Non usitatâ nec tenui ferar  
Pennâ biformis per liquidum aethere  
Vates  M Burghers delin. et sculp.   

THE ODES, SATYRS, AND EPISTLES OF HORACE.  
Done into English.  
Qui cupit optatam Cursu contingere metam,  
Multa Tulit fecitque Puer:—  
LONDON, Printed for Jacob Tonson, and Sold by Tim. Goodwin at the Maidenhead against St. Dunstan's Church in Fleetstreet, 1684.   

To the very much Esteemed JOHN DRYDEN, Esq.  
'TIs pretended by every one that chooseth a Patron, that either the Worth or good Nature of the Person hath determined him to that choice; He professeth that He hath very mean thoughts of his own performance, and so stands in need of a Protector: He begs a Name whose Luster might shed some Reputation on his Work, or else hath been obliged, and bound in gratitude to make this public acknowledgement of the goodness of the Man. How eminently. You Sir, are endowed with the first qualification of a Patron every one knows too well to need information; and where can this trifle find a Corner that hath not been filled with Mr. Dryden's name? 'Tis You, Sir, that have advanced our Dramatic to its height, and showed that Epic Poetry is not confined to Italy and Greece: That You are honoured by the best, and envied by others, proclaims Excellency and Worth; For True Honour is built only upon perfection And Envy, as it is as sharp sighted, so 'tis as soaring as an Eagle, and who ever saw it stoop at a Sparrow or a Wren? And that Candour and Goodness have the greatest share in your Composition, I dare appeal to every one whom You have any way honoured with your Conversation; These so fill your Mind, that there is no room left for Pride, or any disobliging quality: This appears from the Encouragement You are ready to give any tolerable attempts, and reach out a helping hand to all those who endeavour to climb that height where You are already seated: Even this own its completion to those smiles which You condescended to bestow upon some parts of it, and now ventures to appear a second time where at first it found a favourable Entertainment: 'Tis Horace, Sir, whom You have thought worthy your Study and Imitation, that flies to You for Protection, and perhaps will beg it against the Injuries I myself have done him; You Sir are best acquainted with the difficulties of the Undertaking, can most easily discover, and as easily pardon the defects of  
SIR, Your most Obliged Humble Servant, Thomas Creech. Oxon. All Souls Coll. May 25th. 1684.   

Preface.  
QUintilian in the First Book of his Institutions instructs the Young Orator what to read, and after Homer and Virgil are chiefly commended to his Study; He tells him, That considerable improvement may be made from the Lyric Poets, but there is great Care to be taken in the choice, some select parts only out of each Author to be permitted Youths: And he says particularly of Horace, That He would not have all in Him interpreted: What He means by Interpretation, is evident to every one that understands the Extent of the word, and the Ancients Method of instructing: and why this Caution is restrained to the Odes, and not applied to the Satyrs as well, since the reason upon which He fixes it seems common to both must be taken from the design and subject matter of the Poems; To describe and reform a vicious man, necessarily requires some expressions which an Ode can never want: The Paint which an Artist uses must be agreeable to the Piece which He designs; satire is to instruct, and that supposeth a knowledge and discovery of the Crime; Whilst Odes are made only to delight and please, and therefore every thing in them that justly offends is unpardonable. In our Common Schools this Rule of Quintilian is grievously neglected, all is permitted to every Eye, and laid open to the dullest sight by the most shameful Notes that can be penned: You may see a Grammarian with a demure mouth cry out, O Foedum! at a loose expression, and yet presently fill a Page with a more fulsome explication; and the design of all his pains is only to indulge a petulant Humour, or assist the lazy Ignorance of the common Instructors of our Youth: If any should reckon this amongst the considerable Causes of the Corruptions of our Manners, certainly all those would assent, who see that a Stream will be foul when the Fountain itself is muddy: Nor is this a single opinion, as is evident from their happy industry, who have corrected some of our Authors, and sent them abroad naked, and uncorrupted with foreign Notes; This Method as it spares the Modesty of the Youth, so it must be a considerable improvement to his Parts, since his Mind and Memory, and not only his Eye must be employed: I am bound thankfully to acknowledge the Pious Care of Mr. Thomas Curganven, now of Shirburn in Dorsetshire, in this matter, He did not want, or if he had, His Virtue and Industry had contemned, such helps, having searched into the Secrets of the Classicks, and being an excellent Example of unwearyed Diligence, and regular Carriage to All under his Tuition: To his Instruction I owe what at present I understand of these Books, and to his Rules my hopes of future Attainments: The same Principles made me Cautious of some Odes, though I have passed by three more upon a different account.  
This just debt being paid to my Honoured Instructor, the part that concerns myself, Reader, will give Thee little trouble: I cannot choose but smile now and then to think that I who have not Music enough to understand one Note, and too little ill Nature (for that is commonly thought a necessary ingredient) to be a Satirist, should venture upon Horace: 'Tis certain our Language is not Capable of the numbers of the Poet, and therefore if the Sense of the Author is delivered, the variety of Expression kept, (which I must despair of after Quintilian hath assured us that he is most happily bold in his words) and his Fancy not debased, (for I cannot think myself able to improve Horace) 'tis all that can be expected from a Version; This the Admirable Cow considered when he undertook Pindar, and hath drawn a short and full Apology for the like undertake: We must consider, says He, the great difference of time betwixt his Age, and ours: which changes, as in Pictures, at least the Colours of Poetry; the no less difference betwixt the Religions and Customs of our Countries, a Thousand particularities of Places, Persons and Manners, which do but confusedly appear to our Eyes at this distance; and lastly (which were enough alone for my purpose) we must consider that our Ears are Strangers to the Music of his numbers, which sometimes, (especially in Songs and Odes) almost without any thing else makes an excellent Poet: 'Tis true he improves this consideration, and urges it as concluding against all strict and faithful versions; in which I must beg leave to descent, thinking it better to convey down the Learning of the Ancients, than their empty sound suited to the present times, and show the Age their whole substance, rather than their thin Ghost embodied with some light Air of my own:  
As for ill Nature, Horace requires none, nay disclaims it in a Satirist; his sharpest touches, if we believe both himself, and those that best understood him, are innocent Waggery, admissus circum praecordia ludit, He endeavours to laugh men out of their Vices, and doth not lance or cauterize the sores, but tickles till He heals; and how much this method surpasses the rougher handling, every one may imagine who knows that 'tis more grievous to any man to be Ridiculed than beaten; and who is there that would not rather appear in Company with a black Eye, than a smutted Face? Some few advised me to turn the Satyrs to our own Times, they said that Rome was now rivalled in her Vices, and Parallels for Hypocrisy, Profaneness, Avarice and the like were easy to be found; But those Crimes are much out of my acquaintance, and since the Character is the same whoever the Person is, I am not so fond of being hated as to make any disobliging applications: Such pains would look like an impertinent labour to find a dunghill, only that I might satisfy an unaccountable humour of dirting one Man's Face, and bespattering another: Some have taken this way, and the ill-Nature of the World hath conspired to think their rudeness Wit; All their smartness proceeds from a sharp Humour in their Body, which falls into their Pen, and if it drops upon a Man's Reputation that is as bright and solid as polished Steel, it sullys it presently, and eats thro'. Such are never loved, or praised, but shunned and feared, like Mad-Dogs, for their Teeth and Foam; and are excellently represented by Luca's Basilisk,  
Who drives all other Serpents from the Plains,  
And all alone in the vast Desert reigns.  
What I have borrowed from others, if ever I have stock enough, I will honestly endeavour to repay; But the debt which I have contracted from my Lord Roscommon is so vast, that I shall never be able to discharge; To his admirable Version I must gratefully acknowledge, That I owe the sense, and the best lines in the Art of Poetry.   

THE ODES OF HORACE.  

The First Book.  

ODE I. To MAECENAS. Several Men have several Delights, Lyric Poetry is his.  
MAECENAS born of Royal Blood,  
My joy, my guard, and sweetest good;  
Some love with rapid wheels to raise  
Olympian dust, and gather praise;  
Where Races won, and Palms bestowed,  
Do lift a King into a God:  
And some in high Commands are proud,  
That great preferment of the Crowd;  
Blown by their breath the Bubble flies  
Gazed at a while; then breaks and dies:  
Another ploughs his Father's Fields,  
His Barn holds all that Lybia yields;  
And hopes of Wealth and Worlds of Gain,  
Shall never tempt him from the Plain;  
Or draw his fearful Soul to ride  
In feeble Ships, and stem the Tide:  
The Merchants tossed in angry Seas,  
That praise their fields, and quiet ease,  
Yet rig their tattered Ships once more,  
Untaught, unable to be poor:  
Some underneath a Myrtle shade,  
Or by smooth Springs supinely laid,  
With Mirth, and Wine, and wanton Play,  
Contract the business of the Day:  
Shrill Trumpet's sounds and noisy Wars,  
That Mother's hate, please other Ears:  
The Hunter doth his ease forgo,  
He lies abroad in Frost, in Snow;  
He soon forgets his pleasing Wife,  
And all the soft delights of Life,  
Whilst faithful Hounds a Deer pursue,  
Or have a raging Boar in view:  
The purling streams and shady grove  
The Nymphs and Satyrs dance, and Love,  
Green Ivy Crowns that only spread  
Fresh Honours round a learned head,  
Shall raise my Name above the Crowd,  
And lift me up into a God;  
If Muse's kind shall string my Lyre,  
Or Tune my Pipe, and heats inspire:  
If You, my Lord, approve my vein,  
And count me 'mongst the Lyric train,  
Secure from Death I'll proudly rise  
And hide my head in lofty Skies.   

ODE II. To AUGUSTUS. Rome hath smarted for kill Caesar, and all their Hopes are in Augustus.  

ENough of Thunder, mighty Jove,  
Enough thy flaming Arm has thrown,  
Enough hath torn the sacred Grove,  
Enough amazed the frighted Town:   

Lest Purrha's age returned they feared  
Strange Age, when from the former floods  
Old Proteus drove his scaly Herd  
To visit Hills, and glide in Woods:   

The Fishes hung on lofty boughs,  
Those Seats well known to Doves before,  
The spreading Waves snatched trembling Does,  
They swum, and looked in vain for shore.   

We saw swollen Tiber backward flow,  
And from the Tuscan waves retire;  
The Monuments of King's overthrow,  
And hiss in Vesta's sacred fire:   

Whilst He too too Uxorious flood  
Swollen big with fury cuts along  
The lefthand banks, though Jove withstood,  
To right Complaining Ilia's wrong.   

The Youth shall hear that impious steel  
Against ourselves we madly drew,  
Which better haughty Medes should feel,  
The Youth our faults have left but few.   

What God to prop the falling State  
Shall we invoke with earnest Prayers?  
How shall our Virgins soften fate,  
And weary Vesta's deafened Ears?   

And whom to expiate Caesar's blood  
Will Jove appoint? Apollo come,  
O'er thy bright shoulders cast a cloud,  
And kindly succour guilty Rome.   

Or Venus fair, whom Joys attend,  
Whom Youth flies round, and smiling Grace;  
Or Father Mars at last descend,  
And pity thy decaying Race.   

Oh long, too long thy fierce delight  
Hath glutted Thee, whom Wars do please  
With Darts and Spears, and stern in fight  
The frightful Moor's unlearned in ease.   

Or whether changed to Mortal Eyes  
You seem a Youth, Kind winged God,  
Nor dost the friendly name despise  
Of the Avenger of our Caesar's blood.   

Oh Late may You return to Jove,  
May quiet Days extend thy reign,  
Nor vexed at Us in haste remove  
To visit happy seats again.   

Our Empire's Father, Prince, and Guide,  
In Triumphs live; Nor let the Medes  
Proud in our Spoils, unpunished ride  
Whilst Mighty Caesar bravely leads.    

ODE III. To VIRGIL, Taking a Voyage to Athens.  

SO may kind Venus guide thy Sails,  
So Helen's Brothers shining Stars,  
Secure thee from thy fears:  
So Eol lose the Southern gales,  
And all the other Winds control;  
As Thou dost waft my Virgil o'er,  
And land him on the Attic shore;  
Preserving half my Soul.   

His Heart was Brass, who first did dare  
In feeble Ships to stem the Seas,  
Who weeping Hyades  
And Monsters saw, nor stooped to bear.   

Who saw the headlong Whirlwinds fight,  
And South-winds rage, that best can raise  
Or smooth the Adriatic Seas,  
Nor died at such a sight.   

What Face of Death can move his fears,  
That saw with an undaunted Eye  
Vast Rocks and Waves as high:  
And could restrain his flowing tears?   

In vain the Gods designed, in vain,  
In vain they did the Lands divide  
By an unfriendly Tide,  
If impious Ships can cross the Main.   

Man forced by an imperious Will,  
Does make all haste to be undone,  
And very eagerly rush on  
To court forbidden iii.   

Prometheus brought Celestial fire,  
Which first by wicked Arts He stole,  
To give his Clay a Soul,  
And kindle this absurd desire.   

But Vengeance soon pursued deceit,  
For thence began an unknown disease,  
Thence cruel Fever's first did seize,  
And took their fatal Heat.   

Then lazy Death did mend her pace,  
Our Life contracted to a span,  
Death came in haste on Man,  
And stopped his yet unfinished race.   

With Wings which Nature's Laws deny,  
First Doedalus did boldly dare  
To beat the Empty Air,  
And wander thro' the liquid Sky.   

Thro Hell the fierce Alcides ran,  
He scorned the stubborn chains of Fate,  
And rudely broke the Brazen Gate;  
Nought is too hard for Man.   

Grown Giants in Impiety,  
Our Impious folly dares the Sky,  
We dare assault Jove's glorious Throne,  
Nor, still averse to his command,  
Will we permit his lifted Hand  
To lay his Thunder down.    

ODE IU. He adviseth his Friend to live merrily.  
SHarp Winter Melts, Favonius spreads his wing,  
A pleasing change, and bears the Spring:  
Dry Ships drawn down from stocks now plow the Main,  
And spread their greedy Sails again:  
Nor Stalls the Ox, nor Fires the Clown's delight,  
And Fields have lost their hoary white:  
The Nymphs and Graces joined through flowery Meads  
By Moonlight dance, and Venus leads:  
Whilst labouring Cyclops furious Vulcan tires,  
And heats their Forge with raging fires:  
Now crowned with Myrtle, crowned with rising Flowers  
From loosened Fields drive easy hours;  
A Lamb to Faunus, if he most approves  
A Kid, a Kid must slain the Groves:  
With equal foot, Rich friend, impartial Fate  
Knocks at the Cottage, and the Palace Gate:  
Life's span forbids Thee to extend thy Cares,  
And stretch thy Hopes beyond thy Years:  
Night soon will seize, and, You must quickly go  
To storied Ghosts, and Pluto's house below,  
Where once arrived, adieu to Wine and Love,  
And all the soft Delights above:  
No Feasts, where Thee the happy Lot may place  
The Just Disposer of the Glass:  
No Lycidas, no fair surprising Boy,  
Or to admire, or to enjoy:  
No Lycidas, who now our Youth does charm,  
And soon shall all our Virgins warm.   

ODE V. He rejoices at his deliverance from his bewitching Mistress.  

WHat tender Youth upon a Rosy bed  
With Odours flowing round his head  
Shall ruffle Thee, and lose a heart?  
For what fond Youth wilt Thou prepare  
The lovely Mazes of thy Hair,  
And spread Charms neat without the help of Art?   

How oft unhappy shall he grieve to find  
The fickle baseness of your Mind?  
When he that ne'er felt storms before  
Shall see black Heaven spread o'er with Clouds,  
And threatening Tempests toss the Floods,  
Whilst Helpless He in vain looks back for Shore.   

Now fond, now He rifles all thy Charms,  
He wantoness in thy pleasing Arms  
And boasts his happiness Complete:  
He thinks that You will always prove  
As fair, and constant to his Love;  
And knows not how, how soon those smiles may cheat.   

Ah wretched those who love, yet ne'er did try  
The smiling treachery of thy Eye!  
But I'm secure, my danger's o'er,  
My Table shows the clothes I vowed  
When midst the storm to please the God  
I have hung up, and now am safe on shore.    

ODE VI To AGRIPPA. Varius may record his great Actions, but Love must be the subject of his Songs.  

THee great in Arms shall Varius sing,  
In Conduct wise and bold in fight;  
What Conquests under your Command,  
The Legions wan by Sea and Land,  
The same shall boldly write  
With quills that dropped from lofty Homer's wing:   

My tender Verse must Wars refuse;  
Spears, Trophys, and the armed field,  
The fierce Pelides haughty rage  
That still pressed forward to engage,  
And knew not how to yield,  
Are things too weighty for my feeble Muse:   

Strict Modesty confines my Tongue,  
And shame forbids me to disgrace  
A subject high, so near divine  
As mighty Caesar's praise and thine,  
And your great names debase  
By the officious meanness of a Song:   

For who in worthy strains can write  
Mars dreadful in his Iron Coat?  
Or show the black Merione  
In Trojan dust severely gay?  
Or how Tydides' fought  
By Pallas aid, and matched the Gods in fight?   

I sing soft Boys and Virgin's Wars,  
How soon they smile, how angry soon  
With close pared nails, and tender tooth  
They all invade the ruffling Youth;  
Thus urge my frolic on  
And bid farewell, a long farewell to Cares.    

ODE VII. He commends Plancus his Seat, and adviseth him to enjoy his Life.  
SOme Mytelen, or famous Rhodes will praise,  
Or two-seaed Corinth's honour raise;  
Some Thebes for Bacchus famed in sounding strains,  
Or flowery Tempe's open Plains:  
Some fill their lasting Verse with high renown  
Of Virgin Pallas learned town;  
And whilst they studiously their praise bestow,  
To All prefer the Olive bough:  
To honour Juno, Argos some proclaim,  
Or raise Mycaene, high in fame;  
Not patient Sparta, Tempe's fruitful Fields,  
Nor all that fat Larissa yields,  
Can raise my fancy; no, I all contemn  
Compared to fair Albunea's stream;  
My watered Orchards, headlong Anio's flood,  
Or quiet Tibur's shady wood:  
As fair South-winds will brush the Clouds away,  
Nor always brood a rainy day,  
So Plancus, You, what ever life you lead,  
Or play at home in Tybur's shade,  
Or fill the shining Camp, and lead the War,  
With Wine still wisely end thy Care:  
When Teucer fled distressed by angry fate,  
His Country, and his Father's hate,  
With poplar Crowns He graced his drunken head,  
And thus to drooping Friends he said,  
What ever Chance, the kinder Parent sends,  
we'll bravely bear my noble Friends:  
Adieu fond Care, despairing fears be gone  
Whilst Teucer guides, and leads you on:  
Unerring Phoebus says our hands shall raise  
A City in another place,  
Another Salamis: Cheer, rouse your force,  
For We have often suffered worse:  
Drink briskly round, dispel all cloudy sorrow,  
Drink round, we'll plow the Deep to morrow.   

ODE VIII. To LYDIA, Who had made Lybaris Effeminate.  

TEll, Lydia, tell me this,  
By all the Gods I do conjure Thee tell  
Why Thou wilt ruin Lybaris  
By loving of the Youth too well:   

Why doth He hate the Plain  
That can endure the fury of the Skies,  
The burning Sun, the Wind and Rain:  
By Nature fitted for the Prize?   

Why now refuse to ride  
Amidst his Equals, and with graceful force  
The fury of his Coarser guide,  
And bravely sit the managed Horse?   

Why Yellow Tyber's stream  
Doth He now hate? why fear to touch the flood,  
And why the shining Oil contemn  
With greater care than Viper's blood?   

Why do his Arms no more  
Look black with blows and honourable scars  
Which once with just applause He bore,  
When Fame attended on his Wars?   

So justly praised for Art,  
So famed for strength, when thro' the wondering throng  
Beyond the bounds he threw the Dart,  
Which swiftly bore his praise along.   

Why doth he now lie hid,  
As once complying with his Mother's fears  
The Great, the Brave Achilles did,  
Lest Manly dress should force him on to Wars?    

ODE IX. He adviseth his Friend to live merrily.  

SEE how the Hills are white with Snow,  
The Seas are rough, the Woods are tossed,  
The Trees beneath their burden bow,  
And purling streams are bound in frost.   

Dissolve the Cold with noble Wine,  
Dear Friend, and make a rousing fire,  
'Gainst Cold without, and Care within,  
Let both with equal force conspire.   

With all things else, come, trust the Gods,  
Who when they shall a calm restore,  
And still the storms that toss the floods;  
Old Oaks, and Ashes shake no more.   

All Cares, and Fears are fond and vain,  
Fly vexing thoughts of dark tomorrow;  
What Chance scores up, count perfect gain,  
And banish business, banish sorrow.   

Whilst Thou art green, and gay, and Young,  
ere dull Age comes, and strength decays,  
Let mirth, and humour, dance, and song  
Be all the trouble of thy days.   

The Court, the Mall, the Park, and Stage,  
With eager thoughts of Love pursue;  
Gay Evening whispers fit thy Age,  
And be to Assignation true.   

Now Love to hear the hiding Maid,  
Whom Youth hath fired, and Beauty charms  
By her own tittering laugh betrayed,  
And forced into her Lover's Arms.   

Go dally with thy wanton Miss,  
And from the Willing seeming Coy,  
Or force a Ring, or steal a Kiss;  
For Age will come, and then farewell to joy.    

ODE X. In praise of Mercury.  

SWeet smooth-tongued God, wise Atlas' Son,  
Whose Voice did mould men's flinty hearts,  
Just risen from their Parent stone,  
By softening Music, and instructing Arts.   

Thee, thou my Muse shall gladly sing  
Thee Post of Heaven, and Guard of Hell;  
First Mover of the charming string;  
By waggish Thievery cunning to conceal.   

Unless you would restore the Cows  
Whilst with his voice He dared the Child,  
And threatened with his angry brows,  
Now He had lost his Bow, Apollo smiled.   

Rich Priam with a Pious haste  
Whilst You did guide his trembling feet,  
Thessalian fires securely passed;  
The Camp, and proud Atrides haughty Fleet.   

You gently guide the Pious Souls  
To happy Seats; Your golden rod  
The flitting Troop controls;  
O loved, Above, Below, by every God.    

ODE XI. He adviseth his Friend to live merrily, and take no Care for to morrow.  

AH do not strive too much to know  
My dear Luconoe,  
What the kind God's design to do  
With Me and Thee.  
Ah do not You consult the Stars,  
Contented bear thy doom,  
Rather than thus increase thy fears  
For what will come:   

Whether they'll give one Winter more,  
Or else make this thy last;  
Which breaks the Waves on Tyrrhene shore  
With many a blast,   

Be Wise, and Drink; cut off long Cares  
From thy contracted Span,  
Nor stretch extensive hopes and fears  
Beyond a Man:   

Even whilst we speak the Envious time  
Doth make swift haste away,  
Then seize the present, use thy prime,  
Nor trust another Day.    

ODE XII. To AUGUSTUS.  

WHat Man, what Hero, stately Muse,  
Wilt thou deliver down to Fame?  
What God for thy great Subject choose?  
And make the wanton Echo sport his Name   

O'er Helicon's resounding Grove,  
O'er Pindus, or cold Hoemus hill?  
Whence listening Woods did gladly move  
And thronged to hear sweet Orpheus wondrous quill.   

He by his Mother's art could bind  
The headlong fury of the floods;  
Alloy rough storms, appease the wind,  
And lose from their fixed roots the dancing woods.   

Whom first? shall I creating Jove  
With pious duty gladly sing,  
That guides below, and rules above,  
The great Disposer, and the mighty King?   

Than He none greater, next him none  
That can be, is, or was:  
Supreme he singly fills the Throne;  
Yet Pallas is allowed the nearest place.   

Thy praises, Bacchus, bold in War,  
My willing Muse will gladly show,  
And, Virgin, Thee whom Tigers fear;  
And Phoebus' dreadful for unerring Bow.   

Alcides' Acts my Muse must write,  
And Leda's Sons; one famed for Horse,  
And one in close and handy fight  
Of haughty bravery, and of noble force.   

When both their Stars at once appear,  
The Winds are hushed, they rage's no more;  
(It is their Will) the Skies are clear,  
And Waves roll softly by the quiet shore.   

Shall Romulus stand next to These?  
Or furious Tarquin's haughty reign?  
Or, Numa's Laws and pious Peace?  
Or Cato's noble fall, and fierce disdain?   

The Scauruses next, the Great, the Good?  
Or Regulus his constant Truth?  
Or Paulus prodigal of his blood  
When Hannibal o'erthrew the Roman Youth?   

Or shall I sing in lasting Verse  
Fabricius Mind too great for Gold?  
Or else rough Curius Praise rehearse  
In conduct prudent, and in action bold?   

Him and Camillus famed for War,  
In a poor house, and mean estate  
Want poorly bred on hardy fare,  
And made them strong to prop Rome's sinking Fate.   

Marcellus like an Oak doth rise,  
And Julius Caesar's light appears  
As in fair Nights and smiling Skies  
The beauteous Moon amidst the meaner Stars.   

Great Saturn's Offspring, mighty Jove,  
Whose greatest care is Caesar's fate;  
Serenely You may reign above,  
Whilst here Augustus keeps the second state.   

And whether He in triumph leads  
The Parthians that on Latium pressed;  
Or beats the Indians and the Medes,  
And spoils the distant Nations of the East,   

He less than Thou, rules all below,  
Whilst Thy hot Wheels may shake the Clouds,  
And dreadful Thunder fiercely throw  
On Groves profaned, and on unhallowed Woods.    

ODE XIII. His Jealousy occasions his disquiet.  

When Lydia praises Damon's Charms,  
His rosy Neck, and waxen Arms,  
His Air, and rolling Ey;  
My Mind scarce thinks on what it does,  
My sickly Colour comes and goes;  
I rage, I burn, I die:   

I lose my former vital Grace,  
And tears steal softly down my face;  
Cold feeble Sweats begin,  
Cold feeble Sweats that plainly show  
How fierce the Flame, and yet how slow  
That melts my Soul within:   

I rage to see thy Shoulder stand,  
Or snowy Breast by drunken hand  
Too lovingly unkind;  
Or when the ruffling Amorous youth  
Hath pressed thy Lips with eager Tooth,  
And left a Mark behind:   

Coy Lydia, all thy hopes are vain  
Still to endure the pleasing pain  
Of a surprising Kiss,  
Which Venus doth in Nectar steep,  
And hangs upon the balmy Lip,  
To draw us on to Bliss.   

Thrice happy They, that free from strife  
Maintain a Love as long as life;  
Whose fixed and bending vows,  
No intervening Jealousy,  
No Fears and no Debates untie;  
And Death alone can lose.    

ODE XIV. To the Commonwealth which was now ready to engage in another Civil War.  
ANd shall the raging Waves again  
Bear Thee back into the Main!  
Oh what dost do! put close to shore,  
And never trust the Ocean more:  
Thy Oars are gone, and Southern blasts  
Have rend thy Sails, and torn thy Masts;  
Nor without tackling canst thou brave  
The violent fury of the Wave:  
Thy Stern is gone, thy Gods are lost,  
And thou hast none to hear thy cry,  
When thou on dangerous Shelves art tossed,  
When Billows rage, and Winds are high:  
Tho' thou art built of noble Wood,  
And gay as ever cut the Flood;  
Alas! 'tis but an empty Name,  
Nor will the Seas regard thy Fame:  
What fearful Seaman dares rely  
On Gilded Sterns when Winds are high?  
Vain show, not fit to sail but please,  
An easy prev to angry Seas:  
Tho often, Thou hast safely passed,  
Thou ow'st a sport to Winds at last:  
Oh lately Thou my grief and fear,  
And now my fresh and present Care,  
Take heed, and fly the flattering Seas  
Between the shining Cyclades.   

ODE XV. Nereus sings the Fall of Troy occasioned by Paris 's Rape of Helen.  

When faithless Paris stole away,  
And carried Helen thro' the Sea;  
Then Nereus stilled the Wind:  
He quieted the angry Seas,  
And lulled the Billows into ease,  
Ease to the Lovers hast unkind.   

Whilst thus he sang, Thou carry'st home  
Thine own, false Youth and Country's doom;  
Whom Greeks shall fetch again  
With all their force; and all combine  
To break that wicked Match of thine,  
And Ancient Priam's noble reign.   

What labour, ah! what dust and heat!  
And how the Men, and Horses sweat!  
Ah Troy what Fates engage!  
Even furious Pallas now prepares  
Her Helmet and her Shield for Wars;  
Her dreadful Chariot, and her Rage.   

In vain shalt thou thy safety place  
In Venus' aid, and paint thy face;  
In vain adorn thy hair;  
In vain thy feeble Harp shalt move,  
And sing soft tales of easy Love,  
To please the wanton and the fair.   

In vain shalt Thou avoid thy Foe,  
The winged Dart, and Cretan Bow,  
Things grievous to thy joys:  
In vain with grief shalt fear to view  
Stout Ajax eager to pursue,  
And strive to fly the hated noise.   

But ah too late, ah much too late  
Thou shalt endure the stroke of Fate,  
And find the Gods are just:  
Too late Thou shalt deservedly feel  
The force of the revenging steel,  
And soil th' Adulterous locks in dust.   

Dost Thou not see grave Nestor's age,  
And fierce Ulysses wilily rage,  
The ruin of thy State?  
Nor Teucer's brave undaunted force  
Nor Stheneleus that drives his Horse  
As furious and as fast as Fate?   

Ah Thou shalt see Merione  
In Trojan dust severely gay;  
And fierce Tydides' rave;  
Look how he frowns, and roves about  
To find the Feeble Paris out;  
Tydides', as his Father brave.   

These feeble Paris thou shalt fly  
As trembling Does whose fears espy  
A Lion in a Grove;  
They leave their Herbs, with panting Breath,  
They strive to shun pursuing Death;  
Was this thy Promise to Thy Love!   

Achilles' angry for a Wrong  
Shall Troy's approaching Fate prolong;  
But after certain years  
Thessalian Flames and Grecian Fire  
Shall o'er the proudest Piles aspire:  
And fill the Matron's Eyes with Tears:    

ODE XVI. A Recantation for a Copy of iambics written on a young Lady.  

OH Daughter fair, of greater Charms  
Than those with which thy Mother warms,  
My guilty Verses how you please  
Destroy, in Flames (though scarce so hot  
As that fierce rage with which I wrote)  
Or in the angry Seas.   

Not Cybele such heat inspires  
Never Phoebus with such raging fires  
His Prophet's Soul possess't,  
Not Bacchus' self can raise a Man  
Half so much as Anger can  
When once it burns the Breast:   

Not Tears nor Kindness can assuage,  
Nor Force nor Danger curb the rage,  
It ventures boldly on;  
It scorns to be confined by Jove,  
Or all the Thundering Powers above,  
But by its boundless self alone.   

When Bold Prometheus first began,  
As Story goes, to make a Man  
From every thing He snatched a part  
To furnish out his Clay  
And to complete his rude essay,  
And placed a Lion's fury in the Heart.   

'Twas Rage that made the Brother's hate,  
Rage's wrought Thyestes wondrous fate;  
'Twas Rage that killed the Child;  
That fed the Father with the Son,  
And when it saw the mighty Mischief done,  
Stood by, and (what was strange) it smiled.   

'Tis that that raises all our Wars,  
And brings our Dangers and our Fears,  
When the insulting Foe  
Whilst Anger burns, and Rage prevails  
O'er Town and Cities ruined Walls  
Doth draw the heavy Plough.   

Then kerb thy Anger charming Maid,  
That once my heedless Youth betrayed,  
It raised a deadly flame;  
And hurried on my thought-less Muse  
In swift iambics to abuse  
And wanton with thy fame.   

But now I do repent the wrong,  
And now compose a softer Song  
To make Thee just amends:  
Recant the Errors of my Youth,  
And swear those scandals were not Truth;  
So You and I be friends.    

ODE XVII. He Commends his Country Seat, and invites his Mistress thither.  

SWift Faunus oft Lyceum leaves behind,  
And to my pleasing Farm retreats;  
And from the Summer heats  
Defends my Goats, and from the rainy wind.   

O'er Vales, o'er craggy Rocks, and Hills they stray,  
Seek flowery Thyme, and safely browse  
And wanton in the boughs;  
Nor fear an angry Serpent in the way.   

No lurking Venom swells the harmless mould,  
The Kids are safe, the tender Lambs  
Lie bleating by their Dams,  
Nor hear the Evening Wolves grin round the fold.   

Soft rural Lays thro' every Valley sound;  
By low Ustica's purling Spring  
The Shepherd's pipe and sing,  
Whilst from the even Rocks the tunes rebound.   

Kind Heaven defends my soft abodes,  
I live the Gods peculiar Care,  
Secure and free from fear;  
My Songs and my Devotion please the Gods.   

Here naked Truth, Love, Peace, good Nature reign,  
And here to Thee shall Plenty flow,  
And all her Riches show  
To raise the honour of the quiet Plain.   

Here crooked Vales afford a cool retreat;  
Or underneath an Arbor's shade  
For Love and Pleasure made,  
Thou shalt avoid the Dog-Star's raging heat;   

And sweetly sing the harmless Wars of Love,  
How, chaste Penelope's desires,  
And wanton Circe's fires  
With various heats for one Ulysses strove:   

At Noon with Wine the fiery beams assuage  
Beneath a shade on beds of Grass;  
And take a Chirping glass,  
But never drink till Mirth boils up to rage.   

ne'er fear thy old Gallant, He's far away,  
He shall not see, nor seize, nor tear  
Thy Chaplet from thy Hair;  
We shall have leisure, and have room to play.    

ODE XVIII. Wine moderately taken cheers the Mind, but too much makes men mad.  

DEar Varus urge thy wise design,  
And chiefly plant the noble Vine  
In Tibur's fertile shade,  
Or round Catilles Wall,  
The sober Dotards Cares invade,  
And numerous mischiefs wait on all.   

Pale Cares are rude,  
And must intrude  
Until forgetful Cups go round;  
And who in drink doth prate of Wars,  
Of Want, or State affairs?  
Each head is free, and busy thoughts are drowned;  
But Mirth, and Women, Sport, and Play  
Is all the trouble of the Day.   

But lest thy growing Mirth surpass  
The moderate freedom of a merry glass;  
Think on the Centauris blood,  
Think how those Beasts did fight,  
With Wine and G, o'er their Tables flowed;  
And then command thy Appetite.   

What wild desires,  
What Madness fires  
The Thracian Bruits; how fierce a God,  
When Drunken They all Right and Just  
Do measure by their Lust,  
And eagerly rush on to brawls and blood?  
Attending Death strikes every Guest,  
And none survive the fatal Feast.   

Submitting to thy easy yoke  
I'll freely use, but ne'er provoke  
Thy rage, obliging God;  
Nor shall my Tongue reveal  
To the profane and common Crowd  
The mysteries thy boughs conceal:   

Preserve my Age  
From drunken Rage  
Which blind Self-love does still attend,  
With Vanity which loves to spread  
Her Plumes, and raise her Head  
Above the Common level of her Friend;  
With these with an uneven pace  
Walks broken Faith which lets all Secrets pass,  
Much more transparent than a glass.    

ODE XIX. To GLYCERA. He confesseth his Love.  

THe cruel Mother of Desires  
And wanton Youth reproves,  
And bids me raised by Bacchus' Fires  
Restore myself to my forsaken Loves:   

Fair Glycera my wish provokes  
More white than polished Marble Stone,  
Inviting coy, and slippery looks,  
Coy looks, too slippery to be gazed upon.   

Now Venus leaves her Cyprian Seats,  
And fills my Soul with all her heats;  
Bids me not mind the Parthian force,  
When dreadful on his Flying Horse  
He makes his proud, and conquering retreats.   

All that I think on must be Love;  
Bring Wine, my Boys, an Altar rear,  
A tender Lamb perhaps may move;  
And make the angry Goddess less severe.    

ODE XX. He invites Maecenas to take a Bottle of Wine at his house.  

POor Sabine Wine in Cups as poor  
Is all my present store;  
'Twas bottled then, when You, my Lord,  
In crowded theatres adored  
Smooth Tyber's Banks around  
Returned the joyful sound,  
And babbling Echoes the glad shouts restored.   

Rich Casks from the Colenian Vine,  
Or smooth Caecubian Wine  
Your Cellar store; but meaner juice  
Contented I must humbly use;  
My Cups the Formian Hill  
Nor the Falernian fill;  
'Tis Wealth's great privilege to be profuse.    

ODE XXI. He exhorts the Boys and Maids to sing Apollo 's and Diana 's praise.  

YE tender Maids Diana sing;  
Apollo Praise Ye rising Boys,  
And both to equal Honours bring;  
Latone too whom mighty Jove  
Did deeply love,  
And show the pious duty of your joys.   

Diana sing, Diana loves  
The purling Springs that softly flow,  
The pleasing Woods and quiet Groves  
That shady Erymanthus bears,  
Or Cragiss rears,  
Or in cold Algidum but slowly grow.   

Ye Males with equal Songs rehearse  
The flowery Tempe's open Air,  
Or sing with an immortal Verse  
Fair Delos Isle, the happy Earth  
That gave him birth:  
His charming Harp, his Bow, and graceful Hair.   

He by your Pious Vows overcome  
Pale Famine, and rough Wars shall drive  
From Caesar, and his happy Rome,  
And make those raging Plagues infest  
The distant West:  
Whilst we in wanton Peace and Plenty live.    

ODE XXII. Nothing will hurt a good innocent Man, and a faithful Lover.  

A Man unstained, and pure from Sin,  
No Quiver fraught with poisoned Heads,  
No Africa Javelin needs,  
He has a Guard and Arms within:   

Whether o'er Syrteses wand'ring sands,  
Or brutish Caucasus He goes,  
Or where Hydaspes flows  
And swiftly cuts the savage Lands:   

Of late, when Cares forsook my head,  
I strayed and Sang i'th' Sabine Grove  
My Lalage, my Love,  
A Wolf saw me unarmed, and fled:   

A Beast so large did never roar  
Ith' Daunian Woods, and fright the Swains,  
Nor in her burning Plains  
The Lion's Dry-Nurse afric bore:   

So place me where no Sun appears,  
Or wrapped in Clouds or drowned in tears;  
Where Woods with whirling Tempests tossed:  
Where no relieving Summers' breeze  
Does murmur thro' the Trees,  
But all lies bound and fixed in Frost.   

Or place me where the scorching Sun  
With beams too near, doth burn the Zone,  
Yet fearless there I'll gladly rove,  
Let frowning, or let smiling Fate  
Or Curse, or Bless my State  
Sweet smiling Lalage I'll always love.    

ODE XXIII. He tells his young Mistress that she is now of Age, and need not be afraid of him.  

YOu fly me, Maid, as tender Fawns  
Seek absent Dams in deep despair;  
O'er craggy Rocks, o'er Woods and Lawns,  
And idly fear at every breath of Air.   

If Winds do whistle through the Grove,  
Or ruffle Vin●s; they quickly start,  
If Lizzards in a Bramble move,  
An Icy trembling runs through every part.   

Not Tiger I or angry Boar  
Pursue Thee, Chloe, to destroy,  
Attend thy Mother's heels no more  
Now grown mature for Man, and ripe for Joy.    

ODE XXIV. He comforts Virgil Mourning for the Death of his Friend.  

ANd who can grieve too much? what time shall end  
Our mourning for so dear a Friend?  
Melpomene whom Jove hath blest  
With melting Voice, and mournful Tongue,  
And with a Harp above the rest  
Hath graced; begin the Melancholy Song.   

And doth eternal Sleep close Varus Eyes?  
How soon our Pride and Glory dies!  
And where will equal Justice find,  
Where steady Faith and naked Truth  
So generous, and so great a Mind?  
And where an Equal to the falling Youth?   

To be bewailed by all the Good, the Just  
He fell; by you, dear Virgil, most;  
By you, who now dost mourn in vain,  
By Pious you, who idly pray  
To have thy Varus back again;  
He was not lent Thee for a longer stay.   

Could you with foster touch than Orpheus move  
The Harp that drew the listening Grove,  
The Grove that danced to Tunes he played;  
Yet Blood and Bones would scarce return,  
Nor Flesh to clothe the empty shade,  
The Shade that once lay naked in the Urn.   

Which Mercury, a hard uneasy God  
To open Fate, with frightful Rod  
Hath driven through the gloomy Air,  
And shut amongst the Shades of Night:  
'Tis hard: but when We needs must bear,  
Enduring Patience makes the Burden light.    

ODE XXV. He insults over his Mistress Lydia, now grown Old.  

HA, Ha! Thy Trade at last is done,  
And all thy wanton Lovers gone!  
No sighing Youths attend thy State,  
There's no such rattling at thy door  
As Heretofore;  
And now thy Threshold loves thy quiet Gate.   

Now you may rest secure from noise,  
And sadly dream of former joys;  
You seldom hear despairing Sighs,  
My Lydia rests in soft delight  
All the long night,  
Whilst here her faithful Lover pines, and dies.   

Now, now 'tis thine, thy turn to moan  
The haughty wantoness all alone:  
Now to a shady Grove retire,  
Whilst Winds as cold as thy dull Age  
Do fiercely rage  
And cool the poor remainders of thy fire.   

When Lust as fierce as Mares desires  
Thy ulcerous Heart and Liver fires,  
Then Thou shalt mourn, but mourn in vain,  
That wanton Youth seeks blooming Charms,  
And greener arms;  
Whilst longing Age still meets with cold disdain.   

Then thou shalt think on sweets before,  
And die at the despairing thought, No more.    

ODE XXVI. He desires his Muse to commend his Friend Lamia.  

ay, I, the Muse's merry Friend  
Deliver all my busy Cares  
Unto the wanton Wind;  
What Tyrant of the North  
Leads dreadful Armies forth  
Secure alone, and laugh at others fears.   

Sweet Muse that dost delight to sing  
In strains to Roman Ears unknown,  
And taste the Virgin spring;  
Trace o'er the shady Bowers,  
And gather sweetest flowers;  
And wreath my Lamia, wreath a noble Crown.   

What Honours I without thy Aid  
Bestow to grace my Friends, are vain;  
My Crowns will quickly fade:  
You, Muse, and all the Nine should raise  
In new Alcaïcks Lamia's praise,  
And make him live in an unusual strain.    

ODE XXVII. He adviseth his Friends not to quarrel in their drink.  

AMidst our Cups for mirth designed  
To fight and quarrel, suits  
Rough Thracian Brutes;  
But not the sober temper of a Friend.   

This Savage Humour, Sirs, forbear,  
And free the modest God  
From brawls and blood;  
And let your Humour, as your Wine, be clear.   

How Cups and Swords do disagree!  
Then give your fight o'er,  
And brawl no more;  
But sit, and keep your Elbows down like me.   

If you will have the glass go round,  
Then tell from what fair Eyes  
The Arrow flies;  
What Beauty makes Thee Happy in a wound.   

Not tell! nay then the Glass remove,  
What ever Charms ensnare  
Thy Heart, are fair;  
You never sin in a dishonest Love.   

Tell boldly, tell thy generous flame,  
This is no leaky Ear;  
Nor what I hear  
Shall my loose Tongue pour out to common fame.   

Unhappy Youth! doth She surprise?  
And have her Flames possess't  
Thy burning Breast?  
Thou didst deserve a dart from kinder Eyes.   

Undone! for no Thessalian Charms  
Nor even the winged Horse  
Can break her force,  
And free Thee from this strange Chimeras Arms.    

ODE XXVIII. Architas a Mathematician being Shipwrecked, is represented begging a Seaman to Bury him, and denouncing Vengeance on him if he neglects his Request.  
A Narrow Grave by the Matinian Shore  
Confines Thee now, and thou canst have no more,  
Ah learned Architas, ah how small for Thee  
Whose wondrous Mind could measure Earth and Sea!  
What Sands make up the Shore minutely teach,  
And count as far as Number's self could reach!  
What did it profit that thy nimble Soul  
Had travelled Heaven, and oft ran round the Pole,  
Pursued the motions of the rolling Light  
When Death came on, and spread a gloomy Night!  
Wise Tantalus the guest of Gods is dead,  
And on strange wings the changed Tithonus fled:  
Jove's Friend just Minos hath resigned his Breath,  
And Wise Pythagoras felt a second Death;  
Althô his Trojan Shield, and former State  
Did prove his Soul above the force of Fate;  
Withdrew the Mind from Death's black conquering hand,  
And left but Skin and Bones at Fate's Command;  
In thy Opinion He did most excel,  
Discovered Truth, and followed Nature well:  
But once o'er all long Night her shades will spread,  
And all must walk the Valleys of the Dead:  
Some Rage spurs on, and Death attends in Wars;  
The Sea destroys the greedy Mariners:  
The Young and Old confused by Numbers fall,  
And Death with equal hand doth strike at all:  
A boisterous Storm my feeble tackling tore,  
And lest one naked on th' Illyrian shore:  
But, Seaman, pray be just, put near the Land,  
Bestow a Grave, and hide my Limbs in Sand:  
So may the threatening East winds spare the Floods,  
And idly spend their Rage on Hills and Woods;  
Whilst you ride safely; so from every Shore  
May Gain flow in, and feed thy growing Store:  
May Jove and Neptune soft Tarentum's Guard  
Conspire to Bless, and join in one Reward:  
Perhaps you scorn, and are designly base,  
Thy Crime shall Dam thy undeserving Race;  
Thy Pride, vain Man, shall on thyself return,  
Thou naked lie, and be the Public scorn:  
My Prayers shall mount, and pull just Vengeance down,  
No Offerings shall release, now Vows atone:  
Tho' hasty now, driven by a prosperous gale,  
('Tis quickly done) thrice strew the sand, and sail.   

ODE XXIX. To ICCIUS. A Philosopher who had left his study, and was resolved to go to War.  

YOu envy, Iccius, the Arabian's store,  
Their precious Gums, and Ivory beds,  
And art resolved for War;  
For fierce Sabean Kings ne'er fought before,  
And dreadful Medes  
Your scourges knit, and Roman Chains prepare.   

What lovely Virgin when her Lover's killed  
Shall wait on Thee, and call Thee Lord?  
What perfumed Royal Boy  
To shoot in's Father's Bow exactly skilled,  
Attend thy board;  
And serve Thy pleasure in another joy?   

Who now dares say that streams must flow  
From Mountains tops to Vales below,  
And not to th' Springs return?  
Or who deny but Tyber's wondrous stream  
May Hills contemn,  
And swiftly roll back to his lofty Urn?   

When You can change for Shield, and Sword, and Dart,  
And the base Drudgery of Wars,  
What e'er contentment brings  
Panoetus Works, thy costly Books of Art  
And Plato's cares;  
Tho once I'm sure You promised better things.    

ODE XXX. He begs Venus to come to the Temple which his Glycera had prepared.  

KInd Venus leave the Paphian Isle,  
And live with Glycera a while;  
A noble Temple she prepares,  
With Incense sweet thine Altars smoke,  
Thy presence numerous Vows invoak;  
She calls Thee with a thousand Prayers.   

The Graces with their Zones unloosed,  
The Nymphs their beauties all exposed  
From every Spring, and every Plain;  
Thy powerful, hot, and winged Boy,  
And Youth that's dull without thy joy,  
And Mercury compose thy Train.    

