Writes he vile verses in a frantic vein ? Augment his madness, and approve the strain: Prevent his asking, if he loves a wench, And let your wife his nobler passion quench.

ULYSSES.

Can you suppose, a dame so chaste, so pure,
Could e'er be tempted to the guilty lure,
Whom all the suitors amorously strove,
In vain, to stagger in her plighted love?

TIRESIAS.

The youth too sparing of their presents came;
They lov'd the banquet, rather than the dame;
And thus your prudent, honourable spouse,
It seems, was faithful to her nuptial vows.
But had she once indulg'd the dotard's glee,
Smack'd her old cull, and shar'd the spoil with
thee,

She never after could be terrified,
Sagacious beagle, from the reeking hide.

I'll tell a tale, well worthy to be told,
A fact that happen'd, and I then was old:
An hag at Thebes, a wicked one no doubt,
Was thus, according to her will, lugg'd out,
Stiff to the pile. Upon his naked back
Her heir sustain'd the well anointed pack.
She, likely, took this crotchet in her head,
That she might slip, if possible, when dead,
From him, who, trudging through a filthy road,
Had stuck too closely to the living load.

Be cautious therefore, and advance with art, Nor sink beneath, nor over act your part. A noisy fellow must of course offend The surly temper of a, sullen friend: Yet be not mute-like Davus in the play With head inclin'd, his awful nod obey, Creep into favour: if a ruder gale Assault his face, admonish him to veil

His precious pate. Oppose your shoulders,

proud

To disengage him from the bustling crowd.
If he loves prating, hang an ear: should lust
Of empty glory be the blockhead's gust,
Indulge his cager appetite, and puff
The growing bladder with inspiring stuff,
Till he, with hands uplifted to the skies,
Enough! enough! in glutted rapture cries.

When he shall free you from your servile fear, And tedious toil; when broad awake, you hear: "To good Ulysses, .my right trusty slave, A fourth division of my lands I leave:" "Is then". (as void of consolation, roar)

My dearest friend, my Dama now no more?
Where shall I find another man so just,
Firm in his love, and faithful to his trust?"
Squeeze out some tears: 'tis fit in such a case
To cloak your joys beneath a mournful face.
Though left to your discretionary care,
Erect a tomb magnificently fair,
And let your neighbours, to proclaim abroad
Your fame, the pompous funeral applaud.

If any vassal of the will-compeers,
With asthma gasping, and advanc'd in years,
Should be dispos'd to purchase house or land,
Tell him that he may readily command
Whatever may to your proportion come,
And for the value, let him name the sum-
But I am summon'd by the queen of Hell
Back to the shades. Live artful, and farewell
VOL. XIX.

SATIRE VI.

I OFTEN wish'd I had a farm,
A decent dwelling snug and warm,
A garden, and a spring as pure
As crystal running by my door,
Besides a little ancient grove,
Where at my leisure I might rove.

The gracious gods, to crown my bliss,
Have granted this, and more than this;
I have enough in my possessing;
'Tis well: I ask no greater blessing,
O Hermes! than remote from strife
To have and hold them for my life.

If I was never known to raise
My fortune by dishonest ways,
Nor, like the spendthrifts of the times,
Shall ever sink it by my crimes:
If thus I neither pray nor ponder—
Oh! might I have that angle yonder,
Which disproportions now my field,
What satisfaction it would yield!
O that some lucky chance but threw
A pot of silver in my view,
As lately to the man, who bought
The very land in which he wrought!
If I am pleas'd with my condition,
O hear, and grant this last petition:
Indulgent, let my cattle batten,
Let all things, but my fancy, fatten,
And thou continue still to guard,
As thou art wont; thy suppliant bard.
Whenever therefore I retreat
From Rome into my Sabine seat,'
By mountains fenc'd on either side,
And in my castle fortified,

What can I write with greater pleasure,
Than satires in familiar measure?
Nor mad ambition there destroys,
Nor sickly wind my health annoys;
Nor noxious autumn gives me pain,
The ruthless undertaker's gain.

Whatever title please thine ear,
Father of morning, Janus, hear,
Since mortal men, by Heaven's decree,
Commence their toils, imploring thee,
Director of the busy throng,

Be thou the prelude of my song.

At Rome, you press me: "Without fail
A friend expects you for his bail;
Be nimble to perform your part,
Lest any rival get the start.

