CLASSICS 219

Still shall I bear, and never quit the score,
Stunn'd with hoarse Codrus’ Theseid, o'er and o’er
Shall this man's elegies, and t’other's play,
Unpunish'd murder a long summer's day?
Huge Telephus, a formidable page,
Cries vengeance; and Orestes’ bulky rage,
Unsatisfied with margins closely writ,
Foams o'er the covers, and not finish'd yet.
No man can take a more familiar note
Of his own home than I of Vulcan's grot,
Or Mars his grove, or hollow winds that blow
From Aetna's top, or tortured ghosts below.
I know by rote the famed exploits of Greece;
The Centaurs' fury and the golden fleece;
Through the thick shades the' eternal scribbler bawls,
And shakes the statues on their pedestals.
The best and worst, on the same theme employs,
His muse, and plagues us with an equal noise.
      Provoked by these incorrigible fools,
I left declaiming in pedantic schools;
Where, with men-boys, I strove to get renown,
Advising Sulla to a private gown.
But, since the world with writing is possess'd,
I'll versify in spite, and do my best
To make as much waste paper as the rest.
But why I lift aloft the satire's  rod,
And tread the path which famed Lucilius trod,
Attend the causes which my muse have led:
When sapless eunuchs mount the marriage-bed,
When mannish Mevia, that two-handed whore,
Astride on horseback hunts the Tuscan boar;
When all our lords are by his wealth outvied
Whose razor, on my callow beard was tried;
When I behold the spawn of conquer'd Nile,
Crispinus, both in birth and manners vile,
Pacing in pomp, with cloak of Tyrian dye,
Changed oft a day, for needless luxury;
And finding oft occasion to be fann'd
Ambitious to produce his lady hand;
Charged with light summer rings his fingers sweat,
Unable to support a gem of weight:
Such fulsome objects meeting everywhere,
'Tis hard to write, but harder to forbear.
To view so lewd a town, and to refrain,
What hoops of iron could my spleen contain!
When pleading Matho, borne abroad for air,
With his fat paunch fills his new-fashion'd chair;
And after him the wretch in pomp convey'd,
Whose evidence his lord and friend betray'd;
And but the wish’d occasion does attend
From the poor nobles the last spoils to rend;
Whom e’en spies dread as their superior fiend,
And bribe with presents; or, when presents fail,
They send their prostituted wives for bail:
When night-performance holds the place of merit,
And brawn and back the next of kin disherit;
For such good parts are in preferment's way,
The rich old madam never fails to pay
Her legacies, by nature's standard given,
One gains an ounce, another gains eleven:
A dear bought bargain, all things duly weigh'd,
For which their thrice concocted blood is paid.
With looks as wan as he who in the brake
At unawares has trod upon a snake;
Or play'd at Lyons a declaiming prize,
For which the vanquish'd rhetorician dies.
      What indignation boils within my veins,
When perjured guardians, proud with impious gains,
Choke up the streets, too narrow for their trains!
Whose wards, by want betray'd, to crimes are led
Too foul to name, too fulsome to be read!
When he who pill'd his province scapes the laws,
And keeps his money, though he lost his cause:
His fine begg'd off, contemns his infamy,
Can rise at twelve, and get him drunk ere three;
Enjoys his exile, and, condemn'd in vain,
Leaves thee, prevailing province, to complain!
       Such villainies roused Horace into wrath:
And 'tis more noble to pursue his path
Than an old tale of Diomede repeat,
Or labouring after Hercules to sweat,
Or wandering in the winding maze of Crete;
Or with the winged smith aloft to fly,
Or fluttering perish with his foolish boy.
      With what impatience must the Muse behold
The wife, by her procuring husband sold!
For though the law makes null the adulterer's deed
Of lands to her, the cuckold may succeed,
Who his taught eyes up to the ceiling throws,
And sleeps all over but his wakeful nose.
When he dares hope a colonel's command,
Whose coursers kept ran out his father's land;
Who, yet a stripling, Nero's chariot drove,
Whirl'd o'er the streets, while his vain master strove,
With boasted art to please his eunuch love.
      Would it not make a modest author dare
To draw his table-book within the square,
And fill with notes; when lolling at his ease,
Maecenas-like, the happy rogue he sees
Borne by six wearied slaves in open view,
Who cancel'd an old will, and forged a new;
Made wealthy at the small expense of signing
With a wet seal, and a fresh interlining?
The lady next requires a lashing line
Who squeezed a toad into her husband's wine:
So well the fashionable medicine thrives,
That now ‘tis practiced e'en by country wives:
Poisoning, without regard of fame or fear;
And spotted corpse are frequent on the bier.
Wouldst thou to honours and preferments climb?
Be bold in mischief, dare some mighty crime,
Which dungeons, death, or banishment deserves:
For virtue is but dryly praised, and starves.
Great men to great crimes owe their plate emboss’d,
Fair palaces, and furniture of cost;
And high commands: a sneaking sin is lost.
Who can behold that rank old lecher keep
His son's corrupted wife, and hope to sleep?