ODE XXXI. The Poet's Wish.  

What will the Poet beg to day  
From Phoebus in his hallowed Shrine,  
For what doth He design to Pray,  
Whilst thus He pours his Holy Wine?   

Not fat Sardinia's fruitful Crops,  
Nor Flocks that hot Calabria feeds,  
Nor Gold, nor Ivory raise his Hopes;  
Those toys He neither loves, nor needs.   

Not those rich Fields where Lyris runs  
With quiet Streams, and wanton play,  
The smoothest of the Ocean's Sons,  
And gently eats his easy way.   

Let him that Has one, Prune his Vine,  
The Merchant now come safe to Land  
In golden Goblets quaff the Wine  
His Syrian Wares and Voyage gained.   

He chiefest Darling of the Gods,  
For twice a year He ploughs the Main,  
He rides the Proud Atlantic Floods,  
And yet makes safe returns again!   

Me Chicory and Olives feed,  
Me loos'ning Mallows nobly feast,  
They give what Nature's wants can need,  
And kindly fill the easy Guest.   

A Mind to use my present Store  
With Health and Life, but not so long  
As brings Contempt, or cramps my Song;  
Grant this Apollo, and I ask no more.    

ODE XXXII. To his Harp, whose assistance he desires.  

IF underneath a Myrtle shade,  
When free from Business, I have played  
What may this year, and more command;  
Begin, sweet Harp, a Roman strain,  
Those Measures and those Tunes maintain  
First struck by great Alcerus noble Hand.   

He fierce in Arms, yet midst his Cares,  
When Dangers pressed, and noisy Wars,  
And stained his charming Harp with Blood;  
Or when He stemmed the angry Seas,  
Or when arrived He sat at ease,  
And laughed at all the Fury of the Flood:   

The Muses He in sounding Verse  
Would Sing, and Venus Praise rehearse,  
With her attending wanton Boy:  
Or Lyco's Face surprising fair,  
With lovely Eyes, and Auborn Hair,  
By Nature fitted to entice to Joy.   

Great Phoebus' Glory, Phoebus' Love,  
And welcome to the Feasts of Jove;  
Thou great Reliever of my Care;  
When e'er I beg thy Aid, attend;  
Assist the Verses of thy Friend,  
And tune my Songs for Mighty Caesar's Ear.    

ODE XXXIII. He Comforts his Friend who had ill success in his Amours.  

COme dry thine Eyes, and cease to mourn,  
Think not too much on Glycera's scorn:  
Let no complaining Songs proclaim,  
That she, regardless of her Vows,  
Her wanton smiles bestows  
Upon a later, and a meaner flame.   

Lycoris fair for Cyrus burns,  
She loves, but meets no kind returns;  
Ill-natured Pholöe Cyrus Charms,  
But sooner shall the Lambs agree  
With cruel Wolves, than she  
Shall take so base a Wanton in her Arms.   

Thus Venus sports, the Rich, the Base,  
Unlike in Fortune, and in Face  
To disagreeing Love provokes;  
When cruelly jocose  
She ties the fatal noose,  
And binds Unequals to the brazen Yokes.   

This is the Fate that all must prove,  
The sure unhappiness of Love;  
Whilst fairer Virgins did adore  
And courted Me, I Myrtal wooed  
As rough as Adria's flood  
That bends the Creeks of the Portuguese shore.    

ODE XXXIV. He resolves to be religious, and follow Epicurus 's Philosophy no more.  

I That but seldom did adore,  
I that no God but pleasure knew,  
Whilst mad Philosophy did blind,  
And Epicurus fooled my Mind;  
Must keep that impious Course no more;  
But turn my Sails, and steer anew.   

For Angry Jove with mighty force,  
Whilst all the Skies were bright and clear,  
Shot thro' the Heaven with pointed flame,  
And shook the Universal frame;  
He lately drove his thundering Horse  
And flaming Chariot thro' the Air.   

This shook the Earth and wand'ring streams,  
This noise disturbed the quiet Dead;  
Thro muddy Styx, thro' all beneath,  
And thro' the shady Walks of Death  
Quick Lightning shot unusual beams;  
The Ghosts beheld the Light, and fled.   

He brings the most obscure to light,  
And robs the Glorious of a Crown;  
Now tumbles down the mighty Proud  
And makes them know there is a God;  
Now kicks the lofty into night,  
And seats the Peasant in a Throne.    

ODE XXXV. To Fortune, whom he Celebrates, and begs to preserve Caesar.  

GReat Goddess, Antium's guardian Power,  
Whose force is strong and quick to raise  
The lowest to the highest place;  
Or with a wondrous fall  
To bring the haughty lower;  
And turn proud Triumphs to a Funeral.   

The labouring Swain thy Aid implores,  
His Prayers are mixed of Fear and Hope  
On Thee depending for his Crop;  
Thee Merchants Thee confess  
When far removed from Shores,  
And bow to Thee the Mistress of the Seas.   

To thee their Vows rough Germans pay,  
To Thee the wand'ring Scythians bend,  
Thee mighty Rome proclaims a friend:  
And for their Tyrant Sons  
The barbarous Mothers pray  
To thee, the greatest Guardian of their Thrones:   

They bend, they vow, and still they fear  
Lest you should kick their Empire down  
And cloud the glory of their Crown;  
They fear that you would raise  
The lazy Crowd to War,  
And break their Empire, or confine their Praise.   

Necessity still stalks before,  
And leads the way with poisonous breath,  
And all the Instruments of Death;  
Sharp Swords, and Wheels and Racks  
That flow with putrid gore  
Her brazen hand to fright the Nations shakes.   

Sure Hope, and Friendship clothed in white  
Attend on Thee, they still remain  
The chiefest Glories of thy Train;  
Tho' you enraged retreat  
And with a hasty flight,  
Thy Garment changed, forsake the falling Great.   

But the base Crowd, the Perjured Whore,  
And when the Casks of Wine are dry,  
The false Pretenders quickly fly;  
They all refuse to bend  
With the declining Poor  
And take the heavy yoke to ease their Friend.   

Preserve Great Caesar, Caesar leads  
To distant Britan, guide his Fate,  
And keep the Glory of our State,  
The youth that must infest  
With Arms the haughty Medes;  
And scatter Fears and Slavery through the Fast.   

I blush at the dishonest show,  
I die to see the Wounds and Scars  
Those Glories of our Civil Wars;  
What Sins, a Cursed Age  
Were We afraid to do,  
And what hath 'scaped the fury of our rage?   

What dread of Heaven, or fears of Hell  
Could stop the Impious daring hand?  
And was not every shrine profaned!  
Oh wouldst Thou quickly whet  
Our impious blunted steel  
To fight the bold Arabian, and the Get.    

ODE XXXVI. A Welcome to his dear Friend Lamia.  
'TIs pious Duty now to praise  
With Incense, Songs and sacred Lays,  
And with a promised Heifers blood  
My Numida's kind guardian God:  
Who safely now returned again  
From the remotest Parts of Spain,  
To thronging Friends on every side  
A thousand Kisses does divide;  
But Dearest Lamia most receives,  
And takes as gladly as He gives:  
Their equal Love at School began,  
Both the same Race of Virtue ran;  
And both at once grew up to Man:  
Be every Head with Garlands Crowned,  
And let the flowing Bowl go round:  
Let fading Lillys and the Rose  
Their Beauty, and their smells disclose,  
Let long-lived Parsley grace the Feast,  
And gently cool the heated Guest:  
Then all on Beauteous Damalis  
Shall lose their gloating wanton Eyes;  
But her no Charms no Nods shall move,  
And none divide her from her Love;  
She shall embrace her young Gallant  
As twining Ivy clasps the growing Plant:   

ODE XXXVII. On Caesar 's Victory over Antony and Cleopatra.  

NOw now 'tis time to dance and play,  
And drink, and frolic all the Day;  
'tis time, my Friends, to banish Care;  
And costly Feasts  
with thankful Hearts prepare,  
In hallowed shrines, and make the Gods your Guests:   

'Twas Treason once to Sport a Flash,  
And Sin to Pierce the Noble Cash,  
Whilst nought but boding Fears were seen  
For Ills to come,  
When Egypt's haughty Queen  
With withered Eunuches threatened mighty Rome:   

A Woman vain, whose hopes could rise  
To such Impossibilities!  
A Woman Drunk with sweet success;  
Whom smiling Fate  
Had brought to dare no less  
Than Caesar's Fortune, and the Roman State.   

But soon her Pride to Fears retired  
When all her Ships were sunk or fired;  
And real dread possessed her mind,  
When Caesar's Oars  
Did press so close behind  
And bore his Navy to the frighted Shores.   

(As Hawks pursue the trembling Doves,  
Thro open Fields or shady Groves.  
Or as swift Huntsmen chase the Deer  
Thro Thracian Plains  
That fly as winged with fear)  
To bring the fatal Monster into Chains.   

But She designed a Nobler Fate,  
And falling would appear as great  
As when She singly filled the Throne,  
No fears betrayed,  
Nor fled to Coasts unknown  
To live secure, or meanly beg for Aid:   

Her falling Throne with smiling look  
She boldly saw; she dared provoke  
Fierce Serpents rough with Poisonous trains.  
To dart their Tongue,  
And fill her dying Veins;  
Grown furious now on Death resolved so long:   

The stout Liburnian Ships, the Fame  
And lasting glory of her Shame  
She envied; she a Soul too Proud,  
Too haughty to be seen  
Amongst the private Crowd,  
And grace a Triumph less than Egypt's Queen.    

ODE XXXVIII. He tells his Boy that he should not take too much careabout his Entertainments.  

I Hate, my Boy, I deeply hate  
The useless Persian Pomp and State;  
Crowns wrought with too much Art displease;  
Forbear to seek the blushing Rose,  
Or where the Beauteous, Lily grows,  
Such toil disturbs our ease:   

A negligent and simple dress  
Thoughts free from Cares will most express;  
Thy Front, my Boy, thy Front, and mine  
A Myrtle Crown will best become  
Whilst I sit, and quaff at Home  
Beneath my shady Vine.    
The End of the first Book.   

ODES  
The Second Book.  

ODE I. To POLLIO. He desires him to forbear writing Tragedies till He had settled the State.  

SAD Prisoners Guard, and Glory of the Bar  
The Senate's Oracle, and great in War,  
Whose Faith and Virtue all proclaim;  
To whom the Germane Triumph won  
Eternal Fame,  
And never fading Glories of a Crown:   

The Grounds and Vices of our Wars,  
Our Civil Dangers, and our Fears,  
The sport of Chance, and turns of Fate,  
And Impious Arms that flowed  
With yet unexpiated blood;   

The great Triumvirate,  
And their Leagues Fatal to the Roman State;  
A dangerous Work you write; and tread  
O'er Flames by treacherous Ashes hid;  
Yet this you write, and give to Fame  
A lasting Monument of our Father's Shame:   

But hold thy Mourning Muse, forbear  
To tread the crowded Theatre,  
Till Quiet spread o'er State Affairs.  
Shall lend Thee time for meaner Cares;  
And then inspired with Tragic rage  
Return to the forsaken Stage  
And mourn the Faults, and Follies of the Age:   

Methinks the Trumpet 's threatening Sound  
Disturbs our rest with fierce Alarms  
And from the shining Arms  
A dreadful lightning spreads around;  
It darts pale fear through every Eye  
The Horses start, and trembling Riders fly:   

Methinks the Warlike Captains shouts are heard,  
With sordid Dust how Gloriously besmeared!  
In Blood I see the Soldier's roll,  
I see the World obey,  
All yield, and own great Caesar's sway  
beside the stubborn Cato's haughty Soul:   

Juno, and Africk's Guardian Power,  
That left their ruin'd Seats before,  
Unable to revenge their fall;  
Hath now on Rome returned disgrace,  
And offered up the Victor's race  
To great Jugurtha's Ghost, and Hannibal:   

What Land is free, what Plain  
Not Fatt'ned by the Roman Slain?  
What cannot witness by the Graves it shows  
Our Empire's fall, whose Noise is spread  
O'er Persia and the distant Mede  
The Sport and Laughter of our smiling Foes?   

What Lake unstained before  
Not knows our War, and swells with Latian Gore?  
What Sea's not died? on what unhappy Flood  
On what remoter Coast  
Have not our Youth been lost  
Grown Impiously Prodigal of their Blood?   

Enough, my Muse, Complaints forbear,  
With me to shady Grots retire,  
Thy Mourning cease, divert thy Care;  
And there with softer touches move thy Lyre:    

ODE II. The free and generous only are the happy Men.  

DEar Friend whose generous thoughts despise  
The creeping Fears of Avarice,  
How Silver looks, how mean and base,  
How much below the common Brass,  
Unless a Moderate use refine,  
A value give and make it shine?   

Kind Proculeius, just and good,  
In Fame as Noble as in Blood,  
Who with a Father's care did grant  
Supplies and eased his Brother's Want,  
Long long shall live; surviving Fame  
On lasting Wings shall bear his Name.   

That Man a wider Empire gains  
That his own craving wish restrains,  
Than he whose Sword and wide Command,  
Join distant Spain and Libya's Sand,  
Than if they did his Arms obey,  
And either Carthage own his sway:   

The Dropsies still by Drink increase,  
In Rain are all our hopes of ease;  
The Jaws are dry, the Thirst remains  
Until the fatal Humours cease;  
Until the cause of the Disease  
Shall leave the swollen and craving Veins:   

Phraates fixed in Cyrus' Throne,  
Adored like Persia's rising Sun,  
True sense that scorns the People's test  
ne'er ranks amongst the happy Blessed;  
From cheats of Words the Crowd she brings  
To real Estimate of things:   

To him she gives, to him alone  
The Laurel, and the lasting Throne  
Whose Eyes can unconcerned behold.  
The darling heaps of shining Gold;  
Whose mind doth never Wealth pursue,  
Nor turn to take a second view:    

ODE III. He adviseth his Friend Delius to be content, and live merrily.  

AN even mind in every State,  
Amidst the Frowns and Smiles of Fate,  
Dear mortal Delius always show;  
Let not too much of cloudy Fear,  
Nor too intemperate joys appear  
Or to contract, or to extend thy Brow:   

Whether thy dull unhappy Years  
Run slowly clogged with Hopes and Fears,  
And sit too heavy on thy Soul;  
Or whether crowned on Beds of Flowers  
Mirth softly drives thy easy hours  
And cheers thy Spirits with the choicest Bowl:   

Where Poplars white the lofty Pine  
And Myrtles friendly Branches join,  
And hospitable shades compose;  
Where near a purling Spring doth glide  
In winding Streams, and softly chide  
The interrupting Pibble as it flows.   

There bring thy Wine; thy Odours spread,  
Let fading Roses crown thy Head,  
Whilst Wealth, and Age and Life will bear;  
For you must leave your Groves, your House,  
And Farm where yellow Tiber flows;  
And thy heaped Wealth shall fill thy greedy Heir:   

For whether sprung from Royal Blood,  
Or from themeanest of the Crowd;  
'Tis all a Case, for nought can save;  
The Hand of Fate doth strike at all,  
And thou art surely doomed to fall,  
A Sacrifice to the impartial Grave:   

Our Lots are cast, Fate shakes the Urn,  
And each man's Lot must take his turn  
some soon leap out, and some more late:  
But still 'tis sure each Mortals Let  
Will doom his Soul to Charon's Boat,  
To bear th' eternal Banishment of Fate.    

ODE IV. To Xanthias' Phoceus who fell in Love with his Captive.  

DEar Xanthias 'tis a faulty shame,  
Blush not to own a Noble flame  
Raised by thy Captives Charms;  
The fair Brisëis once could move  
Achilles' stubborn Soul to Love,  
And force the haughty Hero to her Arms:   

Tecmessa's Charms subdued her Lord,  
And Conquering Ajax soon adored;  
By fair Cassandra's Eyes  
When Hector fell, and left his Troy  
To weary Greeks an easy Prey,  
Even midst his Triumph great Atrides dies:   

See what a Beauteous Majesty,  
And how commanding is her Eye,  
Her look proclaims her State;  
She Mourns, she Mourns, a Royal Race,  
And Parents equal to her Face,  
And grieves to see so strange a whirl of Fate:   

ne'er think her, Friend, of Common Blood;  
Nor sprung from the dishonest Crowed  
A mind so bravely bold,  
So chaste as to resist the Arts  
That take the mean unguarded Hearts,  
The force of pressing Youth, and Charms of Gold:   

Her Face, her Neck, her Breast and Arms  
I praise not taken with her Charms;  
Suspicious thoughts remove;  
Let almost forty feeble Years  
Secure thy mind from jealous fears,  
And tell that Horace is too old for Love:    

ODE V. To his Friend in Love with a young Girl.  
THy Heifer, Friend, is hardly broke,  
Her neck uneasy to the Yoke;  
She cannot draw the Plough, nor bear  
The weight of the obliging Steer:  
In flowery Meads is her delight,  
Those charm her Taste and please her sight:  
Or else she flies the burning Beams  
To quench her Thirst in cooler Streams;  
Or with the Calves thro' Pastures plays,  
And wantoness all her easy days:  
Forbear, design no hasty Rape  
On such a green, untimely Grape:  
Soon ruddy Autumn will produce  
Plump Clusters, ripe, and fit to use:  
She now that flies, shall then pursue,  
She now that's courted dote on you:  
For Age whirls on, and every year  
It takes from Thee it adds to Her:  
Soon Lalage, shall soon proclaim  
Her love, nor blush to own her Flame:  
Loved more, for she more kindly warms  
Than Phloe coy, or Cloris Charms,  
So pure her Breast, so fair a White  
As in a clear and smiling Night,  
In quiet Floods the Silver Moon  
Or Cretan Gyges' never Shone;  
Who, placed amongst the Maids, defies  
A skilful Stranger's praying Eyes;  
So smooth his doubtful looks appear,  
So loose to Womanish his Hair:   

ODE VI To SEPTIMIUS. He wishes for a quiet retreat in his Old Age.  
SEptimius that wouldst stem the Main,  
And go with me to distant Spain;  
To fierce Cantabrians never broke,  
As yet unlearned to bear our Yoke:  
And Syrteses Sands, where th' Ocean roars,  
And rolling Waves wash swarthy Moors;  
May Tibur's Walls the Tuscan Seat  
Afford my Age a safe retreat,  
Oh! there, now tired with Wars and Seas,  
May I enjoy a happy Ease!  
If Fate denies this small Desire,  
My hasty steps shall soon retire  
Where smooth Galesus cuts his way;  
Around whose Banks, white Fleeces play  
And felt Phalantus easy sway:  
Oh how those little Plains do please,  
how fit for Happiness and Ease!  
Where Honey fills the Combs, and strives  
With fair Hymettus sweetest Hives:  
Where Olives from the fruitful Soil,  
Nor yield to the Venafrian Oil:  
Where Springs are long, and Winter's mild,  
Nor hoary Frost deforms the Field;  
Where Bacchus friendly Mountains spread,  
And Almon rears his fruitful Head;  
Where choicest Grapes in Clusters twine,  
Nor envy the Falernian Vine:  
These happy Seats must us receive,  
There you and I, dear Friend, must live,  
Till Death's approaching hands surprise,  
And close thy Poet Horace Eyes;  
Then you a little Tomb shall rear,  
And cool my Ashes with a Pious tear:   

ODE VII. A Welcome to his Friend Pompey.  

DEar Pompey that hast often tried  
Whilst once we fought on Brutus side  
How near pale Death rough Wars attends;  
What Genius now hath sent Thee home,  
And who restored Thee back to Rome,  
Pompey, the best of all my Friends?   

With whom in Mirth and Wine and Play,  
Whilst sweetest Roses Crowned my Head,  
and did their Fragrant Odours spread;  
I often broke the lingering Day:   

The bloody Wars, Philippy's Field  
Ignobly having lost my Shield,  
With thee I saw, secure from Wound;  
I saw the flight, when haughty Proud  
To Caesar's stronger virtue bowed,  
And basely bit the bloody ground:   

Me Mercury secured from Fears,  
He kindly wrapped me up in Night,  
And saved me from the dangerous fight,  
But Thee the Tide bore back to Wars:   

Now then restored to ease and rest,  
Pay Jove thy thanks and promised Feast,  
Now tired with Wars, from danger free  
Beneath my cool and pleasing shade  
On flowery Beds supinely laid  
Enjoy the Casks designed for Thee:   

See here they stand, these Bowls employ,  
Forgetful Wine profusely pour,  
From largest Shells rich Ointments shower,  
There's no extreme in real joy:   

Who Parsley twines, or Myrtle Boughs  
To grace our Mirth, and shade our Brows?  
Who Crowns prepares for every Guest?  
Whom will the happy Dye design  
The just disposer of the Wine,  
And great Controller of the Feast?   

Let Mirth, and Joy, and Wine attend,  
I must be Mad, I must appear  
As wild as the mad Thracians are;  
'Tis decent at the welcome of a Friend:    

ODE VIII. To his forsworn Mistress.  

BArine did revenge overtake,  
And blast as oft as you deceive;  
Were but one Nail, one Tooth more black,  
Thy Vows I would at last believe:   

But still more fair, more bright thy Face,  
More Crowds of Lovers flock to view,  
As each false Oath procured a grace  
And tempted Thee to prove untrue:   

It profits Thee to be forsworn  
By all that other Mortals fear,  
Th' eternal Gods, thy Mother's Urn,  
By whirling Heaven, and every Star:   

The merry Nymphs approve thy Arts,  
And Venus fair forgives thy Wiles,  
And Cupid, sharpening flaming Darts  
On bloody Whetstones, gently smiles:   

Besides new Slaves still flock to Thee,  
And happy He that takes the Chain;  
And those that threaten to be free  
Forgive the jilt, and serve again:   

Thee still the thrifty Father fears,  
And Mothers for their wanton Boys.  
New Brides lest you detain their Dears,  
And rob them of their promised joys:    

ODE IX. He adviseth his Friend to grieve no more for dead Mists.  

NOt always Snow and Hail and Rain  
Descend, and beat the fruitful Plain;  
Not ruffling Storms still toss the Caspian Floods:  
Not every Month doth lazy Frost  
Bind up the Armenian Coast  
Nor furious Storms still vex the groaning Woods:   

Called forth by Spring's enlivening Breez  
The Leaves return to naked Trees;  
But you, dear Friend, still mourn in Weeping strains  
Lost Mystis; when Noon burns the Skies  
When night comes on, or when it flies  
No change appears, Thy love and Grief remains:   

Yet Aged Nestor dried his Tears,  
His Grief was shorter than his Years;  
Nor did he still his dying Son bewail:  
His Sisters, and the Trojan Train,  
And Priam wept, but smiled again,  
Nor always mourned young Troilus hasty fall.   

Thy soft Complaints at last forbear,  
Let Mirth succeed, and Smiles appear  
Let's sing, and Caesar be our lofty Theme;  
How rough Niphates Hills obey,  
And Tigris bound by Caesar's sway  
Less furious grows, and rolls a milder stream:   

The Scythians now with broken Bows  
Confined to their own Frost and Snows  
Have cooled the raging fury of their Pride;  
In narrow bounds with nimble force  
They ride their fierce impetuous Horse,  
And view with longing Eyes the Roman side.    

ODE X. A middle Estate of Life is the best.  

WIse they, that with a cautious fear  
Not always thro' the Ocean Steer,  
Nor, whilst they think the Winds will roar,  
Do thrust too near the rocky Shore:  
To those that choose the golden Mean:  
The Waves are smooth, the Skies serene;  
They want the baseness of the Poors retreat,  
And envied Houses of the Great:  
Storms often vex the lofty Oak,  
High Mountains seel the Thunder's stroke;  
And lofty Towers, when Storms prevail,  
Are ruined with a greater fall:  
A Breast prepared in either State  
Or sears or hopes a change of Fate;  
'Tis Jove the same that Winter brings  
And melts the Frost by pleasing Springs:  
Tho Fortune now contracts her Brow,  
And frowns; yet 'twill not still be so:  
Apollo sometimes Mirth pursues  
His Harp awakes his sleepy Muse,  
Nor always bends his threatening Bow:  
When Fortune sends a Stormy Wind  
Then show a brave and present Mind,  
And when with too indulgent Gales  
She swells too much, then furl thy Sails.    

ODE XI. He adviseth his Friend to live Merrily.  

WHat fierce Cantabrians, what the Scythians dare,  
Make, Friend, no object of thy care;  
Whilst raging Floods, and Adria's Tide  
Confine their force, and arms divide,  
Secure we laugh at all the threats of War:   

Let no concern, no cares for Life approach,  
It lasts not long, and asks not much;  
But see our years do swiftly move,  
Our Nimble Youth and Beauty fades,  
Dry Age with Cares will crowd our Heads:  
And leave no room for easy Rest and Love:   

Spring Flowers not always equal Beauties wear,  
Nor Moons with equal Beams appear  
As when at full they brightly shined;  
Then why should you disturb your Mind  
So much too narrow for eternal Care?   

Why underneath a pleasing Myrtle shade  
On flowery Banks supinely laid,  
Are we so slow to speed a Day;  
And whilst grey Hairs are crowned with Rose,  
Or odorous Oil our Heads overflows  
Drink all our Troubles and our Cares away?   

Brisk Bacchus soon will sordid Cares refine,  
And make dull Melancholy shine;  
What Boy waits there, what Boy to bring  
Some cooler Streams from yonder Spring  
To quench the fury of my flaming Wine?   

What ready Servant waits to call my Miss,  
And who coy Lyde will entice?  
Bid Lyde come, we are in haste;  
Bid Lyde come, her harp prepare,  
Like Spartans' loosely bind her hair;  
For Love may Ebb, and then her time is past.    

ODE XII. To MAECENAS. Wars and Battles are not a Subject fit for his Muse, but Love and Lycimnia he can Sing.  

THe stout Numantines' lingering fall,  
The Romans Scourge dire Hannibal,  
No more, my Learned Lord, require,  
No more the rough Sicilian Flood  
Died deep with Carthaginian Blood,  
To fit to the soft Measures of the Lyre:   

Nor Centaurs eager to engage,  
Nor fierce Hylaeus Drunken rage,  
Nor Giants tamed by Hercules  
Who dared to reach old Saturn's Crown,  
Who dared to storm his shining Throne  
And break the quiet of eternal Ease:   

And you, my Lord, with equal flights  
Great Caesar's Wars, and conquering Fights  
Shall better tell in lasting Prose;  
And how in Triumph Caesar led  
The Persian and the haughty Mede,  
And scattered Slavery midst his threatening Foes:   

My Muse bids me employ my Verse,  
And soft Lycymnia's Songs rehearse;  
She bids me all her Charms improve,  
Her taking Air, her shining Eyes,  
By Nature fitted to surprise;  
And mind still faithful to thy mutual Love:   

Lycimnia fair, the Pride of Rome,  
How well her Charms and Arts become!  
How movingly her Beauty pleads,  
When toying she and richly dressed  
At Great Diana's solemn Feast,  
Begins the Dance, and leads the Beauteous Maids?   

For what Achemenes possessed,  
And for the Wealth of all the East,  
you'd you, my Lord, exchange your Fair?  
you'd you, my Lord, for all the Gold  
The stuffed Arabians houses hold  
Exchange one braid of sweet Lycimnia's hair?   

When e'er her head she gently moves,  
To take the earnest of her Loves  
A blamy Kiss; or else denies  
With easy forwardness, which shows  
That She is more content to lose  
Than He that begs to win the Prize;  
Or when She runs to snatch an eager Kiss.    

ODE XIII. Upon a Tree that was like to fall upon him as he was walking in his Field.  
A Fatal Star did then command  
The Skies, and guide his impious hand  
Who planted Thee, to the disgrace  
Of's Farm, and ruin of his Race:  
'Tis certain He his Father killed,  
He slew, and fed upon his Child,  
He Stabbed his Friend before his God  
And Stained the Image with his Blood:  
To him Medea's Arts were known,  
The whole World's Sins he made his own,  
Who first disgraced my Field with Thee,  
Thou impious Stock, thou cursed Tree,  
Thou cursed Tree whose hasty fall  
Designed thy Master's Funeral:  
What each should fly is seldom known,  
We unprovided are undone:  
The Waves that foam round Thracian Shores  
Are dreaded by the swarthy Moors,  
They think cold Death doth use to trace  
The Snow and Frozen Hills of Thrace,  
Nor fear it from a warmer place:  
The Roman dreads the Darts, the Force,  
And Conquering flights of Parthian Horse:  
The Roman Chains the Parthian fears,  
Their steady Troops, and weighty Spears:  
Yet Death when Armed with a Disease  
From other Parts will rudely seize,  
She comes unlooked for, sweeps away  
Unthinking Nations in a Day,  
And huddles up her easy Prey:  
How near had I, how nearly seen  
The Kingdom of the swarthy Queen?  
Judge Aeacus, the storied Grove,  
The seat of Piety and Love:  
And Sapph who in humble strains  
Of her base Countrymen complains,  
In sweetest tunes proclaims her Love,  
But mourns at her reproach above:  
Alcaeus too whose golden strings  
With manlier strokes sound greater things;  
He tells the dangers and the fears  
Of Flights, of Sailing, and of Wars:  
With silent rever'nce Ghosts admire  
The wondrous fury of his Lyre:  
The Vulgar Shades throng most to hear  
Of Kings deposed, of feats of War,  
And Drink them with a greedy Ear:  
No wonder this, Hell's furious Guard  
With silent wonder stood and heard;  
His Ears lay down, and, whilst he played,  
A hollow Grin his joy betrayed:  
No Hiss was heard, the Furies Snakes  
Lay hushed, and quiet on their necks:  
Delight did torn Prometheus seize,  
The sound deceived him into ease;  
And Tantalus felt soft repose,  
Unheeded now the bending Boughs  
Hang o'er his Lips and Water flows:  
Nor did the fierce Orion care  
To hunt his Lion, or his flying Bear.   

ODE XIV. Life is short, and Death unavoidable.  

THe whirling year, Ah Friend! the whirling year Rolls on apace;  
And soon shall wrinkles plough thy withered Face:  
In vain you wast your Pious breath,  
No prayers can stay, no vows defer  
The swift approach of Age, and conquering Death:   

No, though ten thousand Oxen stained his Shrines With sacred Blood,  
Shouldst thou appease the inexorable God:  
He opens, and he shuts the Grave;  
Geryon's triple Soul confines,  
And stubborn Gyges with the Stygian Wave:   

That fatal Wave that must be passed by all, The Rich, the Poor  
Are doomed alike to view the Stygian Shore;  
The Knaves and Fools, the Wise and Just,  
The Kings as well as Clowns must fall;  
And undistinguished lie with meaner dust:   

In vain we all retreat from dangerous War, And live in ease;  
In vain we eat the rage of angry Seas:  
The burning Fevers Autumn brings  
In vain we fly, and idly fear  
The Plagues that South-winds bear on sickly Wings:   

For all the Stygian Waves are doomed to pass, We all must go  
And view Cocytus' wand'ring Streams below:  
We all must see the lasting Chains  
That hold cursed Danaus his Race,  
And Sisyphus condemned to endless pains:   

Thy Children must be left, thy Lands and House, Thy pleasing Wife,  
That happy Comfort and Delight of Life;  
Of all the Trees thy hands restored  
None but the Cypress hated Boughs  
Shall follow their short-lived decaying Lord:   

The Wines you keep so close thy worthier Heir shall soon possess,  
And waste midst wanton Luxury and Ease;  
Much nobler Wine the squandring Youth  
Shall spill and costlier Feasts prepare,  
Than ever pleased a Pampered Abbot's Tooth.    

ODE XV. On the Luxury of the Age.  

OUr Squares still rise, our fields decrease,  
And now the Ploughs must rust in ease;  
New Motes are dug, large Ponds we make  
That Rival even the Lucrine Lake:  
Round lofty Sirs weak Ivy twines,  
Unmarried Plains profusely spread  
A useless melancholy Shade  
O'er larger Fields than married Elms and Vines:   

Our Beds of Roses, Myrtle Bowers  
And all the Luxury of Flowers  
Their fruitless Shades and Smells afford:  
They now those fruitful grounds possess  
Where Olives rose with vast Increase,  
And with great Bounty fed the former Lord:   

Thick Laurels placed by purling Streams  
Shut out the Mid-days burning Beams  
And give us shade to drink and play;  
Was this by Romulus allowed?  
Was this the way our Fathers showed  
To rise to Empire, and extend our sway?   

No, than each single Man's Estate  
Was small, the Public Stock was great,  
The Publick-Weal employed their Care;  
No private Man profusely Skilled  
Did then his large Piazza's build  
To take cool Breezes of the Northern Air:   

The little Hut their Father's House  
The Laws forbade them to refuse,  
But live content in mean Abodes;  
Enjoining all their Shrines and Towns  
To build with new and costly Stones,  
To grace their Country, and to please their Gods.    

ODE XVI. The contented Man the most happy.  

FOr ease the Seaman asks the Gods  
When tossed in the Egaean Floods;  
When darkness spreads to heighten fears,  
And not one friendly Star appears:   

For ease the Warlike Thracians plead,  
The Persian and the quivered Mede;  
For ease too precious to be sold  
For costly Gems, or bought with Gold:   

For neither Power nor Wealth control  
The sad disorders of the Soul,  
Nor yet remove the Cares that wait  
About the Palace of the Great:   

Blessed he with little, on whose thrifty Board  
That Salt still shines that called his Father Lord,  
No vexing fears his Breast can seize,  
No sordid Lust will break his ease:   

Why these extended Cares, and Strife,  
And trouble for so short a Life?  
Why do we ply our Sails and Oars,  
And fond visit foreign Shores?  
Can he that flies his Country find  
That he can leave himself behind?   

" For baneful Care will still prevail,  
" And overtake us under sail;  
It dog's the Horseman close behind,  
More swift than Roes, or Stormy Wind:   

A man contented with his present doom  
Hates to look on for what's to come;  
With mirth he sweetens bitter Fate;  
There is no perfect happy State:   

The stout Achilles died in haste,  
Long Age did old Tithonus waste;  
Those years swift time denies to Thee  
Perhaps his hand shall reach to me:   

Round Thee ten thousand Heifers low,  
Stout Oxen bend beneath thy Blow;  
In his gilt Coach neigh generous Mares,  
The Purple dies what e'er he wears.   

A Farm as large as my desire  
With some few heats of Lyric fire  
On me hath stubborn Fate bestowed,  
With Pride enough to Scorn the Crowd:    

ODE XVII. To MAECENAS. He is resolved not to survive him, and congratulates his Recovery.  

Why am I killed with thy Complaint?  
'Tis more than any God will grant,  
'Tis more, my Lord, than I can bear;  
That you on whom my hopes rely,  
That you my great support should die,  
And leave thy Melancholy Horace here:   

Did you my better half decay  
For what should I, the other, stay?  
What comfort could compose my Mind  
When neither whole, nor yet so dear  
I should be doomed to linger here,  
And feel my worse part still left behind?   

The same black Day shall seize on both,  
It is a fixed, and Solemn Oath,  
we'll go, I've Sworn, We both will go;  
Tho you may first begin the Race,  
I'll follow with a nimble pace,  
And join you e'er you reach the Waves below:   

Did fierce Chimaera dart her fire,  
To make my frighted Soul retire,  
Yet still I would attend you State;  
Tho hundred handed Gyas Rose,  
In vain should all his strength oppose,  
For Justice bids, and 'tis approved by Fate:   

What ever Star did at my Birth prevail,  
Whether my Fate was weighed in Libra's Scale,  
Or Fatal Scorpio's Beams did shine;  
Or Capricorn's disturbing Rays  
Those Tyrants of the Western Seas,  
'Tis Strange how much your Stars consent with mine:   

From Saturn's fatal influence  
Jove's milder Rays were your defence,  
He clogged the Wings of hasty Death;  
When thrice with an auspicious voice  
The States of Rome proclaimed their joys,  
And with their own supplied their fading Breath:   

My Head had felt a falling Oak,  
But Faunus did divert the stroke;  
Faunus, the Wit's kind guardian God,  
The Shrine you vowed the Gods prepare,  
Let offered Bulls reward their Care:  
For me a Lamb shall shed his meaner Blood.    

ODE XVIII. Against Covetousness.  
NOr Ivory, nor Indian Stuff,  
Nor Gold adorns my gaudy Roof;  
No Cedar Beams press costly Stone  
From Quarries of the torrid Zone,  
Where burning Rays the Marble mould,  
And join the Mass with flowing Gold:  
Nor yet have I an Heir unknown  
ere seized on Attalus his Throne;  
No honest Clients hang my Rooms  
With Purple stretched on Tyrian Looms:  
But yet I make a fair pretence  
To Honesty and Innocence,  
And store of Wit, and these complete,  
And make me sought to by the great:  
This is my Wealth, This all my Store,  
Content I ask the Gods no more;  
Nor my great Friends: O bounteous Fate,  
How happy in my mean Estate!  
Days push on Days with equal pace,  
New Moons still hast to the decrease,  
But you even whilst the Bell doth toll,  
And sadly warn thy flying Soul  
Rich Stones provide, large Piles you rear,  
Unmindful of your Sepulchre:  
Thy Moles, and thy encroaching Mounds  
Remove thy floods to straighter bounds,  
For greedy you would seem but poor  
Confined by Nature's narrow Shore:  
Nay more you leap the Sacred bounds  
And seize your meaner Clients Grounds;  
No Fence too high, no Ditch too deep  
For Wealthy Injury to leap:  
Expelled by greedy Avarice  
The Wife with her dear Husband flies,  
With all her Gods, (too weak defence  
For Poor and injured Innocence,  
They suffer in the common harms)  
And sordid Infants in her Arms:  
Yet after all this toil and heat,  
This Fraud and Treachery to be great,  
The last retreat the Rich must have,  
The last and surest, is the Grave:  
What wouldst thou more? to Swains and Lords  
An equal Room just Earth affords,  
Nor does she take a Prince's Bones  
With greater reverence than a Clowns:  
ne'er surly Charon bribed with Gold  
Brings back the Cunning or the Bold;  
Nor will He waft Prometheus o'er  
And land him on the living Shore:  
Proud Tantalus and all his Line,  
Tho Kings, His lasting Chains confine;  
And whether we his aid Implore  
Or not, He's ready still to ease the Poor,  
Free him from want, and place him on the happy Shore:   

ODE XIX. In praise of Bacchus.  

BOrn out by an unusual rage  
I saw (believe it future Age)  
Where Bacchus taught the Nymphs a Song,  
In distant Vales; from every Wood  
With prickt-up Ears the Satyrs stood,  
And smiling Fauns composed a listening throng:   

Evae! new fear disturbs my Soul,  
With troubled joy my Passions roll  
Whilst full of the impetuous God:  
Evae! spare, mighty Liber, spare,  
Urge not the violent rage too far:  
Spare, Liber, dreadful with thy angry Rod:   

Now boldly I can speak thy Praise,  
Rehearse the stubborn Thyades,  
Too fierce to bear the easy Yoke:  
Thy streams of Wine, thy milky Spring,  
And in repeated Numbers Sing  
Distilling Honey from the melting Oak:   

Thy happy Bride's refulgent Hairs,  
That grace the Skies with brighter Stars;  
What Fate the Impious Theban struck,  
How Aunt and Mother strangely tore  
The trampling Wolf, and rooting Boar;  
And fierce Lycurgus falling by his hook:   

Indus and Ganges own thy sway,  
And Thee the barbarous Seas obey,  
You flushed o'er craggy Mountains lead,  
O'er Hills and Dales, o'er Springs and Lakes  
The Thracian Rout, whilst harmless Snakes  
In innocent folds twine round each drunken Head.   

When impious Giants climbed on high,  
And dared to storm thy Father's Sky;  
Thy single hand secured his Crown:  
You with a Lion's dreadful Jaws  
And frightful Nails retrieved the Cause,  
Bold Rhetus quelled and saved the falling Throne:   

Tho much more used to soft delight,  
Unfit, unable for a fight  
You once were thought, and doomed to ease:  
Yet when your Heat and Virtue rose,  
What fury seized your haughty Foes?  
How equally inclined to Wars and Peace?   

When beauteous with your gaudy horn  
You did from Hell's black Shades return,  
Thee Cerberus saw, and showed the Way;  
He wagged his Tail, grew wondrous kind,  
He licked thy Feet, he fawned and whined;  
Nor did one grin an impious rage betray:    

ODE XX. He promiseth himself immortal Fame.  

NO weak, no common Wing shall bear  
My rising Body thro' the Air;  
Now changed I upward go;  
I'll grovel here on Earth no more,  
More high than Envy's self can soar,  
I leave Mortality and things below:   

Not Me, not Me, the meanly Born,  
Whom the proud Fools and haughty scorn,  
Not Me shall Death control:  
Not I, whom you I know not what,  
Maecenas, call, will yield to Fate:  
Nor shall the Stygian Waves confine my Soul:   

Rough Skin o'er both my Legs is spread,  
And shining Feathers Crown my Head;  
Above I'm turned a Swan:  
O'er both my Hands light Plumes do spring,  
My Arm is changed into a Wing,  
And now I move with greater speed than Man:   

On stronger, and on swifter Wing,  
Than Icarus fled, I rise and Sing:  
A sounding Bird I soar,  
I'll see the distant Northern Pole  
I'll see the Southern Billows roll,  
And spread my Wings o'er Bosphorus groaning Shore.   

My Songs shall to the Colchian Ears,  
And German that conceals his fears  
Of Roman Troops be known:  
The Moors, and in my numerous Verse  
The Scythians Skilled shall Songs rehearse:  
The Spaniard too, and He that drinks the Rhone.   

Mourn not, no friendly drops must fall,  
No sighs attend my Funeral,  
Those Common Deaths may crave:  
Let no disgraceful Grief appear,  
Nor damp my Glory with a Tear:  
And spare the useless Honours of a Grave.    
The End of the Second Book.   

HORACE'S ODES.  
Book the Third.  

ODE I. Not Wealth or Honour, but Peace and Quietness makes a happy Life.  

Begun, begon, I hate ye all  
Both you great Vulgar, and you small;  
Nor Mysteries, Profane, behold:  
To Boys and Maids unstained with Crimes  
The Muse's Priest in Sacred Rhimes  
Doth unknown Songs, and wondrous Truths unfold:   

The awful Kings o'er Nations sway,  
Their Subjects tremble and obey;  
The Kings themselves are ruled by Jove,  
Who broke the Giant's Pride, and won  
Eternal safety to his Throne  
And by his powerful Nod doth all things move:   

One man doth larger Fields possess,  
One stands more fair for Offices,  
The drudging Darling of the Crowd  
Whilst One his Manners, or his Friends,  
Or his Obsequious Train commends,  
And One in Fame is greater, or in Blood:   

Yet equal Death doth strike at all,  
The haughty Great, and humble Small,  
She strikes with an impartial Hand;  
She shakes the vast capacious Urn,  
And each Man's Lot must take his turn;  
Thro every glass she presses equal Sand:   

Whilst Swords hung o'er proud Damocles,  
Not all the Tyrant's sweets could please:  
Not Music's Airs could calm his Breast:  
The black remembrance of his faults  
Still crowding back upon his thoughts,  
Disturbed and robbed his troubled Soul of rest.   

But humble quiet ne'er flies o'er  
The lowly Cottage of the Poor:  
The pleasing Shade and purling Streams  
She loves to haunt, she loves the Plains,  
And cheers the Ploughman loosed from Pains  
With still Security, and easy Dreams:   

He that desires but what's enough  
Against the force of Fate is proof:  
Unstained He lives, and pure from Sin:  
Let violent Tempests break the Woods,  
And angry Whirlwinds toss the Floods;  
He still hath Quiet, and a Calm within.   

Let Hail his ripening Olives beat,  
Or let them shrink with too much heat,  
His barren Field deceive his hopes;  
Or let his naked Trees complain  
Of too much Drought, or too much Rain;  
Or Frost untimely nip his rising Crops:   

Now still our stately Squares increase,  
The Fish will find their Ocean less;  
The Moles thrown in extend the Shoar;  
The Lord grown weary of the Land  
Now builds upon the Ocean's Sand;  
And scorns the Bounds that Nature fixed before.   

But Fear, and Melancholy Cares attend,  
And where the Master climbs, ascend;  
They soon o'ertake his flying Mind:  
Born on by the same nimble gales  
They press the Poop where ere He sails,  
And when he rides black Care sits close behind.   

Well then, since neither Gold, nor Gain,  
Can quiet bring or fears restrain;  
Since Purple bright as shining Stars  
Can ne'er dispel our Cloudy Cares;  
Since all the Spices of the East   

Can never calm our troubled Breast,  
Why should I madly toil to raise  
On envied Pillars Palaces?  
Why spend my time, and waste my health?  
Why should I strive to change my Field,  
And those delights my Farm can yield,  
For larger Lands, and more disturbing Wealth?    

ODE II. Youth must be bred in Wars and Want, and taught to be Religious.  

LEt vigorous Boys be trained to bear  
The straits of Poverty in War;  
Be hardly bred, improve thy Force,  
And bravely gall the Parthian Horse;  
And let the Persians tremble at his Spear:   

And let him live, and lie abroad  
Midst Dangers, Slaughters, Fears, and Blood;  
Be tossed with all the Storms of Fate,  
And hardened up to prop the State;  
His Country save, and rise into a God:   

Him from their Walls, when fierce in War,  
Let Tyrant's Mothers view, and fear;  
And let their Brides despairing sigh  
Ah may not my unskilful Spouse  
That furious Lion madly rouse,  
How fierce He drives, and how our Armies fly!   

He nobly Bleeds, he bravely Dies  
That falls his Country's Sacrifice;  
The flying Youth swift Fate o'er takes  
It strikes them thro' the trembling backs,  
And runs too fast for nimble Cowardice.   

Virtue, unlearned to bear the base  
And shameful baffle of disgrace,  
Nor takes, nor quits the tottering Throne,  
As fickle Crowds shall smile or frown;  
Nor from their wavering Breath receives the place:   

True Virtue that unbarrs the Sky  
To those that are too brave to Die,  
Thro wondrous ways doth upward go,  
Scorns the base Earth and Crowd below;  
And with a soaring Wing still mounts on high:   

And just Rewards the God's decree  
For fair, obedient Piety;  
Not He that scorns or scoffs His God,  
Or blabs his Mysteries abroad,  
Shall live in the same House, or sail with me:   

Oft Jove doth heedless Thunder throw,  
And mix the Good and Bad below:  
But lame Revenge still stalks behind,  
Does slowly dodg the guilty mind,  
And only stays to take the surer blow:    

ODE IV. To the Muses acknowledging their Power and Kindness.  

