sups instead of Beer, The cloathy dregs of dying Vineger. But straight replies the other, If Thou 'noint'st VVith supple oile thy foul lubberly joints And ly'st in the hot: Sun letting it beat Upon thy skin, with its strong parching heat: There's one whom thou scarce know'st, stands here hardby, Ev'n at thine elbow, that could likewise cry Against thy Manners, and thy lewder art, The depilation of thy modest part, And of thy lungs, to prostitute thereby Unto a barren lust thy pathick thigh.

Thy Cheeks bearing a kemb'd, oil'd beard: Elsewhere VVhere dost thou too-unjustly smooth appear? Scrape on: but though (3) five lusty wrastlers would Root up these springing Plants: yea, though they should With crooked pinsers, by their tugging oft, Weaken thy parts of shame, though first made soft VVith Barbers soapy water, so to yield The better, to the Plowers of this Field: Yet this o're-spreading fearn will never bow Unto the deepest furrow-making Plow.

Thus we wound others and do yield agen Our thighs unto the darts of other men. And thus we know mans life pursu'd to be By this too-much-assumed Libertie.

Yet some mens faults, because they hidden lie From the Enquiry of their Enemy, Are not objected to them; yet are known To him, to whom they cry, VVe are thine Own. Thou hast a secret wound under thy side: But thy broad gold-boss'd girdle doth it hide: So though thou make Men say, Th'art well (in Vain:) VVill thy Side say so too, that feels the pain?

Thou'lt here perchance reply, VVhat? when as all My neighbours Me an ex'lent fellow, call; And say, I am not as your Common men: Shall I, ah, Can I not believe 'hem then?

Alas, blind wretch! if at the sight of gold VVith avaricious love thou waxest cold And pale: if ev'ry thing thou likewise do, VVhich greif-procuring Lust provokes thee to: If on the Table of thy Usury, By most oppressing heavy cruelty, As by a strong deep-wounding scourge, thou make Many a sure-imprinted grievous strake: To the false-praising People thou may'st lend Thy spungy, sucking ears; but to no end.

Seem not more then thou art: neither believe The ignorant applause base Coblers give. Live with thy self, and quickly thou shalt see The curtail'd store of thy bare poverty.