THE THIRD satire OF A. PERSIUS, IN WAY OF A DIALOGUE, OR, Dramatic INTERLUDE BETWEEN THE Serious, Careful TUTOR, and his Inconsiderate Slothful PUPIL. Rendered Paraphrastically into English; and humbly Recommended to the Serious Consideration and Perusal, as well of all young Gentlemen, as others of meaner Quality, whilst under Tutelage and Inspection of PARENTS, GOVERNORS and TEACHERS. By F. A. Laudamus Monitores, sed odimus. LONDON, A. PERSII Increpatio, etc. Tut. NEmpe haec assidue? jam clarum mane Fenestra Intrat, et angustas extendit lumine Rimas. Stertimus, indomitum quod despumare Falernum Sufficiat, quintâ dum Linea tangitur umbrâ: En quid agis? siccas insana Canicula Messes Jamdudum coquit, & patulâ pecus omne sub Vlmo est— Discip. — Verumne? itane? ocyus adsit Huc aliquis. Nemon? turgescit vitrea bilis: Findor.— Tut. — Arcadiae pecuaria rudere credas. Jam liber, & bicolor, positis Membrana Capillis, Inque manus Chartae, nodosaque venit Arundo. Tunc querimur, crassus Calamo quod pendeat humor, Nigra quod infusa vanescat sepia lympha; Dilutas querimur geminet quod fistula guttas. O miser, inque dies ultra miser! huccine rerum Venimus? at cur non potius, teneroque Columbo, Et similis Regum pueris, paeppare minutum Poscis, & iratus Mammae lallare recusas? Discip. An tali studeam Calamo?— Tut. — Cui verba? quid istas Succinis Ambages?— — Tibi luditur:— Effluis amens, Contemnêre.— — sonat Vitium percussa, maligne, Respondet viridi non coct a fidelia limo. Vdum & molle lutum es: nunc nunc properandus, & acri Fingendus, sine fine, rota.— — Sed rure paterno Est tibi far modicum, purum, & sine labe Salinum. Quid metuas? cultrixque foci secura patella est. Hoc satis?— an deceat pulmonem rumpere ventis, Stemmate quod Thusco ramum millesime ducis; Censoremve tuum vel quod Trabeate salutas? Ad populum Phaleras!— — Ego te intus & incute novi. Non pudet ad morem discincti vivere Natte? Sed stupet Hic vitio, & fibris increvit opimum Pingue,— — caret culpa, nescit quid perdat, & alto Demersus, summá rursus non bullit in undâ. Magne Pater Divum, saevos punire Tyrannos Haud aliâ ratione velis, paena Damni. cum dira libido Moverit ingenium ferventi tincta veneno. Virtutem videant, intabescantque relicta. Anne magis Siculi gemuerunt aera Juvenci, paena sensûs. Aut magis auratis pendens laquearibus ensis Purpureas subter cervices, terruit; Imus, Imus praecipites, quam si sibi dicat, & intus Palleat infoelix, quod proxima nesciat Vxor? Saepe oculos, memini, tingebam parvus Olive Grandia si nollem morituri verba Catonis Discere, ab insano multum laudanda Magistro, Quae Pater, adductis, sudans audiret, amicis. Jure etenim id summum; quid dexter senio ferret, Scire erat in votis, damnosa Canicula quantum Raderet; angustae collo non fallier Orcae. Neu quis callidior— — Buxum torquere flagello. Haud tibi inexpertum curvos deprendere mores, Quaeque docet sapiens, braccatis illita Medis Porticus, insomnis quibus & detonsa Juventus Invigilat, siliquis, & grandi pasta polentâ. Et tibi quae Samios diduxit litera ramos, Surgentem dextro monstravit limit Callem. Stertis adhuc?— — Laxumque caput, compage solutâ, Oscitat hesternum, dissutis undique malis? Est aliquid, quò tendis?— — Et in quod dirigis arcum? An passim sequeris corvos testáque, lutoque, Securus quo pes ferat,— — atque extempore vivis? Helleborum frustrà, cum jam cutis aegra tumebit, Poscentes videas,— venienti occurrite morbo. Et quid opus Cratero magnos promittere Mentes? Disciteque, O miseri,— — & causas cognoscite rerum, Quid sumus, aut quidnam victuri gignimur— — ordo Quis datus,— — aut metae quam mollis flexus,— — & unde: Quis modus Argento,— — quid fas optare; quid asper Vtile nummus habet; patriae, charisque propinquis Quantum elargiri deceat:— — quem te Deus esse Jussit, & humanâ quâ parte locatus es in re. Disce:— — Nec invideas, quod multa fidelia putet In locuplete penu,— — defensis pinguibus umbris, Et piper, & Pernae Marsi monumenta Clientis; Moenaque quod primâ nondum defecerit Orcâ. Heic, aliquis de gente hircosâ Centurionum Dicat:— Centurio. — Quod sapio satis est mihi;— — non