DEscend, my Muse, compose a long  
A pleasing and a grateful Song,  
Or to the Pipe or sounding Flute,  
Or gently move Apollo's Lute:  
D'ye hear? or airy frenzy cheat  
My mind, well pleased with the deceit?  
I seem to hear, I seem to move  
And wander thro' the happy Grove  
Where smooth Springs flow, and murmuring Breeze  
Does wanton thro' the waving Trees:  
In lofty Vultur's rising grounds  
Without my Nurse Apulia's bounds  
When young, and tired with sport and play,  
And bound with pleasing sleep I lay,  
Doves covered me with myrtle boughs  
And with soft murmurs sweetened my repose:  
A wonder this, and strange to all  
That lived in fat Ferenti's Vale;  
High Acherontia, Bantine groves  
Admired the kindness of the Doves:  
'Twas strange that I midst Thorny Brakes,  
Secure from Bears and creeping Snakes  
Should lie so long; that Doves should spread  
The Sacred Laurel round my Head,  
And I a Child not fear the Woods  
The Care and Darling of the Gods:  
Yours, Muses, yours, I live your Care  
On Sabine Hills, or cold Praeneste's Air:  
Or whether watery Baiae please,  
Or wanton Tibur lulls me into ease:  
Because your Springs, your Sport, and Grove  
Are all the objects of my Love;  
When Brutus lost Philippi's Field,  
I safely fled, and scorned my Shield,  
'Twas Sin to guard or to defend  
By mortal Arms the Muse's Friend:  
By you the proud Sicilian Rock  
I braved, and scap't the cursed Oak:  
Whilst you my feeble Ship shall guide,  
I'll singly stem the proudest Tide;  
I'll travel thro' the farthest East,  
Where never Mortal foot hath pressed;  
Britan's Inhospitable Flood  
And Thracians pleased with Horse's Blood,  
On Scythian Sands I'll boldly tread,  
And stoutly see the quivered Mede:  
When Caesar, great as all our Hopes,  
In Towns hath hid his weary Troops,  
You cheer his Soul, you soften Cares,  
And ease the harsh fatigue of Wars:  
You, Kind, instruct him how to live,  
Give good advice, and joy to give:  
We know, we know how mighty Jove  
(Whose guiding Nod rules all above,  
Who governs with an equal hand  
The raging Sea, and quiet Land;  
Whose easy and Almighty sway  
The Gods, and Ghosts, and all obey;)  
With Thunder struck bold Titans down,  
And beat their fury from his Throne;  
We know how impious Giants fell  
From climbing Heaven to deepest Hell:  
That horrid Troop, those impious Bands,  
Relying on their numerous hands,  
Whilst they on Mountains climbed on high  
Spread no small terror thro' the Sky;  
And shady Pelion, raised above  
The high Olympus, frighted Jove:  
But how could Brawny Mimas rise,  
How large Porphyrion's frightful size  
Against the Thunder of the Skies?  
How bold Typhaeus aim a stroke,  
How impious Encel dart his Oak?  
Too weak their force, and soon repelled  
By Virgin Pallas sounding Shield:  
Here Vulcan fought, a greedy God,  
On that side Matron Juno stood;  
And Phoebus there, a dreadful Foe  
Still armed with an unerring Bow:  
Who loves to haunt the Lycian Woods,  
And in the pure Castalian Floods  
Wash his loose locks; who Songs inspires,  
And fills his Priests with pleasing fires,  
On Patara and Delos Fame  
Bestows, and takes from both a Name.   

Rash force by its own weight must fall,  
But Pious strength will still prevail;  
For such the Gods assist, and bless,  
But hate a mighty Wickedness.  
Proud Gyges proves this fatal truth,  
And hot Orion's lawless youth,  
Even Virgin Pallas scarce could scape  
The Lustful fury of a Rape;  
Till her Bow reached him, whilst He strove,  
With fiercer Darts than those of Love:  
The Earth on her own Monster thrown  
Now mourns the ruin of her Son,  
She grieves that her proud Children fell  
By Thunder struck to deepest Hell:  
Nor do hot Aetna's flames decay,  
Yet cannot eat the load away:  
Hot Tytius' Liver, Praetors tear,  
They watch as soon as parts appear,  
And seize them straight; the Doom was just,  
He punished in the seat of Lust;  
Wrath waits on Sin, three hundred Chains  
Pirithous bind in endless pains.    

ODE V. To AUGUSTUS. Praising him for enlarging their Empire, and discommending Crassus 's Soldiers which draws on the Story of Regulus.  
HIs Thundering proves that mighty Jove  
With wondrous Force rules all above,  
And now as mighty Actions show  
That Caesar is a God below;  
O'er British Shores our Empires spread,  
Our Arms have reached the haughty Mede:  
Could Crassus Soldiers lead their lives,  
So meanly yoked to barbarous Wives?  
Could they grow old (degenerate race,  
Inverted Souls, and Rome's disgrace?)  
In Hostile Arms, the Mede obey  
And fight for a Barbarians pay?  
Forget their Rites, their Name, and Blood,  
Whilst Jove was safe, and Rome yet stood!  
Wise Regulus did this prevent,  
He scorned base Terms that Carthage sent,  
Nor would he e'er by his advice  
Tempt future Age to Cowardice:  
He knew that Virtue's Crowns would fade  
Unless the Captive Youth were made  
Unpitied Preys to barbarous Foes,  
And bore the Slavery they chose.  
I saw, said He, our Eagles shine  
And basely fill a Punic shrine,  
With hanging Wings our fears upbraid  
By which they were so soon betrayed:  
I saw how Coward Armies stood,  
And yield without a drop of Blood;  
I saw when they their Arms resigned,  
Their Slavish Hands drawn back behind,  
I saw our Freemen bound led home,  
Bound Conquered Citizens of Rome!  
Their Gates unbar'd, they ploughed the soil  
Which Roman Troops did lately spoil:  
Redeemed perhaps more free from fear  
More fierce they shall return to War,  
More bold, more careful of their Fame;  
You add new losses to your shame:  
Wool once infected with a stain  
ne'er takes its Native white again:  
And when true Virtue falls, it lies,  
Pressed down, and never cares to rise:  
If trembling Does when freed from Snares  
Will fight, then He'll forget his fears  
Then He'll be stout who basely chose  
To trust the Treachery of his Foes:  
He, He no doubt, will brave appear,  
And beat them in another War,  
Whose Arms could tamely bear the Cords  
And Whips of domineering Lords,  
Who sold his precious Liberty  
For meaner Life, and feared to Die:  
Resolved for Life He did not know  
To which he should his safety owe  
His Roman Courage or his Fear,  
And mixed dishonest Peace and War;  
Oh shame! Great Carthage! raised more high  
On the Disgrace of Italy!  
His Wives chaste Kiss, his prattling Boys  
The former Partners of his joys,  
Now grown a Slave, thrown down by Fate,  
And lessened from his former State  
He shunned; with manly modesty  
On Earth he cast his stubborn Eye  
Whilst thus by strange advice He fought,  
And fixed the wavering Senate's Vote;  
Then thro' his weeping Friends He ran  
In haste, a glorious banished man:  
What Cords and Wheels, what Racks, and Chains,  
What lingering Tortures for his Pains  
The Barbarous Hangmen made, He knew;  
And heightening Fame told more than true:  
Yet He his Wife and Boys removed,  
His hindering Friends, and all he loved,  
And thro' the Crowed he made his way  
That wept, and begged a longer stay;  
As free as if when Term was done,  
And Suits at end, He left the Town,  
From Business and from Cares retreat  
To the cool pleasures of a Country Seat.   

ODE VII. To ASTERIA. He tells her that her absent Husband is Constant, and adviseth her to have a care of her soliciting Neighbour.  

ANd why does fair Asteria mourn?  
And why despair of his return?  
The first Spring Winds shall thy Dear Love restore,  
Soft Gales shall waft the charming Youth  
Of constant and unshaken truth  
With Wealthy lading to the Roman Shore:   

He's driven to a distant Coast,  
Whilst Winter binds the Floods with Frost;  
Sleep grows a Stranger to his Eyes:  
He mourns in melancholy Creeks,  
Whilst falling Tears freeze on his Cheeks,  
And lengthens out the lingering Night with sighs:   

Whilst some from Chiloë strive to move  
And draw him to another Love;  
They tell the fury of her Flame;  
They tell how melted in thy Fires  
The miserable Maid expires,  
And use all Arts that Treacherous Wit can frame:   

They tell how Phaedra's treacherous Tears  
Did urge believing Proetus Fears,  
And with what Lustful heat she strove;  
What Crimes she feigned to hasten on  
The Death of chaste Bellerophon,  
And take sharp vengeance for her slighted Love:   

How near chaste Peleus reached his Fate  
And felt the force of Woman's hate,  
Whilst from Hippolyte He fled;  
A Thousand tales, those Bawds to Vice  
They still force on him, to entice  
Or fright him to despairing Chloes Bed:   

In vain, in vain, He hears no more  
Than Rocks when Winds and Waters roar;  
Nor owns the Conquest of her Eyes:  
But, fair, take heed, and guard your Heart,  
And let not fond Eunipe's Art  
Steal in, and your unguarded Soul surprise.   

Tho none with equal manly force  
In Mars his Field can guide his Horse,  
Tho none appears so brave in Arms;  
Tho none with equal Art divides  
The headlong force of Tiber's Tides,  
Yet scorn the winning beauty of his Charms:   

Shut all your doors at Evening's shade,  
Nor when you hear a Serenade  
Look down with a regarding Eye:  
Although he vows, and mourns his pains,  
And calls Thee cruel, and complains;  
Be cruel Still, and more and more deny.    

ODE VIII. To MAECENAS. Whom He invites to an Entertainment which He made for joy of his deliverance from the falling Tree.  

What I, a Bachelor, intent  
My learned Lord, and noble Friend,  
In Mars his Calends you admire;  
What mean those Flowers that Crown my Head,  
The Coals on green-turf Altars laid  
Where in small Censures thankful sweets expire:   

To Bacchus' pleasing Feasts I vowed,  
And a White Goat's atoning Blood,  
When I had 'scaped the falling Oak:  
This day, as years run round, a Feast,  
Shall pierce my Casks; and claim the best,  
That long stored up hath drank digesting Smoke:   

Drink, drink, let numerous Cups extend  
The Life of thy delivered Friend,  
Cups large as thy extensive joys:  
Let watching Tapers chase the Night,  
Till rising Morn restore the light;  
Let mirth attend, and banish Strife and Noise.   

Forget, forget thy public Cares,  
And take no thought for state Affairs,  
We hear the Germane Troops o'er thrown;  
The Medes now hate their Former Lords,  
They fight, nor yet expect our Swords;  
But sadly conquer for us with their own:   

Our ancient Foe the Pride of Spain  
The fierce Cantabrian takes the Chain,  
Tho late, at last He's forced to yield:  
The Parthians fly, the Scythians now  
Their Arrows break, unstring their Bow,  
And are resolved to quit the fatal Field:   

Neglect the various turns of State,  
The sports of Chance, or nods of Fate,  
Grown private watch not o'er Affairs;  
But smile, and eagerly receive  
The Goods the present time can give;  
And leave behind the Grave Fatigue of Cares.    

ODE IX. A Dialogue between Horace and Lydia.  

WHilst I was welcome to your Heart,  
In which no happier Youth had part,  
And full of more prevailing Charms  
Threw round your neck his dearer Arms;  
I flourished richer, and more blest  
Than the great Monarch of the East.   

Lydia.  
Whilst all thy Soul with me was filled,  
Nor Lydia did to Chloe yield,  
Lydia the celebrated Name,  
The only Theme of Verse and Fame,  
I flourished more than she renowned  
Whose Godlike Son our Rome did found:   

Horace.  
Me Chloe now, whom every Muse  
And every Grace adorn, subdues;  
For whom I'd gladly die to save  
Her dearer Beauties from the Grave:   

Lydia.  
Me lovely Calais doth fire  
With mutual flames of fierce desire,  
For whom I twice would die to save  
His Youth more precious from the Grave:   

Horace.  
What if our former Love's return  
And our first fires again should burn,  
If Chloes banished to make way  
For the forsaken Lydia?   

Lydia.  
Tho He is shining as a Star,  
Constant, and Kind as he is Fair;  
Though light as Cork, rough as the Sea,  
Yet I would Live, would Die with Thee   
Duke.   

ODE X. He tells Lyde that perhaps He shall not always be able to endure her Scorn.  

DId Lyde Drink cold Tanais Flood,  
A Scythians Bride that fed on Blood;  
Yet would you grieve to see the Kind,  
The constant Horace grasp the Floor,  
Extended by thy cruel Door,  
Exposed tothth' fury of the Native Wind.   

Dost hear what Tempests beat thy Gate?  
How all rush on as armed with Fate?  
And how thy pleasing Groves are tossed?  
With what severe and piercing light  
The Moon and Stars now gild the Night,  
And glaze the scattered Snow with hoary Frost?   

Thy haughty Pride and Scorn remove,  
Ingrate and Enemy to Love;  
My passions Tide may ebb again;  
No Scythian Mother brought Thee forth,  
And hardened by the freezing North,  
That ardent Lovers thus should court in vain.   

If all my Prayers and Gifts are weak,  
Nor violent paleness of my Cheek  
The Lover's Livery, can move;  
If that thy Husband scorns thy Charms,  
And takes a Songstress to his Arms,  
Can ne'er provoke Thee to my firmer Love.   

O stiff as Oaks to warm desire  
Too hard to burn in my soft Fire,  
As fierce as Snakes on Lybian Shore;  
Tho now my patient side can bear  
Thy Door, the Rain, and piercing Air,  
Yet time will come when 'twill endure no more.    

ODE XI. To Mercury, and his Shell, whom He desires to move Lyde, and tells the Story of Danaus 's Daughters:  
SWeet Mercury (for taught by you  
The listening Stones Amphion drew)  
And pleasing Shell, well skilled to raise  
From seven stretched strings the sweetest Lays;  
Once mute, but now a Friend to Feasts,  
To cheer the Gods, and Rich-man's guests,  
Play Tunes, as may provoke to hear  
Even Lydes coy denying Ear.  
She like a Colt frisks o'er the Plain,  
A Rider hates, nor takes the Rein;  
Unable yet to bear the force  
And strength of the obliging Horse:  
You Tigers, you the listening Woods  
Can draw and stop the rapid Floods,  
Even Cerberus thy force confessed,  
Well-pleased He lay, and lulled in rest,  
Tho thousand hissing Serpents spread  
And guard around his horrid Head,  
And Gore foamed round his triple Tongue  
He gently listened to thy Song:  
Ixion, Tytius heard below,  
And smiled but with a gloomy Brow:  
The leaky Tub a while was dry,  
And Danaus' Race stood idle by,  
Whilst thy harmonious Tunes did please  
They smiled at their unusual ease;  
Begin sweet Lays, let Lyde hear  
What Crimes they did, what Pains they bear,  
Tell how their Tub can nought retain,  
But still gives space for idle pain;  
How Vengeance comes, though moving slow,  
And strikes the guilty Souls below:  
They could, (could Hell contrive a blacker deed)  
Their Husband's stab, and smile to see them bleed:  
But one more Worthy of the Name of Wife  
The hopes and end of every Virgin's Life,  
Her perjured Father bravely disobeyed,  
And lives thro' future Age a glorious Maid:  
With Love and Pity in her look  
She waked her Spouse, and thus she spoke,  
Fly, fly, lest Fate should seize thy breath,  
And sleep be lengthened into Death:  
Fly, fly, thy unexpected Fate,  
My Sister's Rage, and Father's Hate,  
Like Lionesses on a Steer  
They grin, and tear, ah me! they tear:  
More tender I'll not strike the blow,  
Nor keep Thee from a fiercer Foe:  
Me let me Father load with Chains,  
Join Wit and Cruelty in Pains;  
Me let him send to Lybian Shores,  
Midst Poisonous Snakes, and swarthy Moors,  
For saving you, I'll gladly bear,  
Nor show I'm Woman by a Tear:  
Fly, fly, dear Partner of my Bed,  
Whilst Night can hide, and Venus lead,  
Fly, fly, let happy Omens wait,  
And guide Thee thro' gloomy Fate;  
Remember me, and o'er my Grave  
Write this in a complaining Epitaph:   

ODE XII. He congratulates Neobule 's Happiness who loved a deserving Man.  
'TIs hard to be denied to prove  
The soft Delights of pleasing Love,  
'Tis hard to be denied to play,  
And with sweet Wine wash Cares away,  
Still to be tossed with doubting fear  
Lest angry Friends should prove severe,  
And with sharp chide wound our Ear.  
Young wanton Cupid's Darts and Bow  
Have forced thy Spindle from Thee now,  
Thy Wool, and all Minerva's toils  
Are charming Hebre's Beauties spoils;  
He lives thy minds continual Theme,  
And you can think on nought but him;  
Hebre, a Youth of Manly force,  
None sits so well the managed Horse;  
Bellerophon would strive in vain  
To guide with so gentile a Rein:  
In all He shows a Manly grace,  
In Cuffing stout and swift in Race,  
When His oiled Arms have cut the Flood  
In swimming strong; He takes the Wood,  
Thro Plains pursues the flying do,  
And shoots with an unerring Bow;  
Or else for Boars His Toils He sets,  
And takes them foaming in his Nets.   

ODE XII. To His pleasant Spring.  

BLundusia's Spring more clear than Glass,  
That bubbles thro' the rising Grass:  
Thee Wine should sweeten, Crowns adorn,  
But now a wanton Ridgling dies  
A Pious humble Sacrifice,  
His flowing blood shall Paint the rising Morn:   

With budding Horns He dares to fight;  
His fury hastens to delight;  
Courage with Love together grows:  
In vain, in vain; His wanton Blood  
Shall surely slain thy cooler Flood,  
And pay the mighty Debt his Master owes:   

The furious Dog-Stars burning Beams  
In vain attempt thy living Streams,  
In vain they strike thy Sacred Deep;  
You yield delightful liquid Snow  
To Oxen wearied with the Blow,  
And cool the thirsty Heat of wand'ring Sleep:   

You ranked shall be midst noble Springs,  
And high in Fame, whilst Horace Sings,  
The shady Beech that rising grows  
Where, by great Neptune's Trident struck  
A Passage opens thro' the Rock  
And whence thy prattling Stream of Water flows.    

ODE XIV. He resolves to be merry at Caesar's return.  

CAesar, who like Alcides, Rome,  
Did march to bring the Laurel home,  
Bought with his Death; from distant Spain  
Is now returned in Peace again:   

Let Caesar's Queen, with one content  
With Pious thanks just Gods present;  
His Sister too, as bright in Charms  
And great as Caesar in his Arms:   

And you whose Sons kind Fates restore  
With humble modesty adore;   

Ye smiling Maids, ye Girls and Boys  
And you that taste the Marriage joys,  
With Mirth salute our Conquering Lord,  
Nor drop one inauspicious Word.   

This Day, to me a real Feast,  
Black Cares shall banish from my Breast:  
I'll fear no Tumults, fear no Pains,  
Nor violent Death, whilst Caesar Reigns:   

Boy bring me Oil, and Crowns prepare,  
And Wine that knew the Marsian War,  
If any Cask could hidden lie  
From wondering Spartacus his Eye:   

Bid sweet Neoer a spread her Charms,  
And hast to fly into my Arms,  
But if the Cursed Porter stay,  
And ask Thee questions; Come away:   

Now Snowy time hath cooled my rage,  
I am not eager to engage,  
But yet I know when I was wont  
To storm at such a rude affront;  
Whilst Youth was warm, but Love is cold,  
And I can bear now I am old.    

ODE XV. He adviseth an Old Woman to be Modest.  
THou Wife of Ibycus the Poor,  
Forbear, and toy in Love no more,  
Confine thy Lust and end thy shame,  
Nor strive to blaze with dying flame:  
Now near to Death that comes but slow,  
Now Thou art stepping down below:  
Sport not amongst the Blooming Maids  
But think on Ghosts, and empty Shades:  
What suits with Pholoe in her bloom,  
Grey Chloris will not Thee become,  
A Bed is different from a Tomb:  
Thy Daughter with a better Grace  
Tho wrinkles plough her withered Face,  
Might burn, and rage, break Young Men's doors,  
And waste the Relics of her hours;  
Let Nothus Love force her to play  
Like wanton Kids i'th' heat of May;  
Lucerian Wool with Purple stained  
Not Harps become thy withered hand,  
The Purple Rosy Crowns disgrace  
The Earthy paleness of thy Face;  
And Drink until the Hogshead's dry,  
Then suck the dregs, no blood will fly  
To thy pale Cheek, nor softness to thy Eye.   

ODE XVI. All things obey Gold.  

ATower of Brass, Gates strong and barred,  
And watchful Dogs suspicious Guard  
From creeping Night Adulterers,  
That fought imprisoned Danae's Bed,  
Might have secured one Maidenhead;  
And freed the old Acrisius from his fears:   

But Jove and Venus soon betrayed  
The jealous Guardian of the Maid,  
They knew the way to take the hold;  
They knew the Pass must open lie  
To every hand and every Eye,  
When Jove himself was Bribe, and turned to Gold:   

Gold loves to break through Gates and Barrs,  
It is the Thunderbolt of Wars;  
It flies thro' Walls, and breaks a way,  
By Gold the Argive Augur fell,  
It taught the Children to rebel,  
And made the Wife her fatal Lord betray:   

When Engines, and when Arts do fail,  
The golden Wedg can cleave the Wall;  
Gold Philip's Rival Kings o'erthrew;  
Rough Seamen, stubborn as the Flood  
And angry Seas that they have Ploughed,  
Bribes quickly snare, and easily subdue:   

Care still attends increasing store,  
And craving Appetite for more;  
Maecenas, Honour of our Knights,  
How justly was thy Friend afraid  
To raise his too conspicuous Head  
And soar too lofty, and to envied heights?   

Those that do much themselves deny,  
Receive more blessings from the Sky:  
I love a mean, and safe retreat;  
And naked now with haste retire  
To Humble Those who nought desire;  
And joy to leave the Party of the Great:   

In my scorned Farm a greater Lord  
Than if my crowded Barns were stored  
With all the stout Appulian reaps;  
Than if to Me Pactolus ran  
And roul'd in flowing Tides of gain,  
Whilst I was Poor amidst my mighty heaps,   

A purling Spring, a shady Grove  
To raise my Song, and ease my Love,  
My Farm that ne'er deceives my hopes  
Make me seem happier to the Wise,  
Tho not to base and vulgar Eyes,  
Than He that boasts his Fruitful Lyha's Crops:   

Tho no Portuguese Bees do give  
Their grateful Tribute to my Hive,  
No Wines by Rich Compania sent  
In my Ignoble Casks ferment;  
No Flocks in gallic Plains grow Fat,  
Yet I am free from pinching want,  
And begged I more, my Lord would grant;  
And to my Wishes equal my Estate:   

But now more safe, and more securely blest  
Than if my Hand grasped East and West:  
He, that asks much, must still want more;  
Happy, to whom Indulgent Heaven  
Enough, and sparingly hath given,  
And made his Mind as narrow as his Store.    

ODE XVII. He adviseth his noble Friend Aelius Lamia's to live merrily.  
GReat Sir from ancient Lamus Sprung,  
As noble a descent, as long;  
(From Him, the Spring, thy generous Blood  
In undisturbed Streams has flowed;  
From him the Lamia's took their name,  
And swell the Annals of our Fame,  
Thy generous Blood rolled nobly down  
From him that filled the Formian Throne  
Where swollen with Rain, swift Liris roars,  
And washes fair Marica's Shores,  
A Potent Sceptre graced his Hand,  
And measured out a wide Command)  
To morrow furious Winds shall spread  
The troubled Shore with useless Weed,  
And fill the Woods with scattered Leaves,  
Unless the cawing Crow deceives,  
The Crow that still foretells a Rain  
And Storm, and never caws in vain:  
Now Pile thy Wood whilst sound and dry,  
To morrow morn a Pig shall die,  
And Wine shall cheer thy Slaves and Thee,  
From Country Toil, and Business free,  
And all enjoy a short lived Liberty.   

ODE XVIII. To FAUNUS. Whose Favour and Protection He desires.  
FAunus that flying Nymphs pursues,  
And Courts as oft as they refuse,  
If Yearly Ridglings slain thy Grove,  
If the large Bowl the Friend of Love,  
Still flows with Wine; if Prayers invoke,  
And thy old Shrines with Odours smoke,  
Defend my Fields, and sunny Farm,  
And keep my tender Flocks from harm:  
O'er grassy Plains the wanton Flocks,  
The Village with their idle Ox,  
Sport o'er the Fields, all finely dressed  
When cold December doth restore thy Feast:  
The Lambs midst ravenous Wolves repose,  
The Wood to thee spreads rustic Boughs,  
The Ditcher with his Country Jugg,  
Then smiles to Dance where once he dug.   

ODE XIX. A merry Ode to his Friend who was a Student.  

HOw many years divide  
Old Inachus and Codrus Reign  
Who for his Country bravely died,  
You seek with mighty pain,  
These are the idle Labours of thy Brain.   

Old Aeacus you can derive from Jove,  
And tell what mighty Kin he had above,  
You all the Trojan Wars can write,  
But never mind what Wine will cost,  
Who make a Feast, and who invite,  
And who a Fire prepares at Night  
Now Winter spreads the Fields with hoary Frost.   

A Glass! come fill me to the rising Moon,  
To Midnight, and to Morning one;  
we'll never part whilst Stars do shine;  
Forget thy Books, those idle Dreams,  
Fill round, Three Bowls or Nine  
Are sober Jollity's extremes.   

He that th' uneven Muse's loves,  
With Three times Three his heat improves,  
A staring Poet, raised by every Bowl;  
The sober Grace with th' naked two,  
Afraid of Brawls, but Three allow,  
And only cheer, but never heat the Soul:   

I must be Mad, what means the Flute?  
Why hangs the Pipe and silent Lute?  
I hate a niggard, quickly spread  
The sweetest Roses round my Head;  
Let Lycus hear the roaring noise,  
And she the Neighbouring Miss  
That doth his feeble Love despise,  
And let them pine, and envy at our joys:   

Thee Beauteous with thy bushy Hair,  
And like the brightest Evening Star  
Ripe Chloë seeks with warm desires;  
Whilst I a dull expecting Fop  
Still linger on with lazy hope,  
And slowly melt in Glycera's tormenting Fires.    

ODE XX. He adviseth his Friend not to strive to part a Lover and his Mistress.  

DOst see what Dangers must attend,  
Thy Pious Duty to thy Friend;  
'Tis hard to rob a Tygress of her Young:  
Ah baffled, Thou shalt soon retreat,  
And midst the shame of a defeat  
Unequal Foe confess her force too strong.  
When she with Fury raised shall move  
Thro throngs of Youth that offer Love,  
And strive to win her Heart; to seize the Fair;  
Then shall we see who wins the Day,  
And who shall seize the Beauteous Prey,  
And in Nearchus have the greatest share:   

Whilst you your winged Arrows draw,  
She whets her Teeth, and spreads her paw;  
Whilst he that must bestow the Prize  
Sits unconcerned with gloating Eyes;  
On all around his Amorous glances spread,  
His perfumed loose and wanton Hair,  
Permitting to the waving Air,  
As sweet as Nireus or as Ganymed.    

ODE XXII. He Dedicates his Pine to Diana.  

KInd Guardian of my Hills and Grove  
Who thrice implored dost hear, and save  
The teeming Women from the Grave,  
Great here on Earth, in Hell, and great Above.   

This Tree be thine that long hath stood  
To shade my House; as Years roll round  
A Boar that Aims a side-ways wound  
Shall Yearly slain the Trunk with offered Blood.    

ODE XXIII. Innocence pleases Heaven more than Sacrifice.  

A Fat and costly Sacrifice  
Is not the welcomest Tribute to the Skies,  
They're more delighted with the small expense  
Of Honesty and Innocence.   

Let rustic Phydile prepare  
At each new Moon an humble Prayer,  
And at her old Penates Shrine  
Pour one small bowl of Country Wine,  
And slain their Altars with a greedy Swine;  
No scorching Winds shall blast her fruit,  
Her Corn be free from barren smut;  
Nor let her darling Children fear  
The shivering Agues of the dying Year.   

The Sacrifice Albanian Pastures feed,  
Or Snowy Algidum's cold Mountains breed  
'Midst fruitful Oaks a pampered Beast,  
Shall slain the Axes of the Priest:  
But why should You profusely try  
With slaughtered Flocks to bribe the Sky,  
Since Myrtle Crowns, and from the neighbouring Flood  
Few sprinkled drops shall please the God  
More than whole Rivers of their offered blood?  
If with an unpolluted hand,  
Which neither Blood nor wicked Arts have stained,  
A little Meal and Salt you bring  
'Twill prove a more prevailing Offering  
Than all the Spices of the Eastern King.    

ODE XXIV. Nothing can secure a Man from Death, And Covetousness is the Root of all Evil.  

THough You had all the Spice and Gold  
Arabia sweats, and the rich Indies hold;  
Tho You extend Your Palaces  
O'er the Tyrrhene, and Pontic Seas;  
When strong Necessity  
Shall fix her Adamantine hooks on Thee,  
When she shall drag away  
The trembling melancholy Prey,  
Not all thy Wealth shall save  
Thy Mind from fear, or body from the grave.   

Happier the wand'ring Scythians live,  
Who all their house in one small Wagon drive,  
Where no unequal bounds  
Do parcel out the Land in private grounds,  
The Corn grows freely for the Common good;  
And when one Year their Fields they ploughed,  
They sit at Ease, whilst others toil,  
And equal pains manure the Public Soil.   

There all the Cups the Stepdames hands present  
To unsuspecting Heirs are innocent:  
No Wife confiding on her Dower,  
Or rich Gallant usurps her Husband's Power;  
None there a lawless sway pretends,  
Her Portion is the virtue of her Friends,  
And cautious Modesty  
That closer draws the marriage tie,  
They fear to sin, or sinning doomed to die.   

He that would prise his Country's good,  
And stop the Issue of our Civil blood;  
He that would stand in Brass as fixed as Fate,  
Be named the Father of the State;  
Let him restrain this Brutal rage:  
A glorious Man in future age!  
Since Envious We despise  
Virtue when present, when it flies  
Stand and gaze after it with longing Eyes!   

But sad Complaints are vain,  
Vice only yields to pain,  
Her Sword strict Justice needs must draw,  
And cut it off by necessary Law;  
And what are Laws! State Pageantry!  
Unless obeyed  
With the same reverence they were made,  
Unless our Manners and the Rules agree!   

The Merchants dare to cut the Line,  
Where beams still boil the Metal in the Mine,  
Nor can the frigid Coast  
That lies bound up with lazy Frost,  
Nor all the Snow and Northern Ice,  
ere cool the Sailer's flaming Avarice;  
In feeble Ships they dare to ride  
And boldly stem the highest Tide,  
When scarce three inches them and Death divide,  
For Poverty that great disgrace  
Still drives them on the vicious race;  
Whilst virtue's Paths that lead on high  
Untrod and unfrequented lie,  
Few think it worth their while to climb the Sky.   

To Jove's great Shrine let Romans bring  
Their Wealth, a grateful Offering;  
For those that thus their Treasures spend,  
Just blessings Crown, and joyful shouts attend:  
Or in the Neighbouring flood  
Let's cast our Jewels and our Gold,  
For which we have our Virtue sold,  
Our Gold the dear-bought cause of all our blood:  
Wealth, formed near Hell, when here on Earth  
Brings up the cursed Region of its birth.   

If we repent, and hate the Crimes  
And Follies of our own and Father's times,  
We must root out the very seeds of Sin,  
And plant new Virtue in;  
The Soil is soft, and if manured with care,  
And manly Arts, may bear  
A fruitful Crop, Virtue may sprout again,  
And with a Vast increase reward the Tiller's pain.   

Our Nobles Sons with an unequal force  
Now scarce can sit the Managed Horse,  
They Hate the Ring, nor dare to ride the Course:  
But Cards, unlawful Dice,  
And all the mysteries of Vice  
That Greece e'er taught, or Rome improved they know,  
For these they nobler Deeds forgo;  
These are their Arts, their chief delights,  
The Pleasures of their days, and study of their nights.   

Mean while their perjured Fathers cheat,  
Grow grey in base Oppression, and Deceit;  
To their best Friends their Oaths are Snares,  
Whilst at the vast Expense  
Of Honesty and Innocence,  
They Heap up Wealth for their unworthy Heirs.  
Their Stores increase, and yet, I know not what,  
Still they do something want,  
Which neither pains can get, nor Heaven can grant,  
To swell their Narrow to a full Estate.    

ODE XXVI. Now being grown Old, he bids farewell to Love.  
ONce I was gay, and great in Charms,  
Success still waited on my Arms,  
In Venus' Battles bravely stout,  
I fought, and conquered when I fought:  
But now my Arms and wanton Lyre  
Whose tunes could spread Harmonious fire,  
Whose moving strokes could soon impart  
Soft wishes to the tender heart,  
My Torches, Levers, Darts and Bows  
That broke the Doors that did oppose,  
That did all Obstacles remove,  
Which hindered my pursuit of Love,  
In Venus' Shrine unheeded lie  
With all my Love's Artillery:  
Great Goddess who o'er Cyprus reigns,  
And scorching Memphis burning Plains,  
Let coy and scornful Chlöe know  
The fury of thy Cupid's Bow;  
And let her smart for her disdain,  
Inflame her Breast, and I shall love again.   

ODE XXVIII. To Lyde, On Neptune 's Festival.  

What should I do at Neptune's Feast,  
What better should my thoughts employ,  
What should I do but treat my guest,  
And show the greatness of my Joy?  
Wine, Lyde, Wine; storm sober Sense,  
My Bowl is strong, and that will make a weak defence.   

Dost see how half the day is past?  
And yet as if winged Time would stay,  
You still the precious minutes wast;  
And lead me on with slow delay.  
Wine, Lyde, Wine; to raise my flame,  
Old lusty Wine, and sealed with Bibulus' name.   

I'll sing great Neptune bound by Rocks,  
I'll sing the Nereids Sea-green hair;  
And how they sit, and spread their locks  
To tempt the greedy Mariner:  
You to your Harp Latona sing,  
And Cynthia's Arrows shot from an unerring string.   

Both her who drawn by murmuring Doves  
To Paphos guides with silken strings,  
Whilst Cupid's wait, and wanton Loves  
Fan their warm Mother with their wings:  
Just songs and thanks shall praise the Night,  
For lingering Long, and giving space for gay delight.    

ODE XXIX. He invites Maecenas to an Entertainment.  

MY noble Lord of Royal Blood,  
That from the Tuscan Monarches flowed,  
I have a Cask ne'er pierced before;  
My Garlands wreathed, my Crowns are made,  
My Roses plucked to grace thy head;  
As fair and sweet as e'er Praeneste bore.   

Make haste, my Lord, and break away  
From all the Shackles of delay,  
From watery Tibur's Fields retreat:  
Let not low Aesula delight,  
Nor let her Vales detain thy sight,  
Or Parricide Telegonus his Seat.   

From thy disgusting Plenty fly,  
Thy Palace leave that mounts on high  
And hides her head in bending Clouds;  
Admire no more (but quickly come)  
The Wealth, the noise, and smoke of Rome,  
That happy Mansion of our future Gods.   

Changes have often pleased the Great,  
And in a Cell a homely treat;  
But sweet and good, and cleanly dressed,  
Tho no rich Hangings grace the Rooms,  
Or Purple wrought in Tyrian Looms,  
Have smoothed a careful brow, and calmed a troubled breast.   

The Dog's and Lion's fury rise,  
With doubled beams they scorch the Skies;  
The Swains retire to midday dreams:  
The bleating Flocks avoid the heat,  
And to the Springs and Shades retreat;  
And not one breath of Air curls o'er the Streams.   

Whilst You still watch the turns of Fate,  
The careful guardian of our State;  
Intent on what the Mede prepares:  
What leads the quivered Persian forth,  
What moves the Bactrian, and the North,  
Are the distracting Objects of thy Cares.   

Future Events Wise Providence  
Hath hid in Night from humane Sense,  
To narrow bounds our search confined:  
And laughs to see proud Mortals try  
To fathom deep Eternity  
With the short Line and Plummet of their Mind.   

Those Joys the present Hours produce  
Take thankfully, my Lord, and use;  
All other things like Rivers flow,  
In their own Channels thro' the Plain  
They fall into the Tuscan Main,  
And bless the Country as they go:  
When Rain hath raised the quiet Floods,  
Whilst Neighbouring Mountains all around  
Are filled, and Echo with the sound,  
They whirl the eaten Rocks and Woods,  
And drown the growing Labours of the Blow.   

He's Master of himself alone,  
He lives, that makes each day his own:  
He lives that can distinctly say  
It is enough, for I have lived to day:  
Let Jove to morrow smiling rise,  
Or let dark Clouds spread o'er the Skies:  
He cannot make the pleasures void  
Nor sour the sweets I have enjoyed,  
Nor call that back which winged hours have born away.   

Still Fortune plays at fast and loose,  
And still maliciously jocose,  
Her cruel sport she urges on;  
Now smiles on me, on Me bestows,  
And then upon another throws  
Vast heaps of Wealth, and takes them back as soon.   

When e'er she stays with what she brings  
I'm pleased, but when she shakes her Wings,  
I straight resign my just pretence;  
I give her back her fading Gold:  
Myself in my Virtue fold,  
And live content with Want and Innocence.   

When spreading Sails rough Tempests tear,  
I make no lamentable Prayer;  
I do not bargain with the Gods,  
Nor offer costly Sacrifice  
To save my precious Tyrian dies  
From Adding Riches to the Greedy Floods.   

Even 'midst these Storms I'll safely ride,  
My Bark shall stem the highest Tide;  
Tho Tempests toss, and th'Ocean raves,  
Castor shall gather gentle Gales,  
And Pollux fill my spreading Sails,  
And bear me safe thro' the Aegean Waves.    

ODE XXX. He promiseth himself Eternity.  
'TIs finished; I have raised a Monument  
More strong than Brass, and of a vast extent:  
Higher than Egypt's statelyest Pyramid,  
That costly Monument of Kingly Pride;  
As High as Heaven the top, as Earth the Basis wide:  
Which eating showers, nor North wind's seeble blast,  
Nor whirling Time, nor flight of Years can waste:  
Whole Horace shall not die, his Songs shall save  
The greatest portion from the greedy Grave:  
Still fresh I'll grow, still green in future praise,  
Till Time is lost, and Rome itself decays;  
Till the chief Priest and silent Maid no more  
Ascend the Capitol, and Jove adore:  
Where violent Aufid rolls thro' humble Plains,  
And where scorched Daunus ruled the labouring Swains,  
There shall my fame resound, there all shall cry  
'Twas I, the great from mean descent, 'twas I  
That first did dare to bind the Grecian Song,  
And unknown numbers in the Roman tongue:  
Muse take thy Merits due, and proudly raise  
Thy Head, and gladly Crown my Brows with Bays.   
The End of the Third Book.   

ODES.  
Book the Fourth.  

ODE I. To VENUS. 1. He is now grown Old and unfit for Love. 2. Desires her to go and visit Young Paulus. 3. Yet He still thinks on his lovely Boy Ligurine.  

1. LOng interrupted War  
Thou Venus dost again renew,  
And former hate pursue;  
Oh spare, for Pity, Venus, spare.   

I am not what I was  
In lovely Cynera's easy Reign  
When heat warmed every Vein,  
And manly Beauty filled my Face.   

Cease Queen of soft Desires  
To bend my Mind grown stiff with Age,  
And fifty years engage  
To crackle in thy wanton Fires.   

But Youth and Beauty hear,  
Go where their tender wishes call,  
And let their sighs prevail;  
Go free young Virgins of their fear.   

2. There is a Noble game,  
In Paulus House, go drive thy Doves,  
And revel with thy Loves,  
His Heart deserves thy choicest Flame:   

For He is great in Charms,  
The chiefest Honour of the Bar,  
He'll make successful War,  
And spread the Glory of thy Arms:   

When He the lovely smiles,  
When he the happy Man shall prove,  
And win by naked Love  
His giving Rivals costly spoils;   

Of Cedar graced with Gold,  
A stately Pile shall proudly rise  
As glorious as the Skies,  
And thy blessed Image gladly hold;   

Before Thee thrice a day  
With Incense sweet thy Shrine shall smoke,  
And Boys and Maids invoke,  
And dance, and praise Thee as they pray;   

In wanton order move,  
Whilst Pipe, and Flute, and charming Lyre  
Compose the joyful Choir,  
And naked all, and fit for Love.   

No Maids, no wanton Boys,  
No Empty hopes of mutual Love  
My feeble passions move,  
Or quicken my dead Soul to joys:   

Even Crowns and Wine displease,  
I cannot roar and drink all Night,  
Old Age doth cramp Delight,  
And lead me down to lazy Ease:   

3. But Ah! what's this my Dear!  
Dear Ligurine, ah tell me why  
These drops forsake my Eye,  
And tender sighs fan every tear.   

Why doth my flowing Tongue  
In unbecoming silence fall?  
And why do sighs prevail,  
And in the midst surprise my Song?   

Thee, thou, my lovely Boy,  
Now now I clasp, and now in Dreams  
Pursue o'er Fields, and Streams;  
thou, thou, my Dear, my flying Joy.    

ODE II. To ANTONIUS JULUS. 1. None can imitate Pindar. 2. Commends Antony, and proposes Caesar 's Actions as a fit subject for his Muse.  

1. HE that to equal Pindar tries,  
With Waxen wings he vainly flies  
Too near exalted Fame;  
And must expect a Fate like his  
Who fell, and gave the Sea a name.   

As violent Rivers swollen with Rain,  
Break o'er the neighbouring fruitful Plain  
With an impetuous stream;  
So Pindar doth all Banks disdain,  
And overflows the highest Theme.   

In all He doth deserve the Crown  
Whether He rushes boldly on,  
And rolls new words along;  
Through lawless Dytherambicks thrown;  
Or Thunders in a loser Song:   

Or Gods, or Gods next Kindred Kings,  
In mighty numbers mighty things,  
Or valiant Heroes names  
That killed the Centauris, nobly sings,  
And quenched the fierce Chimaeras flames.   

Or praised him that swiftly road,  
And Crowned returned almost a God  
From the Olympian race;  
Or Verses on the Brave bestowed,  
More sounding and more strong than Brass.   

Or softly sings with pious grief  
A Youth snatched from his weeping Wife,  
And bears their names on high,  
Their virtuous manners pleasant life,  
And doth forbid their Loves to die.   

The Theban Swan vast whirls of Air  
Thro highest Regions swiftly bear  
When he designs to rise,  
When He his lofty head doth rear  
And shoots it thro' the Cloudy Skies.   

I like a Bee with toil and pain  
Fly humbly o'er the flowery Plain,  
And with a busy tongue  
The little Sweets my Labours gain,  
I work at last into a Song.   

2. But You shall sing in higher strains  
What Conquests mighty Caesar gains,  
How great his Pomp appears,  
When justly Crowned he leads in Chains  
The Germane Trophies of his Wars.   

Greater than him no Age can know,  
Nor, if they would, the Gods bestow;  
No, they can bless no more  
If they their bounty strove to show,  
And would the Golden Age restore:   

Then thou shalt sing our feasting days,  
Our City's Joy, and public Plays  
At Caesar's wished return:  
Then thou shalt sing how strife decays,  
And Courts their peaceful Clients mourn.   

And there if any patient Ear  
My Muses feeble Song will hear  
My voice shall sound thro' Rome:  
Thee, Sun, I'll sing, Thee, lovely fair;  
Thee, thou I'll praise when Caesar's come:   

As you great Poet march along  
From every Heart and every Tongue  
A joyful sound shall move,  
Io Triumph be the Song,  
Whilst Incense smokes to Gods above:   

Ten fair large Bulls, ten lusty Cows  
Must die to pay thy richer Vows;  
Of my small stock of Kine  
A Calf just weaned now Youthful grows  
In Pastures fat to fall for mine:   

Unused to push doth wildly run,  
And as the third-days rising Moon  
So bend his tender horns;  
All over Red, but where alone  
A milky spot his front adorns.    

ODE III. To his Muse. By her favour he gets immortal Reputation.  

AT whose blessed birth propitious rays  
The Muses shed, on whom they smile  
No dusty Isthmian game  
Shall stoutest of the Ring proclaim,  
Or to reward his toil  
Wreath Ivy Crowns, or grace his head with Bays.   

Nor Victor, Laurel round his Brows,  
In an Achean Chariot ride:  
No glorious feats of War  
His happy Skill, and Arms declare  
When He hath broke the pride,  
And baffled dreadful threats of haughty Foes.   

But fruitful Tibur's shady Groves,  
It's pleasant Springs and purling Streams,  
Shall raise a lasting name,  
And set him high in sounding same,  
For Lyric Verse the noblest Themes,  
Great as his Mind, and various as his Loves.   

Rome Empress of the Nation's Writes,  
Writes me amongst the Lyric Train;  
And hence I Honour raise,  
Immortal Love and lasting praise  
Secure from fears, and pain,  
For sharp-toothed Envy now but faintly bites.   

Sweet Muse that tun'st the charming Lyre,  
And drawest soft sounds from stubborn string,  
That canst the Envious please  
And soften fury into ease,  
Teach silent Fish to sing,  
And tunes as sweet as dying Swans inspire.   

'Tis thine, sweet Muse, thy gift alone,  
That as I walk all cry 'tis He;  
That warms with Lyric fire,  
'Tis He that tunes the Roman Lyre;  
And that I please, I own,  
Suppose I please, I have it all from Thee.    

ODE V.  

GReat Hero's Son, Rome's gracious Lord,  
How long shall we thy absence mourn!  
Thy promised self at last afford,  
Rome's sacred Senate begs: Return.   

Great Sir restore your Country light;  
When your auspicious beams arise,  
Just as in Spring, the Sun's more bright,  
And fairer days smile o'er the Skies.   

As tender Mothers wait their Sons  
Whom Storms have tossed above a Year,  
And every nimble day that runs  
They load with vows, and pious fear,   

They ne'er their Eyes from th' Shore's remove,  
Longing to see their Sons restored;  
Thus Rome, inspired with Loyal Love,  
Expects her great, her gracious Lord.   

The Ox doth safely Pasture trace,  
And fruitful Ceres fills our Plains,  
The Merchant sails o'er quiet Seas,  
And unstained Faith, and Virtue reigns.   

No base Adultery stains our Race,  
Strict Law hath tamed that spotted Vice;  
The Child can show his Father's face;  
Pain waits on Sin, and checks its rise.   

Who doth the dreadful Germans fear  
The Scythian Rage, or Parthian Bow,  
Or Who the threatening Spaniards War,  
Whilst Caesar lives, and rules below?   

In his own Hills each sets his Sun;  
To Widow Elms he leads his Vine,  
And cheerful, when his toils are done,  
Invokes Thee o'er a Glass of Wine:   

To Thee our Prayers, and Wines do flow  
To Thee the Author of our Peace,  
As much as grateful Greece can show,  
To Castor, or great Hercules:   

Long may You live, your days be fair,  
Bestow long Feasts, and long Delight;  
This is our sober morning Prayer,  
And these our drunken Vows at Night.    

ODE VI To Apollo and Diana.  

GReat God, whom Niobe's Race did know  
A sharp revenger of a haughty Tongue,  
Whom Lustful Titus wrong  
Provoked to draw his fatal Bow;  
And stout Achilles found too great a Foe.   