Though rapid Boreas sweep the ground,
Or winter in a narrower round

Contract the day, through storm and snow,
At all adventures you must go."
When bound beyond equivocation,
Or any mental reservation,
By all the ties of legal traps,
And to my ruin, too, perhaps,

I still must bustle through the crowd,
And press the tardy; when aloud
A foul-mouth'd fellow reimburses
This usage with a peal of curses.
"What madness hath possess'd thy pate
To justle folk at such a rate,

When puffing through the streets you scour
To meet Mæcenas at an hour?”

This pleases me, to tell the truth,
And is as honey to my tooth.

A a a

Yet when I reach th' Esquilian Hill
(That deathful scene, and gloomy still)
A thousand busy cares surround me,
Distract my senses, and confound me.
"Roscius entreated you to meet
At court to morrow before eight-
The secretaries have implor'd
Your presence at their council-board→→→→
Pray, take this patent, and prevail
Upon your friend to fix the seal-"
"Sir, I shall try"-replies the man,
More urgent: "If you please you can-
'Tis more than seven years complete,
It hardly wants a month of eight,
Since great Mæcenas' favour grac'd me,
Since first among his friends he plac'd me,
Sometimes to carry in his chair,

A mile or two, to take the air,
And might entrust with idle chat,
Discoursing upon this or that,
As in a free familiar way,

"How, tell me, Horace, goes the day?
Think you the Thracian can engage
The Syrian Hector of the stage?
This morning air is very bad
For folks who are but thinly clad."

Our conversation chiefly dwells
On these, and such like bagatelles.
As might the veriest prattler hear,
Or be repos'd in leaky ear.
Yet every day, and every hour,
I'm more enslav'd to envy's power
"Our son of fortune (with a pox)
Sate with Mæcenas in the box,
Just by the stage: you might remark,
They play'd together in the park."

Should any rumour, without head
Or tail, about the streets be spread,
Whoever meets me gravely nods,
And says, "As you approach the gods,
It is no mystery to you,
What do the Dacians mean to do?"
"Indeed I know not"-" How you joke,
And love to sneer at simple folk!"
"Then vengeance seize this head of mine,
If I have heard or can divine-"
"Yet, prithee, where are Cæsar's bands
Allotted their debenture-lands?"
Although I swear I know no more
Of that than what they ask'd before,
They stand amaz'd, and think me grown
The closest mortal ever known.

Thus, in this giddy, busy maze
I lose the sun-shine of my days,
And oft with fervent wish repeat→→→
"When shall I see my sweet retreat!
Oh! when with books of sages deep,
Sequester'd ease, and gentle sleep,
In sweet oblivion, blissful balm!
The busy cares of life becalm?
Oh! when shall I enrich my veins,
Spite of Pythagoras, with beans?
Or live luxurious in my cottage,
On bacon ham and savoury pottage?
O joyous nights! delicious feasts!

At which the gods might be my guests."
My friends and I regal'd, my slaves
Enjoy what their rich master leaves.
There every guest may drink and fill,
As much, or little, as he will,

Exempted from the bedlam-rules
Of roaring prodigals and fools:
Whether, in merry mood or whim,
He fills his bumper to the brim,
Or better pleas'd to let it pass,
Grows mellow with a moderate glass.

Nor this man's house, nor that's estate,
Becomes the subject of debate;
Nor whether Lepos, the buffoon,
Can dance, or not, a rigadoon;
But what concerns us more, I trow,
And were a scandal not to know;
Whether our bliss consist in store
Of riches, or in virtue's lore:
Whether esteem, or private ends,
Should guide us in the choice of friends #
Or what, if rightly understood,
Man's real bliss, and sovereign good.
While thus we spend the social night,
Still mixing profit with delight,
My neighbour Cervius never fails
To club his part in pithy tales:
Suppose, Arellius, one should praise
Your anxious opulence: he says-

A country mouse, as authors tell,
Of old invited to his cell

A city mouse, and with his best
Would entertain the courtly guest.
Thrifty he was, and full of cares
To make the most of his affairs,
Yet in the midst of his frugality
Would give a loose to hospitality.
In short, he goes, and freely fetches
Whole ears of hoarded oats, and vetches;
Dry grapes and raisins cross his chaps,
And dainty bacon, but in scraps,
If delicacies could invite

My squeamish courtier's appetite,
Who turn'd his nose at every dish,
And saucy piddled, with a pish!

The master of the house, reclin'd
On downy chaff, more temperate din'd
On wheat, and darnel from a manger,
And left the dainties for the stranger.