ego curo Esse quod Arcesilas, aerumnosique Solones: Obstipo capite, & figentes lumine terram, Murmura cum secum, & rabiosa silentia rodunt. Atque exporrecto trutinantur verba labello, Aegroti veteris meditantes Somnia:— Gigni De Nihilo Nihil;— in Nihilum Nil posse reverti. Hoc est, quod palles,— cur quis non prandeat hoc est? His populus ridet;— multùmque Torosa Juventus Ingeminat tremulos, Naso Crispante, Cachinnos. Aegrotus. Inspice; nescio quid trepidat mihi Pectus, & aegris Faucibus exsuperat gravis halitus;— Inspice sodes, Qui dicit Medico,— — Jussus requiescere,— — Postquam Tertia compositás vidit nox currere venas, De majore domo, modicè sitiente lagenâ, Lenia loturo sibi Surrentina rogavit. Medicus. Heus bone, tu palles.— Aegrotus. — Nihil est.— Medicus. — Videas tamen istud? Quicquid id est. Surgit tacitè tibi lutea pellis. Aegrot. At tu deteriùs palles:— Ne sis mihi Tutor: Jampridem hunc sepeli; tu restas.— Medicus. — Perge, tacebo. Tut. Turgidus hic Epulis, atque albo ventre— — Lavatur. Gutture sulfureas lentè exhalante Mephites. Sed tremor inter vina subit, calidumque trientem Excutit è manibus.— — Dentes Crepuere retecti. Vncta cadunt laxis tunc pulmentaria labris. Hinc Tuba, Candelae; tandemque Beatulus ille Compositus Lecto, Crassisque lutatus amomis, In portam rigidos calces extendit:— — At illum Hesterni, capite induto, subiêre Quirites. Discip. Tange, miser, venas, & pone in pectore dextram. Nil calet hîc;— — Summosque pedes attinge, manusque; Non frigent.— Tut. — Visa est si fortè pecunia;— — Sive Candida Vicini subrisit molle puella; Cor tibi ritè salit?— — Positum est algente Catinâ Durum Olus, & populi Cribro decussa Farina; Tentemus fauces: Tenero latet Vlcus in ore Putre, quod haud deceat plebeïâ radere betâ. Alges, cum excussit membris Timor albus aristas. Nunc face suppositâ, fervescit Sanguis, & Ira Scintillant Oculi:— — Dicisque, facisque,— — quod ipse, Non sani esse hominis, non sanus juret Orestes. Explicit A. Persii Satyra Tertia. THE THIRD satire OF A. PERSIUS, etc. Tut. STill the old want!— For shame, rouse up, and see, The blushing Morn upbraids thy Lethargy; The Sun thy Sloth bewrays, with his broad Light Wid'ning the narrow Chinks to, force thy Sight. We snore, till the fifth shadow clouds the Line, Enough t' evaporate the strongest Wine. Rouse up, for shame; the Dog-star long hath beaten Upon the parched Fields with raging heat: The fainted Herds for shelter cool do high To the next bordering shady Elm, they spy. Disc. But speak in earnest;— is't indeed— so late? Abominable Sluggard!— o,— I hate— This Canker-worm of precious Time,— Foul Sloth, The Bane of Studies, and sound Manners both— But— is't indeed so late?— somebody than Come hither— quickly,— reach my ,— why when! No body come!— O— I am split with Ire!— My Choler swells, my Eyes are all on Fire. Tut. Some great Arcadian Beast Thus might you hear, To yell, and bray, when hungry,— or through fear. After some Pause,— with much ,— at last, Comes me his Book in hand;— and than in haste, His Paper with two-coloured Parchment,— and, His knotty Reed are brought him at command.— Now we complain,— our Pen's stark naught;— and than,— Our Ink's too thick;— it sticks upon the Pen:— Put water in't;— and than— the sepian Juice Too white and washy writes,— and too profuse;— Writes double,— blurs the Letters.— And still— thus,— Thinks by these idle shifts,— to baffle us.— Ignoble— wretched Youth!— art come to this? To Melt in Vice,— and Love to do amiss! Prithee, why dost not, like an unfledged Dove, Dr tender Babe of some nice Madam, love Thy Mam should dandle thee upon her Lap, Feed thee with sweetmeats, and soft sugared Pap● Dr n'angry with thy Teat, wriggle and cry, And kick and sprawl at her soft Lullaby? Discip. I pray, Sir, who can writ with such a Quill? Tut. And wilt thou with thy Shams be fooling still? Alas! whom dost thou mock?