Tho fierce in Arms, though Thetis Son,  
Tho Death did wait upon his Sword, and Fear,  
Attended on his Spear;  
Tho wretched Troy almost o'er thrown  
Confessed his force, He bowed to Thee alone.   

Like Oaks which biting Axes wound,  
Or Cypress tall which furious Storms divide  
He spread his ruin wide:  
He felt the fatal Dart, He groaned  
And hid his noble Head in Trojan ground:   

Not He in great Minerva's Horse  
Had cheated Troy, and Priam's heedless Court  
Dissolved in Wine and Sport;  
But hot, and deaf to all remorse  
Had fiercely stormed our Walls with open force:   

And when strong Fates had Troy or'come  
Too savage He, ah! ah! with Grecian Flames  
Had burnt the breeding Dames,  
And in their Mother's burning Womb,  
Poor harmless Infants found a hated Tomb:   

But your kind Prayers, and Venus' Face  
Prevailed on Fate, made angry Juno kind,  
And bent Jove's mighty mind  
To grant a more auspicious place  
To raise a Town for great Aeneas Race:   

Feigned Artist on the Muse's Lyre,  
That bath'st thy yellow Locks in Xanthus' Flood,  
Sweet, smooth-faced charming God,  
Improve the rage thou didst inspire,  
Increase my heat and still preserve my Fire:   

From Phoebus all my fancy came,  
'Twas Phoebus first that taught me how to sing,  
And strike the speaking string;  
He Art inspired, He raised my Fame,  
And gave the glory of a Poet's name:   

You noble Maids, and noble Boys,  
The chaste Diana's chiefest care below,  
Whose dreadful Darts and Bow,  
Fierce Tigers fear; observe my voice,  
Observe the measures of the public joys:   

Just praises give Latona's Son;  
And sing the Moon with her increasing light  
The beauteous Queen of Night,  
Kind to our Fruits, and swift alone  
To turn the headlong Months, and whirl 'em down.   

When Marriage bands confine thy Love  
Then boast, as years brought round the Feast, I played  
The Tunes that Horace made;  
I sang his Verse; and This did prove  
A pleasing Tribute to the Gods above.    

ODE VII. To MANLIUS TORQUATUS. The Spring coming on, from the consideration of our frail State, He invites him to be merry.  

THe Snows are gone, and Grass returns again,  
New Leaves adorn the Widow Trees  
The unswoln Streams their narrow banks contain,  
And softly role to quiet Seas:   

The decent Nymphs with smiling Graces joined,  
Now naked dance i'th' open Air  
They frolic, dance, nor do they fear the Wind  
That gently wantoness thro' their Hair.   

The nimble hour that turns the Circling Year  
And swiftly whirls the pleasing Day,  
Forewarns Thee to be Mortal in thy Care  
Nor cramp thy Life with long delay:  
The Spring the Winter, Summer wastes the Spring,  
And Summer's beauties quickly lost,  
When drunken Autumn spreads her drooping Wing  
And next cold Winter creeps in Frost.   

The Moon 'tis true her Monthly loss repairs,  
She straight renews her borrowed light;  
But when black Death hath turned our shining years,  
There follows one Eternal Night.   

When we shall view the gloomy Stygian Shore,  
And walk amongst the mighty Dead  
Where Tullus, where Aeneas went before:  
We shall be Dust, and empty shade:   

Who knows if stubborn Fate will prove so kind,  
And join to this another day?  
What e'er is for thy greedy Heir designed,  
Will slip his Hands, and fly away:   

When thou art gone, and Minos' Sentence read,  
Torquatus there is no return,  
Thy Fame, nor all thy learned Tongue can plead,  
Nor goodness shall unseal the Urn:   

For chaste Hippolytus Diana strives,  
She strives, but ah! she strives in vain;  
Nor Theseus' Care, and Pious force reprieves,  
Nor breaks his Dear Pirithous Chain.    

ODE VIII. To Marcus Censorinus. Verse is the best and most lasting Present that a Man can send his Friend.  
I Would be kind, I would bestow  
Dear Censorine, on all I know,  
Plate, Statues, Brass prepared;  
Or Bowls the stoutest Greeks reward:  
On You my Friend, and half my heart,  
Some curious Piece of noble Art;  
Could I the famous Works command  
Of Scopa's or Parrhasius hand,  
One skilled in Stone, and one in Paint  
To frame a Man, or make a Saint:  
The Art declared the frame divine,  
And God appeared in every Line.  
But I am poor, and your Estate  
Too large for these, your Soul too great  
To want such Toys: but You delight  
In noble Verse, and I can write;  
I'm rich in these, can please a Friend,  
And show the worth of what I send:  
Not stately Pillars raised in Brass,  
Nor Stones inscribed with public Praise,  
Tho such new Heat and Vigour give,  
And make the buried Heroes live;  
The hasty flight, the wondrous fall,  
And threats thrown back on Hannibal,  
Not Impious Carthage bright in flames,  
His praise, who came increased in Names  
From conquered afric, Virtues show  
With half the Glory Verse can do:  
If Books were dumb, what small Regard  
Would Virtue meet, what mean Reward?  
And who had Rome's great Founder known  
Tho sprung from Mars, though Ilia's Son,  
If envious silence had withheld,  
His great Deserts, and Fame concealed?  
From Shades below, and gloomy Night  
By Poet's power, and force of Wit  
Good Eack freed, serenely reigns  
A Mighty King in happy Plains:  
The Muse forbids great worth to die;  
On whom she will bestows the Sky:  
Thus Great Alcides carves the Feast  
With Jove himself, a noble Guest:  
Thus shining Castor kindly saves  
A feeble Ship in roughest Waves;  
And Bacchus, crowned with Ivy, hears  
Our modest Vows, and speeds our Prayers.   

ODE IX. To LOLLIUS. His Songs shall never die; and he is resolved to make his Friend Lollius his Name live for ever.  

VAin fear to think those Words will die  
Which born by Aufid's whirling stream,  
With unknown Art I first did try  
In Lyric numbers joined  
With charming strings to bind,  
And gently raise my noble Theme.   

Tho King in Verse great Homer reigns,  
And doth Equality refuse;  
Yet Pindar lives in lofty strains,  
Alcoeus nobly charms,  
The Coean Lyric warms  
With grave Stesichorus stately Muse:   

We read Anacreon's wanton toys;  
Whilst they our passions gently move,  
No Envy blasts, no Age destroys;  
And Sappho's charming Lyre  
Preserves her soft desire,  
And tunes our ravished Souls to Love.   

Not only Helen's Heart was fired,  
When basely careless of her fame  
She Paris Princely Train admired,  
His Curls surprising grace,  
His Dress, his Art, his Face,  
And lewdly fed her lawless Flame.   

Not Teucer first drew fatal Bows;  
Not Troy but once felt Grecian rage;  
Not only Stheneleus braved his Foes,  
The great firstborn of Fame,  
That fought, and overcame  
And lives in Verse to future Age.   

Not Hector first the glory won  
Of bravely spending Royal Blood  
To guard his hopes, his darling Son;  
Nor first profuse of Life  
To save a Virtuous Wife  
And do his dying Country good.   

Before that Age a thousand lived,  
And sent surprising Glories forth,  
But none the silent Grave survived;  
In Night their Splendor's gone,  
They fell, unmourned, unknown;  
Because no Verse embalms their Worth.   

What worth doth lazy sloth excel,  
If 'tis withheld from sounding Fame?  
Thy Glories I will loudly tell,  
And in immortal Verse  
Thy living praise rehearse,  
Nor suffer Age to waste thy Name:   

A Generous Mind in Action bold,  
Wise in debate, in Council grave,  
Too strong for all-attracting Gold:  
Let Fortune frown or smile  
Thy soul is constant still,  
In either State 'tis great and brave:   

Not Consul only for one Year,  
But still the Chair as oft obtained  
As equal justice ruled the Bar,  
As oft as Crimes accused,  
And guilty Bribes refused  
With haughty look she nobly Reigned:   

Believe not those that Lands possess  
And shining heaps of useless o'er  
The only Lords of Happiness,  
But rather those that know  
For what kind Fates bestow,  
And have the Art to use the Store:   

That have the generous skill to bear  
The hated weight of Poverty  
Who more than Death will baseness fear,  
Who nobly to descend  
Their Country or their Friend  
Embrace their Fate, and gladly die.    

ODE X. To scornful LIGURINE. Age will come, Beauty waist, and then he will be sorry for his present Pride.  
AH lovely yet, and great in Charms,  
Ah coy, and flying from my Arms!  
When an unlooked for Beard shall hide  
And scattered hairs spread o'er thy Pride;  
When all those wanton Curls shall fall,  
Thy Rosy Colour yield to Pale,  
Thy Cheeks grow wan, thy Body pine,  
And leave a different Ligurine,  
Ah thou shalt say, when e'er the glass  
Shall show Thee quite another Face,  
Ah whilst I was a vigorous Boy,  
Why did I not this Mind enjoy!  
Or since I now so freely burn  
Why won't my former Face return!   

ODE XI. To PHYLLIS. On Maecenas his Birth Day, He invites her to a Feast.  

I Keep some Casks of racy Wines  
Full nine years old; to Crown thy hair  
My Parsley grows; my Ivy twines,  
To grace thy head, and make Thee fair:   

My Rooms well furnished joy proclaim,  
My Altar Crowned with Sacred Wood  
And Vervine chaste, expects her Lamb,  
And thirsts to drink the promised Blood.   

All hands at work, my Boys and Maids  
With busy haste the Feast prepare,  
My Torches raise their trembling Heads  
And roll dark Volumes thro' the Air:   

But now to tell what joys to Night  
I call Thee to; I keep the Ide  
That April's Month the choice delight  
Of Sea-born Venus doth divide:   

A Day of Joy and Mirth appears,  
And almost dearer than my own;  
It shuts Maecenas former years,  
And brings another gently on:   

That Telephus whom you desire  
A richer Maid, and Beauty gains  
Young, Wanton, Gay, and full of fire,  
And holds him fast in pleasing Chains:   

Burnt Phaethon checks hopes too high,  
From Heaven by dreadful Thunder thrown;  
And Pegasus refused to fly  
And threw his mortal Rider down:   

The Phillis stop thy rising Flame,  
And all ambitious thoughts remove,  
'Tis Sin to hunt too great a Game,  
And fly at an unequal Love:   

Come, come, my last, my dearest Miss,  
The last I can I must adore;  
No Face shall e'er provoke a Kiss;  
And other Beauty warm no more:   

Come learn, my Dear, some pleasing Song,  
Which you with a surprising Air  
Might warble o'er your charming Tongue;  
For Songs are good to lessen Care:    

ODE XII. To VIRGIL. He describes the Spring, and invites him to Supper.  

THe soft Companions of the Spring  
The gentle Thracian Gales  
Spread o'er the Earth their flowery Wing,  
And swell the greedy Merchant's Sails:   

The Streams not swollen with melted Snow  
In fair Meanders play,  
To quiet Seas they smoothly flow,  
And gently eat their easy way.   

The Swallow with the Spring returns,  
And as she builds her Nest,  
Her murdered Itys sadly mourns  
And sighs, and beats her troubled Breast.   

The swallow Athens lasting shame,  
For though her Cause was just,  
Her Breast conceived a lawless flame,  
And ill revenged the Tyrant's Lust.   

The Swain whilst Flocks securely feed  
Sits down, and sweetly plays,  
He softly blows his Oaten Reed,  
And pleaseth Pan with rural Lays:   

The Season, Virgil, brings us thirst;  
And if you Mirth design  
With Noble youths, bring Ointment first,  
And I'll provide Thee racy Wine:   

For one small Box of Ointment brought  
I will a Cask prepare,  
'Tis strong to tame a lofty thought,  
Check hopes, and wash down bitter Care.   

Now if you'll make a joyful Guest  
I'll not, as Nobles do,  
Bear all the Charges of the Feast  
But must expect a share from you.   

Think Life is short, forget thy fears,  
And eager thoughts of Gain,  
Short Folly mix with graver Cares,  
'Tis decent sometimes to be vain.    

ODE XIII. To LYCE. He insults over her now she is grown old.  

THe Gods have heard, Lice, the Gods have heard  
The Gods have heard my Prayer,  
As I have wished, and you have feared,  
You old, yet would be counted fair:   

You toy, you impudently drink to raise  
Your lazy dull desire,  
You strive to heighten to a blaze  
With your cold breath the dying fire.   

In vain, 'tis all in vain, coy Cupid flies,  
A better Seat He seeks,  
In young soft Chloes Face he lies,  
And gently wantoness in her Cheeks:   

Coy he flies o'er dry Oaks, he scorns thy Face,  
Because a furrowed Brow  
And hollow Eyes thy form disgrace,  
And o'er thy head Age scatters Snow.   

Nor can thy costly dress the Eastern Shore  
With all the Gems it bears  
Thy former lovely Youth restore,  
Nor bring thee back thy scattered Years,   

Those Years which the Eternal wheel hath spun,  
And drawn beyond thy Prime,  
Thro which swift Day hath nimbly run  
And shut in known Records of Time.   

Where is that Beauty, where that charming Air,  
That shape, that Amorous Play,  
Oh what hast thou of her! of Her!  
Whose every look did Love inspire,  
Whose every breathing fanned my fire,  
And stole me from myself away!   

To lovely Cynera's Face set next in Fame  
For all that can surprise,  
For all those Arts that raise a Flame,  
And kindly feed it at our Eyes;   

But hasty Fate cut charming Cynera short,  
That Fate that now prepares  
Old Lice, old as Daws for sport,  
And scorn as grievous as her Years.   

When our hot Youths shall come, and laugh to see  
The Torch that burned before;  
And kindled aged Lechery,  
To Ashes fallen, and warm no more.    

ODE XIV. To AUGUSTUS. That His Deserts are much greater than any Rewards Rome can bestow.  

HOw can the Senate's, how the People's care,  
Tho All with gifts that swell with honours strive,  
A lasting Monument prepare  
To make thy glory live,  
And thy great Name thro' future Ages bear!   

O greatest Prince the circling Sun can view!  
Whom stout Vindilici unlearned in fear,  
From glorious Conquests lately knew  
How great He is in War,  
And felt that all that Fame had told was true.   

Brave Drusus led thy conquering Legions on,  
And fierce Genauns a stubborn Nation broke;  
The furious Brenni's force o'erthrown  
Now gladly take the Yoke,  
The Glory of their Slavery proudly own.   

Strong Castles fixed on Mountains vastly high,  
Almost as high as his aspiring thought,  
With a repeated Victory  
Thrown down; He climbed and fought  
Where Fear or winged Hope scarce dared to fly.   

Next Elder Nero great in Arms appeared,  
And Rhoeti fought; A sight for Gods to see  
What slaughters broke their Souls prepared  
For Death with Liberty,  
And led the Conqueror to high Reward.   

As raging Winds with an impetuous Course  
When stormy Stars assist, do toss the flood,  
So fierce He breaks thro' armed force,  
Thro Darts and streams of blood  
And threatening flames He spurs his eager Horse:   

As branched Aufidus doth Moles disdain,  
And thro' Apulian Fields doth whirl his Waves,  
When raised by Snow or swollen with Rain,  
Against his Banks He raves,  
And threatens Floods to all the fruitful Plain.   

Thus Claudius violent did in Arms appear,  
No Bands, no barbarous Troops his force could stay,  
The Front, the Body, and the Rear  
Secure he swept away,  
And o'er the Field He scattered dreadful War:   

Whilst You your Forces, You your Counsel lent,  
What mortal Courage could his Arms oppose?  
When to his Aid your Gods you sent,  
He thundered on his Foes,  
And threw among them Slavery as He went.   

Since suppliant Egypt in her empty Throne  
Received Thee Lord, the Fates that strive to bless,  
Thy Title to the Empire own  
By fifteen Years Success;  
And still increase the Glory of thy Crown.   

The fierce Cantabrian not to be o'ercome  
Before thy Arms, the Indian and the Mede,  
The wand'ring Scythians lurk at home,  
And Thee they wisely dread;  
O present guard of Italy and Rome!   

The Waves that beat the British monstrous shore,  
Cold Ister, Nile, and Tanais rapid stream,  
Fierce Spaniards now rebel no more,  
And Gauls that death contem  
Lay down their Arms, and quietly adore.    

ODE XV. He praiseth Augustus.  
WHen I would sing of noble Fights,  
Of Lofty things in lofty flights;  
Kind Phoebus Harp my Temples struck,  
The trembling strings in Consort shook,  
And answered to the tunes he spoke:  
Thy Ship is weak, he said, forbear,  
And tempt not raging Seas too far.  
Thy Age, great Caesar, gracious Lord,  
Hath Plenty to our Fields restored:  
Proud Parthians captive Arms resign  
To Mighty Jove's and Caesar's Shrine.  
Now noisy Wars and Tumults cease,  
And Janus Temple's barred by Peace:  
Wild Lust is bound in modest chains,  
And Licence feels just order reins:  
Strict Virtue rules, good Laws command;  
And banished Sin forsakes the Land:  
You all those generous Arts renew,  
By which our Infant Empire grew;  
By which her Fame spread vastly wide,  
And carried in Majestic pride  
From East to West serenely shone,  
As far and glorious as the Sun.  
Whilst Caesar lives and rules in Peace,  
No Civil Wars shall break our Ease,  
No Rage that fatal Swords prepares,  
And hurries wretched Towns to Wars:  
Not cruel Geteses though bathed in blood,  
Not those by Tanais faithless stood,  
Not those that drink Danubius' Stream  
Shall glorious Caesar's Laws contem:  
We on our Feast, and working days  
'Midst jovial Cups will gladly praise;  
Our Pious Wives, and prattling Boys  
Shall first the Gods with humble voice,  
And then with Pipes and sounding Verse  
The Heroes noble Acts rehearse;  
Anchises, Troy our Songs shall grace,  
And brave Aeneas Venus happy race.    
The End of the Fourth Book.   

EPODES.  

EPODE I.  

MY Lord, my best, and dearest Friend,  
The chiefest Bulwark of the State;  
In tall Liburnian Ships defend  
Great Caesar's Cause, and prop his Fate.   

Before his danger thrust your own:  
But what shall He that breathes in You,  
That scorns to live when You are gone,  
What shall forsaken Horace do?   

Shall I sit down and take my Ease?  
But without You what joys delight?  
Or steel my softness, stem the Seas,  
Or bolder grow, and dare to fight?   

Or shall I arm my feeble breast,  
And wait on You thro' Alpine Snow,  
Or farthest Regions of the West,  
Where Caesar bids the Valiant go?   

You ask why thus I boldly press,  
And what should feeble I do there,  
My fear, My Lord, will be the less;  
For absence still increases fear.   

Thus Birds on Wing are most afraid  
That Snakes will come when they're away,  
Tho present they're too weak to aid,  
And save the easy Callow prey.   

I would be stout, discard my fears,  
The greatest dangers bravely prove,  
And venture this or other Wars  
In hopes, my Lord, to keep your Love.   

But not to have more Oxen groan  
Beneath my Plows, nor feed more Swains;  
Nor yet as Heat or Cold comes on,  
To drive my Sheep to other Plains:   

Not to enlarge my Country Seat,  
Or get vast heaps of shining Ore;  
Your bounty, Sir, hath made me great,  
And furnished with sufficient store.   

I do not heaps of Gold desire,  
To hide, and have no heart to use,  
As Chremes did; nor Wealth require  
On base Lusts to be profuse.    

EPODE II. The Pleasures of a Country and retired Life.  
HAppy the Man beyond pretence,  
(Such was the State of innocence)  
That loose from Care, from business free,  
From griping Debts and Usury,  
Contented in an humble Fate  
With his own Oxen Ploughs his own Estate:  
No early Trumpet breaks his ease,  
He doth not dread the angry Seas:  
He flies the Bar, from noise retreats,  
And shuns the Nobles haughty Seats.  
But Marrigeable Vines he leads  
To lusty Oaks, and kindly Weds:  
Or carelessly in Valleys strays  
And smiles to see his Oxen graze:  
He prunes his Vines, or grafts his Trees;  
Or shears his Sheep or takes his Bees;  
From Combs well pressed his Honey flows  
Almost as sweet as his repose:  
Or when the mellow Autumn rears  
His Fruitful Head he gathers Pears,  
Or Purple Grapes, and these reward  
With pleasing gifts his Holy Guard;  
thou, Sylvian, and, Priapus Thee  
A Tribute fills from every Tree:  
Now smiles beneath a Myrtle shade  
On flowery Banks supinely laid,  
Whilst near his Head there creeps a Spring,  
And the free Birds around him sing:  
Or Fountains with their murmuring Streams  
Invite to short, and easy Dreams:  
Or when cold Jove hath turned the Year,  
And Rain and Snow and Frost appear,  
He takes his Hounds, strong toils he sets,  
And drives fierce Boars to secret Nets.  
Or springs Tiles in every Bush,  
To take the Blackbird and the Thrush:  
Or Fearful Hare, or stranger Crane  
All sweet rewards do cheer his pain.  
Who midst these pleasing joys does bear,  
The numerous ills of Love and Fear?  
In Towns the Tyrant passions Reign,  
And spread their Cares, but fly the Plain,  
But if a Wife more chaste than Fair,  
(Such as the ancient Sabines were,  
Such as the Brown Apulian Dame,  
Of moderate Face, and honest Fame)  
With equal Care, his Care shall meet,  
And keep the House and Children sweet;  
Against He comes provide a Fire;  
As pure and warm as her desire:  
And with an Honest cheerful smile  
Receive him weary from his toil:  
Pen up herself, and Milk the Kine,  
Then draw a Pot of Country Wine,  
And straight with what her Fields afford  
Doth furnish out an easy board:  
I would not change for all the State  
And costly trouble of the Great;  
Their Oysters, Trout, and all the store  
Of Luxury would take no more;  
Their Fish that catering Storms, to please  
Their Palate, toss from Eastern Seas,  
The Pheasant, Partridge, Quail and Teal  
Would not go down, nor taste as well  
As Olives plucked from laden Boughs,  
Or Sorrel that in Pasture grows;  
Or Mallows sweet extremely good  
For Bodies bound poor wholesome Food,  
Or Lambkins killed a shearing Beast:  
Or rescued from a greedy Beast:  
Amidst these dainties, Oh the vast delight  
To see fed Sheep come home at Night!  
To hear the weary Oxen low  
And almost tired trail back the Blow!  
To see my merry Clowns carouse,  
And swarm about my cleanly House!  
This Alpius said, the famed, and known,  
The griping Usurer of the Town,  
Resolved to leave his Cares and Strife  
And quickly lead a Country Life,  
One week He called his Money in,  
The next He lent it out again:   

EPODE III. To MAECENAS. He shows his dislike to an Onion that made him sick.  
IF any, let's suppose so damned a Rage  
Forget their Duty and their Age;  
And eager to enjoy the whole Estate,  
With impious hands shall hasten Fate,  
And their old Fathers coming Death prevent,  
Let Onions be their Punishment.  
O Reapers Stomaches! Ah! what Poison Reigns,  
What secret fire runs o'er my Veins?  
Hath Viper's blood, or hath Canidia's breath  
Blown o'er my Meat, and mingled Death?  
When Jason did Medea's fancy move,  
And she fixed on him for a Love,  
Before the rest, she gave him this to tame  
The fiery Bulls, and quench their Flame;  
By Presents dipped in this Creusa died,  
And Jason mourned his promised Bride:  
Such furious heat as rages o'er my Veins  
Ne'er scorched the dry Apulian Plains,  
Nor did the flaming Poisonous gift infest  
With half such Heat Alcides' Breast:  
My merry Lord if e'er you taste of this  
May every Maid deny a Kiss;  
But stop her Mouth, cry foh! refuse delight,  
And ne'er lie near Thee all the Night.   

EPODE IV. To Vulteius Mena, a Freedman of Pompey.  
AS much as Lambs with Wolves agree,  
So much, base Sot, do I with thee;  
With Spanish whips thy Sides are torn,  
Thy Legs with heavy shackles worn:  
Tho Fortune smiles and swells thy Mind,  
It gilds, but cannot change the Kind:  
Dost see when Thou with ruffling Gown  
Dost sweep the Mall, how many frown,  
How each that views Thee, screws his Face,  
And justly scorns the gaudy Ass!  
He lately whipped at the Cart's tail,  
The very scandal of the Jail,  
Now vastly rich a mighty Spark  
In Coach and Six flies o'er the Park:  
At Plays he takes the Box, in spite  
Of Otho's Law, a doughty Knight!  
What Honour is't to free the Waves  
From Pirates rage, and tame the Slaves,  
What honour can attend the War  
Where He a Captain claims a share?   

EPODE V. Against the Witch Canidia, where he discovers the Cruelty and Baseness of such Creatures.  

BUt O what ever God dost fill the Sky,  
And rule the Earth and Men below,  
What means that rout? and why  
Each Fury bends on me an angry brow?   

By all thy brood, if e'er Lucina came,  
To real Births, and eased thy throws;  
By Honour's useless name,  
By Jove that sees, and will revenge my Woes.   

Why doth that Stepdame's frown affright?  
That rage thy ghastly form disgrace?  
A hunted Tyger's spite,  
And grinning fury sit upon thy Face?   

Thus sadly spoke the naked lovely Child,  
Which even a Thracian's Soul might move,  
Make raging fury mild  
And in a flinty Bosom kindle love:   

Canidia, Serpents wreathed her shaggy brow,  
Appeared, and these Commands she gave;  
A Funeral Cypress Bough,  
And a wild Figtree rooted from a Grave;   

A Scritch-Owls Feather, Eggs besmeared with blood  
Of croaking Frogs, a Tyger's paws,  
A swelling angry Toad,  
And Bones snatched from a hungry Bitch's jaws:   

Each powerful Herb that in Iberia springs  
To raise strong Love, or Anger tame,  
And all that Colchos brings,  
Go mix, and burn them in a Magic Flame.   

Whilst ready Sagana from beechen Cup  
Poured Stygian Water o'er the Floors,  
Her hair an end stood up  
Like Hedgehogs bristles, or a running Boars:   

But hardened Veja deaf to all remorse  
A little Grave had quickly made;  
She raised her feeble force,  
And joyed to sweat, and groan upon the Spade:   

Where fixed Chin-deep the power unhappy guest  
By looking on his meat must die,  
Whilst they renew the Feast,  
And He stands famished, feeding at his Eye:   

That His dry Marrow, and his raging Heart  
When his weak Senses fail may prove  
Fit for their Magic Art,  
And make Ingredients for a Cup of Love:   

All thought that lustful Floria too was one  
That came to view the horrid sight,  
She that can charm the Moon  
And force the Stars from their fixed seats of light:   

Here fierce Canidia whilst her unpared Nail  
She gnawed with an envenomed Tooth,  
Oh what did she conceal!  
What horrid words broke from her impious mouth!   

Thou Night, thou Moon and all Ye meaner lights  
That charm dull Mortals into sleep,  
And when our sacred Rites  
Are done, an undisturbed silence keep;   

Assist me now with all your strength and rage,  
That I might pay the debts I owe,  
Your greatest force engage  
To wreak my spite on my unhappy Foe;   

Whilst cruel Beasts asleep in Woods are safe,  
Let the Saburran Mastiffs bark,  
('Twill make the Neighbours laugh)  
At the old Lecher creeping in the dark:   

When fierce desire hath raging fury bred  
Then let him walk as Lusts persuade  
With Ointment round his Head  
As strong as e" re my skilful hands have made:   

Ah! what's the matter! where's the Power of Charms  
Which fierce Medea once did prove,  
When with these conquering Arms  
She furiously revenged her injured Love!   

When with a Garment lined with secret flame  
(What will not jealous rage inspire?)  
She burned the lovely Dame,  
And wrapped false Jason's youthful Bride in fire!   

Ah! sure no powerful Herb hath 'scaped my sight,  
In shady Groves or purling Streams;  
And yet He sleeps all night,  
No wanton Miss disturbs him even in Dreams:   

Ah! Ah, some Witch more skilful sets Thee free,  
Unhappy Varus, doomed to ill,  
Thou shalt return to Me;  
I'll force Thee back by an unusual skill:   

With unresisted Art I'll bind thy Soul,  
No Charms shall then thy mind restore;  
I'll mix a stronger Bowl,  
And urge Thee still as Thou dost scorn the more:   

First Heaven shall downward, Earth shall upward move  
And to the Centre Stars retire;  
E'er thou shalt cease to Love,  
Or burn like Brimstone in a smoky Fire:   

The injured Boy enraged no longer strove  
To soften them by mournful Prayer  
And gentle pity move,  
But spoke these dying words in deep despair:   

Poor Charms too weak to alter Humane Fate,  
And hinder Plagues from rage Divine;  
No Blood shall expiate  
So solemn, and so great a Curse as mine.   

When I am dead then I'll a Ghost by Night  
With crooked Nails your jaws invade,  
At every turn affright;  
For that's the force and fury of a Shade.   

Then will I sit upon your fearful Breast,  
And there my dreadful watches keep;  
Disturb approaching rest,  
And drive away the lazy hand of Sleep.   

Thro every Street the Crowd in eager haste  
Shall brain the ugly Hags with Stones,  
And when Death comes at last,  
The Crows shall scatter, Wolves shall break your Bones:   

And this my Parents (ah they must survive,  
And seek in vain, and mourn for Me)  
Tho many years they grieve,  
Grown grey in Tears, shall live and smile to see.    

EPODE VI Against Cassius Severus a very scurrilous and abusive Rhymer.  
BAse coward Cur when harmless strangers come,  
You snarl and bark about the Room;  
But when a fierce and shagged Wolf appears,  
How soon you whine, and hang your Ears!  
Come, make at me, if you resolve to fight,  
For I have Teeth, and dare to bite:  
The generous Mastiff I of Noble sense  
The careful Shepherd's kind defence;  
With Ears an-end thro' Snow and Frost pursue  
What ever Beast I have in view:  
When Thou the Woods with frightful sounds has shaken  
Thou leapest for every little Brook:  
Take heed, take heed, to Rogues a deadly Foe  
I'm still prepared to strike the blow;  
As sharp as fierce Archilochus his Song  
Like Hipponax revenge a wrong;  
If any malice wounds my Fame, shall I  
Like a poor Child sit down and cry?   

EPODE VII. To His Citizens that are ready to engage in another Civil War.  
WHere, Mad men, where? where, so averse to Peace  
Your rusty Swords that slept in ease  
Why drawn? What hath not every Country flowed  
And every Sea with Roman Blood?  
Not to pursue your angry Father's hate,  
And urge proud Carthage rival Fate,  
Nor make the untouched Britan's Slaves to Rome  
And lead them chained in Triumph home;  
But what the Parthians often pray to view  
These Arms are now prepared to do:  
Against yourself, ah me! you raise them all,  
And Rome by her own hand must fall:  
Even Wolves are to more gentle thoughts inclined  
And pray but on another kind:  
What is it Madness, is it stupid Rage  
That doth the brutal Arms engage?  
Or is it Sin? speak, not one word will come;  
'Tis cruel Fate that urges Rome:  
Since Remus fell about thy rising Walls  
His loud-tongued blood for Vengeance calls;  
The Issue then began, and still hath flowed,  
For Blood must be revenged with Blood   

EPODE IX. To MAECENAS. He wishes for the good News of Caesar 's Victory over Mark Antony, that they might be merry as formerly, when Sextus Pompejus was overthrown.  

When will the happy morning come,  
And bring the welcome News to Rome,  
That I, my Lord, with you may Dine,  
And in your stately House  
Full Bowls carouse,  
Preserved for this expected Joy, of racy Wine!   

Where Pipes shall join the speaking string,  
And tuneful Voices gladly sing,  
As you, my Lord, and I have done;  
When Pompey turned his Head  
And basely fled  
Confessing Caesar's Fortune greater than his own:   

His flaming Ships blazed o'er the Wave;  
Whilst flying by the light they gave,  
He left those Chains which faithless He  
Had loosed from servile Hands,  
And threatened Bands  
To happy Rome, by Caesar's Will, and Nature free:   

A Roman (who will credit give  
What future Age this truth receive?)  
Turned Woman's Slave with servile Hands  
A Common Soldier bears  
The drudgery of Wars,  
And can endure her withered Eunuches base Commands:   

Amidst the Arms, dishonest sight!  
The Sun that viewed withdrew the Light,  
As once at cursed Thyestes Feast;  
As 'twere ashamed to see  
The Canopy  
And the great Roman lolling on a Woman's Breast.   

Io Triumph, break delay,  
Why doth the golden Chariot stay?  
And not the promised Oxen fall?  
Io Triumph bring  
The greatest King,  
The Common good, the comfort, and the joy of All:   

Jugurtha's Wars, and Noble Toils  
ne'er showed his Equal graced with Spoils;  
Nor Conquered afric sent to Rome,  
Although his lasting Name  
Is great in Fame,  
And ruin'd Carthage lies to make his noble Tomb:   

Where will the conquered Roman fly  
From Caesar's Hand, and Caesar's Eye?  
What will the Conquered Roman do?  
What Winds, what servile Gales  
Will swell his Sails,  
That on his Master Caesar's may so freely blow?   

More Bowls and larger Bowls my Boy,  
As large as my extensive joy,  
Let Mirth advance my good design;  
'Tis sweet to ease my Cares  
For Caesar's Wars,  
And drown all Melancholy thoughts in noble Wine.    

EPODE X. He wishes Maevius the Poet may be Shipwrackt.  
THat cursed Ship that stinking Maevius bore  
With an ill Omen left the Shore;  
Southwind, besure, you raise the swelling Tides  
And stoutly beat her feeble sides,  
You East-wind turn the Sea and break the Oars,  
And whirl her Sails to distant shores,  
The Northwind rage as when he tears the Woods  
On lofty Hills, and toss the Floods:  
No Friendly Star shine thro' the Cloudy Night  
But sad Orion's watery light:  
Ha! let him now no smother Waves enjoy  
Than those that tossed the Greeks from Troy,  
When Pallas hatred from the flaming Town  
On wicked Ajax Ship was thrown.  
Ha! Ha! what sweat shall from thy Seamen flow,  
And what Death-pale spread o'er thy Brow!  
What Woman's cries, and what unmanly Tears  
What vows to Jove's relentless Ears!  
When South-winds rattling o'er th' Ionian Tide  
Shall beat thy Ship, and break her side  
Then if I see thee spread a dainty dish  
To hungry Fowl, and greedy Fish,  
A Goat and Lamb shall then my Vows perform,  
And both shall die to think the Storm.   

EPODE XI. To PETTIUS. Love hinders him from Writing any more.  

AH I have lost my old delight,  
Now Muse can now my fancy move,  
My Rhymes displease, I hate to write,  
Now I am very deep in Love:   

Love that doth still my Heart surprise,  
And single me from constant game,  
From Boys and Maidens charming Eyes  
He thro' my Marrow scatters Flame.   

Three Stormy Winter's now have shaken  
The levy Honour from the Tree,  
Since I disdained Inachia's Yoke,  
And dared to set my passion free.   

Oh what a Town-talk then was I,  
How Fops did wanton, with my Fame,  
And (when I think on't how I die)  
All ridiculed my foolish Flame!   

Oh how it grates to mind the Feasts  
Where thoughtful silence seemed to prove,  
And a deep sigh would tell the Guests  
That Poet Horace was in Love!   

When Wine unlocked my easy Soul  
How often I with sighs have told  
The Poor Man's Wit could not control  
The giving Rival's mighty Gold!   

Yet, Faith, if vexed my rage will rise,  
And when these hated Chains are broke,  
I'll leave these dull complaints, be wise,  
And scorn to take another Yoke.   

Yet after this was stoutly said,  
And constant I resolved to hate;  
My heedless Feet my mind betrayed,  
And brought Me to the usual Gate:   

That cruel Gate, and used to scorn,  
Where I have lain, and lain denied;  
Where I whole tedious Nights have born  
And crazed my Health, and bruised my Side.   

Lycestris now of greater Charms  
Than all that grace proud Womankind,  
Doth gently force me to his Arms;  
With pleasing Bands he draws my Mind:   

And now let my free Friends advise,  
Or let them blame; 'tis all in vain,  
Too feeble they to break the ties  
When Love and Beauty make the Chain.   

Of freedom I must still despair,  
Unless some Maid or lovely Boy  
With kill looks, and Charming hair,  
Shall draw me to another joy.    

EPODE XIII. He adviseth his Friends to pass their time merrily.  

DArk Clouds have thickened all the Sky,  
And Jove descends in Rain;  
With frightful noise rough Storms do fly  
Thro Seas and Woods, and humble Plain.   

My noble Friends the Day persuades,  
Come, come, let's use the Day;  
Whilst we are strong, ere Age invades,  
Let Mirth our coming years delay:   

Put briskly round the noble Wine,  
And leave the rest to Fate,  
Jove, chance, will make the Evening shine,  
And bring it to a clearer State:   

Now, now your fragrant Odours spread,  
Your merry Harps prepare;  
'Tis time to cleanse my aching Head,  
And purge my drooping thoughts from Care.   

Thus Chiron sang in lofty strain  
And taught Achilles' Youth;  
Great Thetis Son, the pride of Man,  
Observe, I tell Thee fatal truth:   

Thee, Thee for Troy the God's design  
Where Simois streams do play,  
Scamander's thro' the Valleys twine  
And softly eat their easy way:   

And there thy thread of Life must end  
Drawn o'er the Trojan Plain,  
In vain her Waves shall Thetis send  
To bear Thee back to Greece again:   

Therefore, Great Son, my Precepts hear;  
Let Mirth, and Wine, and Sport,  
And merry Talk divert thy Care,  
And make Life pleasant since 'tis short.    

EPODE XIV. To MAECENAS. Love hinders him from making the iambics which He had so often promised.  
YOu ask, My Lord, why lazy sloth hath spread  
A dark oblivion o'er my Head;  
As I had drank forgetful Lethe's Stream;  
And this is your continual Theme;  
This the Complaint I am Condemned to hear,  
Like Death it pierces thro' my Ear:  
A God forbids me, (ah! a cruel God  
Regardless, Sir, of what I vowed)  
(To other things my easy Mind he drew)  
To finish what I promised you:  
Thus soft Anachrean for Bathyllus burned,  
And oft his Love he sadly mourned:  
He to his Harp did various grief rehearse,  
And wept in an unpolisht Verse:  
Even, Sir, you Love, but if no brighter Flame  
Burnt Troy, caress thy lovely Dame:  
By Phyrne, ah! thy Horace is undone,  
False, fair, and not content with one.   

EPODE XV. To NEAERA. He complains of breach of Promise.  
'TWas Midnight, and the rising Moon  
Amongst the lesser Stars serenely shone,  
When you the false, the Perjured you  
Devoutly Swore you would be always true:  
Scarce half so close doth Ivy twine  
Round Oaks, as you did then your Arms in mine:  
As long as Wolves pursue the Sheep,  
As long as Winter Storms shall toss the deep:  
As long as wanton Gales shall move  
Apollo's Locks, so long shall be my Love.  
Perjured Neaera false as Hell,  
Yet fair as Heaven, and ah belov'd too well,  
How shalt thou mourn at my disdain!  
For sure if Horace be but half a Man,  
He'll scorn to bear repeated slights,  
Nor tamely see his Rival's happy Nights;  
But with an equal Flame pursue  
A Face as fair, though not so false as you:  
And know when I begin to hate,  
I'll ne'er be kind, I am as fixed as Fate:  
And Thou, the Blessed, whoever thou art  
The fancied happy Master of her Heart;  
That dost thy Conquests proudly boast,  
And Triumphest in the spoils that I have lost,  
Tho Thou art rich as Miser's Dreams,  
And though Pactolus brought Thee all his Streams,  
Tho Famed Pythagoras Arts be thine,  
Thy Face more fair than Nireus, half Divine;  
Yet thou shalt mourn to find that she  
Doth prove as false as once to Me,  
And then 'twill be my turn to laugh at Thee.   

EPODE XVI. To the People of Rome. He adviseth them to leave the Town, which He thinks doomed to Civil Wars.  
NOw Civil Wars do waste another Age,  
And Rome must fall by her own rage;  
What neighbouring Marsi with an envious Hand,  
What threatening Porsen's Tuscan Band,  
Fierce Spartaeus, and Capua's rival Fate,  
The force of all the Germane State;  
What in unsettled times the faithless Gaul,  
The Mother-hated Hannibal,  
Could not destroy, We, We, an impious Brood  
Devoted still, and doomed to Blood,  
Shall ruin now by force of Civil Wars,  
And leave our Towns to Wolves and Bears:  
Ah me! the barbarous Horse with sounding Feet  
Shall tread our Graves, and beat our Street,  
And madly, scatter, Oh too proud! unjust!  
Rome's glorious Founder's quiet dust!  
Perhaps the most, or better part would know  
What way to shun the falling blow,  
I like that way the Phoceans once have gone;  
They all forsook their cursed Town,  
And did their Lands, their Fields and Shrines restore  
To ravenous Wolf and angry Boar:  
Let's go, let's go, and seek a place to live  
Where Chance directs, or Wind shall drive:  
Agreed? or does some better Course appear?  
Come let's embark the Omen's fair:  
But first let's swear we'll then return again  
When Rocks shall float upon the Main,  
When lowly Po shall pour his Crystal Urn  
O'er Alpine Tops then we'll return;  
When Apennine runs out, and cuts the Floods,  
When nimble Dolphins graze in Woods,  
When wondrous Lust strange kinds shall strangely join,  
Fierce Tigers leap the willing Kine,  
The fearless Does shall court the Lion's Love  
And cruel Hawks gallant the Dove:  
When Goats grown smooth shall leave the flowery Plain,  
And dive and wanton in the Main:  
To this, and such as cut off sweet return  
When we have all devoutly sworn,  
Let's go Cursed Town, but let the soft and base,  
Still stick to their unhappy place:  
You Men of worth unmanly grief give o'er  
And nimbly pass the Tuscan Shore,  
The Ocean waits, and in smooth calmness smiles,  
Let's go and seek the happy Isles,  
Where Fields untilled a Yearly Harvest bear  
And Vines undressed bloom all the Year:  
Where Olives ne'er the Farmer's hopes do mock,  
And ripe figs grace their proper Stock:  
There Hony flows from Oaks, from lofty Hills,  
With murmuring pace the Fountain trills,  
There Goats uncalled return from fruithful Vales  
And bring stretched Duggs to fill the Pails:  
No Bear grinns round the Fold, No Lambs He shakes;  
No Field swells there with poisonous Snakes:  
More we shall wonder on the happy Plain;  
The Watery East descends in Rain,  
Yet so as to refresh, not drown the Fields,  
The temperate Glebe full Harvest yields;  
No heat annoys, the Ruler of the Gods  
From Plagues secures these blessed Abodes:  
Here Jason never fixed swift Argos Oars,  
Nor base Medea touched these Shores;  
Never Cadmus came when forced by angry Fates,  
Nor stout Ulysses weary Mates:  
No rot here Reigns, no Star here taints the Meads,  
And poisonous Heat unkindly sheds;  
When Jove allayed the golden Age with Brass,  
For Pious men He kept this place:  
Now Iron hardens the old Brazen Age,  
And Fraud grows up, and Wars, and Rage,  
And every Ill, I press a quick retreat,  
And show the good, the happy seat.   

EPODE XVII. To CANIDIA. He confesseth Her Magic Power, and begs pardon for abusing Her.  
NOw, now thy Power I Conquered own,  
And humbly beg by Pluto's Throne,  
By Powers below, by Proserpina,  
by fierce Diana's angry shrine,  
By all those Charms that can remove;  
And call down Stars from Seats above,  
Recall thy stroke, thy Charms forbear,  
Spare me at last, Canidia, spare:  
Achilles Teleph nobly spared,  
Tho with his Mysian Bands He Vvarred:  
Tho boldly He opposed His Fate,  
And buoyed the sinking Trojan State:  
Stout Hector doomed to Beasts a Prey  
The Trojan Matrons bore away  
When Priam midst the Grecian Fleet  
Had fallen at proud Achilles' Feet:  
By Circe's leave Ulysses Men  
Received their former shapes again;  
Their Limbs, their Minds, and Voice restored,  
They spoke, not grunted to their Lord:  
Enough, enough hath vexed my Soul,  
O Tar's and Tinker's lovely Trull!  
My Youth, my rosy Cheeks are gone,  
And left pale Skin stretched o'er the Bone:  
My Head grows white, it feels thy Bane,  
No Ease doth lay me down from Pain,  
Days urge the Nights, and Nights the Days,  
Yet my swollen Heart can find no Ease:  
Now I'm convinced, 'tis now confessed  
Thy force hath reached my troubled Breast:  
Now I'm convinced by wondrous Harms  
My Head is split with Magic Charms:  
My slow Belief I sadly Mourn;  
What more? O Earth, O Floods, I burn!  
Not half the Heat Alcides bore  
When fired by Nessus Poisonous Gore:  
Not half the Heat in Aetna Reigns,  
That scorches o'er my boiling Veins:  
Yet still you heat till I'm calcined  
To Dust, and scattered by the Wind:  
What end of Pain? What hope for ease:  
Speak, Speak, I'll suffer what you please,  
I'm eager to avoid my Fate  
And satisfy at any rate;  
A Hundred Bulls shall pay their blood,  
Or Lying Verse proclaim Thee good;  
chaste, Modest, Just, thou shalt appear,  
And walk midst Stars a glorious Star:  
Great Castor vexed at Helen's wrong  
With blindness paid the railing Song;  
Yet Prayers prevailed, He heard his Cries,  
And soon restored the Poet's Eyes:  
And now forget my cursed Offence,  
Restore (thou canst) my perished sense,  
O nobly Born and nobly Bred,  
Thou ne'er hadst skill to raise the Dead,  
Unbind the Poor Man's quiet Urn  
Or make his shivering Soul return;  
Nor scatter Ashes o'er a Tomb;  
As chaste as fruitful is thy Womb,  
And e'er thy Childbed clothes are clean,  
Strange Breeder Thou art well again.  

CANIDIA 's Answer.  
I'm deaf, I'm deaf, thou beg'st in vain;  
Rocks beaten by the raging Main,  
Not half so deaf will sooner hear  
The naked sinking Mariner:  
Couldst Thou Cotytto's Rites reprove,  
Disclose my Mysteries of Love,  
Could Censuring you my Tricks proclaim,  
And fill the Country with my Fame?  
At all my Arts profanely laugh,  
Yet clare to fancy to be safe?  
In vain thou shalt, in vain enrich  
With precious Gifts the famous Witch;  
In vain strong Drugs and Charms require;  
Fate shall be slow to thy desire:  
Wretch, hated Life shall still remain  
That thou mightst bear new racks of Pain:  
False Tantalus doth beg for rest  
Deluded by the hanging Feast.  
Condemned the griping Vultur's Prey  
Prometheus begs a dying Day:  
Poor Sisyphus would fix his Stone  
But Jove forbids it to be done.  
Now thou from Towers shalt madly fall,  
Now run thy Head against a Wall;  
And tired at last with squeamish pain  
Shalt tie the noose, but tie in vain:  
Then on thy neck I'll bravely ride,  
And make Thee bend beneath my Pride:  
Shall I that can when e'er I please  
Waste men by waxen Images?  
Shall I that can, as thou hast known,  
(Cursed prying Thou!) eclipse the Moon,  
Drawn down the Stars from Seats above  
And mix a furious Cup of Love,  
Shall powerful I now grieve to see  
My force too weak to baffle Thee?    
The End of the Epodes.   