The cit, displeas'd at his repast,
Address'd our simple host at last:
"My friend, what pleasure can you find,
To live this mountain's back behind?
Would you prefer the town and men,
To this wild wood, and dreary den,
No longer, moping, loiter here,
But go with me to better cheer.

"Since animals but draw their breath,

And have no being after death:
Since nor the little, nor the great,
Can shun the rigour of their fate;
At least be merry while you may,
The life of mice is but a day:
Come then, my friend, to pleasure give
The little life you have to live."
Encourag'd thus, the country mouse,
Transported, sallies from his house:
They both set out, in hopes to crawl
At night beneath the city wall;
And now the night, elaps'd eleven,
Possess'd the middle space of Heaven,
When in a rich and splendid dome

They stopp'd, and found themselves at home,
Where ivory couches, overspread
With Tyrian carpets, glowing, fed

The dazzled eye. To lure the taste,
The fragments of a costly feast,
Remaining, drest but yesterday,
In baskets, pil'd on baskets, lay.

The courtier on a purple seat
Had plac'd his rustic friend in state,
Then bustled, like a busy host,
Supplying dishes boil'd and roast,
Nor yet omits the courtier's duty
Of tasting, ere he brings the booty.

The country-mouse, with rapture strange, Rejoices in his fair exchange, And lolling, like an easy guest, Enjoys the cheer, and cracks his jest→ When, on a sudden, opening gates, Loud-jarring, shook them from their seats.

They ran, affrighted, through the room,,
And, apprehensive of their doom,
Now trembled more and more; when, hark!
The mastiff dogs began to bark;
The dome, to raise the tumult more,
Resounded to the surly roar.

The bumkin then concludes,
"Adieu!
This life, perhaps, agrees with you:
My grove, and cave, secure from snares,
Shall comfort me with chaff and tares."

Among mankind, while some with steady view
One constant course of darling vice pursue,
Most others float along the changing tide,
And now to virtue, now to vice they glide.
Lo! from three rings how Priscus plays the light;
Now shows his naked hand-the various wight
With every hour a different habit wears:
Now in a palace haughtily appears,
Then hides him in some vile and filthy place,
Where a clean slave would blush to show his face:
Now rakes at Rome, and now to Athens flies;
Intensely studies with the learn'd and wise.
Sure all the gods, who rule this varying Earth,
In deep despite presided at his birth.

Old Volanerius, once that man of joke,
When the just gout his crippled fingers broke,
Maintain'd a slave to gather up the dice,
So constant was he to his darling vice.
Yet less a wretch than he who now maintains
A steady course, now drives with looser reins.

HORACE.

Tell me, thou tedious varlet, whither tends This putrid stuff?

DAVUS.

At you direct it bends.

HORACE.

At me, you scoundrel?

DAVUS.

When with lavish praise

You vaunt the happiness of ancient days,
Suppose some god should take you at your word,
Would you not scorn the blessing you implor'd?
Whether not yet convinc'd as you pretend,

Or weak the cause of virtue to defend;
While sinking in the mire you strive, in vain,
Too deeply plung'd, to free your foot again.
When you're at Rome, the country has your
sighs;

A rustic grown, you vaunt into the skies
The absent town. Perchance, if uninvited
To sup abroad, oh! then you're so delighted
With your own homely meal, that one would think
That he, who next engages you to drink,
Must tie you neck and heels; you seem so blest,
When with no bumper-invitation prest.

But should Mæcenas bid his poet wait,

(Great folks, like him, can never sup till late) Sputtering with idle rage the house you rend, Where is my essence? Rogues, what, none attend?"

While the buffoons, you promis'd to have treated, Sneak off with curses-not to be repeated.

Fond of my guts, too fond, perhaps, I seem;

I throw my nose up to a savoury steam:
Or folks may call me careless, idle sot,
Or say I pledge too oft the other pot:
But shall the man of deeper vice, like you,
With malice unprovok'd my faults pursue,
Because with specious phrase, and terms of art,
You clothe, forsooth, the vices of your heart?

What if a greater fool your worship's found, Than the poor slave you bought for twenty pound? Think not to fright me with that threatening air; Nay, keep your temper, sir, your fingers spare, While I the maxims, sage and wise, repeat, Taught me by Crispin's porter at his gate.