— it is not me: It is thyself thou mockest,— and wilt not see. thou'rt like a crazed earthen Jar that leaks, Which, when the Potter soundeth it, he breaks: And so shalt Thou be scorned as refuse Stuff, By all Contemned, and vanish in a Snuff. Discourage thee I will not, for all that, The way to manners good is ne'er too late. Yet thou art soft,— moist Clay,— now, now's the time To mould and fashion thee,— in this thy Prime. Dare to be good;— and Virtue be thy Guide; No way to daring Virtue is denied. Now 'tis, or never, thou the moist Clay, must feel Sound Discipline's effigiating Wheel.— But, you will say,— I am my Father's Heir;— Born to a Fair Estate; what need I care? I have besides rich Plate and Householdstuff, In ready Cash what Heart can wish, enough. And thinkest thou this enough?— will't therefore swell, And burst thy Lungs— ambitiously to tell That thou the thousandth of thy Pedigree Dost fetch from Tuscan high Nobility: And when thou meetest Rome's Censor all in State, Boldly caress him as thy Intimate? Away,— fond Fool!— go prance before the Rout, In these thy Trappingss, for the vulgar shout: I know thy inside better,— nor can be Deluded by thy outside Sophistry. Art not ashamed to live thus at the rate Of lewd confounded Natta?— Yet his Fate Yields some Excuse;— He wants a Sense within; Has no restraint upon him,— not to sin:— He stands amazed in Vice,— nor can he tell When he does aught amiss,— nor when 'tis well. His Heart's so closed in Fat and Brawn, that he Sins more of Ignorance than Industry. He's gone,— he's sunk— down to the depth of Vice; From whence he ne'er again must hope to rise. Great Sovereign of the Skies,— vouchsafe but thus To scourge the Pride of Tyrants:— — For once— Let them behold fair Virtue's Face; poena damni. than see In her lost Grace, their lost Felicity,— And than turn pale,— and pine away, and dye. Ne'er did the brazen, poena sensus. hot Sicilian Bull— Bellow his Torments from a Throat more full: Ne'er did the Sword hung by a Horse's hair Up in the vaulted golden Roof, so scare The proud crowned— Flatterer underneath,— and make, With Panic Fear,— his every Limb to quake: As when a Man— shall with amazement call Thus to himself;— I fall,— O— I do fall— Down headlong,— headlong downward, past recall! And when the Wretch turns pale within, to tell His near dear Wife the cause of what's befell. But to return from this Digression To th' matter I but now insisted on. I well remember, when I was a Child I'd 'noint my eyes with oil,— so to beguiled My fond, kind Mother,— when I had no mind To learn my book,— for feared should make me blind: It made me shrug, that I must say the part Of dying Cato's lofty words— by heart, Before my Father and his Friends, which he Sweeting, brought with him to admi-re me. 'Twas than the top of my Ambition, how To play at Chess, or Cock-all,— or to throw The lucky Ams-ace, or the winning Sice; What Cast would save, and what would win at Dices; Or else with Cherry-stones, or Nuts to play, At Chock, half in, half out, to win the day; And for the Scourge-stick none more arch could be To drive his Top with such dexterity. Thus, when I was a Child, I childish things Pursued, and such as little profit brings. But now thou art not at these years to learn 'Twixt good and bad the difference, and discern Virtue from Vice:— Not; thou art taught thy Lore From the wise Porch, with picture all daubed over, Of Trouzed M●des; where, in the Quest of Truth, Th' industrious close-shorn Ascetic Youth, Contented with hard fare, and course b●… Ca●, Early and late do o'er their Studies wake; And, unto thee, the branched Samian Y Points out the right hand Path to Virtue high. And art thou snoring still, as overcharged With Wine and Surfeit, cropsick, undisgorged? Are thy Jaws fallen? and is thy Head grown slack, Yawning, as thou wouldst make their Frame to crack? Hast in thine eye but any fixed end At which thy Shaft to aim, and Bow to bend? Or dost thou rove at random here and there, In chase of Crows, not once regarding where Thou tak'st thy step, through thick and thin; And but to live to day, to day begin? Now let me freely give my thoughts, what I Do read, will prove, in fine, thy destiny. thou'rt well (thou thinkest) in health, alas, poor Sot! Thou art diseased, and sick, and knowst it