M Burghers sculp. SATYRS.  

BOOK I.  

The Heads of the first satire. 

(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 discontent?  
Why All dislike the State that Chance hath sent,  
Or their own Choice procured? why All repent?  
The weary Soldier now grown old in Wars,  
With bleeding Eyes looks o'er his Wounds and Scars;  
Curse that ere I the trade of War began,  
Ah me! the Merchant is a happy Man:  
The Merchant, when the Waves and Winds are high,  
Cries, happy happy Men at Arms; for why,  
You fight, and straight comes Death, or joyful Victory.  
The Lawyer that's disturbed before 'tis light  
By restless Clients, or that wakes all night,  
Grows sick; and when He finds his rest is gone,  
Cries, 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 Neighbour's fate,  
'Twould tyre even bawling Fabius to relate.  
But to be short, see I'll adjust the Thing:  
Suppose some God should say I'll please you now,  
You Lawyer leave the Bar and take the Plough;  
You Soldier 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,  
Although 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 Soldier 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 Toil 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 Labour) 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 lies 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 toil 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 waist on,  
'Twould all run out, and I should be undone;  
Why prithee what is't good for till 'tis gone?  
In thy vast Barns great stores of Corn do lie,  
Yet thou canst eat perhaps no more than I:  
The Slaves that bear the weighty Flasks of bread,  
With small and barley Loafs are hardly fed.  
They sweat 'tis true, and with the burden groan,  
But eat no more than He that carries none:  
Besides, what difference prithee 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 stored;  
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 rolling 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'er I come,  
I bless myself to see my bags at home:  
Poor wretched Tantalus, as Stories tell,  
(And that's the worst, the Cursedest Plague in Hell)  
Stands up chin deep in an o'er 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'er thy heaps, yet 'midst thy store  
thou'rt almost starved for Want, and still art poor:  
You fear to touch as if You robbed a Saint,  
And use no more than if 'twere Gold in paint:  
You only know how Wealth may be abused,  
Not what 'tis good for, how it can be used;  
'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 Thiefs 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 happiest 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:  
Prithee fond fool for this ne'er 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 rain  
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 increase thy store,  
Thy fears rise too that Thou shalt once be poor.  
Act not Uvidius, (come, the Story's short,  
The tale is tragic, 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 threadbare Servant that he had;  
His Shoes still clouted, and He always cried,  
That He should starve for want before he died:  
Him his Whore snapped, and with a lusty blow  
(Well struck I'faith) she cloven 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 Extremes 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 fixed, and all is Good that lies within,  
And all without on either side is Sin.   

3.  
But to return to that where I began,  
Is none so pleased as the rich greedy Man?  
Is none like him contented with his state,  
But rather praise and crave another's sat?  
When others Cows do give more milk than his  
Is He not vexed? 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 outstrip him; but never mind  
The lazy distanced 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'll hold my Tongue.    

satire II.  
The Heads of the second satire. 

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

1.  
THe Players, Pimps, and Hector's 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,  
Although he dies 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 straight, I hate to be confined,  
I have no sordid, nor a narrow Mind;  
No, I a free and generous humour love;  
And this some discommend, and some approve.  
Fusidius rich in Money out at Use,  
And Lands, yet fears to be esteemed profuse;  
For five times double He would Sums engage,  
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 cries He is undone,  
The most unhappy Man the Sun can see,  
Yet lived not half so bad a Life as He:  
And all this proves whilst Fools one Vice condemn  
They run into the Opposite Extreme:  
Malthin with Gowns below his heels is graced,  
Another Humorist tucks them to his waist:  
Rufillus smells like any Civet Cat,  
Gorgonius like a Goat, or worse than that:  
Men keep no Mean; One, when his Blood boils o'er,  
Will take a Matron only for his Whore,  
Whilst 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 married City Dame:  
But Cupien says, I'll not be praised 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 pleased to hear my Muse explain  
What small delight they with great danger gain,  
And how their Pleasure's sadly mixed with Pain:  
For one found faulty with another's Wife  
Must from a Window leap to save his life:  
Another's finely kicked and jilted too,  
Or taken, bribe's the Slaves to let him go:  
Another's kicked 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 Sallust so admires, and so adores,  
As much as those that use the married 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 ruin 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 ruined 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 intrinsically ill,  
And scandalous in its self? to wast thy Time,  
Thy Fame, or thy Estate is such a Crime,  
'Tis bad on whomsoever you lose it all,  
Or Matron, Common-Whore, or Abigal:  
Young vilius He to Sylla's Daughter kind,  
Almost a Son in Law, so oft He sinned  
Poor wretch, thus cheated, smarted o'er and o'er;  
Being sound beaten, stabbed, kicked out of Door,  
Whilst poor Longarenus clasped the jilting Whore:  
Suppose his Whore-Pipe now being vexed 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 bestowed, how small denied?  
If you distinguish well, if well design,  
No things forbidden with the granted join:  
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, though 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'er 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 Jockies, when a Horse is set to sale,  
Take off the Covering-Cloaths, and look on all;  
Lest by a well-shaped Neck and cleanly made  
The greedy Chapman be at last betrayed,  
And buys a spavined or a foundered Jade:  
This care is good, thus when you choose a Lass,  
Be not too Eagle-eyed 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 Waste 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 covered with the Gown:  
But if you'd taste, for that doth raise thy heat,  
A Dainty but forbidden Dish of Meat:  
There are a thousand stops, a thousand spies,  
A Chambermaid, a Footboys curious Eyes,  
These must be feed, and each will claim his share,  
Besides a Gown doth hide the precious Ware:  
But now a trading Girl is freely showed,  
You see her Naked, or almost as good;  
Her Coats are thin, and you may fairly try  
If straight her Waste, Feet Good, if plump her Thigh,  
There's free admission to the Chapman's Eye:  
Would 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 easy prey,  
But hotly follows that that flies away:   

What canst Thou think that this mean Verse can tame  
Thy wild Desires, that this can quench thy Flame?  
And doth not Nature steady Rules ordain,  
Fixed Laws which should thy wildest wish contain,  
And which divide the solid Goods from vain?  
Doth She not tell, what she would have supplied,  
And what She cannot bear to be denied?  
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 refused 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 easy Price:  
And says, Yes, when my Husband's out of Doors,  
Or, Sir, One Guiney more, and I am yours:  
Sesse Philodem let patient Eunuches Court  
Such formal Ladies, I'm for quicker Sport:  
I love a Miss that flies into my Arms,  
And sets at easy rate her tempting Charms,  
Let her be straight and fair, of comely grace,  
And let her bring no more than Nature's face:  
Whilst we embrace, whilst She my Arms doth fill,  
She's my Egeria, or what e'er I will:  
Then I'll fear nothing, for no harm can come,  
No jealous Husband is returning home,  
No Doors broke open, or the Servants raised,  
Whilst She poor Wretch starts from my Arms amazed,  
And with a guilty shriek cries I'm undone,  
Oh now I'm caught, and all my Joynture's gone;  
(For that's the Punishment of married Whores)  
Whilst I poor guilty Rogue sneak out of Doors,  
Unbuttoned, and barefoot, to shun the Shame,  
And save my Purse, my Flesh, or else my Fame:  
Then leave the married Women, be advised,  
'Tis sad, ask Fabius else, to be surprised.    

satire III.  
The Heads of the Third satire. 

(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 Stoics 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 soar Throat:  
But unrequested than 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 straight 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,  
Although '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 Man's designs like his do disagree,  
None lives so contrary to himself as Herald   

2.  
Ay, but says One, have you no fault like this?  
Yes, Sir, I have, Perhaps as great as his:  
When Menius railed at Novius, how, says One,  
Dost know thyself, 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 dost 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 dost find their faults, so They will thine;  
Perhaps He's pettish, and He's apt to rage,  
He cannot bear the Raillery of the Age,  
Perhaps he doth not wear his clothes gentile,  
His Shoe is not well made, nor sits it well:  
He may be flouted, and be jeered for this;  
Yet He's an honest Man as any is:  
He is thy Friend, and though the Case be foul,  
It holds a Learned, and a Noble Soul.  
Lastly, look o'er thyself 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 ourselves 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 pleased Balbine's Eye;  
I wish this Error in our Friendship reigned,  
Or had the credit of a Virtue gained,  
As Fathers hide Sons faults or else commend,  
We should excuse the failures of our Friend:  
A Father that hath got a Squint-eyed Boy  
Cries 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 Virtues into Vice:  
If any lives a sober honest life,  
Puts up Affronts, and shuns disturbing Strife,  
A mean, we straight exclaim, and Chicken Soul:  
And one that's slow, We call a thick-sculled 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 Maecenas, and now freely own)  
Impertinent Discourse or Questions brings,  
Or jogs Another whilst He reads or sings,  
Or sits a musing upon other things:  
We straight grow Mad, we'll hear no just defence;  
Pox, He's a Dolt, He wants even Common Sense;  
What Customs, ah! what Rules have Men designed?  
And how unjust, and to themselves unkind!  
There's none but hath some fault, and he's the best,  
Most Virtuous he, that's spotted with the least:  
A kind good natured Friend that strives to prove  
And know the Man that he intends to love,  
And weighs my Virtues, and my Faults, 'tis just  
(If happily my Virtues prove the most,)  
To let that Scale go down; and if on this  
He'll be a Friend, I'll 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 proportioned to the faults:  
When Supper's done a Slave removes the Dish,  
And spills the Broth, or else le's fall the Fish;  
Now should the Master stab the Slave for this,  
He would be thought more mad than Labeo is:  
But how more mad are we, and more severe!  
Our Friends but little, and but seldom Err,  
(And such small Faults good Natures ne'er resent;  
They sin as Men must do, and may repent.)  
But yet for this we hate, for this we eat,  
As Bankrupts, Risio, the notorious Dun;  
Who, when the Calends come, severely sues,  
And if the Debtor doth not pay the Use,  
He's clapped in Jail, and hears a tedious Bill,  
A kill Scroll, Item, and Item still:  
My Friend got drunk, perhaps hath fouled my bed,  
Or bruised a Cup by neat Evander made,  
Or snatched away a Chicken from my Plate,  
And must I love my Friend the less for that?  
What should I do then if he proved unjust,  
Refused to bail me, Thieved or broke his Trust?  
Those that hold Vices equal seem distressed,  
When leaving Sophistry they come tothth' 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, than 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 civilised the brutish Creature Man:  
Then they built Towns, and settled Right and Just,  
And Laws to curb our Rapine, and our Lust;  
For long ere Helen's time a thousand died,  
Then thousands fought to get a beauteous Bride:  
But unrecorded fell, like Beasts they strayed,  
Each caught his willing Female and enjoyed:  
Till one more strong killed him, and was preferred,  
Just as the greatest Bull amongst the Herd:  
Look o'er the Word's old Records, there's the Cause.  
'Twas fear of wrong that made us make our Laws:  
By Naked Nature ne'er was understood  
What's Just and Right, as what is Bad and Good,  
What fit and what unfit for Flesh and Bood:  
Nor Reason shows to break a Garden Hedge,  
Should be as great a Crime as Sacrilege:  
Let Rules be fixed that may our Rage contain,  
And punish faults with a Proportioned pain:  
And do not flay him, do not run him through,  
That only doth deserve a kick or two:  
For I ne'er fear that Thou wilt prove too kind,  
To too much Pity viciously inclined,  
That canst hold Vices Equal, and believe  
To Robs no greater Crime than 'tis to Thieve;  
And who would punish all with equal hand  
If Thou were't King, and hadst the full Command:  
If he that's wise and skilful in his Trade,  
Tho but a Cobbler, must be neatly made,  
Be rich, be fair, be handsome and a King;  
Why dost 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, though He holds his Tongue,  
Is skilled in Music and can set a Song;  
And suffling Alfen though he lost his Awl,  
And threw away his Last, and shut his Stall;  
And broke his Threads, yet was a Cobbler 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 kicked, derided, scorned and jeered,  
Till thou dost 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'll live secure, and free from Cares,  
A happier Private Man, Than Thou a King.    

satire IU.  
The Heads of the Fourth satire.  

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

1. CRatin and Eupolis that lashed 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 showed the Man, and boldly told his Name;  
This is Lucilius' 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 flowed,  
Some few pure Streams appeared amongst the mud:  
In writing much 'tis true his Parts excel,  
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 Critic, 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 refined,  
Are puffing still, and all but empty wind.   

2. Fannius was happy, whom the public praise  
Preferred to Phoebus' shrine, and Crowned 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 married Whores, another Boys desires,  
One Silver's white, and Alpius Brass admires:  
Another runs from East to West to cheat,  
Like Dust by Whirlwinds tossed 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 than what e'er He writes flies o'er the Town,  
To Pimps, to Hector's, 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'm no Poet, for to make me one  
'Tis not enough to fetter words in Rhyme,  
And make a tedious and a jingling Chime;  
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 Father's rage,  
They storm, and swear, and crack the trembling Stage,  
A Rogue, a Dog, I'll kick him out of Door;  
When his young Stripling courts a Jilting Whore,  
And slights a noble Match; or stowed with drink,  
Even 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 inquire how Men should hate  
This way of writing satire, and for what:  
Capri and Sulce, those Terrors of the Jail,  
Both hoarse with pleading walk the Common-Hall,  
Their green Bags stusst with Bills, Indictments, Breves,  
A mighty Terror those to Knaves and Thiefs;  
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'm not like Sulce or Capri, why dost fear,  
And why dread me? My Book's not set to Sale,  
Thumbed by the Rabble upon every Stall,  
The Rascal scum, Hermogenes and All:  
I seldom do rehearse, and when I do,  
I'm forced 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' public Marketplace recite,  
And trouble all they meet with what they write:  
Nay whilst they Bath, They studiously rehearse,  
The Echoes raise the Voice and grace the Verse:  
Thus act our Fops, and without fear or wit,  
Never considering if the Seasons fit,  
Or time convenient: Well, but what you write  
Doth hurt men's 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 scandalised, and not defends,  
Sports with their Fame, and speaks what e'er He can,  
And only to be thought a Witty Man,  
Tells Tales, and brings his Friend in disesteem,  
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 spite 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 ere I write,  
In me 'tis all detraction, and 'tis spite:  
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'm glad at heart that He is freed;  
And yet I wonder how He 'scapt; 'tis right,  
This, this is base detraction, this is spite:  
This, If I know myself, ne'er relished me,  
My Books from this, I'm 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 tutored and advised 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 stolen joys, and with another's Wife;  
Use what the Laws permit, and be advised,  
Trebonius got no credit when surprised:  
Philosophers perhaps may show the Cause,  
And talk of Reason and of Nature's Laws,  
Why some things should be hated, some admired,  
And why avoided some, and some desired,  
But 'tis enough for me to form thy mind,  
And leave it to the Ancients rules inclined,  
And whilst Thou want'st a Tutor, keep thy Name  
And manners spotless, and preserve thy Fame;  
For when a Man, than thou must walk alone,  
No prudent care to guide Thee but thy own:  
Thus he advised; What e'er 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 cries,  
Is not this bad when such and such a One  
Is scandalised 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 Friend's advice;  
For when I lie or when I walk alone,  
I usually revolve what I have done;  
This may be bettered 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 leisure 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'll force you take that side you now refuse.    

satire V.  
The Heads of the Fifth satire. 

(1.) A Description of his journey to Brundisium, with all the various occurrences in the way.    
FRom stately Rome I walked a little way,  
And reached 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 thronged, and those alone;  
We made two days on't hither, though 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 Taste,  
And hurt the Stomach, I resolved to fast;  
And envied those that Supped, now Night appears  
And o'er 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 tie the Mule, a whole hour slips away:  
The Boat was full of Fleas, and those molest,  
And croaking Frogs all night disturbed our rest:  
The Mule-man and the Boat-man sat up late,  
Both drunk, and sang a Catch of merry Kate:  
At last the weary Mule-man rolls to Bed,  
With fiery Eyes, swollen Guts, and aching head:  
The Boat-man too resolved to work no more,  
But tied his Mule to graze along the shore,  
Then fell asleep, and there all night doth snore:  
And now the Sun climbed o'er the Eastern Hill,  
And showed the Day, but yet our Boat stood still;  
Till one, a surly fellow, leapt from far,  
And back and side He cudgeled drowsy 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 Maecenas was to meet me there,  
With good Cocceius sent on great Affair,  
On Embassies, 'twas their delightful toil  
To make new Friends, and Enemies reconcile:  
And here because my travelling did inflame,  
I dressed my Eyes, mean while Maecenas came,  
Cocceius, Capito, and Fronto—  
That Fronto delicate in mind and face,  
And great with Antony as any was:  
At little Fundi we refused to bait,  
But laughed at proud Aufidiu's Pomp and State;  
A Scrivener lately, now with Mace and Gown  
He huffs, and proudly Lords it o'er the Town:  
To Formiae next; There Capito meat affords,  
Murena Lodging, so we lived 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 Lodged, and as the Custom stood  
The Villagers presented Salt and Wood:  
Next Stage was Capua, there we made a stay,  
We came betimes, Maecenas went to play,  
Virgil and I to Bed, my Eyes were sore,  
His stomach sick, and so we both forbore:  
And next we reached Cocceius Farm at night;  
A pleasant Seat, and stored with all delight:  
But now assist my Muse, and now relate  
How two base fellows quarrelled, 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 untamed 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 Mimic Polyphem; No Art,  
No Vizor thou dost need, for thou art rough,  
And Nature's given Thee ugliness enough.  
This Messius stomaches, and replies again,  
Well, Sir, when will you Consecrate the Chain  
You vowed the Lar? now you're mighty proud,  
A Scribe, yet still your Lady's claim is good:  
But why I wonder shouldst Thou run away?  
A poor thin-gutted Rogue; sure he might stay  
That feasted on an halfpenny 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 Chimney fired,  
And flames as hungry to the Roofs aspired:  
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 proved too great a toil,  
But small Trevicum gave us rest a while,  
We stayed, quite blinded in a smoky 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'er, and checked my fire:  
But then some wanton Dreams, too loose to tell,  
Supplied her place, and did the feat as well:  
Thence four and twenty Miles in four hours' time,  
To a small place whose name won't stand in Rhyme:  
But yet by Signs 'tis very easily known:  
First then, the Water's scarce o'er all the Town;  
The cheapest Thing that Nature hath bestowed  
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 Diomedes,  
The Nymphs averse, 'tis like the former, poor,  
Nor can it boast one Quart of Water more:  
Here Varius left us, but appeared to be  
Concerned 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 reigned all day:  
Next Morn the Sky was fair, the Wether 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 easy Faith beguile,  
Would needs persuade that in their Sacred Choir  
Sweet Incense 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 Brundisium, there I left my Friends,  
And so my Story and my Journey Ends.   

satire VI.  
To MAECENAS. 

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

1. BEcause thy Veins are filled 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 Mother's 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 filled the Honours that the People gave:  
But Noble Laevin though Valeria's Son  
(By whose wise Conduct this great State begun,  
When Tarquin They, the lofty and the Proud,  
Expelled) was never valued by the Crowd:  
The Crowd those Common Slaves to empty Fame,  
That more than the Deserts regard the Name,  
Dazzled with Family and gaudy 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 choose;  
And grant the surly Censor Appius scorn,  
And shove me off, because but meanly born  
Or else deservedly '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 Honours, spread thy gaudy 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 straight turn to the unusual State,  
And studiously inquire, what Fellow's that?  
What Family? As one that shows a face  
Poxed, Meager, Pale, and such as Barrus has,  
Yet would be handsome thought. Where e'er He goes  
The Lady's cry, look how the fellow shows,  
And straight 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'er Citizens, and hang and draw?  
My Colleague Novius, Sir, is mean to me,  
He's what my Father was, a Slave made Free.  
What then, doth that ennoble 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 myself the Son of a Freedman,—  
Whom Envious Eyes and Envious Tongues pursue,  
Because, My Lord, I am beloved 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 Honour's Chance can send,  
Yet may not be displeased that you're my friend:  
Since neither Fancy nor the popular 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 retired; at nine months' end  
You sent for me, and bade me be your Friend:  
And this I think is great, this makes me proud,  
That I pleased you, who know what's bad from good,  
By Virtue, not by Nobleness of Blood:   

4. If only little stains do spot my Soul,  
(As perfect Beauties often have a Mole)  
Tho I'm 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  
Myself) I live beloved 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-man's 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 dressed  
I walked thro' Rome, that those that viewed me, guest  
I was a Man of Wealth, a Knight at least.  
Himself my carefullest Guardian watched me still,  
In short, He so suppressed the growth of ill,  
That (virtue's height) not only kept me pure  
From vicious Deeds, but ill repute secure:  
Nor did He fear the Censuring World should blame  
His high designs, or I be damned with shame,  
If after all his Cost I should be made  
A Common Crier, or a meaner Trade;  
Or else, as He himself, have poorly lived  
A mean Excise-man, nor should I have grieved:  
I owe more thanks, and more respect for this,  
Nor shall I e'er, whatever Fops advise,  
Repent of such a Father if I'm 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 choose 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 used to bear:  
For straight 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 bobtailed Mule all galled and sore,  
My Wallet galls behind, my Spurs before;  
I ride when ere 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'er my fancies lead,  
And busy 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 myself with Oil,  
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 unloosed 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.    

satire VII.  
A Scolding Lawsuit between Persius and Rupilius, surnamed The King.  
HOw mongrel Persius paid Rupilius off,  
Surnamed the King, that banished railing Huff,  
And gave him Quid for Quo, I think is known  
To all the Blind and Barber's shops in Town:  
This Persius' rich half Asia did molest  
With Lawsuits, 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 Diomedes did oppose,  
The weaker yields unable to defend,  
And gives the other bribes to be his Friend.  
When Brutus Asia ruled, this railing Pair,  
Not Byth' and Bacchus were a Match so fair,  
Began their Suit; away to Court they run  
Both hot, and gazed 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'er our fields.  
Thus heedlessly he still pursued his Theme,  
As fierce and muddy as a Winter's Stream.  
The King enraged at this, and swollen with hate,  
Empties his Stomach strait in Billingsgate;  
The finest Rhetoric the World hath known,  
The very inside of a Bawling Clown.  
But Persius nettled with his sharp replies,  
At last, Brutus, since Thou art wont, He cries,  
To murder Kings; for Heaven's sake why not This?  
For this would prove a good and great design,  
Brutus, this aught to be an act of thine.   

satire VIII.  
The Heads of the Eighth satire. 

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

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 Thiefs:  
My Hook and my vast Pole the Thiefs affright,  
And keep the Garden safe from Rogues by night:  
My ghastly Head is Crowned with staring Reed,  
To fright the Sparrows from the new-sown Seed;   

2.  
This Plate 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 Corpse were thrown,  
They got this Plate when they had spent their own.  
A thousand Foot in length, three hundred broad  
As the Inscription shows, by Will bestowed  
For Public Use, and for the Common Good.  
But now where only frightful Bones were seen,  
That Chequered with a ghastly White the Green,  
Maecenas built a Summer's soft retreat:  
The Air is Good, and 'tis a pretty Seat.  
And now I take but very little Care,  
For Thiefs and Birds that come and rifle here;  
The troublesome Witches vex me more than They,  
Those Wretches I can never drive away:  
For when the Moon is up, each comes and pulls  
Her poisonous Herbs, or gathers Bones and Skulls.   

3.  
I oft have seen the Hag Canidia there,  
Barefoot, Her Coat tuck't short, and lose her Hair:  
With elder Sagana, I saw them run,  
(They both were ghastly, pale to look upon.)  
I heard them howl, and saw the furious Witch,  
Whilst with her Nails she scraped 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 would.  
Of Wool and Wax they made two Images,  
Which the bewitched and Witches Forms express,  
The Wool the greater, to torment the less:  
The Wax was to be whipped, and seemed to bow,  
And there stood cringing as it feared the blow.  
One Hecate invokes with dreadful Prayer,  
And one Tisiphone, and straight They hear  
Black Serpents hiss and Hellhounds barking there.  
The Moon skulked straight, and as afraid to view  
This ghastly sight, behind the Tombs withdrew.  
Now if I lie let Birds disdain my Reed,  
And come and Perch, and dung upon my Head:  
Let me be spit, let me be pissed 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 discoursed? how harsh the Noise?  
How by slow Fires the Waxen Form did waste:  
And frighted I revenged myself at last.  
For loud, as a blown Bladder when 'tis broke,  
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 poisonous Herbs were thrown,  
Each takes her ambling Switches, and hasts to Town,  
It would have made you split to see Them run.    

satire 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 seized my hand, and cried, 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 followed me, I turned and cried,  
What farther business, Sir? And He replied,  
What don't you know me Sir? No faith: What no?  
Come Horace now you jest, I'm sure you do;  
Why I'm a Scholar: Sir, I'm glad of that,  
'Twill make me prise you at a higher rate:  
Uneasy thus, and eager to be gone,  
Sometimes I walked but slow, now faster on,  
My Footboy whispered now, and now I stopped,  
Now turned about, still Sweeting till I dropped:  
Ten thousand times I softly cursed my Fate,  
And envied 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 uneasy grown,  
And answer nothing; Sir, you would be gone,  
But faith, Dear Sir, We must not part so soon;  
I love your Company, I'll 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'm at leisure, I have time to spend,  
And I can walk I'm sure to serve a friend:  
I'll 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 stopped 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 turned 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'm obliged to go:  
Well then, What must I leave my Cause, or You?  
Me by all means: No, hang me if I do:  
And so marched on; and I (with one too strong  
What Man can strive?) looked blank, and sneaked along.  
How doth Maecenas (thence his Chat began)  
Affect you now? You are the subtlest 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'll 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 Patron's House is free,  
None 'cause more Learned 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'm eager for a place:  
I shall not rest till I am near his Grace:  
Pray stand my Friend, I'm 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'll play my part,  
I'll spare no cost and charge, try every Art,  
Hang on his Coach, wait on him, all I can,  
Bribe, Flatter, Cringe, but I'm resolved to gain,  
'Tis only Labour, Sir, can raise a Man.  
As thus He talked, a Friend of mine came by,  
Who knew the fellow's humour more than I.  
We stopped, and talked a while, as How dost do?  
Whence came you, Sir, I pray? and whither now?  
Mean while I shruged, a thousand signs I showed,  
I squeezed his hand, and did what ere I could,  
I nodded, coughed, and wink't to let him see  
I stood in need of's help to set me free;  
He cruel Wag, though knowing my intent,  
Pretended ignorance of all I meant:  
I raged; 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 Profane with things Divine:  
I don't mind Holidays; but Sir I do,  
A little tender Conscienced, 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 cried, Oh, Oh!  
Sir Raschal, have I caught you, whither now?  
Pray Sir bear witness, gladly I consent,  
He's forced to Court, and I as freely went:  
The People Crowd and Shout; but midst the strife  
I scap't, and so Apollo saved my Life.   

satire X.  
The Heads of the Tenth satire. 

(1.) He maintains the censure he had given of Lucilius.  
(2.) Discourses of Poetry.  
(3.) satire is his proper Talon.  
(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 dotes as to deny me This?  
" And yet in the same Page I freely own,  
" His Wit as sharp as ever lashed the Town;  
But This one sort of Excellence allowed,  
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'er 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 Virtues, and their Grace's show,  
Now like a Gentleman whose fine discourse  
designly easy is, and free from force,  
Instructive Mirth, and where a waggish sneer  
Doth nick the great Ones more than a severe:  
" This was the drift of all our Ancient Plays,  
" In this They may be followed, and with Praise  
But these Hermogenes (those blundring heads)  
Scarce knows; and t'other Ape-face never reads:  
Poor thick-skulled 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 Latin in his Rhimes.  
Dull Sots to think that Poetry and Wit,  
Which even the Rhodian poor Pitholeon writ.  
Ay, but the Speech thus mixed is neat and fine,  
'Tis sweet like Latin mixed 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 desperate Cause;  
Whilst Pode and Corvin eagerly accuse,  
Would you this mixed, this Mongrel Language use:  
As 'twere forget your own, and Greek confound  
With Latin, like the Apulians double sound?  
When I, a Latin, once designed to write  
Greek Verses, Romulus appeared at night;  
'Twas after Twelve, the time when dreams are true,  
And said; Why Horace, what dost mean to do?  
'Tis full as mad the Greeks vast heaps t'increase,  
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 tried in vain,  
And others too, may have a happy strain:  
Yet than lucilius 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 flowed,  
And faulty Lines did oft exceed the good.  
Well Sir, and is even Homer all correct?  
Is He, Sir Critic, free from all defect?  
Doth not lucilius Accius Rhimes accuse?  
And blame our Ennius' 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 loser 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 Rhyme,  
And write two hundred Lines in two hours' time.  
As Cassius did, that full o'erflowing Tide  
Of Wit, and who was burnt, (or fame hath lied)  
With Piles of his own Papers when he died.  
Well then suppose Lucilius was a Wit,  
His virtue's more than Faults in what He writ.  
Correcter than the Older Writers own,  
And that we satire owe to him alone,  
satire a Poem to the Greeks unknown.  
Yet did He now again new life Commence,  
He would correct, he would retrench his Sense,  
And pair off all that was not Excellence;  
Take pains, and often when he Verses made,  
Would bite his Nails tooth quick, and scratch his Head.  
When you design a lasting Piece, be wise,  
Amend, Correct, again, again Revise:  
ne'er 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 Classic thumbed 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 Maecenas love,  
Let Caesar, Virgil, Valgius all approve  
What I compose; to these would I could join  
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 Blockheads, 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 satire. 

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

1. SOme Fancy I am bitter when I jeer  
Beyond the Rules of satire 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'er,  
Thy scribbling humour check, and write no more:  
The Counsels 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 tired, 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 Wings 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 showed  
Great Scipio, may'st describe him just and good:  
Well, when Occasion serves my Muse designs  
To try that way, but my unpolished lines,  
Unless by chance a happy Time appears,  
Will never pass the judging Caesar's Ears,  
Whom if you try to stroke, 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, though 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 Horseback 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 Virtues, 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'er 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;  
Placed here, as Tales of Ancient Fame relate,  
When the Sabelli bowed 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'll keep my ground,  
Ready for all assaults, make this my guard,  
And stand on my defence, be still prepared,  
As with a Sword, yet sheathed, 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 exposed to all the censuring 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'er kicks, with Teeth a Bull ne'er kills,  
But she shall take a Dose of poisoned Pills.  
In short then, whether I live long or no,  
Or Rich, or Poor, howe'er my Fortunes go,  
Live here at Rome, or banished take my flight,  
Whatever is my state of Life, I'll 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 engage  
In writing Satyrs, and that lashed the Age,  
And stripped our Foplings of their Lion's skin,  
In which they looked 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 Virtue only, and her Friend?  
No, no, They treated him, and thought him good,  
And when removed from business, and the Crowed,  
Would keep him Company, would laugh and jest,  
And sport until their little Meat was dressed.  
What e'er I am, although I must submit  
To wise Lucilius, in Estate and Wit,  
Yet I with Great-ones live, this all confess,  
And envy, though unwilling grants no less.  
And though 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 turned to sport;  
He laughed, and jeered at, You discharged the Court.    

satire II.  
The Heads of the Second satire. 

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

1. HOw great a Virtue '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 unlearned 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 easy mind,  
Averse to Good, and to ill Rules inclined,  
But seek with me, before that Thou hast dined.  
And why this Caution? If I can I'll tell,  
Bribed Judges ne'er Examine Causes well:  
Go take some Exercise, pursue the Chase,  
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 raised thy Stomach, and thou fain wouldst eat,  
Then scorn to taste 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 thyself alone.  
Make Exercise thy Sauce, let that excite,  
For phlegmy and a squeasy Appetite  
Nor Trout, nor Tench, nor Oysters can delight.  
Yet I shall scarce persuade our curious Men,  
Let me advise, and talk, and talk again,  
Not to eat Peacock, rather than a Hen.  
For They are prejudiced because the price  
Is great, and his gay Feathers please the Eyes:  
As if those made it better; dost Thou Feast  
On those praised Plumes? And do those fill thy guest,  
Or doth it look as gaudy when 'tis dressed?  
Then since Hen's flesh is quite as good, 'tis plain  
The Peacock is preferred for's gaudy Train.  
But grant some difference here, yet how dost know  
If this same Pike be River Fish or no?  
Caught here in Tiber, or in open Seas,  
For Thou dost make a difference too in these;  
Mad Fool, thou praisest Mullets vastly great,  
Which thou must mash, ere 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:  
Thomas 'tis but newly taken taint their Boar,  
And let their Rhombus stink e'er 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 Boar,  
But use cheap Eggs, and Olives midst our store,  
So greatest Feasts have something that is poor.  
First Gallio's Kitchen infamous did grow  
For dressing Sturgeon, 'twas not long ago,  
What had the Sea than fewer Soles than now?  
No, but the Soles did then securely rest,  
Then nothing did but Winds and Waves molest,  
And the poor Stork lived safely in his Nest:  
Until a Praetor 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 easy bend to ill.   

2. A sordid Table, and a thrifty one,  
Ofellus thinks distinct, in vain they eat  
One Vice, that to the other madly run:  
Old Aviden, Surnamed 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 Oil corrupt, and stinks:  
And that (when very fine, when neatly dressed,  
And at a Birthday, 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 proposed 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 Ointment 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 improved, thy Body free from pain;  
But now that Meat confused doth hurt a Man,  
Thou hast experience, and sufficient proof;  
One single Dish did feed Thee well enough,  
Thy Stomach took it, but when boiled with stewed,  
Flesh mixed with Fish, the indigested load  
Is turned to Gall or Phlegm, and spoils the Blood:  
Observe how sickly and how pale the Guests,  
How discomposed 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 vigorous to their proper business rise.  
Yet Those can have their sparing Meals increased  
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 dost hope, fond Youth, to calm their rage,  
By softer usage, since thou dost enjoy  
The softest, whilst a young and vigorous Boy:  
The Ancients did commend their stinking Boars,  
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 produced me then:   

4. Dost Thou regard thy Fame which charms our Ears,  
With softer Music than the sweetest Airs?  
Take heed, Luxurious Living ruins that,  
And wastes thy Name as much as thy Estate:  
It makes thy Neighbours angry, Friends distrust,  
And Thee thyself unto thyself 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 ruined Fanes rebuilt? And why  
Doth not thy Wealth thy Neighbours wants supply?  
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 lived 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 used 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 pressed,  
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 thanked Ceres for our present cheer,  
And begged 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 lived worse, My Sons, than heretofore,  
Before a Stranger came, and seized my store?  
For Nature doth not Me or Him Create,  
The proper Lord of such and such Estate:  
He forced us out, and doth possess my Plain;  
Another cheat shall force him out again,  
Or quirks in Law, or when those fears are past,  
His long-lived Heir shall force him out at last:  
That which was once Ofellus Farm is gone,  
Now called Umbrena's, but 'tis no Man's 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 used by Others, now by Me:  
Then live Resolved, my Sons, refuse to yield,  
And when Fates press make Constancy your shield.    

satire III.  
The Heads of the Third satire. 

(1.) The Stoics chide him for his Laziness.  
(2.) According to the Stoics Opinion all are mad.  
(3.) The Covetous are mad.  
(4.) The Ambitious.  
(5.) The Spendthrifts.  
(6.) Lovers.  
(7.) The Superstitious.  
(8.) Concerning his own humour.    

1.  
YOU write so seldom, scarce four sheets a year,  
A lazy Writer, but a Judge severe!  
Still mending, and revising every Line,  
Still vexed that after all thy Sleep and Wine,  
Yet nothing comes that doth appear to be  
Worth public view: What will become of Thee?  
You here at Winter's first approach did come,  
And left the Mirth, and drunken Feasts of Rome:  
Then sober now write something as you vowed,  
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 seemed to promise something great  
If e'er you came to your warm Country Seat.  
Why comes Menander, Plato, Sophocles?  
And why such Learned Company as These?  
If Thou rain'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 Barber 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 agreed 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 cured the Old: Thus from another part,  
As Head or Side, pain falls into the Heart.   

2. Thus this Lethargic sometimes leaves his Bed,  
In frantic fit, and breaks the Doctor's Head.  
Well, Sir, suppose You bened as mad as He,  
And beat me too, be what you please to be.  
Good Sir, do not deceive yourself, for You,  
And All, if what Stertinius says be true,  
Are mad: He taught me This when first He cheered  
My drooping Mind, and bade me wear this Beard.  
For when by Trading I was quite undone,  
Thither I went, Poor Fool, resolved to drown:  
But He stood by, and in a lucky time  
He cried, take heed Young Man, forbear the Crime,  
'Tis foolish modesty that makes Thee dread,  
Amongst Madmen 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 thyself, that's my advice.  
He who's to Folly or to Vice inclined,  
Or whom dark Ignorance of Truth doth blind,  
The Stoics call him mad; thus every one,  
Whether he holds the Plough, or fills the Throne,  
Is counted mad, but their Wiseman alone.  
Some call Thee mad, but those that call Thee so,  
Observe, I'll 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,  
Although 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, although through different ways They run,  
Are quite as Mad, for they rush boldly on,  
Thro Flames, and boisterous Seas to be undone.  
And though 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  
Than drunken Furius did, when heretofore  
He acted Hecuba, a lazy drone,  
He fell asleep, and slept securely on,  
Nor could be waked, though Catien's voice did rage,  
And Mother, hear, I call thee, cracked the Stage:  
Now grant this Madness I design to show,  
If this Man's mad, than all the World is so.  
First Damasippus' 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 easy offered 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'er you bring  
Your Action, he's a Stone, or any thing,  
A Boar, a Bird, a Tree when ere he will,  
And thus deride your loss, and cheat your skill.  
Now if He's mad that wastes, 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.  
Sat still and hear, those whom proud thoughts do swell,  
Those that look pale by loving Coin too well;  
Whom Luxury Corrupts, or fancied fears  
Oppress, and empty superstitious Cares;  
Or any other Vice disturbs, draw near,  
I'll 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 designed 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 allowed,  
Two hundred Fencers to delight the Crowed,  
And costly Treats as great as Arrus would,  
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 deserved and feared reproof:  
What did He mean when He his Heir enjoined,  
To write on's Tomb how much He left behind?  
Why whilst he lived he thought the being Poor  
Was heinous, and avoided nothing more;  
And should be guilty of a damned excess,  
If he had left behind one farthing less.  
For Honour, Virtue, Fame, and all Divine  
And Humane Things must follow lovely Coin;  
And he that gets but that is any thing,  
What e'er he please, Just, Valiant, Wise, a King.  
And this He thought, as virtuous 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 bade his Slaves, as He o'er Lybia past,  
Leave all his Wealth, because it stopped his haste.  
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'er 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 lies stretched 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 though his Cellar's stored with racy Wine,  
Drinks Vinegar; and though extremely old,  
Yet lies on Straw, or Flocks, and lies acold;  
Whilst his embroidered Silks, and costly clothes,  
Lie 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'er enjoy?  
He'll drink it out, and prove a mad Gallant?  
Or dost thou keep't lest thou thyself shouldst want?  
Oh Fool! how little would thy Money waste,  
If thou on better Cale and Oil didst feast?  
Wore better clothes, and went more neatly dressed?  
If thou canst live upon this little Store,  
Why dost thou swear, and lie, and cheat for more?  
And are you Sober? If you walked the Street,  
Throw Stones, and fight, and justle all you meet,  
Or stab your Slaves, you would be quickly known,  
Called 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 stained 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 stabbed his Sister, nor his Friend,  
But only as his Frenzy forced, did call  
One Rogue, the other Witch, and that was All.  
Opimius that old Chuff, and richly poor,  
Who wanted even 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 seized the Keys and Chests as all his own.  
This the kind Doctor saw, and this design  
He used for Cure, he brought a Table in,  
And ordered some to tumble o'er his Coin:  
This roused him, Then he cries, Sir you're undone,  
Wake Sir, and Watch, or else your Money's gone:  
Your Heirs will seize it: What whilst I'm 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 Thiefs or Physic, Doctor I'll 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  
Straight Sober? No; Why Sir? I'll tell thee why:  
Suppose the Doctor says, this Patient's Thighs  
Are free from pain, What may he therefore rise?  
No, though 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 Perjured, 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 died;  
And said, and as he said he gravely smiled,  
My Aulus I observed 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'er and o'er,  
And hoard them up, and still increase thy Store:  
I feared both mad, would different Vices choose,  
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 increase 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 accursed;  
What wouldst thou waste thy Wealth? spend every Groat  
To Bribe the heedless Crowd, and get their Vote?  
That when thy Father's Lands, his Ancient Rent,  
And all the Money he hath left, is spent,  
Poor naked Madman, thou may'st only gain  
A Brazen Statue, or a gaudy Train:  
Or be as famed (thus once the foolish Ass  
Would be a Lion) 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 Conquered 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 denied himself a Grave by Thee?  
Why? He slew Flocks of Sheep o'er all the Field,  
And when in's Frantic fits, he thought He killed,  
My Brother, Me, Ulysses; and He smiled;  
And You, when You your lovely Daughter led  
To Sacrifice, and o'er her weeping head  
You poured the Salt and Meal, was sober still?  
Why not? When Frantic Ajax strove to kill  
The Innocent Flocks, how was the Action ill?  
He cursed the both Atrideses much 'tis true,  
But never even upon Ulysses drew,  
Nor Wife, nor Innocent Son, nor Brother slew:  
But I to get a Wind appeased the God,  
To have my Navy Sail I offered blood.  
Thy own Blood Frantic, 'twas that did Atone:  
My own, but yet not Frantic, though my own:  
He that shall take apparent Good with Bad,  
Confusedly mixed, must be accounted Mad.  
And 'tis all one, whate'er these Crimes begin,  
Whether 'tis rage or folly makes him sin:  
Whilst Ajax kills the harmless flocks you blame,  
He's mad, whilst Thou designly 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 gaudy 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? Fie for shame.  
Then where there's folly, greatest madness rules,  
And wicked Men must needs be frantic 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 even common Reason shows;  
The Squire when come of Age, He takes his Land,  
Amazed 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 easy Squire replies again,  
Good honest Men, you take a World of Pain:  
You watch in Snow to catch a Boar for Me,  
And You fish for Me in the boisterous Sea:  
Whilst I'm 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'er I please:  
A costly Gem from his Metella's Ear,  
Aesop's loose Son dissolved in Vinegar,  
And drank it down, and then profusely laughed,  
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 Pies, 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 reclaimed, remove  
Thy foppish dress, those Symptoms of thy Love;  
As He when drunk, and Garlands round his head,  
Chanced once to hear the sober Stoic read,  
Ashamed 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'll have none▪  
Yet, if unoffered, he will beg for One.  
Like him's the Lover, who hath asked in vain,  
Doubting if e'er he should return again:  
Although denied, when he would gladly wait,  
Unasked, 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'll scorn.  
But lo, his wiser Slave did thus reprove,  
Sir, Reason must be never used in Love:  
Its Laws unequal, and its Rules unfit  
For Love's a thing by Nature opposite  
To Common Reason, Common Sense, and Wit.  
All that's in Love's unsteady empty, vain,  
There's War and Peace, and War and Peace again.  
Now He that strives to settle such as These,  
Mere 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)  
Pressed 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 though 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 frantic fire;  
Observe, poor Nerus lately struck his Miss,  
Then killed himself, what dost thou think of This?  
Was this Man Frantic? 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 dressed,  
His hands were clean, and he had one request:  
Grant ye kind Gods, grant I may always live,  
It is an easy thing for jou to give.  
Now he that sold him, might have safely sworn,  
He's sound both Wind and Limb as e'er was born.  
But cheated, if He swore him sound in Soul  
And This Man too the Stoics count a Fool.  
The Mother whose dear Son had lain oppressed,  
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'll set him naked in cold Tiber's Flood.  
And now let Chance or Physic'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 Wiseman; and I myself defend  
By his learned 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 Fool's Coat he wears behind.   