You tempt your neighbour's wife; an humble harlot

Contents poor Davus-who's the greater varlet?
When nature fires my veins, I quench the flame,
And leave the fair-one with uninjur'd fame,
Nor shall one jealous care disturb my breast,
By whom the wanton shall be next possest.
When you throw off those ensigns of your pride,
Your ring, your judge's robe, and basely hide,
Beneath a slave's vile cap, your essenc'd hair,
Say, are you not the wretch whose clothes you wear?
Then where's the difference, whether you engage
Through scourges, wounds and death, to mount

the stage,

Or by the conscious chamber-maid are prest
Quite double, neck and heels, into a chest?

The busband's vengeance o'er the wife extends,
But yet his juster wrath on you descends:
For she ne'er strolls abroad in vile disguise,
And, when her lewder wishes highest rise,
She dares but half indulge the sin; afraid,
Even by the man she loves, to be betray'd

You take the yoke, and to the husband's rage Your fortune, person, life, and fame engage, Have you escap'd? Methinks, your future care Might wisely teach you to avoid the snare. No; you with ardour to the danger run, And dare a second time to be undone.

Repeated slave! what beast, that breaks his chain, In love with bondage would return again?

How seldom from the lash a slave escapes, Who trucks some trifle, that he stole, for grapes And shall we not the servile glutton rate, To please his throat who sells a good estate? You cannot spend one vacant hour alone; You cannot make that vacant hour your own. A self-deserter from yourself you stray, And now with wine, and now with sleep, allay

Thy pressing cares, arrest thee in thy flight.

Is there no stone?

1

The name of thief, when, though with backward eye,
I wisely pass the silver goblet by.
But take the danger and the shame away,
And vagrant nature bounds upon her prey,
Spurning the reins. But say, shall you pretend
O'er me to lord it, who can vilely bend
To each proud master; to each changing hour
A very slave? Not even the prætor's power,
With thrice-repeated rites, thy fears control,
Or vindicate the freedom of thy soul.

But as the slave, who lords it o'er the rest,

Is still a slave, a master-slave at best,
So art thou, insolent, by me obey'd;
Thou thing of wood and wires, by others play'd.

Who then is free?

HORACE.

DAVUS.

The wise, who well maintains An empire o'er himself; whom neither chains, Nor want, nor death, with slavish fear inspire; Who boldly answers to his warm desire; Who can ambition's vainest gifts despise; Firm in himself, who on himself relies ; Polish'd and round who runs his proper course, And breaks misfortune with superior force.

Have I no dart?

HORACE,

DAVUS.

At whom, good sir, to throw it?

HORACE.

DAVUS.

THEY told me, that you spent the jovial night With Nasidienus, that same happy wight, From early day, or you had been my guest; But, prithee, tell me how you lik'd your feast.

chain,

And boldly tell her you are free-In vain ;
A tyrant-lord thy better will restrains,
And spurs thee hard, and breaks thee to his reins.
If some fam'd piece the painter's art displays,
Transfixt you stand, with admiration gaze;
But is your worship's folly less than mine,
When I with wonder view some rude design
In crayons or in charcoal, to invite
The crowd, to see the gladiators fight?
Methinks, in very deed they mount the stage,
And seem in real combat to engage :
Now in strong attitude they dreadful bend;
Wounded they wound; they parry and defend :
Yet Davus is with rogue and rascal grac'd,
But you're a critic, and a man of taste.
I am, forsooth, a good-for-nothing knave,
When by a smoking pasty made a slave:
In you it shows a soul erect and great,
If you refuse even one luxurious treat.
Why may not I, like you, my guts obey?.
"My shoulders for the dear indulgence pay."
But should not you with heavier stripes be taught,
Who search for luxuries; how dearly bought!
For soon this endless, this repeated feast,
Its relish lost, shall pall upon the taste;
Then shall your trembling limbs refuse the weight
Of a vile carcass with disease replete

FUNDANIUS.

HORACE.

Tell me, if you please, How did you first your appetite appease.

FUNDANIUS.

First a Lucanian boar, of tender kind,
Caught, says our host, in a soft, southern wind.
Around him lay whatever could excite,
With pungent force, the jaded appetite;
Rapes, lettuce, radishes, anchovy-brine,
With skerrets, and the lees of Coan wine.

This dish remov'd, a slave expert and able
With purple napkin wip'd a maple table.
Another sweeps the fragments of the feast,
That nothing useless might offend the guest.
At Ceres' feast as Attic virgin walks
Solemn and slow, so black Hydaspes stalks
With right Cæcubian, and the wines of Greece-
Of foreign growth, that never cross'd the seas.
If Alban and Falernian please you more,
So says our host, you may have both good store;
Poor wealth indeed-

HORACE.