not. When a Disease is creeping on, be sure In time to meet with't, and 'tis half the cure: If once thy pale Hydropic skin do swell, Not Hellebore's enough to make thee well. Delay a while, not all thy Golden Fee Will do; though Graterus thy Doctor be, Not Craterus himself can cu-re thee. Learn than, unhappy Youth, betimes to know The Causer of all Causes here below. Next under him, with Loyalty and Fear Thy Sovereign Lord the King love and revere. Learn what we are,— and to what end we live; TO ourselves, or him who life to us did give? Next, in what order learn to steer thy Course, Nor circumvented be by Fraud or Force, Till thou hast gained the wished Goal;— and than With nimble Turn smoothly wheel of again. Let not the tempting Bait of Richeses hold Thee basely fettered in a Chain of Gold. Learn what 'tis fit to ask in Prayer, and so The lawful use of Money thou shalt know; How much on thy loved Country to expend, What on thyself, thy Kinsfolk and thy Friend; Whether a Prince or Peasant, learn with Art In this Life's Play wisely to act thy part; A due Decorum keep in that degree The provident,— wise— God hath placed thee. Learn well these practic Points, by Heart, and so, Thou'lt bid Defiance to thy deadly'st Foe. Thou wilt not Than envy the too great store Of Presents new sent in, more after more, From the rich Umbrian Churl, and the fat Marsian Boor: Fat Venison, dried Neats-Tongue, West-phaly-Ham, Sturgeon, Anchove, with else what you can name, To grease the Lawyer, and to oil his Tongue But after all my Counsel to thee laid, Still I mistake the man, I am afraid. Thou'lt say, (it's like) as the bold man of War, Some Huffing, Rough-Centurion-Swaggerer: Centurio. What tell you me of these things? What care I A F—ig for all your Crab-Philosophy? 've Wit enough, I trow, to serve my turn, Fore I'd be such as you describe, I'd burn. I value not your whining Solons,— I Your dull Arcesil— Asses all defy, Observe their Posture just,— and than refrain, If possible, from laughing— out amain. Like Madmen (as they are) their Necks awry, Down lowting on the ground,— with fixed eye; Poising, on Lips outstretched, each Syllable, And, in a buzzing tone, scarce audible, Champing, and muttering softly, to themselves, The Dreams of old— sick— men,— and Frantic Spells: That out of Nothing, Nothing e'er began, And into Nothing, Nothing returns again. Is This it— makes them look so pale?— Is't this, Their Dinners they so often on purpose miss? How scorned these Fellows are, about the Town, To see, and hear, is richly worth a Crown. The People flout them;- And our Gallants,- they, Crisping their Noses, in Ironic way, Deride them with a Trembling Ha-ha-he. Tut. Well,— be it so;— But let them laugh that win; These little know the danger they are in: But— do not Thou scorn Learning,— jest thy Fall, With such as These,— prove sadly Tragical. I told thee once, (if thou hast not forgot) Thou wast Diseased and Sick,— and knewest it not: What more I have to tell thee— well attend; Wisely apply it to a better End. Aegrot. One in a Fever, once to's Doctor said, Pray, good Sir, feel my Pulse: I am afraid, All is not as it should be; good Sir, see, My Throbbing Heart beats at a strange degree; And my sick Jaws a fulsome stench exhale From my parched Entrails, though my Skin look pale. The Doctor tried the utmost of his Skill On this his Patient,— charged him to be still, And to keep in five or six days at lest; By than, he hoped the danger would be passed. ‛ Soon as he finds himself in better plight, His Veins in order flow, his Pulse beaten right, His heat's abated,— Now, on the third Night, Nothing would serve him, but he needs must sand His Man, Post-haste, to such a wealth Friend, To sand him of his mild Surrentine Wine, A full Quart Flagon, that was Brisk and Fine: This soon quaffed of,— away to Bath goes he, Where, in the nick, his Doctor chanced to be. The Honest good Physician startled was, To see his Patient there,— in such a case. Medicus. D'y ' hear, good Sir,— Why you look wondrous pale, Aegrotus. Phugh,— Sir,— That's nothing,— not,— I nothing ail. Med. Yet pray, look to't, that Nothing do not tend To Something you'll repent of in the End: Your Life lies on't, to me 'tis plain enough; Your Sallow tawny Skin gins to huff. Aegrot. But you look paler, to a worse degree, Pray, good Sir, be not Tutor unto me: I come not here thus to affronted be. 