8. Well Stoic, may you sell at dearer rate  
Your Merchandise, 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.  
Dost think Agave when she grasped the head  
Of her own Son, thought she herself was mad?  
Well then I'm mad, 'tis true, but fain would know,  
Oblige me Stoic once, and freely show  
What kind of Madness I'm addicted to.  
Then learn, though you are dwarfish, thin, and small,  
You raise yourself 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'er Maecenas does, and is it true,  
That He is Rivalled by Pedantic you?  
When the old Frog was gone by chance abroad,  
An Ox came by and on her young ones trod:  
One 'scaped, and told her that a mighty Beast,  
Had trod upon her young, and killed 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'll never be as big, although you swell  
Until you burst; This Image fits thee well:  
And thus to prove thee Frantic all conspire,  
Now add thy Poems, that is Oil 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 dost wear  
A finer Suit than thy Estate will bear;  
Hold Damasippus; I forbear to show  
Thy burning Lust, The greater Madman You,  
Spare me at last the Lesser of the Two.    

satire IU.  
The Argument of the Fourth satire. He makes Catius tell him the several Precepts that are to be observed 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'er 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'll mind again, and soon recall the thought;  
Whether 'twas fixed on Nature, or on Art;  
For You are deeply skilled in either part:  
I was considering how I should retain  
What I have learned, 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'll 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 even Odcomb Plants will quickly spoil,  
They tasteless grow and waterish as the soil.  
Suppose a Friend an unexpected Guest  
Comes late, and You have nothing ready dressed,  
Drown Hens in Wine, I learned this Art at Court,  
'Twill make the flesh eat wonderfully short.  
The Meadow Mushrooms are the safer food,  
Poisonous the rest, at least not half so good;  
I'll give him health, that when his Meals are done  
Eats juicy Mulberrys plucked before the Sun  
Doth rise too high, and scorch with heat of Noon:  
Aufidius, thus says Story, used to take  
His Morning's draught of Honey mixed with Sack,  
This was ill done, with Liquors only mild,  
ere breakfast Empty Veins are safely filled,  
What e'er some fancy, I have Cause to think  
Smooth Mead in Morning is the better drink:  
When bound too much, sweet Mallows quickly clear  
Thy Guts from stoppage, and thy Mind from fear;  
Or Cockle Fish, or Sorrel newly ripe,  
With Coan white wine sauce will ease the gripe,  
Better than the old Midwife Glister-pipe:  
The Shellfish with the growing Moons increase,  
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 Tastes:  
'Tis vain for him to buy the dearest Fish,  
That after knows not how to cook the dish,  
What must be stewed, what boiled 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.  
Boars fed on Acorns, caught in Umbria's Wood;  
Bend down his dishes with their weighty load,  
That would avoid dull, mean, or tasteless 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 dressed,  
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 Sauce,  
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'er heed what Oil 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 waste  
The Spirits; Hempseed spoils its proper taste:  
Those cheating Rogues, that when the Wine decays,  
With their Surrentine mix Falernian Lees,  
This dashed Wine quickly cleanse with Pidgeous Eggs,  
Those falling down precipitate the Dregs:  
You have drunk briskly, and your friend decays;  
Then give him pickled Hear, those will raise  
And whet his Stomach for another glass.  
For Lettuce after Wine's not half so good,  
It swims on drink, and makes the Stomach crude:  
When He's too full, than Gammon's only fit,  
Sausage 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 composed of sweetest Oil,  
This Oily Wine, and Caviar only asks  
Such as grows mellow in Byzantian Casks:  
To this shred Herbs, with Safforn mixed, and boil,  
And when 'tis cool then add Venafrian Oil:  
Some Grapes are best in Pots, all ways are tried,  
In smoke the Aban Grape is better dried:  
This Grape with some sharp Sauce, round Plates to strew,  
With Salt and Pepper, I'm the first that knew,  
And told it others, as I tell it you.  
'Tis a grand fault to buy the dearest fish,  
And after crowed them in too strait a dish:  
The Guests won't like to see one take the Cup,  
Who stole a Pigeon, as He brought it up,  
With the same hand, for that will slain 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 handsome, for the Page to spread  
A dirty covering o'er a Gaudy 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:  
Learned Catius by the Gods I ask this boon,  
Where e'er you go, Sir I must have it done,  
Pray bring me to this copious Spring of Truth,  
That I may hear 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'm 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 cloyed,  
And do not value, 'cause so oft enjoyed;  
But eager I to unknown Fountains press,  
To draw from thence the Rules of Happiness.   

satire V.  
The Heads of the Fifth satire. A Dialogue between Tiresias and Ulysses, where He instructs him, how to get an Estate.  
TIresias now indulge one favour more,  
And teach beside what thou hast taught before,  
How to regain my Wealth, now I'm poor:  
Why do You smile? Let me not beg in vain,  
Is't not enough that you have 'scaped the Main,  
And safely come to Ithaca again?  
Unerring Prophet, see as you foretell,  
I am come home again, Grey, Wrinkled, Old,  
And Poor: my Wife's Gallants have seized my Gold:  
My Wealth is theirs, and what is Virtue 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 Neighbour, 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 reverenced more than Herald  
What though He be a Villain, basely bred,  
Hath killed 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 myself behave:  
Contending always with the Great, the Brave:  
Then thou'lt be poor. Well Sir, my mind I'll force  
To suffer this: for I have suffered worse.  
But, prithee, tell me, for I wish to know  
Which way I may be rich, and quickly too:  
Then as I told, I'll tell thee o'er again,  
Still strive to please, the old and wealthy Men.  
Try still to get into their Wills, secure  
Their Love, their Humours 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 tried,  
I'll teach thee how to choose the better Side.  
Be sure to plead for him that's childless, old,  
And rich, though 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 Virtue makes,  
I know the Law, and have a ready Tongue,  
And rather, Sir, than you shall suffer wrong  
I'll lose these Eyes; My utmost Care be used  
That you be neither cheated nor abused.  
And you may take your pleasure, sit at ease,  
ne'er fear, I'll 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 even 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 Neighbour, 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 Higher  
And good Estate, then make thy Interest there,  
Lest courting childless Persons still, thy Arts appear.  
Creep gently in, until 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 o'er, the two or three first lines,  
(There's Reason for't) and see if He designs  
Thee the sole Higher, or else with many joins.  
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 puzzle 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 prithee 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'll praise Thee o'er again.  
This Method's good, but 'tis the best design  
To storm the Man himself, and take him in.  
If He makes Verses though 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 chaste,  
Who all the numerous Wooers Arts surpassed,  
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 chaste, but when she shall perceive,  
And share with Thee, the Presents He can give,  
Like Dogs once blooded, she will never leave.  
I'll tell the true, and what I chanced to know,  
A woman died at Thebes not long ago;  
And thus by Will She did enjoin her Heir,  
First oil my Corpse, and to the Sepulchre,  
Upon thy naked back my Body bear.  
This spoke the Will, and this, as most believed,  
That she might then slip from him she contrived,  
For He was too observant whilst she lived:  
Do you be cautious still in your Address:  
Too often, or too seldom will displease,  
The grave Morose do hate a prattling Tongue,  
That speaks unasked, 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'er 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 thronged, 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 dies, and frees thee from thy Care,  
Thy dreaming Hopes, and melancholy Fear,  
And broad awaked, 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 employ  
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 choose him if you can:  
I want that ready Money 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.   

satire VI.  
The Heads of the Sixth satire. 

(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 constant 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 waste, or raise  
My moderate Fortune, by unlawful Ways.  
If I ne'er wish, Oh that the Gods would yield,  
That Nook that spoils the Figure of my Field:  
Or, oh that I a pot of Gold had found,  
As he who hired to Till another's Ground,  
By the assistance of a lucky God  
Grew rich, and bought the very Land he ploughed.  
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 Business take my Country Seat:  
What shall I do but write, what Subject choose,  
But easy satire, and improve my Muse.  
Here no Ambition kills, no heavy Wind,  
Affects my Body and corrupts my Mind.  
To Fields the God's long Life, and plenty gave,  
No sickly Autumns here enrich the Grave.   

2.  
Old Father Janus (thus the God's decree)  
We Men begin our Years and Toil with Thee.  
With Thee my Verse, you hurry me to Town,  
To be a Witness, and I must be gone,  
though'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,  
Whilst He that's kicked, cries 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 cries, good Horace, get this Bill  
Signed by Maecenas. If I can I will.  
But he seems discontent, and urges on,  
Nay, if you will, I'm sure it may be done.  
'Tis eight Years since almost Maecenas 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 matched, 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 Maecenas sat,  
Or Bowled, cry all, He's Fortune's darling Son,  
And thus the silly Chat runs o'er the Town.  
Then all that meet me, come and ask the News,  
My Patience and my precious 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 vowed to share,  
Amongst the Soldiers 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 lose my days, but wish repeat,   

3. Oh! When shall I enjoy my Country Seat?  
Oh! when removed 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 again?  
Oh sweet, Oh heavenly Feasts, where I and mine,  
Before my household Gods securely dine;  
When I myself shall taste 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 marked or filled, 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 Man's Farms, or Wealth, or Skill,  
Or whether Caesar's Fool danced 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 Virtue 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 Neighbour Gerrius, as the Matter falls,  
Mixes his merry, pat, instructive Tales:  
And thus for Instance, when by chance he hears  
Old Alpius wealth admired, though full of Cares,  
He tells this Story. Once upon a Time,  
(As Tales begin) and in a moderate clime:  
A Country Mouse a City entertained,  
His old Acquaintance, and his special Friend,  
This Mouse was thrifty, yet would kindly Feast  
When time required, 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-dryed, and tried his best,  
By choice variety to please his Guest.  
Who sat, and as afraid to hurt his mouth,  
Did nibble here and there with dainty Tooth:  
Whilst he lies 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 unwholesome Cave?  
'Tis Melancholy, 'tis so like a Grave.  
Now would you rather live in Town than here,  
And men's converse, before the Woods prefer;  
Come, go with me, I'll get thee better Cheer.  
Since all must die, 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 prevailed upon the Country Mouse,  
So she grows jocand straight, and leaves the House,  
Longing for those fine things; fon 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 Man's 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 straight seats his country Guest  
On Cloth of State, and waits, and carves the Feast  
Course after Course, a thousand dainty Things,  
And like a Servant, tastes what e'er he brings.  
The Country Mouse pleased 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 haste,  
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.    

satire VII.  
The Heads of the Seventh satire. 

(1.) A Servant instructs his Master, about his unsettledness in humour.  
(2.) His Lust.  
(3.) The vicious Man, the greatest Slave.    

1.  
WEll Sir, I hear, and have some News to tell  
But I'm afraid, you will not like it well  
From me your Slave: Who Davus is it you?  
Davus the faithful Servant and the true,  
Davus that fancies 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 unsteady, various in a Trice,  
Now all for Virtue, and now all for Vice.  
Fop Priscus with himself doth disagree,  
Sometimes he wears no Rings, and sometimes three.  
He changes every hour his clothes 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 unsteady, fickle Man on Earth,  
As if Vertumnus self had ruled his Birth.  
Just opposite to him Vulturius stands,  
For he when the just Gout had lamed his hands,  
Did hire a Boy, so much he loved 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 Ancients 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 unsteady 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 Salad 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 Maecenas doth invite,  
Tho you are not to go before 'tis Night;  
Yet eager you by peep of day prepare,  
The house strait rings, So ho, Jack, Tom, whose there?  
Who brings me Oil, you Dogs, does no one hear?  
My Lords waits for me; then in haste 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'm Glutton, Toss-pot, and what ere you please:  
So you but freely grant your Vice at least,  
As bad, although in softer Terms 'tis dressed;  
Suppose I'm 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 men's Wives, and I, my little Whores,  
Which is the greatest Fault now, mine or yours?  
When Nature Fires, and they have quenched my flame▪  
I'm satisfied, nor do I lose 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 Veil thrown o'er thy fragrant Head,  
And softly brought to the Adulterous Bed,  
Are you not such a One as you appear?  
When introduced 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 slashed and killed upon the Stage?  
Or by the Conscious Chambermaid be pressed  
Quite double, neck and heels into a Chest?  
Hath not the injured 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'er 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'll prove untrue.  
But wise you venture Slaves severest Fate,  
And to a Man enraged, and swollen with hate,  
Commit thy Fame, thy Life, and thy Estate.  
Hast thou escaped? I hope the warning's fair,  
And you'll 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're 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 strokes 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 another's Nerve.  
Who then is free? The Wise, that can control,  
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 gathered in a perfect Round,  
And so exactly smoothed 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 begged by thy costly Whore,  
And if denied, 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 lose your Neck from this Ignoble Chain,  
And boldly say that you are free; in vain,  
You can't, for Tyrant Lords thy Will control,  
They prick thee on, and scourge thy wavering 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 moved to shun the stroke:  
But I'm called 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 Virtue, for it shows your Mind is great.  
Why now to serve my Palate should it be,  
(For I am whipped) a greater Crime in Me,  
Than You? Since thine's more costly Luxury,  
Why then are you not scourged as well as I?  
Because, perhaps, thy Feasts corrupt thy Blood,  
Diseases spring from thy Luxurious Food,  
And weakened 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 yourself can't stay  
One Hour, nor rightly spend a leisure day,  
You like a Vagrant shun yourself, 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.    

satire VIII.  
The Argument of the Eighth satire. A Description of a sordid Feast, with which one Fuscus Nasidenus Entertained them.  
HOw do you like rich Nasidenus cheer?  
For when I thought last night to have you here,  
'Twas said, that e'er 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 Boar,  
" Caught whilst the Wind was South, the Master swore,  
And round the brim lay Lettuce to excite,  
And Betes to raise the lazy Appetite;  
Anchove, Pickled-Herrings, mixed with these  
Lay Radish, bitter Herbs, and Coan Lees.  
This Dish removed, two ready Servants come,  
One cleaned the Table, t'other swept the Room,  
And gathered up the Relics 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 stored; Poor Wealth, dishonest Pride,  
But prithee tell me who was there beside?  
Sir, I sat first, and, stay, I think 'twas so,  
Turinus next, Vibidius sat below,  
Next Balatro; below him Porcius lies,  
Porcius the merry'st archest Wag that is,  
To swoop whole Custards, and to swallow Pies.  
All uninvited, but as Lords are wont,  
Maecenas brought them all on his account.  
Next above these Nomentan takes his place,  
He that could point at every hidden Sauce;  
For we, the rest, on Fish and Fowl did feast,  
Concealing different from their proper taste.  
This straight appeared, when by his luscious rules  
He carved for me th' untasted guts of Soles.  
And after to instruct me, gravely said,  
Figs plucked before the Moon is full, look red;  
But thro' this difference would you nicely pry  
He'll tell you more, He's more expert than I.  
Mean while Vibidius in a jeering tone  
Cries; Balatro, come prithee nothings done,  
Unless we drink him dry; a Bigger Glass;  
At that Death-pale spread o'er our Fuscus face,  
For good stout drinkers He did chiefly fear,  
'Cause such, when full, with greater freedom jeer;  
Or 'cause hot Liquors palls the subtle taste,  
And so would spoil the goodness of his feast:  
Yet on it goes, the Bowls are freely crowned,  
And supernaculum the health goes round:  
The chiefest Guests the while few bumpers tossed,  
They spared 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 Oil, the best that flowed  
From the Venafrian Press; to make it good,  
Wine five years old, and Caviar I join,  
In boiling, Sirs, I use Italian wine,  
But when 'tis boiled, with Pepper spiced and dressed  
With Vinegar, the Chain Pickle's best:  
To boil green Rockets, with't was never known  
Before my time, I'm sure that Art's my own.  
Salt water Crawfish first Cotillus stewed,  
And kept them whole, for they are better food  
Then when i'th' Shell, the Pickle makes them good.  
But whilst he talked, and whilst He praised the Fish  
The Hangings tumbling down fell o'er the Dish:  
Bringing black dust, as much, as Whirlwinds raise  
When nimble Storms sweep o'er the dusty ways:  
We started all, and thought it worse than 'twas,  
But when no harm appeared, each kept his place:  
Our Host straight hung his head, He wept and sighed  
As if his darling Son had lately died;  
He had wept on, his Grief have known no end,  
But wise Nomentan thus relieved his Friend;  
Unlucky Chance what God is so unkind,  
Thou lov'st to break the measures Man designed;  
Some bit their Napkins, yet could scarce forbear  
To laugh aloud, whilst with a bitter Sneer  
Cries 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 boiled, your Servants dressed,  
Besides th' unlucky chance that waits on all,  
As if, as but just now, the Hangings fall;  
The Footboy stumbling spoil a costly fish,  
Or Ploughman 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; than you may quickly hear  
Divided whispers spread thro' every Ear.  
No Play could ever please me half so well,  
But what you laughed at after prithee tell:  
Whilst hot Vibidius with a waggish look  
Cries to the Servants, is the Bottle broke  
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 filled  
With one poor little Crane cut up and grilled,  
Covered with Salt and Meal; another brings  
Plucked off and by themselves a Rabbits wings,  
For those, forsooth, 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  
Explained their Natures, how and why 'twas dressed;  
Whom thus we punished, each Man left his seat,  
We fled the Banquet, and refused to eat;  
As if the Witch Canidia's poisonous breath  
Had blown upon't, and filled the Feast with Death.   
The End of the Second Book of Satyrs.    

EPISTLES.  

BOOK I.  

The Heads of the first Epistle. 

(1.) He shows his desire for Philosophy.  
(2.) 'Tis to be preferred before all.  
(3.) The People prefer Gold before Virtue.  
(4.) Why He cannot agree with the Crowd.    

MY Lord Maecenas whom I gladly choose,  
The first, and the last labour of my Muse;  
Tho I have fought enough, and well before,  
And now dismissed, have leave to fight no more:  
You strive to bring me on the Stage again;  
My Age is not alike, unlike my Brain,  
Unlike my Mind, and now I write in Pain:  
The Fencer Vejan now grown weak with Age,  
Lives quietly at home, and leaves the Stage;  
His Arms in great Alcides' Temple placed,  
Lest after all his former Glories passed,  
He worsted, meanly beg his life at last:  
And still methinks sounds thro' my well purged Ear,  
A little voice, Fond Horace have a Care,  
And whilst 'tis well release thy aged Horse,  
Lest when He runs but with unequal force,  
And stretches hard to win, He breaks his Wind,  
Derided, distanced, basely lags behind:   

1. And therefore all my trifling Songs adieu,  
I now design to seek what's good and true,  
And that alone; I scorn my wanton Muse,  
And lay up Precepts, such as I may use;  
But if you ask me now what Sect I own,  
I swear a blind obedience unto none:  
But as the Tempest drives me so I Steer,  
This way or that, not settled any where:  
Sometimes an Active Life my Fancy draws,  
A strict observer of true virtue's Laws:  
Then gently slide to Aristippus School,  
And strive not to be ruled by Things, but Rule:  
As Night to those their Mistress fails appears,  
As Days to Labourers, and as long the Years,  
When Jealous Mothers curb, to eager Heirs:  
So dull, and so ingrate my Time doth flow,  
Which hinders what I hope and wish to do:  
What done will profit Rich and Poor, what long  
Forborn, prove equal harm to Old and Young:  
Well, than I must content myself with this,  
Yours cannot be as good as Lynceus Eyes,  
What then, when Sore must I fit Cures despise?  
You cannot Hope to have your Limbs as great  
As Glyco's, nor so strong and firmly set,  
Yet to prevent the Gout hast Thou no care?  
What, if of farther progress you despair,  
'Tis somewhat surely to have gone thus far:  
Doth creeping Avarice thy mind engage?  
Or doth it boil with fiery Lust, and rage?  
Why, there are Rules and Precepts that can Ease  
Thy Pain, and Cure great part of thy Disease:  
Or art Thou Vain? Books yield a certain Spell,  
To stop thy Tumour; You shall cease to swell,  
When you have read them thrice, and studied well:  
The Rash, the Lazy, Lover, none's so wild,  
But may be tame, and may be wisely mild,  
If they consult true virtue's Rules with care,  
And lend to good advice a patient ear.   

2. 'Tis Virtue, Sir, to be but free from Vice,  
And the first step towards being truly Wise  
Is to want folly; You use all your skill,  
To shun what you suppose the greatest ill,  
A small Estate, or whilst you seek to gain  
An Office, a Repulse; You spare no pain,  
You try your utmost Wit, and rack your Brain:  
You Sail to India, You forsake your ease,  
Thro raging Storms, thro' Rocks and boisterous Seas,  
Thro Heat and Cold, and gather every Wind,  
To get more Wealth, and leave pale Want behind;  
And yet thou wilt not take the pains to hear  
A wiser Man advise Thee how to Steer:  
Who kindly bids Thee check thy wild desire,  
And leave what Thou dost foolishly admire:  
What Wrestler that shall strive in every Town,  
At every Wake will scorn th' Olympian Crown?  
Who doth not cheap and easy wreaths disdain?  
And who would have a Crown without the Pain   

3. The say true, and hath been often told,  
Silver's more base than Gold, than Virtue Gold:  
O Romans, Romans, Gold must first be sought,  
Then Virtue, that's worth but a second thought:  
This is the Tune of every Trading Fool,  
Old Men, and every Boy repeats this Rule,  
That with his Books and Satchel goes to School:  
If you have not Ten Thousand Pound in store,  
But want a Thousand or a little more,  
Tho you have Virtue, Constancy, and skill  
In Arts, thou shalt be thought a Common still:  
And yet our Boys another Tale will tell,  
And say, You shall be King if you do well;  
Be this thy Guard, and this thy strong defence,  
A virtuous Heart, and unstained Innocence;  
Not to be conscious of a shameful sin:  
Nor yet look pale for Scarlet Crimes within.  
Now prithee tell me which you think is best,  
Or Otho's Law, or this by Boys expressed,  
This Song which makes the Virtuous Man a King  
And which the Noble Ancients used to sing?  
Which best adviseth, He that bids thee hate  
Thy Common rank, and get a vast Estate,  
Justly, if canst; if not, at any rate;  
Only that at a Play or Puppet Show,  
You may sit nearer by a Seat or two?  
Or He that bids Thee Steer a Virtuous Course,  
And nobly scorn, proud feeble Fortune's force?   

4. Should the Crowd ask, why since I live in Town,  
Walk the same Streets with them, I do not own  
The same Opinion? Why I don't approve,  
And hate the Things that they do hate and love?  
My Answer must be what sly Reynard said  
To the old sickly Lion, I'm afraid,  
Great King of Beasts, for all the treads I see  
Are to thy Den, none back, that frightens me:  
Thou art a Many-headed Monster, Rome,  
I know not what to imitate, or whom:  
Some love to Farm Revenues, others Bait  
With Gifts to catch a Widows great Estate:  
Whilst others spread their Nets for wealthy Fools,  
And catch them, and secure the doting Shoals:  
Some by base Usury their Wealth increase:  
But grant that various Humours various please:  
Yet are They constant still, do they approve  
For one hours' time together what They love?  
For instance, If the wealthy Wanton says,  
This little Baiae is the pleasantest place;  
His hasty wishes no delays afford,  
And the Sea quickly sees her loving Lord:  
There if his fancy leads another way,  
As if a Sign from Heaven He must obey;  
Come Workmen gather up your Tools, and drive  
To morrow to Theanum, there I'll live:  
Doth He design to day to take a Wife?  
No life, He cries, is like a single life:  
If not, He Swears the married only blest;  
What Chain can hold this varying Proteus fast?  
What doth the Poor Man? Laugh, he shifts his home,  
His Baths, His Barbers, and his eating Room,  
Or hires a paltry Sculler for a Groat,  
And spews like Nobles in their Pleasure-Boat:  
Suppose some blundering Barbers notch my hair  
And then I meet you, straight you smile and stare  
Or if my Gown is botched, my Vest unfit,  
My clothes ill made, You laugh at such a sight:  
What when my Mind is with itself at strife,  
And disagrees in all the Course of Life;  
When what it hated now, it now desires,  
What now it threw away, it now admires,  
Unsettled as the Sea, or flitting Air,  
It razes, builds, and changes round to square;  
You count me mad in Fashion, you forbear  
To laugh, nor think I need a Doctor's care;  
Or Guardian from the Praetor, though my Friend,  
On whom my Fortunes, and my Life depend,  
Who grieves if I but cut my Finger's end.  
In short, the Wise Man's less than Jove alone,  
For all is His, and He himself's his own;  
Rich, King of Kings, and of a Noble Stem,  
But chiefly well, unless when vexed with Phlegm.    

EPISTLE II.  
The Heads of the Second Epistle. 

(1.) He commends Homer to his Friend Lollius.  
(2.) Delivers several Precepts for a good Life.    

1.  
WHilst you to plead at Rome, my Friend, remain,  
I here have read my Homer o'er again:  
Who hath what's base, what decent, just and good,  
Clearer than Crantor or Chrysippus showed:  
My reasons for't, if you have leisure, hear;  
That Part that tells us how in tedious War,  
For Paris Lust, Greece strove with Phrygia, sings  
The Passions of the Crowd, and foolish Kings:  
Antenor thinks it best to end the Wars,  
And give back Helen; wanton Paris Swears,  
He can't be happy if He lives alone,  
His Kingdom can't content when she is gone:  
Atrides and Achilles chide, and hate,  
And Nestor strives to cool the hot debate:  
One robbed of what He eagerly desired,  
Was raised by Love; but both by fury fired:  
He counsels both, and strives to make them Friends,  
The People suffer when the Prince offends:  
By Lust and Rage were thousand mischiefs done,  
By Pride and Treachery, in Camp and Town:  
And then what Courage, and what Wit can do,  
He usefully doth in Ulysses show;  
Who, Troy o'erthrown, to many Countries went,  
And strictly viewed their Towns and Government  
And whilst thro' raging Seas He ventured home,  
Met thousand dangers, and did ovecome:  
Still careful of his Men He did advance,  
And safely stemmed the Waves of dangerous Chance:  
The Sirens Songs, and Circe's Bowl you know,  
Which like his Mates had He but tasted too,  
Base and unthinking He had served the Whore,  
In shape of nasty Dog, or mi'ry Boar:  
We are the Number, born to drink and eat,  
The Wooers of Penelope, the spruce, the neat,  
The lazy Rascals; and whose whole design,  
Was to get vicious pleasure, and be fine:  
Who thought it virtuous to sleep half the Day,  
And lull their Cares with Music, Dance and Play.   

2.  
Rogues rise before 'tis light to kill and Thieve,  
Wilt Thou not wake to save thyself alive?  
If now, when well, you will not leave your Ease,  
In vain you'll try when pressed with a Disease:  
And when you cannot sleep, except you read,  
And in good things employ your watchful head,  
Pale Treacherous Sins will swift approaches make,  
And Lust or Envy vex Thee whilst awake:  
For why, when any thing offends thy Eyes,  
Dost thou straight seek for ease, and straight advise  
Yet if it shall oppress thy Mind, endure  
The ills with Patience, and defer the Cure?  
He that hath once begun a good design,  
Hath finished half; dare to be wise, begin:  
He that deferrs to live is like the Clown,  
Who waits, expecting till the River's gone:  
But that still rolls its Streams, and will roll on.  
We seek for Wealth, a good and fruitful Wife,  
The pleasures, comforts, and supports of Life;  
Our Woods are tamed, and ploughed increase our store;  
He that hath got enough desires no more:  
Did ever Lands, or heaps of Silver ease  
The feverish Lord? Or cool the hot Disease?  
Or free his Mind from Cares, He must have health,  
He must be well, that would enjoy his wealth.  
He that desires or fears, diseased in mind,  
Wealth profits him as Pictures do the blind;  
Plasters the Gouty Feet; and charming Airs  
And sweetest sounds the stuffed and troubled Ears:  
The musty Vessels sour what they contain;  
Scorn Pleasure, Pleasure hurts that's bought with pain.  
The Greedy want, to Wishes fix an End;  
The Envious pine at th' fatness of their Friend.  
The fiercest Tyrants never yet could find,  
A greater rack than Envy to the mind:  
The Man that doth too hastily engage,  
That is all fire, and cannot curb his rage,  
Baffles his own design, whilst weaker grown,  
With malice unrevenged He strikes too soon:  
Anger's a short frenzy, kerb thy Soul,  
And check thy rage, which must be ruled or rule:  
Use all thy Art, with all thy force restrain,  
And take the strongest Bit, and firmest Rein:  
The Jockey trains the young and tender Horse,  
Whilst yet soft mouthed He breeds him to the Course:  
The Whelp since when i'th' Hall He learned to bark  
At Bucks-skins stuffed, now ranges o'er the Park:  
Now, now, whilst young, with virtuous Rules begin;  
Such holy Precepts now, and free from sin.  
What seasoned first the Vessel keeps the Taste;  
Now if you lag behind, or run too fast,  
I stay not for the slow, I mind my Race,  
Nor press on those that run a swifter pace.    

EPISTLE III.  
To his Friend Julius Florus. A familiar Epistle enquiring about several matters.  
MY Julius Florus, I would gladly hear,  
Where Claudius Caesar's kinsman kindles War;  
Doth Thrace or Hebrus bound in Chains of Snow,  
Or doth the Hellespont, I wish to know,  
Or Asia's fruitful Fields detain you now?  
What do the Wit's design? Who nobly dares,  
(This I would know) to write great Caesar's Wars:  
And who inspired with an unusual rage,  
Shall spread his Fights and Leagues thro' future Age.  
And what doth Titius, He of growing Fame,  
Who doth not fear to drink of Pindar's Stream?  
Who scorns known Springs and Lakes, that glorious He,  
And is He well, and doth He think of Me?  
Doth He, the Muse propitious, nobly sing,  
And fit to Roman Harps the Theban string?  
Or is he writing Plays, and treads the Stage,  
In murdering Verse, and swells with Tragic rage?  
And how doth Celsus do?  
Whom I still warn, as I have often done,  
To get some Stock, some riches of his own:  
And not from others labours kept for fame,  
In wise Apollo's Temple steal a name:  
Lest all the Birds should come, and claim their own,  
And th'Chough be his, when her stolen Plumes are gone.  
What do you do? What will your Mind produce?  
From what sweet Beds of Thyme suck precious juice?  
For you have Wit enough, your sense is great,  
And not deform'dly rough, but fine and neat,  
Whether with poignant Tongue you plead a Cause,  
Defend the Innocent, and teach the Laws:  
Or choose soft Numbers, and smooth Poetry,  
The chiefest Crown still justly waits on Thee.  
If You could leave those Cares that numb thy Mind,  
Shake off thy fears, and leave the Clog behind,  
Then you would live as Wisdom's rules advise:  
This is the Work, the noble Study this,  
This rich and poor, should make their greatest care,  
If we would live secure, and free from fear,  
To honest Men, and to our Country dear.  
Pray write me whether, for I wish to know,  
You love Numenius, as you ought to do.  
Or if the former difference closed in vain,  
Was never fully cured, but breaks again.  
But you in whatsoever part you live,  
Whether 'tis heat or rashness makes you strive,  
Both brave and hot, and, Oh! too dear, to prove  
How frail are all the bands of Brother's love:  
Where e'er you now reside, return to Rome,  
I feed a Steer to offer when you come.   

EPISTLE IU.  
A familiar compliment to his Friend Albius Tibullus.  
ALbus, the fairest Critic that I know,  
What shall I say that you are doing now?  
In Pedan fields do you design to write,  
More great than Cassius, and with higher flight?  
Or dost thou gravely walk the healthy Wood,  
Considering what befits the Wise and Good?  
For You are not all Body, void of Mind,  
The Gods have given a Soul of Noble kind;  
And Wealth and Skill enough to use thy Store:  
What could a Nurse for her dear Child wish more?  
Than that He might be Sober whilst He lives,  
And able to express what He conceives:  
Enjoy the Love of all, and Fame and Health,  
And cleanly Diet, with sufficient Wealth?  
Whilst midst strong hopes and fears thy time doth waste,  
Think every rising Sun will be thy last;  
And so the grateful unexpected Hour  
Of Life prolonged, when come, will please the more:  
Then come and see me, now grown plump and fine,  
When you would laugh at one of Epicurus Swine.   

EPISTLE V.  
To his Friend Torquatus.  
He invites his Friend to a small Collation.  
IF you can sit upon a paltry Seat,  
My Friend Torquatus, and endure to Eat  
A homely Dish, a Salad all the Treat:  
Sir, I shall make a Feast, my Friends invite,  
And beg that you would Sup with me to Night.  
My Liquor flowed from the Minturnian Vine,  
In Taurus' Consulship, 'tis Common Wine;  
If you have better, let the Flasks be sent;  
Or let what I, the Lord, provide content:  
My Servants sweep and furnish every Room,  
My Dishes all are cleansed against you come:  
Forbear thy wanton hopes, and Toil for gain,  
And Moschus Cause; 'tis all but idle Pain:  
To morrow Caesar's Birthday comes, to give  
Release to Cares, and a small time to live.  
Then we may sleep till Noon, and gay delight,  
And merry talk prolong the Summer's Night.  
What is my Wealth, if I must always spare?  
He that lives Poor, to leave a Wealthy Heir  
Is near akin to mad. I'll drink and play,  
Enjoy myself, and fling my Gold away.  
I'll frolic (let the sparing be thought wise)  
Content to be esteemed a fool for this:  
What cannot drunkenness effect, 'tis free  
of Secrets, and turns hope to certainty;  
It bushes on the unarmed Man to Wars,  
It frees the troubled mind from weighty Cares:  
It teaches Arts, it teaches how to think,  
And what Man is not Eloquent in's Drink?  
And who though cramped in narrow vows not free?  
Now I'll provide (pray leave that task to me)  
I'm willing, and I'm fit for such a Care)  
Your Seats shall be as clean as any are;  
Your Napkins good, no spot shall foul the Cloth,  
Whose sight might make you snuff your Nose, and loath.  
The Cups well scoured, the modest Table grace,  
The dishes shine that you may see your face.  
None shall be there that shall have treacherous Ears,  
And carry o'er our Threshold what he hears:  
And that thy Boon Companions may be fit,  
Septimius too, and Brutus I'll invite:  
And if no dearer Miss, or better Feast,  
Holds Sabin, He shall make another Guest:  
I've Room enough, and each may bring his Friends,  
But sweat at Tables too much thronged offends:  
Pray send me word what time you will be here,  
How many Friends you'll bring; forget thy Care,  
And whilst thy Clients throng about thy Hall,  
Creep forth thro' the Backdoor, and bob 'em All.   

EPISTLE VI.  
To his Friend Numicus, where he shows the method to gain true happiness.  
NOt to admire, as most are wont to do,  
It is the only method that I know,  
To make Men happy, and to keep 'em so.  
Some view this glittering Sun, and glorious Stars,  
And all the various Seasons free from fears;  
Well then, those Gifts of Earth the Gums and Gold,  
Which sweet Arabia, and the Indies hold,  
Applause and Office, that mistaken good,  
That great Preferment of the Roman Crowd;  
When these are viewed with all their gaudy show,  
How calm should be our Thoughts, how smooth our Brow!  
Now those that fear their Opposites, admire  
These Toys, as much as He that doth desire;  
For both sides fear lest Things their Hopes deceive,  
And both at sudden disappointments grieve.  
Whether one joy or grieve, or hate or love,  
Or strive to shun, or eagerly approve,  
'Tis all alike if the Event appears,  
Or worse or better than He hopes or fears,  
He stands amazed with fixed and staring Eyes,  
His Limbs and Soul grow stiff at the surprise:  
The just will be unjust, wise void of Wit,  
That seek even Virtue more than what is fit:  
Now go, let Gold and Statues charm thine Eyes,  
Go, and admire thy Gems and Tyrian Dyes:  
Rejoice that when you speak Men gape and wait;  
Go to the Court betimes, and come home late;  
Lest Mutius reap a greater Crop of Corn,  
For 'tis unfit, since not so nobly born.  
Rather let him be wondered at by you,  
Than you by him, 'tis better of the Two:  
Whatever's under Ground Age brings to light,  
And that will bury too, and hide the bright:  
When Appius way, and Grippa's Porch shall know,  
And see thee famous, Thou must walk below,  
As Numa, and as Ancus long ago.  
If vexing pains thy Sides, or Kidneys seize,  
Then seek some present Cure for thy Disease.  
Wouldst thou live well? Who not? Then quickly strive,  
And now since Virtue only this can give,  
Then leave thy false delights, and that pursue:  
But if you think their wild Opinion true,  
(As heedless Minds the vainest things approve)  
That Words make Virtue just as Trees a Grove.  
Then follow Wealth, make that thy chiefest Care,  
See none forestall, and none engross the Fair,  
Or bate the prizes of thy precious Ware.  
Then get one Thousand Talents, than one more,  
And then Another, and then square the Store;  
For by this Empress' Wealth is all bestowed,  
A rich and honest Wife, and every Good,  
As Beauty, Friends, and nobleness of Blood:  
The Rich and Moneyed Man hath every grace,  
Persuasion in his Tongue, and Venus in his Face.  
The Cappadocian King is poor in Coin,  
Tho rich in Slaves, let not his way be Thine:  
Lucullus once desired to lend the Stage  
A Thousand Suits, says, How can I engage,  
So many Suits? And yet I'll quickly send,  
I'll search my store, and see what I can lend:  
And straight writes word, I have five thousand good,  
And they might take as many as They would.  
That's an unfurnished House, that Master poor,  
Which hath Things necessary, and no more,  
And whose Superfluous plenty not deceives,  
And escapes the Master's Eye, and profits Thiefs.  
If Wealth can make Thee blest, and keep Thee so,  
Mind it the first, and the last Thing you do.  
If Offices, and all their gaudy Pride,  
Then buy a witty Slave to guard thy side;  
To tell thee great men's Names, and Nobles show,  
And warn Thee to bow Popularly low;  
Sir, that's a Lord, and this, Sirs such a One,  
He bears the greatest sway in all the Town:  
Unless you cringe and get his Voice, despair,  
His Vote disposes of the Consul 's Chair:  
Sir, as their Years require some Fathers call,  
Some Sons, and pleasantly adopt them all:  
If He lives well that eats well, come 'tis light,  
Let's go, led by our ruling Appetite.  
Let's Fish and Hunt as Gargil used to do,  
Who every morning bade his Servants go,  
With Poles, and Nets, and Spears, and march along  
The well filled Market place, and busy throng.  
That One of many Mules might carry home,  
A Boar, that he had bought, thro' gazing Rome.  
Let's Bathe even whilst the undigested load,  
Lies crude, forgetting what is just and good:  
Fit to be waxed, Ulysses Mates outright,  
Who loved their Country less than base delight.  
If nothing, as Mimernus strives to prove,  
Can e'er be pleasant without wanton Love;  
Then live in wanton Love, thy Sport pursue,  
Let that employ thy precious Time; Adieu.  
If you know better Rules than these, be free,  
Impart them, but if not, use these with Me.   

EPISTLE VII.  

(1.) He excuseth himself for not waiting on Maecenas.  
(2.) Commends his generosity.  
(3.) His moderate desires.   

1. IN five days time I promised You, My Lord,  
To be in Town—  
And yet all August passed have broke my word;  
But, Sir, if you design that I should live,  
Whilst now I fear I shall be sickly, give  
That pardon to me which you would allow,  
Suppose, My Lord, I were already so:  
Whilst Autumn burns, and Dog-stars beams do rage,  
Whilst all Diseases that attend on Age  
Are waiting now upon the Aged year,  
Whilst frequent Mourners in sad Pomp appear,  
And careful Parents for their Children fear.  
When each Officious Visit surely kills,  
It raiseth Fevers and unseals our Wills;  
If Winter's sharp, and spreads the fields with Snows  
Down to the warm Sea side thy Poet goes,  
There study little, and take soft repose.  
And then when Spring returns, and Swallows come,  
I'll see you, if you please, My Lord, at Rome:   

2. Your kindness makes me rich, unlike to theirs  
Who thus invite their Guests to Eat their Pears.  
Come, pray Sir eat: Sir I'm content with these;  
Then pray, Sir, take as many as you please:  
Your little Boys will eat them though but small,  
Thanks, Sir, as much as if I took them All:  
Then pray, Sir, take them, yet as you think fit,  
But all the Pears you leave my Hogs must eat:  
Fools only give what they do scorn and hate,  
This Seed still hath, and still will bear ingrate:  
But when the Wife Men and the good bestow,  
Tho They true worth, from bare pretences know,  
They tell you, you deserved it long ago.  
If you would have me still attend you train,  
Restore my Vigour and my Youth again:  
My curled black Locks spread o'er my narrow face,  
Restore my merry talk, and smiling grace;  
And make me fit again for Love's design,  
And t'mourn coy Cynera o'er a glass of Wine.  
A hungry Fox when pinched for want of Meat  
Crept thro' a little hole to heaps of Wheat,  
And there well filled he would return again  
Thro the same chink; He strove, but strove in vain:   

3. When lo the Weasel cried, absurd design,  
Fox, you were thin and lean when you got in,  
And if you would get out be quite as thin.  
Is this applied to me? I now restore  
The Gifts that came from You, and ask no more.  
The common People's sleep I do not praise,  
Cause full myself and sure of happy Days.  
Nor would I sell my freedom and my Ease,  
For rich Arabia, or the richer Seas.  
My Lord Maecenas, you do oft admire  
And praise the Modesty of my desire,  
You King and Father I do oft confess,  
When present, and when absent speak no less:  
Now try if I can quietly resign  
What e'er I have, be poor, and not repine:  
Telemachus said well, a barren place  
I rule, unfit for Horse, it yields no grass;  
Nor is it spread into a spacious Plain.  
Atrides take your Presents back again:  
Mean Things do suit mean Men. Unmoved I see  
Rome's Pomp and State, they are no Charms to Me.  
But unfrequented Tybur's quiet ease,  
The shady Plains, and soft Tarentum please.  
Philip the famous Lawyer coming home,  
(And as He walked the tedious streets of Rome;  
Now old, complaining from his House to Court  
Did seem a tedious way, though once but short)  
He saw a spruce neat fellow of the Town  
Paring his Nails hard by, and all alone.  
Demetrius (he then waited on his Lord)  
Go quickly, run, inquire and bring me word,  
Who that Man is, what Trade, and what Estate,  
Who is his Patron, go, and tell me strait.  
He runs, comes back, and says; the Man by Name,  
Vulteius Menas, spotless in his Fame,  
By Trade a Crier, his Estate but small,  
Enough for Nature's Wants, and that's his All.  
Now takes his Ease, and now his Game pursues,  
Knows how to get him Wealth, and how to use  
His Friends, his Equals, and his House his own;  
And when his Business and his Cares are gone,  
He freely takes the pleasures of the Town.  
Well, I must talk with him, go straight invite,  
Go tell him He must Sup with me to night.  
He went, but Mena scarce believes the Boy,  
Silently wondering betwixt Fear and Joy:  
At last pleads business: What am I denied?  
Yes he denys you out of Fear, or Pride:  
Next Morning early Philip chanced to meet  
Ulteius, selling Toys about the Street.  
He comes up to him there, and kindly said,  
Good-morrow, first. Mena excused his Trade,  
The Clog that hindered that he did not wait  
This Morning early at his Worship's Gate;  
And lastly that He had not seen him first.  
Says Philip, If you'll Sup with me to night,  
I will forgive you: Sir, what you think fit:  
I'll wait on you; Then come at Three, he said;  
Besure you come, now go, and mind your Trade.  
He came and Supped, and talked, and well content,  
He thanked his Worship, and away he went.  
When after this he was observed to wait,  
And often come to taste the Treacherous Bait.  
Each Morn a Client, and a Guest at Noon;  
One Feast when no Court business could be done;  
His Patron asked him to ride out a Town.  
He yields, and mounted on a stately Horse,  
He entertains him with a long discourse;  
The Sabine healthy Air, and fruitful Field  
He praiseth; Philip saw his drift and smiled,  
And so to end the talk, and make more sport,  
He gives him, (and to cut the Story short)  
Lends him two hundred pounds; and then persuades  
To buy a Farm, and leave his former Trades;  
He takes the Counsel, buys, and leaves the Town,  
Puts off the modish Spark, and turns a Clown:  
Talks nothing but of Furrows and of Vines,  
Improvement of his Land, and such designs:  
He minds his Trees, and takes a World of Pain,  
Grows Grey upon his Cares, and thoughts of Gain;  
But when his Sheep were lost he knew not how,  
His Goat's Diseased, his Corn refused to grow,  
And labouring Oxen died beneath the Plough:  
Vexed at the various loss, away He goes,  
At midnight in a rage to Philip's House;  
When Philip saw him hastily appear,  
Deformed and rough his Face, untrimed his Hair;  
Mena, says he, You spend Yourself with Care.  
Good Patron, He cried out in wild affright,  
Pray call me Wretch, if you would call me right;  
By Thee, by all that's good, and all that's dear,  
By all you Love, My Lord, and all you fear,  
I beg your pity; ease my vexing Pain,  
And turn me to my former Life again:  
He that hath once perceived the treacherous Bait,  
And how his first excels his present State,  
Let Him return unto his former Care,  
And follow what He left; 'tis just and fair,  
By our own foot to measure what we are.    

EPISTLE VIII.  
To his Friend Celsus.  
He complains of the sickness of his Mind, and gives his Friend advice.  
GO prithee, Muse, my loving thoughts express,  
And wish my Celsus Health and good success:  
And if by chance He asks thee how I do,  
Tell him I make a noise, a gaudy show;  
I promise mighty Things, I nobly strive;  
Yet say what ill, unpleasant Life I live:  
Not cause the Hail doth break my Vines, or beat  
My Corn, nor cause my Olives shrink with heat;  
Or Herds grow sickly in my Foreign Plain;  
No, but because my Soul is vexed with Pain,  
(The Body sound) it is a sharp Disease,  
And yet I can't endure to hear of ease:  
I storm at my Physician, hate my Friend,  
Because they strive to wake my drowsy Mind:  
What's good I hate, and what will hurt approve,  
Unsettled still, and as wild fancies rove,  
At Tiber, Rome, at Rome I Tiber love.  
Then ask him how He doth with his Command,  
And how he pleaseth Claudius and his Band;  
If He says well, than first be sure rejoice,  
And after with a small instructive voice  
Infuse this Precept at his listening Ear,  
We will bear You, as You Your Fortune bear.   

EPISTLE IX.  
He Commends his Friend Septimius to Claudius Nero.  
I Think my Friend, my Dear Septimius knew,  
How great an Interest, Sir, I have in You;  
For He still asks and begs me as a Friend,  
He importunes me that I would Commend,  
And bring him to your Service; He is fit  
For Nero's Train and Love, who does admit  
None but good Men, and Men of Sense and Wit.  
He thinks me Intimate, my Interest good,  
And more than I myself e'er understood:  
I long denied, a thousand tricks I used,  
And urged a thousand things to be excused;  
But fearing I should seem too shy, to own  
My Power with you, kind to myself alone,  
And scandals of a worse fault prevent,  
I'm turned, my Lord, a modest Impudent,  
I boldly ask; now if you dare Commend  
My boldness in the Service of my Friend,  
Accept Septimius, let him fill your Train,  
I promise him a stout and honest Man.   

EPISTLE X.  
To his Friend Fuscus Aristius. 

(1.) Prefers the Country before the City.  
(2.) The Covetous must be Slaves.    

ALL Health I lover of the Country send,  
To Fuscus the gay City's greatest Friend;  
Brothers in all things else, what one approves,  
Or flies, the other likewise hates or loves,  
We Nod together like old acquainted Doves.  
And now we disagree in this alone,  
Our humours differ here; you love the Town,  
And I the pleasant Plains, and purling Flood,  
The Groves, and mossy Banks, and shady Wood  
In short, I Live, I Reign, since I'm retired,  
From that which you as much as Heaven admired.  
" Like one at last from the Priest's service fled,  
" Loathing the honeyed Cakes, I long for Bread:  
Do You a Life to Nature's Rules design,  
And seek some fit Foundation to begin,  
Some Basis where this happy Frame to raise?  
The quiet Country is the fittest place.  
Where is the Winter's Cold more mild than here?  
And when the Sun ascends, and burns the year,  
Where does a more delightful Wind assuage  
The furious Dog-stars, or the Lion's rage?  
Or where do envious Cares break fewer dreams?  
Do Flowers shine less, or smell less sweet than Gems?  
Are Streams more pure that Leaden Pipes convey,  
Than those fair Springs that with their wanton play,  
And gentle murmurs eat their easy Way?  
Even midst our Palaces we plant a Grove,  
And Gardens dress; our Care shows what we love:  
That House is most esteemed, He wisely builds  
That hath a Prospect to the open fields.  
Strive to expel strong Nature, 'tis in vain,  
With doubled force she will return again,  
And conquering rise above the proud disdain.  
Not those that drive a Trade in Tyrian dyes,  
Yet know not Counterfeit, nor how to prise;  
More vexing and more certain Cheats pursue,  
Than Those that can't distinguish false from True.  
Those whom the smiles of Fate too much delight,  
Their sudden Frowns more shake and more affright.  
What you admire, You will be loath to lose;  
Greatness and Fortune's guilded snares refuse:  
" An humble Roof, plain Bed, and humble Board,  
" Moore clear and more untainted sweets afford,  
" Than all the Tumult of vain greatness brings,  
" To Kings, or the swollen Favourites of Kings:   

2. Both fed together, till with injur'ous force,  
The stoutest Deer expelled the weaker Horse:  
He beaten, flies to Man to right his Cause,  
Begs help, and takes the Bridle in his Jaws.  
Yet though He Conquered, though He ruled the Plain,  
He bore the Rider still, and felt the Rein.  
Thus the mean Wretch, that fearing to be poor,  
Doth sell his Liberty for meaner Ore:  
Must bear a Lord, He must be still a Slave,  
That cannot use the little Nature gave.  
Him whom his Wealth doth not exactly fit,  
Whose stores too closely, or too loosely sit,  
Like Shoes ill made and faulty, if too great  
They overturn, and pinch him if too straight.  
Content Aristus with thy present store,  
Thou wilt live wisely and not wish for more;  
And let me prithee feel thy sharp reproof,  
If I shall strive for more than just enough.  
Money must rule, or must obey the Mind,  
More fit for Service than for Rule designed:  
Behind Vacuna's Fane these lines I drew;  
Well pleased with every thing, but wanting you.    