But tell me, who were there, Thus happy to enjoy such luscious fare?

FUNDANIUS.

On the first bed Thurinus lay between Varius and me, if haply right I ween;

Servilius and Vibidius both were there,
Brought by Mæcenas, and with him they share
The middle bed. Our master of the feast
On the third couch, in seat of honour plac'd,
Porcius betwixt and Nomentanus lies;
Porcius, who archly swallows custard pies.
Whate'er of curious relish lay unknown
Is by Nomentane with his finger shown;
For we, poor folk, unknowing of our feast,
Eat fish and wild fowl-of no common taste.
But he, to prove how luscious was the treat,
With a broil'd flounder's entrails crowds my plate,
Then tells me, apples are more ruddy bright,
If gather'd by fair Luna's waning light.

He best can tell you where the difference lies-
But here Servilius to Vibidius cries,
"Sure to be poison'd, unreveng'd we die,
Unless we drink the wretched miser dry.
Slave, give us larger glasses."-Struck with dread,
A fearful pale our landiord's face o'erspread;
Great were his terrours of such drinking folk,
Whether with too much bitterness they joke,
Or that hot wines, dishonouring his feast,
Deafen the subtle judgment of the taste.

When our two champions had their facers
crown'd,

We did them justice, and the glass went round;
His parasites alone his anger fear'd,
And the full flask unwillingly they spar'd.

In a large dish an outstretch'd lamprey lies, With shrimps all floating round: the master

cries,

"This fish, Maecenas, big with spawn was caught,
For after spawning-time its flesh is naught.
The sauce is mix'd with olive-oil; the best,
And purest from the vats Venafran prest,
And, as it boil'd, we pour'd in Spanish brine,
Nor less than five-year-old Italian wine.
A little Chian's better when 'tis boil'd,
By any other it is often spoil'd.
Then was white pepper o'er it gently pour'd,
And vinegar of Lesbian vintage sour'd.
I first among the men of sapience knew
Roquets and herbs in cockle-brine to stew,
Though in the same rich pickle, 'tis confest,
His unwash'd cray-fish sage Curtillus dress'd."
But lo! the canopy, that o'er us spreads,
Tumbled, in hideous ruin, on our heads,
With dust, how black! not such the clouds arise
When o'er the plain a northern tempest flies.
Some horrours, yet more horrible, we dread,
But raise us, when we found the danger fled.
Poor Rufus droop'd his head, and sadly cried,
As if his only son untimely died.

Sure he had wept, till weeping ne'er had end,
But wise Nomentane thus up-rais'd his friend:
"Fortune, thou cruellest of powers divine,
To joke poor mortals is a joke of thine."
While Varius with a napkin scarce suppress'd
His laughter, Balatro, who loves a jest,
Cries, "Such the lot of life; nor must you claim,
For all your toils, a fair return of fame.
While you are tortur'd thus, and torn with pain,
A guest like me, polite, to entertain
With bread well bak'd, with sauces season'd right,
And all your slaves most elegantly dight,
Down falls the canopy, a trick of fate,
Or a groom-footman stumbling breaks a plate,
Good fortune hides, adversity calls forth,
A landlord's genius, and a general's worth."

HORACE.

FUNDANIUS.

EPISTLES.

BOOK I.

EPISTLE I.

TO MECENAS.

O THOU, to whom the Muse first tun'd her lyre,
Whose friendship shall her latest song inspire,
Wherefore, Mecenas, would you thus engage
Your bard, dismist with honour from the stage,
Again to venture in the lists of fame,

His youth, his genius, now no more the same?
Secure in his retreat Vejanius lies,
Hangs up his arms, nor courts the doubtful prize:
Wisely resolv'd to tempt his fate no more,
Or the light crowd for his discharge implore.

The voice of reason cries with piercing force,
Loose from the rapid car your aged horse,
Lest in the race derided, left behind,
Jaded he drag his limbs, and burst his wind.
Then here farewell th' amusements of my youth;
Farewell to verses; for the search of truth
And moral decency hath fill'd my breast,
Hath every thought and faculty possest;
And I now form my philosophic lore,
For all my future life a treasur'd store.

You ask, perhaps, what sect, what chief own; I'm of all sects, but blindly sworn to none; For as the tempest drives I shape my way, Now active plunge into the world's wide sea: Now virtue's precepts rigidly defend, Nor to the world-the world to me shall bend: Then make some looser moralist my guide, And to à school less rigid smoothly glide.