've followed one already to his Grave; Next turn is Yours, good Tutor, mine to have. Med. Nay, If indeed upon these Points you go, Than,— Take your Course;— I'll say not more but so. Tut. Now— Gentle Sir,— Observe in this your Plea For such young Gallants the Catastrophe. He, and his pale-white Belly,— strutting out, And crammed with Belly-Cheer up to the Throat, Needs, after Supper, into Bath must go; And next the Iliad follows of his Woe. Foul stench he breathes, with Exhalations raw, In sour Belchings, from a putrid Maw: A Trembling seizes him, the while he stands Drinking, and shakes the Bowl out of his hands; Through parched Lips (which were before a Screen To h's Teeth)— his chattering Teeth are naked seen. And than, through his lax Jaws he vomits up The greasy Morsels whereon he did Sup. Next news we hear,- our gallant Youth Reverse, Laid out in state upon his pompous Hearse, Richly Embalmed; Extending towards the Gate, His Rigid-Cold-stiff Heels;— and (growing late) Aloud the Trumpets an Alarm sound, Whose Echo from the neighbouring Hills rebound. The blazing Flambeaus sergeant a Day; The Heralds, marshaled along the way, His high Aspire; and th' exalted Fame Of his Renowned Ancestors proclaim; This done;— his yesterday new bond-freed-men, Gay in their Bonnets, their dead Lord attend; Hoist up his Corpse upon their backs,— and So, Next way with him, to h's Funeral Pile they go. — Sic transit Gloria Mundi. And here's the end of Him would not submit, To h's Doctors Rules, for his own benefit! Disoip. What! than (belike) this Story's laid to me? But, (silly Man) y'are out: for I am free From all Distemper: Feel my Pulse, and try; My blood in every vein flows orderly; Nor hands, nor feet affected are with Cold, But still one constant even Temper hold. Not Flushing Heats, not Trembling of the Heart, But sound, both Wind and Limb, in every part. Tut. All this may be, I grant;— and still I say, Thou art Diseased, and Sick,— another way. Thy Body's but the Case;— poor sorry Pelf! It is thy Soul, I mean thy better Self: Thy Soul,— that Particle Divine in Man! 'Tis that is sick;— deny it, if thou can. For,— let me ask thee:— Shouldst thou hap to spy New minted Gold, a Bank, before thee lie; No Eye upon thee, free Access unto't; As free, and safe Retreat, suppose, to boot; Would than thy Heart beaten right? So there's on Vice, The sly Disease of Craving Avarice. Again,— Should some deft, lovely Girl, by chance, An amorous dimpled Smile upon thee glance; How would thy Feverish flushing heats discover The frail Distempers of a fond sick Lover? Suppose again, some one should bring to eat, In a cold Pan, some sapless, raw cold Beet, With course brown Bread, and Colewort for thy Dinner, And tell thee:— These are Dainties for a Sinner: Let's try thy Chaps:— Lo! there's an Ulcer grown, Too sore for such rough Beets to grate upon! So thou that nothing ailedst, add to these A third, Soft Luxury, that She-Disease. When a damp Aguish Fear strikes through thy Heart, Sets thee all o'er a shivering, every part; And makes thy Hairs, in this amazing Fright, Like Beards of Corn, stiff, staring bolt-upright, Thou nor affected art with Heat, nor Cold, But dost one constant, even temper hold. Look up, Man! Fie!— What!— So white-livered art? Some Cordial Spirits fetch to cheer his Heart! Is This He, nothing ails!— Behold a Vice, Transforms Men into Stone!— Base Cowardice! And now the Cold Fit's over comes the Hot, Thy blood inflamed, boils over like a Pot With brands put under;— and with burning Ire Thy fierce, revengeful, sparkling Eyes dart Fire Thou sayest and dost what Rage and Fury can Force on thee in this boisterous Hurrican;— That Bedlam-mad Orestes now would Swear, None, but one Bedlam-mad, would ever dare. Here Ends the Third satire of A. Persius.