EPISTLE XI.  
To his Friend Bullatus, who had been Travelling; That happiness may be had any where.  
BUllatus, how did pretty Samos show,  
Chios and stately Sardis, let me know,  
If They are such as Fame reports, or no?  
Or can you find more pretty things at home?  
Are all these places mean compared to Rome?  
Or else doth some Attalian City please,  
Or Lebedus, where tired with boisterous Seas,  
And tedious Roads, You first sat down to ease?  
Now Desert Lebedus contains but few,  
And less than Gabii or Fidenoe knew.  
Yet there my days I with Content could spend,  
Forget, and be forgot by every Friend.  
There safe at shore see Winds and Storms engage,  
And smile from Land at distant Neptune's rage:  
But he that comes to Rome thro' Rain and Mire,  
Would not live always by a Kitchen Fire.  
And he that's cold commends not Baths and Heat,  
As if they made a happy life complete.  
Nor 'cause Storms toss shouldst thou strait seek thy ease,  
And sell thy Ship beyond Aegaean Seas.  
Fair Mytelene will prove as great a good  
To Men of sober Minds, as Tyber's Flood  
To Swimmers, when cold Winds severely blow,  
As Frieze in Summer, Silks in Frost and Snow.  
Whilst Fortune smiles, and gives Thee happy days,  
Chios at Rome, and absent Samos praise.  
Take thankfully those hours the Gods shall give;  
Use whilst you may, and be not slow to live.  
For if 'tis Reason, and not change of Air,  
That brings soft Rest, and frees our Souls from Care,  
Those that beyond Sea go shall sadly find,  
They change their Climate only, not their Mind.  
A busy idleness destroys our ease,  
We Ride and Sail to seek for happiness.  
Yet what we seek with every Tide and Wind,  
We can even here, or at Ulubra find,  
If we can have but a contented Mind.   

EPISTLE XII.  

1. Desires his Friend Iccius to be content.  
2. Commends Pompey Grosphus to him.  
3. Tells how the Affairs in Italy stand.   

1. IF You can use Agrippa's vast Estate,  
Which now you manage, 'tis the height of Fate,  
Not Jove himself could give a greater store,  
Tho grown profuse; my Friend complain no more,  
He that hath things for use is never poor.  
If Thou hast cleanly Food and clothes enough,  
What more than this can kingly Wealth bestow?  
If at full Tables stored with dainty meat  
You can contain, and Herbs and Mallows eat,  
Thus thou wilt live, if prodigal of her store,  
The Golden Streams of Fortune gild Thee o'er:  
'Cause Money cannot Nature's stamp deface,  
And all things you below true Virtue place:  
Why should we wonder, is it strange to find,  
Democritus grown poorer, whilst his mind  
Was gone abroad, and left his Limbs behind?  
Whilst You thro' Clogs of gain can nobly climb,  
And midst dull Avarice think on Things Sublime?  
What bounds the raging Sea, what rules the Year,  
Whether by their own force the Planets err,  
Or some Superior Guide; what spreads the Night?  
What hides the Moon? What fills her face with Light?  
What disagreeing Seeds of Things can make,  
The Stoics or Empedocles mistake.  
Whatever Life you live, or Fishes dressed,  
Or Leeks and Onions peeled do make your Feast?   

2. Be kind, let Pompey Grosphius be your Guest.  
What he shall ask (he'll ask but little) grant,  
Friends are in small esteem where good Men want.   

3. But now to tell how Rome's Affairs stand,  
Cantabria yields to stout Agrippa's hand;  
Armenia Claudius Nero's Courage feels,  
The haughty Parthian now to Caesar knelt:  
And Golden plenty with a bounteous hand,  
Rich Harvests freely scatters o'er our Land.    

EPISTLE XIII.  
To his Friend Vinnius Asella about presenting his Books to Caesar.  
ASI advised you oft before you went,  
I beg Thee Vinnius now my Books present  
To Caesar, Sealed; when vexing Cares are fled,  
If well, if merry, if he asks to read:  
Lest overbusy in thy kind designs,  
You chose ill hours, and make him hate my lines:  
But if the Pack shall pinch Thee throw it down,  
Refuse to bear it, and the weight disown,  
Rather than having past the tedious Road,  
Thy Saddle shake, and strive to cast the Load;  
And thus make good thy Father's Ancient Name,  
Be Ass indeed, a public talk and shame:  
With all thy strength o'er Lakes and Mountains run,  
And when those straits are passed you reach the Town,  
Take heed, and what you bring disclose to none:  
Be shy, and cautious, nor my Books proclaim,  
Nor bear them as a Rustic would a Lamb:  
Under thy Arm, as if thy hands were full,  
As drunken Pythia carries pilfered Wool:  
As when invited to his Landlord's house,  
A Country Tenant bears his Hat and Shoes:  
Proclaim not that you sweat those Lines to bear,  
Which will detain Great Caesar's Eyes and Ear;  
Make all the hast my eager Wish requires,  
Farewell, take heed you Answer my desires.   

EPISTLE XIV.  
To his Steward, that He prefers the Country before the City, and why.  
YOu Steward of my Woods and pleasant Plain,  
Which when I reach, I am myself again:  
Contemned by You, though it hath kept alone,  
Five Ancient dwellers, and is often known,  
To send five Senators to Baria's Town.  
Come, now 'tis Time, let's see which of the Two,  
I from my Mind, or from my Pastures You,  
Can pluck Thorns best, and which is better Tilled,  
And which is better, Horace, or his Field:  
Tho Lamia's Piety, and mournful Care,  
That weeps his Brother's Fate detains me here:  
Yet still my Mind's abroad, my Soul doth strive,  
To break the Bars and get free Room to live.  
I praise the Country, You the happy Town:  
He that loves others States dislikes his own:  
We blame the places, both deceived and Fools,  
'Tis undeserved, the fault is in our Souls.  
Our Souls that are their own Companions still,  
And groan beneath their Native load of ill:  
In Town your wishes begged the Fields and Plain,  
A Farmer now You ask the Town again.  
I constant to myself part grieved from home,  
When hated business forces me to Rome.  
We Two do very different Things admire,  
We widely disagree in our desire.  
What you call lonely Melancholy Seats,  
A Man of my Opinion, as he hates  
What you think fair, accounts them fine retreats.  
The Oily Ord'naries the Stews do move  
Thy wishes for the Town, they raise thy Love:  
And 'cause my little Farm doth bear no Vine,  
But Frankincense, I see thy wild design:  
No neighbouring Tavern there to sell thee Wine.  
No wanton Songstress there to please thy Sense,  
And raise thy heavy Limbs into a Dance:  
Yet Thou dost Labour, thou dost Toil and Sow,  
And break thy Fields, that never felt the Plough:  
Yet you take Care, you wash my bleating Flocks,  
And gather boughs to feed my wearied Ox.  
And if the River run above the bound,  
Swollen big with Rain, you raise a stronger Mound,  
And teach it to forbear the Meadow ground.  
Now why these Things so differently appear  
To Us and what divides our Fancies, hear;  
I that loved all the Frolicks of the Town,  
Curled powdered Locks, a fine and gaudy Gown:  
That pleased coy Cynera without a price,  
That loved debauch, and courted every Vice,  
Now like short Suppers, and at civil hours,  
And sleep by purling Streams, on Banks of Flowers,  
Once to be wild is no such foul disgrace,  
But 'tis so still to run the frantic Race:  
There on my Joys no Squint-eyed Envious wait,  
None frowns, none looks askew, no secret hate,  
With venomed Tooth doth bite. My Neighbour's smile,  
To see me busy at my little Toil.  
But you had rather be removed to Town,  
That way your Mind and eager Wishes run:  
The City slaves, the while the Country love,  
And envy Thee, thy Garden, and thy Grove:  
The Ox the Saddle asks, the Ass the Plough,  
Let All (that's best) pursue the Arts they know.   

EPISTLE XV.  
To his Friend Vala, enquiring what he can have in the place whither he designs to retire for his Health.  
DEar Vala prithee quickly send me word,  
What Velia, what Salernum can afford;  
How hot the Winter? If the Air be good,  
What mannered Men live there? and what's the Road:  
(True, my Physician tells me I may use  
The Bajan Baths, but those their help refuse,  
Because in Winter cooler Streams I choose.  
That I should leave their Groves, their Sulphurous Stream,  
So famed for curing knotty Gouts, contemn;  
The whole Town mourns, and curses the Disease,  
That makes us seek the Clusian Springs for Ease:  
That makes us leave her Groves, her warmer Seat,  
For unfrequented Gaby's cool retreat.  
To change my Station now I must begin,  
And force my Horse beyond my usual Inn:  
So ho, where now the angry Riders say,  
And stiffly pull the Rein, that's not the way,  
I'm not for Bay or Cume: then gently soothes,  
But bridled Horses Ears are in their mouths)  
Which yields the most, and which the sweetest Grain,  
Whether they set out Tubs to catch the Rain,  
Or else have constant Springs, their Water clear,  
For I done't like the Wine they fancy there:  
(True, when at home, than any Drink will please,  
But when I go abroad to take my Ease,  
Enjoy Seas warmth, my thoughts from Cares reprieve,  
My Liquor must be good, if I would Live:  
Such as will fill my Veins with generous fire,  
Bring certain hopes of Health, and thoughts inspire:  
Such as may make my wanton Wishes rise,  
And show me young and grateful to my Miss:)  
Where most Hares run, most Boars infest the Plains,  
Which Sea most Oysters, which most Fish contains,  
That whilst I live I may be plump and gay;  
You write me word, I'll credit what you say:  
Menius when all his little Lands were gone,  
All loosely spent, and He a Man o'th' Town;  
A Bully, at no certain board He Dined,  
No house to lodge, but railed at Foe and Friend;  
A bitter Rogue to Jeer, and sharp to Feign,  
Severe to Scandalise; the very Bane  
And Ruin of the Shambles; what He got  
He swallowed; all went down his greedy Throat.  
He when his Cheats not answered his desires,  
When little came from Fops, and bubbled Squires,  
Would feed on Guts, and on the vilest Meat,  
Swallowing as much as three large Bears could Eat;  
And sober He, whilst thus he hardly fared,  
Would have forsooth the Spendthrifts Bellies seared:  
Yet the same Menius when his gains were more,  
And on his Gut he wasted all his Store,  
Turned all to Smoke and Ashes, used to cry,  
No wonder, faith, to see that Men feed high,  
When not the World a fairer sight can show,  
Than the large pickled Belly of a Sow:  
I'm just like him, when poor, Oh how I love,  
The safe and little Store, and how approve!  
When Rich, than those are blest, and only those,  
Whose stately House their hidden Treasure shows,  
None live so well, none take such soft repose.   

EPISTLE XVI.  

(1.) To his Friend Quintus, a Description of his little Farm.  
(2.) Advice concerning a happy life.   

1.  
ASk me not, Quintus, what my Farm doth yield,  
Whether 'tis Hay or Corn that crowns my Field;  
Elms clothed with Vines, or Fruit, or Olives rise,  
I'll tell you what it is, and how it lies.  
A ridge of Hills a shady Rale divides,  
And takes the Sun's kind Rays on both her sides;  
The right hand opens to the rising day,  
The left hand gently takes the setting Ray;  
You like the Clime: If every Hedge that grows  
Doth blush in Cornoils, or doth mourn in Sloes,  
If Beechen Groves and fruitful Oaks afford  
Meat for my Cattle, Shades for me their Lord,  
You'd think Tarentums pleasant Fields remove  
To wait on me, and spread a shady Grove.  
A pleasant Spring, almost a River flows,  
Not Heber's Streams the Thracian Fields enclose  
With waves more cool and clear; The waters spread  
To purge the Stomach good, and cleanse the Head.  
These pleasant (nay 'tis true) these sweet retreats,  
Preserve my Health amidst the Summer's Heats.   

2. And you live well if what Fame says be true,  
For all admire, and Rome doth boast of you.  
She calls you happy, but, my Friend, I fear  
You more believe what others say you are,  
Than what you know yourself:  
Esteem none happy but the Wise and Good.  
Nor when you're flattered by the heedless Crowd  
That you look well, dissemble thy disease,  
Sat down to feast, and give it time to seize,  
Until it shakes, and thou canst eat no more:  
'Tis foolish shame to hide a festering Sore.  
Suppose one speaks of Wars and noble Fights,  
And with these words thy empty Ears delights;  
Jove who for You, and for the People cares  
Leaves still in doubt whose safety most prefers,  
The People Yours, or else the People's you,  
Dost see his praise is only Caesar's due?  
Yet when they call the Good canst Thou agree?  
Canst Thou consent that That belongs to Thee?  
For you and I both love the Crowd should say  
That we are good, but what that gives to day,  
To morrow if it please it takes away:  
As when it Offices on Fools bestows,  
They call them back, and scorn the Man they chose:  
Lay down, 'tis ours They cry, I lay it down  
Poor naked Wretch, and grieved depart, and frown:  
The same Crowd calls me Thief, they pass a vote  
That I'm unchaste, or cut my Father's throat;  
And with false Scandals by't me; must I fear,  
Must I look pale for this? or shed a tear?  
False honours please, and false reports disgrace  
And trouble, Whom? The vicious and the base:  
Who then is Good? Why He that keeps the Laws,  
And ancient Rites; whose Word secures a Cause:  
Who reconciles his Neighbours, free from Strife,  
And seems to lead a fair and honest Life:  
Yet all his Neighbours know him base within,  
His outside's fair, his inside's black with Sin.  
Suppose my Slave should say, I neither fly,  
Nor steal: Well, Thou hast thy reward say I,  
Thou art not Scourged, I never killed a Man,  
Well, Thou shalt not be hanged, or torn with pain,  
But I am thirsty, honest, good, and wise,  
Sabellus cannot grant it, nay denys:  
For crafty Foxes dread the secret Snare,  
The Kite and Hawk, although the bait be fair,  
Yet never stoop where they suspect a Gin;  
The Good for virtue's sake abhor a Sin.  
'Tis fear of Punishment restrains thy Will,  
Give leave, how eagerly wouldst thou be ill?  
Suppose you steal few Grains from stores of Wheat,  
The Loss, 'tis true, is less, the Crime's as great:  
The Man that's honest in the People's Eyes,  
When e'er He kills a costly Sacrifice,  
A Pig or Bull, and whilst his Vows are good,  
Apollo, Janus hear, he prays aloud.  
But murmurs softly, to be heard afraid,  
Good, Good Laverna hear me, grant me aid  
For such a Cheat, let all believe me Good,  
Let me seem just and honest to the Crowd,  
And o'er my Cheats, and Forgeries spread a Cloud.  
How are the Covetous than Slaves more free,  
That basely stoop for every Pin they see  
I can't imagine. He that still doth crave  
Must fear, and He that fears must be a Slave;  
For He hath lost his Arms, and basely fled,  
Left Virtue's Camp, and all her Laws betrayed;  
That's eager to be rich, that strives for more,  
Goes on, and dies beneath the weighty Store:  
Forbear to kill the Captive thou canst sell,  
His work will bring thee gain, He'll serve Thee well:  
Whether He Tills thy Field, or Feeds thy Sheep,  
Or Sails, and Winters in the raging Deep:  
A Man that's Good and Wise will boldly say,  
Well Pentheus' King of Thebes, Why this delay?  
Pray what must I expect? What must I fear,  
What undeserved must I be forced to bear?  
I'll take away thy Goods: My Flocks, my Land,  
You may, 'tis subject all to Your Command:  
I'll Chain and Rob Thee of thy Liberty,  
Ah God, when e'er I please, will set me free,  
I think I know what these his words design,  
I'll die, of Things Death is the utmost Line.    

EPISTLE VII.  
Adviseth his Friend Scaeva to choose, and how to behave himself in the Great-man's acquaintance.  
Tho' Scaeva Thou hast Wit enough to choose  
The Great-man's favour, and art skilled to use;  
Yet hear what thy unskillful Friend can say,  
As if one Blind pretends to show the way;  
Yet see a while if what is fairly shown  
Be good, and such as you may make your own:  
If you delight in Ease, and quiet joys,  
If rattling Coaches, and the Tavern's noise  
Disturbs Thee, Scaeva, then refuse the Charms  
Of Greatness, live upon thy little Farms;  
" For Pleasures do not follow only Wealth:  
" Nor lives He ill, that lives and dies by stealth:  
But if you love to aim at nobler Ends,  
And would be able to assist your Friends,  
Live well thyself, and better thy Estate,  
Now thou art dry, go soak upon the Fat:  
If Aristippus patiently could Dine  
On Herbs, He would the Courts of Kings decline:  
If He that censures me knew how to use  
The Courts of Kings, He would his Herbs refuse:  
Now which of these you think is best declare;  
Or else, my Junior you, with patience hear  
Why Aristippus humour's best; for thus  
He bobbed the Cynic, as the story goes:  
I for myself, to please the People you  
Break Jests; my way's the better of the Two:  
I do my Duty, free from fear or force;  
To carry me the King provides a Horse,  
Whilst you beg scraps; and though you boast you live,  
And nothing want, art less than those that give:  
All Fortune fitted Aristippus well,  
Aiming at greater, pleased with what befell:  
But for the Cynic, I should think it strange,  
If He could look but comely in a change:  
The One will not expect a Purple Coat,  
But howsoever clothed, He walks about,  
Thro Court and Town, and with a decent Art,  
In either habit neatly acts his Part:  
But Purple, or a Gown of Cloth of Gold,  
The other hates, and He will die with Cold,  
Unless you will his tattered Rags restore,  
Go give him Rags, and let the Fool be poor:  
To War, and Triumphs near Jove's glorious Throne,  
'Tis all Divine, 'tis Caesar's work alone:  
To please the Great is not the smallest praise,  
Not all can go to Corinth now adays;  
He never strives that doth despair to gain,  
Well, doth He bravely act that doth obtain?  
Yet here or no where we may hope to find  
What we desire: By one the weight's declined,  
Too great for his small strength, and little mind:  
Another ventures, takes, and bears the same,  
Or Virtue is a show, an empty name,  
Or He that tries, walks right to Wealth and Fame.  
The Man that's silent, nor proclaims his want,  
Gets more than him that makes a loud complaint:  
It differs whether fairly you receive,  
Or rudely snatch the things the Great can give,  
Yet that's the chiefest measure how to live:  
My Mother's poor, my Farms too mean to sell,  
And yet not yields enough to keep me well,  
My Niece a Portion wants, my Fortune's low,  
He that says thus, He cries aloud, Bestow:  
And when He hath it, others rise and say,  
Divide the Booty, We will share the Prey;  
But could the talking Crow in quiet eat,  
His Envy had been less, but more his Meat:  
A small retainer in a Noble's Train  
To fair Surrentum, that doth still complain,  
The Road is bad, it Rains, 'tis very Cold;  
My Chest is rifled, and I've lost my Gold;  
Does like the Jilting Whores that often mourn,  
Ah me! my Garter's lost, my Hood is torn,  
Until at last unheeding the Complaint,  
We give no credit to their real want:  
A Man that hath been once abused grows shy,  
He views a Cripple with an heedless Eye;  
Nor lends a helping hand, although He Swears  
By Isis, softening every Oath with Tears,  
Believe me I'm no Cheat, and sadly cries,  
O Cruel, help the Lame: The Crowd replies,  
Go seek a Stranger to believe thy Lies.   

EPISTLE XVIII.  
To his Friend Lollius.  
Advice to his Friend how to behave himself, and get the Love of all.  
FRee Lollius if I rightly hit thy mind,  
You will be always such as you pretend,  
Not prove a Flatterer, and profess a Friend:  
For Friends and faithless Flatterers differ more,  
Unliker than a Matron and a Whore.  
But stay my Friend there is another Vice  
Just opposite, and almost worse than this:  
A Clownish roughness, and unkindly close,  
Unfriendly, stiff, and peevishly morose;  
Which doth commend herself and strive to please,  
With blackish Teeth, stretched skin and Rustic dress,  
It prides its self, and would be thought to be  
Clean perfect Virtue, and mere Liberty.  
Virtue doth Vice, as two Extremes, divide,  
Drawn up from both, and leans to neither side.  
This headlong to obey at every Feast,  
To please the great Ones jeers the meaner Guest,  
The rich Man's Nod doth so severely dread,  
Corrects himself, and takes up what he said,  
As if you heard a trembling Schoolboy say  
His Part, or the Rehearsal of a Play.  
That strives for Trifles, and for Toys contends,  
He is in earnest, what He says, defends:  
That I should not be trusted right or wrong,  
Or be debarred the freedom of my Tongue;  
And not bawl what I please! To part with this  
I think another life too mean a price.  
The Question is, Pray what? why which can boast  
Or Docilis or Cast of knowing most  
Or whether thro' Numicum been't as good  
To fair Brundisium as the Appian road:  
Whom costly wenching, or a gaudy whore,  
Or whom the race, whom Dice makes quickly poor:  
Or who's a Fop, and who perfumes his hair  
Or's finer dressed than his Estate will bear;  
Who for mere thirst of Gold doth gather store,  
And who out of pure fear of being poor:  
Thy rich friend better stored in all defects  
And Vice than Thee, or hates Thee or corrects,  
And as good Mothers he will oft advise,  
I wish you'd be more virtuous and more wise  
Than I myself am now, I vow I do;  
And faith, to speak the truth, most times 'tis so.  
My wealth will lear my folly (cease to strive  
With me) Sir, you have scarce enough to live;  
Contract your Vice's Sir, forbear to vie  
You must not take so great a range as I.  
The Man Cutrapelus would have undone  
He straight presented with a gaudy gown,  
That He grown happy in his fine attire,  
Might take new hopes and raise his wishes higher,  
Forgo his honest trade for easy Vice,  
Sleep on till noon, and follow Whores and Dice,  
Take money up, till he hath spent his All,  
And drives a Cart for bread, or rots in Jail:  
Pry not thro' Secrets; What thou learnest conceal  
Tho Wine and Anger rack Thee to reveal:  
Praise not thine own, or scorn thy friend's delight;  
Nor, when he'd have thee hunt keep home and write.  
Thus Zethus once with his Amphion strove,  
Twin brothers, till at last they joined their Love;  
The softer harp grew mute, he left his quill,  
Amphion yielded to his Brother's will:  
Humour the great Ones, quick obedience yield  
To slight Commands, and when he takes the field  
With Nets, or Hawks, or Hounds, no sport refuse,  
Shake off thy lazy and ill-humored Muse:  
That Thou may'st eat at night what Thou hast Caught,  
And sup with them; for this the Ancients taught,  
And this the Romans use, 'tis free from shame,  
'Tis good for life, and health, and gets Thee fame.  
Since thou art well in health, art strong to wound  
And fight the Boar, or to outrun the hound,  
None more genteil than You can cast a Spear,  
You know when you within the lists appear  
The Crowds all clap; Nay even your tender Age  
Endured the Wars, and fierce Cantabrian rage,  
Your Captain He, the brave and the Divine,  
Who brought our Ensigns from the Parthian Shrine,  
Redeemed our Fame, and what e'er Land remains  
Resolves to make it feel the Roman Chains.  
But lest you part and no excuse can show,  
Although I must confess what e'er you do  
Is fit, and decent, and becoming You:  
Sometimes you toy at home, your Boats divide,  
A squadron stands drawn up on either side:  
By your direction fired with martial rage  
As in the Actium fight, the Boys engage,  
With Soldier's fury, and with Soldier's art;  
You one, your Brother leads the other part:  
Your Lake's rough Adria's flood, till one's o'erthrown,  
And sudden Victory doth the other Crown:  
He that thinks you agree with his design,  
Will clap with both his hands, and favour thine.  
But to advise you, if you want advice,  
Take heed of whom you speak, and what it is,  
Take heed to whom, avoid the busy Men,  
Fly the inquisitive, they'll talk again,  
And tell what you have said, a leaky Ear  
Can never hold what it shall chance to hear,  
'Twill run all out, and what you once let fall  
It flies, and 'tis impossible to recall;  
If thy great friend keeps handsome Maid or Boy  
Be not in Love, and eager to enjoy,  
Lest He bestow that little gift to please,  
Or else deny, and heighten thy disease.  
Praise none till well approved on sober thoughts,  
Lest after you should blush for others faults.  
You praised a Rascal, there you chanced to err,  
Then don't defend him when his Crimes appear:  
But one approved when Scandals press, defend,  
Let him on Thee, and on thy Fame depend  
Whom envy bites, for thou may'st plainly see  
The danger will at last come o'er to Thee:  
For you're in danger when the Nexts on fire,  
And Flames neglected often blaze the higher.  
To Court the Great-ones, and to soothe their Pride,  
Seems a sweet task to those that never tried;  
But those that have, know well that danger's near,  
It is a ticklish point, and mixed with fear.  
Do you endeavour whilst you cut the Main,  
That no cross Storm should toss Thee back again,  
The Active hate the Dull, the Sad Jocose,  
The Dull the Active, Merry the Morose;  
Stout Jolly Topers scorn the Sober Ass,  
They hate those fellows that refuse their Glass;  
Although they beg, although they swear they dread  
The nightly fumes, fur'd mouth, and aching head:  
Put off all Clouds and Darkness from thy brow,  
Be Jolly, Gay, and Mirth and Humour show,  
For modest Men are oft thought cloudy Souls,  
And Men of little talk, ill natured Fools:  
In every state of Life besure of this,  
Read o'er thy moral Books, consult the wise,  
How thou may'st live, how spend thine Age in Peace,  
Lest fierce desire, still poor, disturb thine Ease;  
Or Fears should shake, or Cares thy Mind abuse,  
Or ardent hope for things of little use.  
If Arts do Virtue breed, or Nature send,  
What lessens Cares, what makes thyself thy Friend,  
What calms Thee, Honour, or admired Wealth;  
Or close retirement, and a life by stealth.  
When I, my Friend, do go to take repose,  
At cold Medela, where Degentia flows;  
Medela my beloved, but little Town,  
With Cold and Frost all grey and wrinkled grown:  
For what do you imagine that I care?  
What think, what make the subject of my prayer?  
Let me have what I have, or somewhat less,  
'Twill still be great enough for happiness;  
And that I may, if Heaven more years will give,  
Live to myself the time I have to live:  
Estate in Books, and Food to serve a year,  
Lest I should wavering hang 'twixt hope and fear:  
And this is all for which Mankind should pray,  
And beg of Jove who gives and takes away;  
Let him but Life, and moderate Plenty find,  
And I'll provide myself an happy mind.   

EPISTLE XIX.  
TO MAECENAS. 

1. Of Poetry.  
2. His own Excellencies.  
3. Why not liked.    

1. MY Lord, if what Cratinus says be right,  
Those Verses cannot live, those Lines delight,  
Which Water drinkers Pen, in vain they Write.  
For e'er since Bacchus did in wild design,  
With Fauns and Satyrs half-mad Poets join,  
The Muses every morning smelled of Wine.  
From Homer's praise his love of Wine appears,  
And Ennius never dared to write of Wars  
Till heated well, let sober dotards choose  
The Plodding Law, but never tempt a Muse,  
This Law once made, the Poets straight begin,  
They drunk all night, all day they stunk of Wine:  
Suppose a Man the coursest Gown should wear,  
No Shoes, his Forehead rough, his look severe,  
And Ape great Cato in his Form and Dress;  
Must He his Virtues and his Mind express?  
Whilst dull Hyarbit wished, and vainly strove  
To speak as smoothly, and as aptly move  
As sweet Timagenes, and reach his Arts,  
He overstrained himself, and broke his Parts:  
Examples Vice can imitate deceive:  
Should I by Chance, or a Disease be pale,  
The Sots would drink their bloodless Cummin all.  
Base Imitators, Slaves to others Wills,  
How oft you move my frowns, how oft my smiles?   

2.  
I trod new paths, to others feet unknown;  
He that first ventures, leads the others on:  
I first the Romans keen iambics taught,  
In numerous smoothness, and in height of thought,  
I matched Archilocus, I showed the Age  
His numbers, but forbore his murdering rage.  
But lest you say that I fall short of fame,  
Because my Number's his, my Verse the same;  
The Saphick sweetens all his bitter vain,  
And grave Alcaic smooths his rougher strain:  
The subject's different, different the Designs,  
And though thro' all a virtuous freedom shines,  
With no black Lines he daubs, no envious breath  
Doth soil men's same, or Rhyme a Spouse to death.  
This Verse ne'er heard by Latin Ears before,  
I first discovered from the Grecian store;  
And this delights me now that I am known,  
And read for these inventions of my own.   

3.  
Now would you know why our ungrateful Rome,  
Doth praise my Poems when with me at home,  
But flout abroad; I'll freely tell the Cause:  
I do not beg the empty Crowd's Applause:  
I do not often treat, nor do I send  
My old cast Suits, and bribe them to commend.  
I do not crowd to hear our Fops rehearse,  
Nor do I praise, and clap our Nobles Verse:  
I cannot run to every Pedant Fool,  
And beg that He would read my Book in's School:  
Hence springs my Woe; now if I say I fear,  
To bring dull Lines t'a crowded Theatre,  
And vaunt my Trifles, straight, You jeer, you cry,  
And keep your Verse alone for Caesar 's Eye:  
And proud you think that you alone can write  
Sweet honey lines, fine in thy own conceit:  
A tart reply to this I fear to give,  
Lest his sharp Nails should scratch me whilst I strive.  
I do not like the place I freely say,  
Forbear a while, let's take another day;  
For Jest dislike, Dislike Contention bears,  
Contention Hate, and Hate breeds dreadful Wars.    

THE CONCLUSION  
To his BOOK.  
I Know you long to visit every Stall,  
You would be neatly bound, and set to Sale;  
The bars, that please the modest, trouble you,  
And you Commend, and Court the public view,  
And mourn that you are hid, and seen by few.  
Go to the public then, go where you strive,  
Tho thou wert not bred thus, or taught to live:  
There shall be no return when once thou'rt gone,  
And thou wilt cry, Ah me! What have I done!  
What have I begged! When one shall call thee dull,  
And squeeze Thee when his Belly's quickly full.  
But now unless fond rage besots my mind,  
Unless mere hatred to thy faults does blind,  
I Prophesy, and I am sure 'tis true;  
You shall be liked and praised at Rome whilst new;  
But when thou shalt be soiled by every hand,  
Then slighted, and to common use profaned;  
To bind up Letters, and be torn, be tossed,  
And fly to other Countries every Post.  
Then I who have advised in vain, shall smile,  
As He that drove his Ass t'a craggy Hill:  
For who would save a thing against its Will?  
At last in Schools thou shalt be thumbed by Boys,  
And there grow foolish, old, and deaf with noise.  
But when at Evening many come to read,  
Tell them that I was meanly born and bred,  
My Father poor, of small Estate possessed,  
And that I stretched my Wings beyond my Nest.  
But as you cut me short in Wealth, increase  
My Virtues, tell them I the greatest please,  
A little Man, and studious of my ease.  
And pettish too, I can be angry soon,  
My Passion's quickly raised, but quickly gone.  
Grown grey before my time, I hate the cold,  
And seek the warmth; and if they ask how old,  
Now Lepidus and Lollius are in Power,  
Tell them I'm Four and Forty and no more.   
The End of the First Book of Epistles.   

EPISTLES.  
BOOK II.  

Epistle I.  
To Augustus. A Discourse of Poetry.  
WHen you alone sustain the weighty Cares  
Of all the World, and manage Peace and Wars,  
The Roman State by virtue's Rules amend,  
Adorn with Manners, and with Arms defend,  
To write a long Discourse, to waste your time,  
Would hinder public good, and turn a Crime:  
The Ancient Heroes, though blessed abodes  
Received when dead, exalted into Gods;  
Yet whilst they lived with Men, and whilst bestowed  
The greatest Cares, and did the greatest Good,  
Built Towns, made Laws, and brought delightful ease,  
And civilised the Rational Savages;  
Complained that They ingrateful Masters served,  
And met far less rewards than They deserved:  
He that killed Hydra, He designed by Fate  
To quell the Monsters raised by Juno's hate;  
Tho He, the mighty He, had all ways tried,  
Found Envy could be vanquished only when He died:  
For those are hated that excel the rest,  
Although when dead they are beloved, and blest;  
The vigorous Ray torments the feeble sight,  
Yet when the Sun is set, They praise the light:  
To Thee, great Caesar, now we Altars give,  
We vow and swear by Thee even whilst alive:  
For never yet the Gods kind hands bestowed,  
Nor ever will a Prince so great, so good:  
That she prefers, that she esteems Thee more  
Than all the Heroes she enjoyed before,  
Than all that she hath bred, or Greece can boast,  
In this, 'tis true, thy Rome is Wise and Just:  
But not in other things; the Ancient Plays,  
And Foreign Poets only she can praise;  
The Present or Contempt, or Hate receive,  
'Tis Crime enough that they are yet alive:  
Thus Old-Loves do admire the Ancient Laws,  
The Sabines Leagues have their deserved applause;  
On musty Leaves at awful distance look,  
Age makes it Reverend, and exalts the Book:  
Give him the Bards old Songs, Oh Rare! Divine!  
I swear 'tis good, a Muse sang every Line:  
But if because the oldest are the best  
Amongst the Greeks, the same unequal Test  
Must try the Latins too; in short, No doubt  
Plumes have nought hard within, nor Nuts without:  
We sit on Fortune's Top, We sing, We write,  
And Wrestle better than the Greeks can Fight.  
If length of Time will better Verse like Wine,  
Give it a brisker Taste, and make it fine;  
Come tell me then, I would be gladly showed,  
How many years will make a Poem good:  
One Poet writ an Hundred years ago,  
What is He Old, and therefore Famed or no?  
Or is He New, and therefore Bald appears?  
Let's fix upon a certain term of Years.  
He's good that lived an Hundred Years ago,  
Another wants but One, is He so too?  
Or is He New, and Damned for that Alone?  
Well, He's Good too, and Old that wants but One.  
And thus I'll argue on, and bate no more,  
And so by one and one wast all the store:  
And so confute him, who esteems by Years,  
A Poem's goodness from the date it bears.  
Who nor admires, nor yet approves a Line  
But what is Old, and Death hath made Divine.  
Ennius, the lofty Ennius, and the Wise,  
That second Homer, in our Critics Eyes,  
Is loose in's Poems, and correct in few,  
Nor takes he care to prove his Dreams were true,  
He shows so little of great Homer's Soul.  
" Naevius is learned by heart, and dearly sold,  
" So Sacred is his Book, because 'tis Old.  
When Accius and Pacuvius are compared,  
Both are esteemed, both meet with great reward;  
Pacuvius all the Critics Voices gains  
For Learning, Accius for his lofty strains.  
Afranius shows us soft Menander's Flame,  
And Plautus rivals Epicharmus Fame:  
Cecilius grave, and Terence full of Art,  
These Rome admires, and these she learns by heart.  
These are the Worthies of her Theatre,  
These she applauds with heat, and crowds to hear:  
These she esteems the Glories of the Stage,  
And counts from Livy's to our present Age.  
The Critic Mobile will be meddling still,  
Sometimes their judgement's good, and sometimes ill:  
Thus when they praise the Old, and when prefer,  
Beyond compare to all the New, They Err:  
But when they grant the Ancients Books and Plays  
Are often dull, and uncorrect in Phrase,  
Their words unfits, or else their main design,  
Their judgement's rational, and jumps with mine:  
I do not damn old Livy's Rhymes as dull,  
For which I often smarted when at School;  
But that he should be thought Correct, Sublime,  
And far before the Poems of our Time;  
That one poor Chance-good Line or two at most,  
The only Thing that all his Books can boast,  
Not only should atone for what's amiss,  
But recommend the whole; I'm vexed at this.  
I hate a Fop should scorn a faultless Page,  
Because 'tis New, nor yet approved by Age:  
And then admiring all the Ancient Plays,  
Not only pardon their defects, but Praise.  
Should I but doubt if Atta's Plays are good.  
Our Old-Loves strait would cry the Youngster's Proud;  
He's impudent, nor thinks those Plays exact,  
Which Roscius, and grave Aesop used to act:  
Because they Judge by their own Appetites,  
And think nought sweet, but what their taste delights;  
Or to stoop to their Juniors Rules disdain,  
Or else to think what once they learned was vain,  
And only fit to be forgot again;  
Those that applaud the Songs of former Times,  
The dotish Bards old Verse, or Monkish Rhimes;  
Who would be thought to have a sharper Eye,  
And in those Poems numerous Grace's spy,  
In which They see no more fine Things than I;  
'Tis not to praise the Old, but scorn, abuse,  
And hate New Books, and damn the Modern Muse.  
Had Greece done thus, had she still scorned the New,  
What had been Old, what worthy Public View?  
When Wars were done, and Greece dissolved in Peace,  
When Fortune taught them how to live at Ease,  
They wrestled, Painted, sung, these Arts they loved,  
These They did much admire, and these improved;  
In every Picture vulgar Eyes could find  
The Face exact, and almost saw the Mind;  
Then Racing Vaulting then, the Plays and Stage,  
Each took their turn to please the wanton Age;  
Like Boys at Nurse, they eagerly desired,  
But strait were cloyed, and left what they admired.  
For what disgusts our fancies, what doth please,  
But may be changed? these are the fruits of Ease,  
This happy fortune bears, this springs from Peace.  
'Twas heretofore a credit here at Rome,  
To mind a Shop all day, and keep at home;  
Attend Ones Client, and promote his Cause,  
Inform his Ignorance, and teach the Laws;  
To make good Debts, and drive a gainful Trade,  
And know what Interest may be justly paid:  
Instruct the Young, and hear the Old Debate,  
What will increase, what ruin an Estate:  
This humour's changed, now Reigns a New delight,  
All must be Authors now, and all must Write:  
All strive to get the Bays, and all Rehearse,  
They Dine, they Sup in Rhyme, and drink in Verse.  
Even I that swear I never tried a Muse,  
Even I'm forsworn, my Deeds my Words accuse;  
My Quill is scribbling too; before 'tis light  
I call for Paper, Pen, and Ink, and write.  
He that's no Pilot is afraid to Sail,  
Urge him to guide a Ship, you shan't prevail,  
And only Doctors will pretend to heal.  
By Smith's alone, are Locks and Staples made,  
And none pretend but Artists in the Trade.  
But now for Poetry we all are fit,  
And skilful, or unskilful all must write;  
And yet this Madness thousand Goods commend,  
A thousand pleasures wait, and all attend;  
A Poet's seldom Covetous, or Nice,  
Safe and secure within himself he lies.  
He minds and loves his Rhymes, and those alone;  
Tell him his Goods are burnt, his Slaves are gone,  
Or his Fields lost; He laughs, nor strives to cheat  
His Ward, or Friend, a stranger to deceit:  
He's thrifty, feasts upon a dish of Pease,  
And lives content with Household-bread and Cheese:  
Unfit for War, yet they are good in Peace.  
(For great things by the help of small increase)  
Instruct our looseness, and inform our Ease.  
They teach our Boys to hate all words Obscene,  
To follow generous Rules, and speak like Men.  
And then slide gently down with Virtuous Rules  
Into the tender Breast, and form their Souls;  
Restrain their Envy, and correct their rage,  
Tell them what's good, instruct their tender Age,  
With fit Examples, and their griefs assuage.  
How had our Sacred Songs and Hymns been made,  
And how our Prayers as high as Heaven conveyed;  
Did not the Muse's Poets sancies raise,  
To teach us how to pray, and how to praise?  
In Verse the fawning Choir her Plagues bewails,  
And begs a speedy comfort, and prevails;  
Good Wether, happy years, and much increase;  
Their Prayers are straightway heard, all smile in Peace.  
The Year is rich, the Fields with Plenty flow,  
Verse softens Gods above, and Gods below.  
The Ancient Swains, those temperate happy Swains,  
Contented Sovereigns of their little Plains.  
When all their Corn was housed would make a Feast,  
Unbend their Minds, and lay them down to rest;  
Their Cares dissolved into a happy Thought,  
And Minds enjoyed, the rest their labour sought.  
A Pig on Tellus' Altars left his Blood,  
And Milk from large brown Bowls to Sylvan flowed:  
Their Wife, their Neighbours, and their prattling Boys  
Were called, all tasted of the Country Joys:  
They Drank, they Danced, they Sang, made wanton Sport,  
Enjoyed their selves, for life they knew was short.  
Hence grew the Liberty of the loser Muse,  
Hence they grew Scurrilous, and would abuse;  
Hence those loose Dialogues at Marriage Feasts,  
Yet still they were but Mirth, and Country Jests.  
At last they showed their Teeth, and sharply bit,  
And Raillery usurped the Place of Wit.  
Good Persons were abused, and suffered wrong,  
They loudly talked, no Law to curb their Tongue:  
The wounded grieved, the smart provoked their Hate,  
And all untouched bewailed the Common Fate.  
Till Laws commanded to regard men's Fame,  
Severely lash the Vice, but spare the Name.  
Fear made them civil, and design to write  
With modesty; speak well, and to delight:  
Greece conquered did the Conqueror o'ercome,  
Polished the rude, and sent her Arts to Rome:  
The former roughness flowed in smother Rhymes,  
And good facetious Humour pleased the Times:  
Yet they continued long, and still we find,  
Some little marks of the old Rustic mind,  
Some of the Scurrilous Humour left behind.  
'Twas long before Rome read the Grecian Plays,  
For Cares took up her Nights, and Wars her Days:  
Till Carthage ruin'd she grew soft in Peace,  
And then enquired what weighty Sophocless,  
What Eschylus, what Thespis taught the Age,  
What good, what profit did commend the Stage.  
And then they turned their Plays, their thoughts were high,  
By Nature great, and fit for Tragedy.  
But to review, to blot what once was writ,  
Oh that was mean, it was a shame to Wit:  
The Comic then was thought the easier way,  
Because 'tis common Humour makes the Play;  
Yet 'tis the hardest, for the faults appear  
So Monstrous, and the Critics so severe,  
That even their greatest Mercy cannot spare.  
Plautus, 'tis true, observes the Rules of Art,  
His well drawn Figures suit with every part;  
He Paints an Amorous Fop, a Jilting Jade,  
A careful Father, or designing Bawd:  
But Dorsen rudely draws his Parasites,  
How loose his Lines, how uncorrect he writes!  
He writes for Gold, and if his Pocket's crammed,  
He cares not, let the Play be Clap't or Damned:  
But He that Writes to have applause for Wit,  
If unconcerned the grave Spectator sit,  
He dies; but if attentive, then He's proud,  
They like my Fancy, and my Plays are good:  
So small, and so contemned a thing will raise,  
Or damp men's eager Thoughts that write for Praise:  
I like not this, and I forswear the Stage,  
If clap't I must be proud, if damned must rage.  
And who would be so bold to write, that knew  
The Judging Men of Honour are but few?  
The Vulgar Thousands, who might hiss the Play,  
And if our Nobles should dislike their way,  
Would huff, and swear, and quarrel strait and fight;  
Or leave the Stage to see a Puppet-sight;  
Or to the Bears, for that's the Crowds delight.  
But now our Nobles too are Fops and Vain,  
Neglect the Sense, but love the Painted Scene;  
Four hours are spent in Show to please the sight,  
A tedious Battle, and at last a Flight;  
Then Kings in Chains, and to reward their Toil,  
Corinthian Statues, and a world of Spoil.  
Would not Democritus if now alive,  
Split here, would He these Fooleries forgive?  
And if the Vulgar with a wild amaze,  
Neglect the Actors, and forsake the Plays,  
And on an Elephant or a Panther gaze:  
Sure He would look, and in the gaping Crowd,  
Find better Humour than the Actor showed.  
Besides, He needs must think they write in vain,  
And teach deaf Asses, prodigal of their pain:  
For who can judge, or who can hear the Wit,  
When Noise and strange Confusion fills the Pit?  
As when the Winds dash Waves against the Shore,  
Or lash the Woods, and all the Monsters Roar;  
So great the shout when rich and strangely dressed,  
The Player comes, they clap his gaudy Vest.  
Well hath the Actor spoken? Not a Line:  
Why then d'ye clap? Oh, Sir, his clothes are fine.  
But lest you think that I that write no Plays,  
Or envy their Design, or poorly Praise;  
I fairly grant those Poet's Wit that Rule  
My Passions as they please, disturb my Soul;  
And then by a short turn my thoughts relieve,  
Whose lively Fiction makes me laugh or grieve.  
Whose well wrought Scenes natural and just appear;  
I see the place, and fancy I am there.  
But those that hate and fly the censuring Stage,  
Yet Write to please the Readers of the Age.  
Make them, Great Caesar, to improve their vein,  
Review their Poems o'er and o'er again.  
If you would have them live, be great in praise,  
And by just Study strive to win the Bays.  
We Poets often damn ourselves that dare,  
(As I have done) when you are full of Care,  
To offer Verse; or when we oft repine,  
If a good friend finds but one faulty Line.  
Or when rehearsing we with sighs complain,  
My fancy's not perceived, I write in vain;  
And then unasked repeat it o'er again.  
Or when we think, when once our Fame is known,  
We straightway shall be sent for up to Town;  
Enjoy a Pension, or a piece of Land,  
And write new Poems at the King's Command.  
And yet, Great Sir, 'tis worth your while to know,  
What, Caesar, future times must think of you.  
And who must be disposer of your Fame,  
Who tell to distant Worlds your glorious Name:  
By whom your Life; by whom your Wars be Writ,  
Actions too Sacred for a Common Wit.  
Cherillus the Pelloean Youth approved,  
Him He rewarded well, and him He loved.  
His dull uneven Verse, by great good Fate,  
Got him his favour, and a fair Estate.  
Tho just as Ink when touched still leaves a stain,  
Dull Rhymes besmear, and noble Acts profane:  
Yet He the same that bought dull Rhimes so dear,  
In meaner things he took a greater care,  
Let none but learned Apelles paint my Face,  
Lysippus only must Designed in Brass.  
Thus spoke his Laws, in this I grant he showed  
His Skill sufficient, and his Judgement good.  
But when for Verse, he chose so mean a Thing,  
How poor his Judgement? How below a King?  
But Virgil, Varius, and the learned few,  
That are applauded, and beloved by You;  
Declare your Skill is great, your Judgement true.  
The Honours you bestow do raise your Fame,  
They gratefully reflect upon your Name,  
And kindly praise the Author whence they came:  
Nor can Ones Face be with more Art designed  
In Brass, than in a Poem thoughts and mind:  
Even I desire to leave the humble Plain,  
I would be high, and write a lofty strain.  
I wish I could describe your Wars, and show  
How Barbarous Nations fear, and how they bow.  
How you have razed their Towns, their Ocean stained  
With Blood, and with strong Towers bound up their Land.  
How War's Exiled, and Peace and Plenty reign,  
And Janus Temple now is shut again:  
How mean, and how submissive Parthians come,  
How under Thee they fear and honour Rome:  
All this I would, but Oh I want the Wit  
Your Deeds must be by some high Genius Writ.  
Whose lofty Soul, his towering thoughts can raise,  
As high as You have done, and take the Bays,  
'Tis Treason, Sir, to give you meaner Praise.  
I know my weakness, and I must refuse,  
A task too weighty for my tender Muse,  
A sordid Commendation hurts our Friend,  
And those that meanly praise, do discommend:  
For what's derided by the Censuring Crowd,  
Is thought on more than what is just and Good:  
I hate those obligations that disgrace:  
I am not fond to have an ugly Face  
Designed for me exposed to public View:  
Nor Praise in dull Verse, though the Praise be true.  
I would not lie at every Grocer's door,  
To wrap Tobacco, or do something more.  
I would not have a Verse that bears my Name  
Lie under Pies; 'tis an ill way to Fame.   

EPISTLE II.  
To his Friend Julius Florus. 

(1.) He makes an excuse for not sending the Odes he promised.  
(2.) Why He wrote no more.  
(3.) The faults of the Poets.  
(4.) Directions for Writing.  
(5.) He designs graver Studies.  
(6.) Against Covetousness.  
(7.) The uncertainty of every thing.    

1. DEar Florus, Nero's Friend, the Great, the Brave,  
Suppose one come to sell a Clownish Slave,  
And speak Thee thus, This Boy is neatly made,  
He's sound from Head to Foot, a pretty Lad.  
For Twenty Pound he's Yours, the Bargain's fair,  
He'll serve, and fit your humour to a hair:  
He's yet soft Clay, he'll take a Stamp with ease,  
And you may form him, Sir, to what you please.  
He speaks some Greek, and at a drinking Match  
He'll bear the Bob, and sing a merry Catch.  
To praise too much like a design appears,  
When He extols that would put off his Wares:  
ay of ned in want, I am in debt to none,  
What e'er I have, though little, 'tis my own;  
Few, Sir, would tell you this, and tell you true,  
Nor I myself to any one but you;  
This Boy was faulty once, He stayed at play,  
And when He feared the lash he run away:  
Buy if you like him now his faults are told.  
The deal's fair, and he may take your Gold,  
And ne'er be thought a cheat for what He sold.  
You bought a faulty Rogue, he told you so,  
And yet you vex him, and unjustly sue.  
At parting, Sir, I said I was unfit,  
Grown lazy, impotent, and slow to write:  
Lest for not Writing You should chide, accuse  
My silence as unkind, and scorn my Muse;  
Ah what did that avail to set me free!  
Yet if You sue me, Sir, the Law's for me.  
But You complain beside, you say, my Lord;  
I promised you some Odes, yet break my word.  
Thro thousand dangers and a world of pain,   

2 Lucullus Soldier, who had striven to gain  
A little money, what with care he kept,  
Once tired, lost every penny as he slept.  
Thence He a very Wolf and angry grown  
Both with himself and Foe rushed boldly on,  
And with his Teeth as 'twere o'erthrew a Town  
Tho strong and well provided with a Guard,  
This got him credit, and a large reward;  
Soon after when they were to storm a Town  
The Captain chose out him, and egged him on,  
With such affection, such warm words he pressed  
As might inflame the coldest Coward's breast:  
Go where thy Virtue calls, go Conqueror go,  
Thy Friends shall give rewards, and spoils thy Foe.  
But Crafty He replied, No Town I'll force,  
No Sir, He'll venture that hath lost his purse.  
Rome bred me first, she taught me Grammar rules,  
And all the little Authors red in Schools.  
A little more than this learned Athens showed,  
And taught me how to separate Bad from Good;  
The Academic Sect possessed my Youth,  
And 'midst their pleasant shades I sought for Truth.  
But rough Times drove me from my blessed retreat,  
And tossed me thro' the Troubles of the Great.  
Tho rude in Arms, and though well learned in fears,  
The tide yet bore me on to Civil Wars.  
When those had clipped my wings and brought me down,  
My small Farm lost, and all my money gone;  
Those with my Shield I left by shameful flight;  
Bold Poverty first set me on to write.  
But now I have enough to keep off want,  
(That is as much as Heaven itself can grant)  
What hellebore could cure my wild disease,  
Should I prefer a Muse before my Ease!  
On me each circling Year does make a prey,  
It steals my Humour, and my Mirth away.  
And now at last would steal my Poems too  
From my Embrace; what would You have me do?  
Besides not all admire, not all approve  
One sort; You Odes, jambics others love,  
Others in keenest Satyrs rage delight;  
Sharp salt alone can raise their appetite:  
Methinks I've three envited to a Feast,  
A different palate too, to every Guest.  
What shall, what shall I not provide? What You  
Commend and eat, disgusts the other two.  
Besides, dost think that I can mind a Song  
Whilst here at Rome 'midst all the noise and throng.  
Of different Cares, one begs me pass my word  
For him, than I must wait upon my Lord,  
To hear his Verses, and I must be gone,  
Leave all my other work and cares alone,  
And march from one to t'other end of Town  
" But, Sir, there's room, the Street is clean and still,  
" And you may walk and think on what you will.  
Yes, here a Wagon bears a log of Wood  
Or weighty Stone, and groans beneath the Load.  
Sad Funeral here do justle with a Dray,  
And there the sweaty Carman bawls for way.  
Here a Mad Dog, and there a Sow doth fright,  
Go now 'midst this, and lofty Verses write.  
Each Writer hates the Town and Woods approves,  
Right Son of Bacchus pleased with shades and groves.  
Yet 'midst these Tumults You would have me try  
To trace the narrow steps of Poetry.  
The Man that takes learned Athens close retreat,  
Who by himself doth study to be great;  
When he hath studied seven full tedious Years,  
Grown old and grey upon his Books and Cares:  
Yet after all this time and pains bestowed,  
Grows a mere stock, and's laughed at by the Crowd.  
Than 'midst the Waves and Tempests of the Town,  
Where Cares do toss and vexing business drown,  
Can I compose my thoughts, can I aspire,  
And Join fit words to tune the Roman Lyre?   

3. Two Brothers lived at Rome, a Lawyer one,  
And one a Rhetor noted both in Town,  
Vain glorious both, and studious of a name,  
They blew their Trumpets to each others Name.  
They one another did extremely please;  
And are not Poets frantic quite like These?  
I Odes, and one writes Elegy; Divine,  
A curious work, polished by all the Nine.  
See how we strut, and what a port we bear,  
With what high scorn look, o'er the Theatre,  
The other Poets sneak and scarce appear.  
But if You've leisure stand aside and know  
Why each admires and praises t'other so,  
Why wreath the Crown, and why the Bays bestow.  
We quarrel, and with equal Fortune fight,  
True Samnites draw the lingering War till Night.  
Then straight in his Opinion I'm divine  
Alcaeus, well, and what is He in Mine.  
Callimachus, or would he more? Mimnermus Fame  
He gets, and glories in his borrowed Name.  
A Thousand things I suffer to assuage  
The waspish Poets, and to cool their rage;  
Because I write myself, I plead their Cause,  
I smooth, and humbly beg the Crowds applause;  
But when grown sober I shake off my Muse,  
I'll stop my Ears, and unless hired to hear, refuse:  
Dull Rhymes are laughed at, yet we ne'er give o'er,  
Our Writers smile, and even themselves adore,  
If you are slow to clap they swear 'tis spite,  
And praise themselves what happy they have writ.   

4. But He that hath a curious Piece designed,  
When He begins must take a Censor's mind.  
Severe and honest, and what words appear,  
Too light and trivial or too weak to bear  
The weighty sense, nor worth the Readers care,  
Shake off; though stubborn, they are loath to move,  
And though we fancy dearly, though we love.  
Good words, now grown obscure, bring gently forth,  
Relieve them from the dark, and show their worth  
Used by the Ancients though consumed by rage  
Of eating time, and grown deformed with Age:  
And take new words begot by Parent use,  
Prune the luxuriant, and Correct the loose.  
Pure, flowing, as a River roll along,  
And bring new plenty to the Roman Tongue;  
Reform, and cut superfluous Branches off;  
Strengthen the weaker words, and smooth the rough:  
Now pained, now eased, as one that must put on  
Now wanton Satyrs, now a heavy Clown:  
Now I had rather be a little Wit,  
So my dull Verse my own dear self delight,  
Then know my Faults, be vexed, and die with spite.  
An Argive Gentleman as Stories say,  
Did always fancy that he saw a Play,  
The Actors dress, and well wrought Scenes appear,  
And clap't and smiled in th' empty Theatre.  
In all Things else he showed a sober Mind,  
A loving Neighbour and an honest Friend;  
Kind to his Wife, and generous to his Slave,  
Nor when he saw the Barrel broached would rave.  
Would shun an open Well, and dangerous Pitts,  
And seem a perfect Man, and in his Wits,  
Him when his tender Friends with Cost and Pains  
Had cured, and Physic gently purged his Brains,  
He cried, Ah me! my Friends I am undone,  
You've ruined me, now all my pleasure's gone;  
You have destroyed, whilst you designed to save,  
Y''ve lost the pleasantest Cheat that man could have.   

5. 'Tis time now to be wise, forsake my Toys,  
And leave my Verses proper sport for Boys.  
Not follow Words and Numerous Songs contrive,  
But seek fit measures, and true rules to live.   

6. If what you drink should make your heats increase,  
Would you not tell the Doctor your disease?  
Now when the more you have, you crave the more,  
When Floods of Store, shall make you thirst for store,  
Won't you confess and this distemper own?  
All this I use to think on when alone.  
Suppose You had a Wound, and One had showed  
An Herb, which you applied but found no good,  
Would You be fond of this, increase your pain,  
And use the fruitless remedy again?  
Thus when You hear on whom kind Heaven bestows  
Great heaps of Wealth, they straight their folly lose.  
And yet you cannot find yourself more wise,  
Because more rich, you I follow their advice.  
Could Wealth with Godlike Prudence Minds Inspire,  
Cure them of vexing Fear, and fond Desire.  
Then you should blush, if all the World could show,  
A sober Man, more covetous than You.  
If thats o●r own, which powerful Coin procures,  
And Use, as Lawyers say, makes something ours;  
The Field that feeds thee's thine; rich Orbus ploughs,  
His Servant that Manures his Land, and Sows,  
Harrows the fruitful Clod, that must afford  
Good Corn to Thee, confesses thee his Lord:  
One pays his Money, and receives again,  
Eggs, Pullet's, Grapes, or else a flask of Wine.  
And thus by these degrees the Farm he buys,  
Bought at three Thousand pound, or at a greater price.  
Well then, what difference is it whether now,  
You pay for what you have, or did it long ago?  
Those Purchasers that Veijs Fields have gained,  
And large Aricia's Plains, though rich in land,  
Yet even now buy every Herb they eat,  
They buy each stick of Wood to boil their Meat.  
Although they think not so, and call the Grounds  
Their own, which yonder friendly Poplar bounds.  
As if that could be thine, that called thy own,  
Which every Moment's hurried up and down,  
And now to this, and now to tother thrown,  
Which Money, Fraud or Flattery command,  
And snatch from one, to fill another's Hand:  
So since perpetual Use to none's allowed,  
But Heir crowds Heir, as in a rolling Flood  
Wave urges Wave, ah what doth it avail,  
To join large Groves to Grove, and Vale to Vale,  
If Death with equal hand, strikes Great and Small,  
Death unrelenting, and that never spares,  
Not to be bribed with Gold, or won by Tears:  
Gold, Jewels, Statues, Marble, Ivory,  
Paint, Cloth of Gold, and Suits of precious dye,  
Gay Purple, Silver, some are wont to crave,  
Yet cannot get, and some don't care to have.  
Why of two Twins, the one his Pleasure loves,  
Prefers his Sports to Herod's fragrant Groves;  
The other rich, and greedy of his Gain,  
With Fire and Iron tames his woody Plain,  
He drives the heavy Plough from Morn till Night,  
His Labour's pleasure, and his Pain delight:  
That Genius only knows, that's wont to wait,  
On birthday Stars, the guider of our Fate,  
Our Nature's God, that doth his Influence shed,  
Easy to any Shape, or good or bad:  
When Natures wants require, I will be free,  
Nor care what my bold heir will think of me,  
I'll use my little Heap, though he be grieved,  
Because I leave no more than I received,  
Yet I the same would know, what difference lies  
Between free spending, and loose squandring vice,  
And how far Thrift's removed from Avarice.  
For sure it differs much to waste our Store,  
And to spend freely, and not strive for more:  
And as i'th' five days feast, of old, the Boy,  
Take the short Sweets, and as in haste enjoy.  
I am not rich, nor do I gape for more,  
But let me not be scandalously poor,  
And let my Ship be great, or be it small,  
If I the same, the very, I can sail.    

EPISTLE III.  
To the Pisones, or the Art of Poetry.  
SUppose a Painter should a Canvas spread,  
To draw a Piece, and paint a Woman's head,  
Then a Mare's neck; and then from different things,  
Take different Parts, and cover all with Wings:  
Then a Fish tail; pursue his senseless thought,  
And mix the whole Creation in a draught,  
And all these Parts in strange proportion join,  
Would you not laugh to see this wild Design?  
Believe me, Sirs, that Book is like this Piece,  
Where every Part so strangely disagrees,  
Like sick men's Dreams, there's neither head nor tail,  
But strange Confusion, shapeless Monsters all:  
Poets and Painters equally may dare,  
In bold Attempts, they claim an equal share,  
And may do any thing: All this we know,  
This freedom too, we mutually allow;  
And yet this leave can give no just pretence,  
To fight the steady Rules of Common Sense,  
And join quite Opposites, the Wild and Tame;  
The Snake and Dove, the Lion and the Lamb.  
Next great Beginnings, and in high Designs,  
Some scatter here and there few gaudy lines,  
Which glister finely, when a Grove's their Theme,  
A pleasant wood, or else a purling Stream:  
How with the Flood, their Fancies smoothly flow!  
How variously they paint the Heavenly Bow!  
But now perhaps none of these Themes agree,  
Perhaps thou hast some skill to paint a Tree,  
But what of that? what will this Art perform?  
Wert thou to draw a Shipwreck, or a Storm,  
Describe a Mariner, how with panting breath,  
He blows the Floods, and keeps out entering Death;  
Whilst with one hand despairing Life he saves,  
The other grasps his Riches on the Waves?  
When you a mighty Butt resolved to cast,  
Why doth it dwindle to a Pint at last?  
In short, in all you write let Art control,  
And keep the same just Tenor thro' the whole.  
But Sirs, most Poets now are finely caught,  
By show of right deluded to a fault:  
By striving to be short, obscure they grow;  
And when they would be smooth, they sink too low;  
Their Spirits fail: and some that would be high,  
Straight swell; and when they should but walk, they fly:  
Whilst some too cautious fear the Winds will roar,  
And waters toss; nor dare to leave the Shore.  
Another Staring fancy wildly roves,  
And placeth Boars in Floods, and Trout in Groves:  
Thus, if it wants just Art, a cautious Fear  
Of Erring is a certain way to Err.  
That Graver yonder in th' Emilian Square,  
Can hit the Nails, or imitate the hair,  
But he's a Sot, unhappy in his Art;  
Because he cannot fashion every part,  
And make the whole complete; should I compose,  
I'd rather freely choose an ugly nose  
With two black Eyes, black hair exactly trim,  
To make me more deformed, than be like him.  
You Writers try the vigour of your Muse,  
And what her strength will bear, and what refuse,  
And after that an equal Subject choose.  
For he that doth this well, and chooses right,  
His Method will be clear, his Words be fit.  
In this, or I mistake, consists the grace,  
And force of Method, to assign a place,  
For what must now, what by and by be said,  
What for the present time must be delayed;  
What Thoughts they must improve, what Notions slight,  
If they will aim at praise in all they write.  
Be cautious in your Words, invent but few,  
We're puzzled rather, than we're pleased with new:  
Yet 'twill be Art, and 'twill procure thee praise,  
If well applied, and in a handsome Phrase,  
You make new Words seem easy, plain, and known:  
We all will clap, and cry 'twas bravely done.  
But if you would unheard of things express;  
And cloth new Notions in a Modern dress;  
Invent new Words, we can indulge a Muse,  
Until the Licence rise to an Abuse:  
And those are best, that do but gently fall,  
Just varied from the Greek Original:  
For why should Varius, why should Virgil be denied,  
What Plautus and Cecilius wisely did?  
And for what reason should the Fops resent,  
If I but few, and modestly invent.  
When Cato's Style and Ennius lofty Song,  
With various store enriched our Mother Tongue,  
'Twas still allowed, and 'twill be still allowed,  
To make new Words, plain to be understood:  
As Leaves on Trees do with the turning Year,  
The former fall, and others will appear;  
Just so it is in Words, one Word will rise,  
Look green, and flourish, when another dies.  
All We, and Ours, are in a changing State,  
Just Nature's Debt and must be paid to Fate:  
Great Caesar's Mole, that braves the furious Tides,  
Where now secure from Storms, his Navy rides:  
Even that drained Lake, where former Ages rowed,  
A great unfruitful Waste, though now 'tis ploughed,  
Bears Corn, and sends the neighbouring Cities food:  
Those new Canales, that bound fierce Tiber's force,  
That teach the Streams to take a better Course,  
And spare the Plough-man's hopes: even these must waste,  
Then how can feeble Words pretend to last?  
Some words that have, or else will feel decay,  
Shall be restored, and come again in play,  
And words now famed, shall not be fancied long,  
They shall not please the Ear, or move the Tongue:  
As Use shall these approve, and those condemn,  
Use the sole Rule of Speech, and Judge supreme.  
How we should write of Battles, Wars and Kings,  
And suit with mighty Numbers, mighty Things,  
First Homer showed, and by Example taught,  
He wrote as nobly, as his Heroes fought:  
In Verses long and short, Grief first appeared,  
In those they mourned past Ills, and future feared:  
But soon these lines with Mirth and Joy were filled,  
And told when Fortune, or a Mistress smiled:  
But who these Measures was the first that wrote,  
The Critics doubt, and cannot end the doubt:  
Archilochus was armed, by injured Rage,  
With keen iambics, He did first engage  
With that sharp foot, and left it to the Stage;  
For 'tis a sounding Foot, and full of force,  
And fit, as made on purpose, for discourse:  
In Lyric numbers Gods, and Heroe's sound,  
The swiftest Horse is praised or Wrestler crowned:  
Feasts, Wine, and open Mirth, or Myrtle Shades,  
The Cares of Love, or Tears of sighing Maids.  
Unless all Matters I exactly hit,  
What just Pretence have I to be a Wit?  
What claim have I to the Poetic Name?  
What fair Pretensions to put in for Fame?  
Or why should I conceal my want of Skill,  
Absurdly modest, and be foolish still,  
Rather than show my Want, demand Supplies,  
From richer Parts, and so at last be Wise?  
A Conic Story hates a Tragic Style,  
Bombast spoils humer, and distorts a Smile:  
And Tragical Thyestes barbarous Feast,  
Scorns Mean and Common words, and hates a Jest;  
Let every Subject have what fits it best:  
Yet Comedy may be allowed to rise,  
And rattle in a Passion or Surprise;  
And Tragedy in humble words must weep,  
The Style must suppliant seem, and seem to creep:  
Peleus and Telephus exiled and poor,  
Must leave their Flights, and give their Bombast o'er;  
If they would keep their well-pleased Audience long,  
And raise their just Resentments for their wrong:  
'Tis not enough, that Plays are neatly wrought,  
Exactly formed, and of an even Plot,  
They must be taking too, Surprise, and Seize,  
And force our Souls which way the Writers please.  
We laugh or weep, as we see others do,  
Our Souls agree, and take their Passions too:  
My grief with others just proportion bears,  
To make me weep, you must be first in Tears:  
Then Telephus I can believe thy moan,  
And think thy Miseries are all my own:  
But if thy part be ill, or acted ill,  
Unheeding thy Complaint, I sleep or smile:  
Sad words suit well with Grief, with Joy the loose,  
Grave the Severe, and Merry the Jocose:  
'Tis Nature still that doth the Change begin,  
She fashions, and she forms our Souls within,  
To all the Changes, and the Turns of Fate;  
Now screws our Minds to an unusual height,  
And swells us into rage; or bending low,  
She cramps our Souls with dull contracting Woe;  
She makes us stoop beneath a weighty wrong,  
Then tells the various Passions with the Tongue:  
Now if his Speech doth not his Fortune fit,  
He will be hist by Gallery, Box, and Pit.  
You must take care, and use quite different words,  
When Servants speak, or their commanding Lords,  
When grave old Men, or headstrong Youths discourse,  
When stately Matrons, or a busy Nurse;  
A cheating Tradesman, or a labouring Clown,  
A Greek or Asian, bred at Court or Town:  
Keep to old Tales, or if you must have new,  
Feign things coherent, that may look like true:  
If you would draw 
* I read, scripta; in honoratum, etc.  Achilles in disgrace,  
Then draw Achilles, as Achilles was;  
Impatient, fierce, inexorable, proud,  
His Sword his Law, his own right hand his God:  
Medea must be furious, she must rave:  
Crafty Ixion a designing Knave;  
Io a wand'ring Cow, and Ino sad:  
And poor Orestes melancholy mad:  
But if you'll leave those Paths where most have gone,  
And dare to make a Person of your own,  
Take care you still the same proportions strike,  
Let all the Parts agree, and be alike:  
Unusual Subjects, Sir 'tis hard to hit,  
It asks no common Pains, nor common Wit,  
Rather on Subjects known your Mind employ,  
And take from Homer some old tales of Troy,  
And bring those usual things again in view,  
Than venture on a Subject wholly new:  
Yet you may make these common Themes your own,  
Unless you treat of things too fully known;  
Show the same humours, and that usual State,  
Or word for word too faithfully translate;  
Or else your Pattern so confin'dly choose,  
That you are still condemned to follow close,  
Or break all decent measures to be loose:  
First strain no higher, than your voice will hold,  
Nor as that 
* Scriptor Cyclicus is not, as usually thought, Scriptor Circumforaneus, but the same with what the Greeks called 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, of whom see Langbain in his Notes on Longinus.  Cyclick writer did of old,  
Begin my mighty Muse, and boldly dare,  
I'll sing great Priam 's Fate, and noble War.  
What did He worth a Gape so large produce?  
The travailing Mountain yields a silly Mouse.  
Much better Homer, who doth all things well,  
Muse tell the Man, for you can surely tell,  
Who, Troy once fallen, to many Countries went,  
And strictly viewed the Men, and Government.  
As one that knows the Laws of writing right,  
He makes Light follow Smoak, not Smoak the Light;  
For straight, how fierce Charybdis rolls along!  
How Scylla roars thro' all his wondrous Song!  
Nor doth He, that He might seem deeply read,  
Begin the famed Return of Diomedes,  
From Meleager's death; nor dives as far,  
As Leda's Eggs,  
For the beginning of the Trojan War:  
He always hastens on to the Events,  
And still the middle of the Tale presents,  
As 'twere the first, then draws the Reader on,  
Till the whole Story is exactly known,  
And what he can't improve he lets alone.  
And so joins Lies and Truth, that every part agrees,  
And seem no Fiction, but a real Piece:  
But Sir, observe; (shame waits on the neglect,)  
This I, and all, as well as I, expect,  
If you would have a judging Audience stay,  
Be pleased, and clap, and sit out all the Play:  
Observe what Humour in each Age appears,  
Then draw your fit, and lively Characters,  
And suit their changing Minds, and Changing Years.  
A Boy that just speaks plain, and goes alone,  
Loves childish Play-mates, he is angry soon,  
And pleased as soon: and both for nothing still,  
Changing his Humour, various is his Will:  
A Youth just loosened from his Tutor's care,  
Leaves off his Books, and follows Hound and Hare;  
The Horse is his delight, or Cards and Dice,  
Rough to reproof, and easy bend to Vice:  
Inconstant, eager, haughty, fierce and proud;  
A very slow provider for his good,  
And prodigal of his Coin, and of his Blood.  
The full grown Man, doth aim at different ends,  
He betters his Estate, and gets him Friends;  
He courts gay Honour, and He fears to do,  
What he must alter on a second view:  
An Old man's Character is hit with ease,  
For he is pettish, and all one Disease:  
Still covetous, and still he gripes for more,  
And yet he fears to use his present Store:  
Slow, long in Hope, still eager to live on,  
And fond of no man's Judgement but his own:  
On Youths gay frolicks peevishly severe,  
And oh when He was young, what Times they were!  
The Flow of Life brings in a wealthy Store,  
The Ebb draws back, what e'er was brought before,  
And leaves a barren Sand, and naked Shore.  
And therefore when you represent a Youth,  
Lest you draw lines, that fit a Man of growth;  
Observe the just decorum of the Stage,  
And show those Humours still that suit the Age:  
For otherwise 'twill seem as fond and wild,  
As 'tis to clap a beard upon a Child:  
What e'er a Play can comprehend, is shown  
Upon the open Stage, or told alone;  
Things only told, though of the same degree,  
Do raise our Passions less than what we see:  
For the Spectator takes in every part,  
The eye's the faithfullest Servant to the Heart:  
Yet do not every Part too freely show,  
Some bear the telling, better than the view:  
Things wild or cruel do displease the Eyes,  
And yet when only told, the same surprise;  
Medea must not draw her murdering Knife,  
And on the Stage attempt her children's life:  
Nor Progne fly transformed into a Fowl,  
Nor Hecuba turned Bitch begin to howl:  
Nor Cadmus there his snaky folds advance,  
I hate such wild improbable Romance:  
The Play that you design should often please,  
Must have five Acts, and neither more nor less;  
No God appear to mend an ill-wrought Scene,  
Unless some weighty Cause shall force him in:  
To crowd the Stage, is odious and absurd,  
Let no fourth Actor strive to speak a word.  
The Chorus must supply an Actor's place,  
And take his Part, this gives a natural Grace;  
Lest any thing between the Acts should seem,  
Not fitly suited to the common Theme:  
Let him commend the Good, and Friends and Ease,  
Praise wholesome Justice, and love open Peace:  
Tame Passion, all men's Thoughts to virtue win,  
And cherish those that are afraid to sin:  
Extenuate Faults, and pray to mighty God,  
That Fate would raise the Poor, and sink the Proud:  
The Pipe of old, was not as large as now,  
Nor gathered all the Breath a Man could blow:  
It's hollow, small, and filled with feeble wind,  
It cheered the Audience with the Chorus joined;  
Not made of Brass, nor like the Trumpet loud,  
With pleasing Airs it filled the little Crowd:  
For then this new delight was known to few,  
And you could number those that came to view.  
No wanton Luxury did taint the Stage,  
But that was mean, and modest as the Age.  
But when strange Nations felt our Conquering hand,  
When Rome enlarged the bounds of her Command,  
When statelier Walls, she did begin to raise,  
And Mirth, and Wine, & sport employed our Days,  
The modish Luxury spread o'er the Plays:  
For what could please so mixed, ill-matcht a Crowd,  
Where Citt and Clown were mixed, the Learned and Rude,  
As senseless as the Ox with which he ploughed?  
Hence did our Music, and our Songs increase,  
Our Dance was artful, noble was our Dress:  
Our Harps improved, and lofty Eloquence,  
In high strong Lines conveyed unusual Sense:  
And pithy Sentences short Truth fore-showed,  
As clear and useful as the Delphian God:  
The Men that first did strive in Tragedies,  
When a mean Goat was all the Conqueror's prize;  
Brought Satyrs naked in, or loosely dressed,  
And though still grave, would venture at a Jest:  
This was the Bait to bribe the Crowd to stay,  
When Drunk and Wanton, and sit out the Play.  
Yet Satyrs should observe this decent Rule,  
And so turn serious things to Ridicule;  
As not to bring a God or Hero down,  
Or make a Person graced with Robe and Crown,  
Talk common Talk, and sink into a Clown:  
Or whilst he doth affect a lofty height,  
Fly up in bombast, and soar out of sight:  
For Tragedy too high to stoop to Jest,  
(As Matrons dancing at a solemn Feast,  
Keep decent Steps) it different will appear,  
From wanton Satyrs, modestly severe:  
Yet bitter Words, and domineering Phrase,  
Is not the thing that I in Satyr's praise:  
Nor would I have the Difference drawn too far,  
And free the Satyrs from the Tragicks ear;  
They must not make all Persons talk alike,  
The City Vallet, and the Country Dick;  
The Chambermaid grown impudently bold,  
When she has bobbed the Lecher of his Gold:  
The downright Farmer, and the dowdy Sot,  
Or else the brisk Companion o'er his Pot:  
I'll take a Common Theme, and yet excel,  
Tho any Man may hope to write as well;  
Yet let him try, and He shall sweat in vain,  
Idle his Labour, fruitless prove the Pain:  
So great the force of Art and Method seems,  
So much we may improve the Common Themes:  
Be sure you never make a satire sport,  
And talk, and dance, and jest, as bred at Court;  
But let him speak, as if in Woods he spoke,  
And lately taken from his Mother Oak:  
Yet never make him wantonly absurd,  
Nor let him slyly drop one bawdy Word:  
For all our Nobles hate such filthy Wit,  
They scorn to bear such Words, the choice delight  
Of sottish Tradesmen, and the foolish Citt.  
A foot, one long, one short, jambus named;  
Of which those measures, those so justly famed,  
Called Trimeter jambick lines, are framed;  
When just six Feet, and when thro' all the Song,  
The self same measure's kept, one short, one long:  
This Foot to make the Cadence more severe,  
And with a graver touch salute the Ear,  
Receding somewhat from her natural right,  
The graver Spondy kindly did admit,  
Yet so as to forbid it to be put,  
Or in the fourth, or in the second Foot:  
Yet this is seldom seen in the sublime,  
High Accius' verse, or Ennius' noble rhyme:  
And yet in this some show their want of Skill,  
And make their Verses scandalously ill:  
And whilst their sounding Rhymes transgress this Rule,  
The wretched Actor's hist, and thought a fool.  
It is not every Judge knows what's amiss,  
And Rome is too indulgent to her Sons in this:  
What then? Shall I be loose? Neglect my Rules,  
In hopes to find my Judges senseless fools?  
To beg an Alms which they can choose to grant,  
Shall I submit to voluntary want?  
Or rather think, that all my Faults will spy,  
And safe within mine own perfection lie,  
Nor need that pardon which they can deny?  
For make the best on't, I avoid the shame,  
I am'nt discovered, yet deserve no Fame:  
Read o'er the Greeks by day, digest at night,  
For those are Standards, and just Rules of Wit:  
'Tis true, as I have heard, the former times  
Clapped Plautus wanton and uneven Rhymes;  
With too much Patience both, (to say no more  
And call it folly) those our Fathers bore:  
Some think this harsh, but 'tis approved by you  
Learned Sir, and I am sure the Censure's true,  
If you and I know what is just and fit,  
Are skilled in Cadence, and distinguish right,  
Between dull Bawdry, and facetious Wit:  
Thespis the first, that did surprise the Age  
With Tragedy, ne'er trod a decent Stage:  
But in a Wagon drove his Plays about,  
And showed mean antic tricks to please the Rout;  
His Songs uneven, rude in every Part,  
His Actors smutted, and the Scene a Cart:  
Next Aeschilus did greater Art express,  
He built a Stage, and taught them how to dress;  
In decent motions He his Parts conveyed,  
And made them look as great, as those they played:  
Next these Old Comedy did please the Age,  
But soon their Liberty was turned to Rage;  
Such Rage, as Civil Power was forced to tame,  
And by good Laws secure men's injured Fame:  
Thus was the Chorus lost, Their railing Muse  
Grew silent, when forbidden to abuse.  
Our Latin Poets eager after Praise,  
Have boldly ventured, and deserved the Bays:  
They left those Paths, where all the Greeks have gone,  
And dared to show some Actions of their own:  
And would our Poets be inur'd to pain,  
And what they once have formed, file o'er again;  
Let it lie by them, Cand revise with are,  
Our Rome would be as famed, for Wit as War:  
Sirs, damn those Rhymes that hasty Minds do give,  
ere Time and Care have formed them fit to live;  
Let many a Day, and many a Blot confine,  
And many a Nail be pared o'er every Line:  
Because Democritus once fond taught,  
(Who ever heard He had one sober Thought)  
That naked Nature with a frantic start,  
Would Rhyme more luckyly than feeble Art;  
And did allow none leave to taste a drop  
Of Helicon, unless a crazy Fop:  
The foppish humour now o'er most prevails,  
And few will shave their Beards or pair their Nails;  
They eat Converse, and fly to Solitude,  
Seem frantic Sots, and are designly rude:  
For if they go but nasty, if they gain  
The reputation of a crazy Brain,  
Straight Poets too, they must be thought by all;  
Oh Blockhead I that purge at Spring and Fall!  
For else perhaps I had been famed for Rhymes,  
And been the greatest Poet of the Times:  
But I had rather keep that Sense I have,  
Than to be thought a Poet, Rhyme and Rave:  
I'll play the Whetstone stone, useless and unfit  
To cut myself, I'll sharpen others Wit,  
Unwriting I will teach them how to write:  
What gives them Matter, what exalts their Thoughts,  
And what are Ornaments, and what are Faults?  
Of writing well these are the chiefest Springs,  
To know the Nature, and the use of Things:  
Right judging Morals will the Subject show,  
And when the Subject's found, Words freely flow:  
He that can tell what Care our injured Fame,  
And what our Mothers, what our Sister's claim;  
With what degrees of Zeal we should defend,  
Our Country, Fathers, Brothers, or a Friend,  
What suits a Senator's, what a Judge's care,  
What Soldier's, what a Leader's in the War:  
Secure of Honour he may boldly write,  
For he is sure to draw the Image right:  
'Tis my advice, let every Painter place,  
The Life before him that will hit the Face:  
So let a Writer look o'er Men, to see  
What various Thoughts to various Kind's agree;  
And thence the different Images derive,  
And make the fit Expressions seem to live:  
A Play exactly drawn, though often rough,  
Without the Dress of Art to set it off,  
Takes People more, and more delight affords,  
Than noisy Trifles, and mere empty Words.  
The Muses loved the Greeks, and blest with Sense,  
They freely gave them Wit, and Eloquence;  
In those They did Heroic fancies raise,  
For they were covetous of nought but Praise;  
But as for Us, our Roman Youths are bred  
To Trades, to cast Account, to Write and Read:  
Come hither, Child, (suppose 'tis Albine's Son)  
Hold up thy Head; take five from forty one,  
And what remains? just thirty six: well done.  
Add seven, what makes it then? just forty eight:  
Ah thou must be a Man of an Estate!  
And when this care for Gain all thoughts controls,  
When this base Rust hath crusted o'er their Souls;  
ne'er think that such will reach a noble height,  
These clogs must check, these weights retard their flight:  
Poets would profit, or delight alone,  
Or join both Profit and Delight in one:  
Let all your Rules be short, laid plainly down;  
That docil Minds may comprehend them soon,  
And faithful Memories retain with ease,  
Short Precepts profit much, as well as please:  
For when we fill the narrow Mind too full,  
It runs again out of the o'ercharged Soul:  
Besure what ever pleasant Tales you tell,  
Be so like Truth, that they may serve as well:  
And do not Lamia's eating Children feign,  
Then show them whole, and make them live again:  
Our grave Men scorn the loose and mere jocose;  
Our Youth despise the stiff and the morose:  
But He's the Man, He with a Genius writes  
That takes them Both, and profits and delights:  
That in one Line instructs and pleases all;  
That Book will easily be set to sale,  
See distant Countries, spread the Author's name,  
And send him down a Theme to future Fame:  
Yet there are Faults, and Men may sometimes Err;  
And I'll forgive, I'll not be too severe.  
An Artist always can't command his Harp,  
But when he strikes a Flat, He hears a Sharp:  
The greatest Archers sometimes miss the Whites,  
If numerous Graces shine in what he writes,  
I'll not condemn though some few Faults appear,  
Which common frailty leaves, or want of Care:  
But if tho warned He still repeats the same,  
Who can endure, and who forbear to blame?  
Just as that Fiddler must be called a Sot,  
That always errs upon the self same Note:  
So He that makes a Book one copious fault,  
As Chaerilus, the greatest Dunce that ever wrote,  
In whom if e'er I see two lines of Wit,  
I smile, and wonder at the lucky hit:  
But fret to find the mighty Homer dream,  
Forget himself awhile, and lose his Theme:  
Yet if the work be long, sleep may surprise,  
And a short Nod creep o'er the watchfull'st Eyes:  
Poems like Pictures, some when near delight,  
At distance some, some ask the clearest light;  
And some the shade; some Pictures please when new,  
And some when old; some bear a transient view;  
Some bid the Men of Skill severely pry,  
Some please but once, some always please the Eye:  
But you, dear Sir, though you yourself are wise,  
Tho by your Father's care, and kind advice  
Secure from Faults, yet pray believe me this:  
In other things a Mean may be allowed,  
Not Best may still be tolerable good:  
A Common Lawyer, though he cannot plead  
Like smooth Messala, nor's so deeply read  
As learned Casselius, yet the Man may please,  
Yet He may be in vogue, and get his Fees:  
But now the Laws of God and Man deny  
A middle State, and Mean in Poetry,  
For as at Treats, or as at noble Feasts,  
Bad Perfumes, and bad Songs displease the Guests;  
Because the Feast did not depend on these,  
So Poetry, a thing designed to please,  
Composed for mere delight, must needs be still  
Or very good, or scandalously ill:  
He that's unskilful will not toss a Ball,  
Nor run, nor wrestle for He fears the fall;  
He justly fears to meet deserved disgrace,  
And that the Ring will hiss the baffled Ass:  
But every one can Rhyme, He's fit for that;  
Why not? I'm sure he hath a good Estate,  
And that may give him just pretence to write,  
It makes a Poet, as it dubs a Knight:  
But you, Sir, know yourself, will wisely choose,  
And still consult the Genius of your Muse;  
And yet when ere you write, let every line  
Pass thro' your Fathers, Mecca's Ears or mine:  
Keep it long by you, and improve it still,  
For than you may correct what ere you will:  
But nought can be recalled when once 'tis gone,  
It grows the Publicks, 'tis no more your own:  
Fame says, Inspired Orpheus first began  
To sing God's Laws, and make them known to Man;  
Their fierceness softened showed them wholesome food,  
And frighted all from lawless Lust and Blood;  
And therefore Fame hath told, his charming Lute  
Could tame a Lion, and correct a Brute:  
Amphion too, (as Story goes) could call  
Obedient Stones to make the Theban Wall;  
He led them as he pleased, the Rocks obeyed,  
And danced in order to the Tunes he played:  
'tTwas then the work of Verse to make Men wise,  
To lead to Virtue, and to fright from Vice:  
To make the Savage, Pious, Kind and Just;  
To curb wild Rage, and bind unlawful Lust;  
To build Societys', and force confine,  
This was the noble, this the first Design;  
This was their Aim, for this they tuned their Lute,  
And hence the Poets got their first repute:  
Next Homer and Tyrte did boldly dare,  
To whet brave Minds and lead the stout to War:  
In verse their Oracles the Gods did give,  
In verse we were instructed how to live:  
Verse recommends Us to the Ears of Kings,  
And easeth Minds when clogged with serious things;  
And therefore, Sir, Verse may deserve your care,  
Which Gods inspire, and King's delight to hear.  
Now some dispute to which the greatest part  
A Poem owes, to Nature, or to Art;  
But faith, to speak my thoughts, I hardly know,  
What witless Art, or Artless Wit can do:  
Each by itself is vain I'm sure, but joined  
Their force is strong; each proves the others friend:  
The Man that is resolved the Prize to gain,  
Doth often run, and take a world of pain;  
Bear Heat and Cold, his growing strength improve,  
Nor taste the Joys of Wine, nor Sweets of Love:  
The good Musician too that's famed for Song,  
Hath conned his Tune, and feared his Master long:  
But amongst Poets 'tis enough to say,  
Faith I can write an admirable Play,  
Pox take the hindmost, I am foremost still,  
And though 'tis great, conceal his want of skill:  
As Tradesmen call in Folks to buy their Ware,  
Good Pennyworths, the best in all the Fair;  
So wealthy Poets when they read their Plays,  
Get Flatterers in, for they are paid for Praise:  
And faith a Man that has a good Estate,  
That can oblige a Friend, and nobly Treat,  
Be Surety for the Poor, his Cause defend,  
Shall never know a Flatterer from a Friend:  
If you have been, or promised to be kind  
To any one, whilst joy perverts his Mind  
Ask not his Judgement, for He'll straight consent,  
And cry 'tis good, 'tis rare, 'tis Excellent;  
Grow pale, and weep, and stamp, at every line,  
Oh Lord! 'tis more than Man, 'tis all Divine!  
As Hired Mourners at the Grave will howl,  
Much more than those that grieve with all their Soul,  
Thus Friends appear less moved than Counterfeits,  
And Flatterers outdo, and show their Cheats:  
Kings (thus says Story) that of old designed,  
To raise a Favourite to a Bosom Friend;  
Did ply him hard with wine, unmasked his thoughts,  
And saw him Naked, and with all his Faults:  
So when you write, take heed what Friend you have,  
And fear the Smiles of a designing Knave:  
Let good Quintilius all your lines revise,  
And he will freely say, mend this and this;  
Sir I have often tried, and tried again,  
I'm sure I can't do better, 'tis in vain:  
Then blot out every word, or try once more,  
And file these ill turned Verses o'er and o'er:  
But if you seem in love with your own Thought,  
More eager to defend than mend your Fault,  
He says no more, but lets the Fop go on,  
And Rival-sree admire his lovely own:  
An honest Judge will blame each idle line,  
And tell you, you must make the Cloudy shine;  
Show you what Words are harsh, blot out the rough,  
And cut the useless gaudy painting off:  
Look thro' your Faults with an impartial Eye,  
And tell you what you must correct, and why:  
Critic indeed, nor say, shall I displease  
My honest Friend for such small Toys as these?  
These Toys will once to serious mischiefs fall,  
When He is laughed at, when He's jeered by all:  
For more than Mad or Poxed Men hate the Dull,  
And swiftly fly the senseless rhyming Fool:  
And fear to touch him, Men of Sense retire,  
The Boys abuse, and only Fools admire:  
Suppose he fired with his Poetic flame,  
Just as a Fowler eager on his Game,  
Doth fall into a Pit, and bawls aloud,  
And calls for pity to the laughing Crowd;  
He may bawl on, for all will stand and flout,  
And not one lend an hand to help him out;  
But yet if any should; what? was't design,  
Or else mere Chance, pray Sir, that threw him in?  
I'll tell my Reasons, and in short relate,  
A poor Sicilian Poet's wretched Fate:  
Empedocles must needs be thought a God,  
And therefore in a melancholy Mood,  
Leapt into Aetna's Flames: let Poets have  
The Privilege to hang, and None to save;  
For 'tis no greater cruelty to kill,  
Than 'tis to save a Man against his Will:  
Nor was it Chance the heedless Fool betrayed,  
Nor the strange efforts of a crazy head;  
For draw him out, restore his life again,  
He would not be content to be a Man,  
He would be eager to be thought divine,  
And gladly burn in Hopes to gain a Shrine:  
Now 'tis not known for what notorious Crime,  
These brainless Fellows are condemned to Rhyme;  
Whether they pissed upon their Father's Grave,  
Or robbed a Shrine; 'tis certain that they rave;  
And like wild Bears if once they break their Den,  
And can get loose, worry all sorts of Men;  
Their kill Rhymes they barbarously obtrude,  
And make all fly, the Learned, as well as Rude:  
But then to those they seize, They still rehearse,  
And murder the poor Wretches with their Verse;  
They Rhyme and Kill, a cursed murdering Brood,  
Like Leeches, sucking still, till full of Blood.    
FINIS.   

A CATALOGUE OF BOOKS  

Printed for Jacob Tonson at the Judges-Head in Chancery-Lane. 1684.  
PLutarch 's first Volume, newly Translated from the Greek.  
Plutarch Written by Mr. Dryden. Theseus, Translated by Mr. Duke. Romulus, Mr. Smallwood. Lycurgus, Mr. Chetwood. Numa Pompilius, Mr. Ricaut. Solon, Mr. Creech. Poplicola Mr. Dodswell. Themistocles, Dr. Brown. Furius Camillus, Mr. Pain. Pericles, Dr. Littleton. Fabius Maximus, Mr. Carryl.  
Plutarch's second Volume, newly Translated from the Greek.  
Alcibiades Coriolanus, Translated by Dr. Bloomer. Paulus Emilius, Mr. Arrowsmith. Timoleon, Dr. Bloomer. Pelopidas, Mr. Creech. Marcellus, Dr. Charlton. Aristides, Mr. Cooper. Marcus Cato, Mr. Lydcot, Philopemen. Dr. Short Titus Flaminius, Mr. Whitaker.  
Plutarch 's Third Volume newly Translated from the Greek.  
Pyrrhus, Translated by Dr. Cru. Caius Marius, Mr. Stapleton. Lysander, Mr. Leman. Sylla, Mr. Davis. Cimon, Mr. Morgan. Lucullus, Mr. Thornburgh. Nicias, Mr. Rhymer. Crassus, Mr. Amhurst. Eumenes. Sertorius, Dr. Brown.  
The Fourth and Fifth Volumes of Plutarch, Translated by several eminent Hands, are now in the Press, and will with all possible speed be Published.  
Remarks upon a Tract Entitled, a Treatise of Humane Reason, and upon Mr. Warren 's late defence of it; by Sir George blundel.  
A Critical History of the Old Testament, in three Books: The first treating at large concerning the several Authors of the Bible: The second, containing the History of the chief Translations of the Bible, made either by Jews or Christians. The third, laying down Rules whereby a more Exact Translation may be made of the Scripture than hitherto has been, Written Originally by Father Simon of the Oratory. With a supplement, being a defence of the Critical History in answer to Mr. Spanhem 's Treatise against it: both Translated into English by H. D.  
Poems upon several occasions with a Voyage to the Island of Love by Mrs. A. Behn.  
Ovid's Epistles Englished by the Earl of Mulgrave Sir Car. Scrope, Mr. Dryden. and several other Eminent hands.  
Divine Contemplations upon the Life of our Saviour, Written by the Bishop of Exeter.  
A Chronicle of France from the beginning of that Kingdom; Written by Monsieur Mezeray, Chronologer to the present French King.  
The first part of the Institutes of the Laws of England or a Commentary upon Littleton, By Sir Edward Coke Kt. Theninth Edition carefully corrected with an Alphabetical Table. To this Edition is added two Learned Tracts of the same Author; the first his Reading upon the 27 of Edward the first, Entitled The Statute of Levying Fines; and the second, of Bail and Mainprize.  
The Lord Coke Reports, in French and English—  
The Reports by the Lord Chief Justice Vaughn in Engl.  
Hettly's Reports—  
Dalton's Justice of Peace—  
Dalton's Sheriffs—  
Shepard's Abridgement of the Law.  
Brown's Entries, in 2 Parts—  
Miscellaneous Poems, Virgil's Ecologues, Ovid's Love Elegies, Odes of Horace, and other Authors; with several Original Poems by the most Eminent hands.  
The Works of Horace, Translated into English by Mr. Creech of Oxford, are now in the Press and near Printed.   

Now in the Press.  
The Decay of the Western Empire, Translated out of French. Will speedily be Published.  
The History of the League, Written in French by Monsieur Maimburgh, Translated into English upon his Majesty's Command by Mr. Dryden.