Or that male harlot, or that unfledged boy,
Eager to sin, before he can enjoy ?
 If nature could not, anger would indite
Such woeful stuff as I or Shadwell write.
      Count from the time, since old Deucalion’s boat,
Raised by the flood, did old Parnassus float;
And scarcely mooring on the cliff, implored
An oracle how man might be restored;
When soften'd stones and vital breath ensued,
And virgins naked were by lovers view'd;
What ever since that golden age was done,
What humankind desires, and what they shun,
Rage, passions, pleasures, impotence of will,
Shall this satirical collection fill.
      What age so large a crop of vices bore,
Or when was avarice extended more ?
When were the dice with more profusion thrown?
The well fill'd fob not emptied now alone,
But gamesters for whole patrimonies play;
The steward brings the deeds which must convey
The lost estate: what more than madness reigns,
When one short sitting many hundreds drains,
And not enough is left him to supply
Board wages, or a footman's livery ?
What age so many summer seats did see?
Or which of our forefathers fared so well,
As on seven dishes, at a private meal?
Clients of old were feasted; now a poor
Divided dole is dealt at the’ outward door;
Which by the hungry rout is soon dispatch'd,
The paltry largess, too, severely watch'd,
Ere given; and every face observed with care,
That no intruding guests usurp a share.
Known, you receive : the crier calls a-loud
Our old nobility of Trojan blood,
Who gape among the crowd for their precarious food.
The praetor's and the tribune's voice is heard;
The freed man jostles, and will be preferr'd;
'First come, first served’ (he cries); and I, in spite
Of your great lordships, will maintain my right.
Though born a slave, though my torn ears are bored
'Tis not the birth, 'tis money makes the lord.
The rent of five fair houses I receive;
What greater honours can the purple give?
The poor Patrician is reduced to keep,
In melancholy walks, a grazier's sheep:
Not Pallus nor Licinius had my treasure;
Then let the sacred tribunes wait my leisure.
Once a poor rogue, 'tis true, I trod the street,
And trudged to Rome upon my naked feet:
Gold is the greatest god; though yet we see
No temples raised to money’s majesty,
No altars fuming to her power divine,
Such as to valour, peace and virtue shine,
And faith, and concord: where the stork on high
Seems to salute her infant progeny;
Presaging pious love with her auspicious cry.
But since our knights and senators account,
To what their sordid begging vails amount;
Judge what a wretched share the poor attends,
Whose whole subsistence on those alms depends!
Their household fire, their raiment, and their food,
Prevented by those harpies; when a wood
Of litters thick besiege the donor's gate,
And begging lords and teeming ladies wait
The promised dole. Nay, some have learn'd the trick
To beg for absent persons; feign them sick,
Close mew'd in their sedans, for fear of air:
And for their wives produce an empty chair.
‘This is my spouse: dispatch her with her share.
Tis Galla.' ‘Let her ladyship but peep.’
‘No, sir, 'tis pity to disturb her sleep.’
      Such fine employments our whole days divide:
The salutations of the morning tide
Call up the sun; those ended, to the hall
We wait the patron, hear the lawyers bawl;
Then to the statues; where amidst the race
Of conquering Rome some Arab shows his face,
Inscribed with titles, and profanes the place;
Fit to be piss'd against, and somewhat more.
The great man, home-conducted, shuts his door;
Old clients, wearied out with fruitless care,
Dismiss their hopes of eating, and despair.
Though much against the grain, forced to retire,
Buy roots for supper, and provide a fire.
      Meantime his lordship lolls within at ease,
Pampering his paunch with foreign rarities;
Both sea and land are ransack'd for the feast;
And his own gut the sole invited guest.
Such plate, such tables, dishes dress'd so well,
That whole estates are swallow'd at a meal.
E’en parasites are banish’d from his board
(At once a sordid and luxurious lord);
Prodigious throat, for which whole boars are dress’d
(A creature form'd to furnish out a feast).
But present punishment pursues his maw,
When surfeited and swell'd, the peacock raw
He bears into the bath; whence want of breath,
Repletions, apoplex, intestate death.
His fate makes table-talk, divulged with scorn,
And he, a jest, into his grave is borne.
      No age can go beyond us: future times
Can add no further to the present crimes.
Our sons but the same things can wish and do;
Vice is at stand, and at the highest flow:
Then, satire, spread thy sails, take all the winds can blow.
Some may, perhaps, demand what Muse can yield
Sufficient strength for such a spacious field?
From whence can be derived so large a vein,
Bold truth to speak, and spoken, to maintain?
When godlike freedom is so far bereft
The noble mind, that scarce the name is left?
Ere scandalum magnatum was begot,
No matter if the great forgave or not:
But if that honest license now you take,
If into rogues omnipotent you rake,
Death is your doom, impaled upon a stake;
Smeared o'er with wax, and set on fire, to light
The streets, and make a dreadful blaze by night,
      Shall they who drench'd three uncles in a draught
Of poisonous juice be then in triumph brought;
Make lanes among the people where they go,
And, mounted high on downy chariots, throw
Disdainful glances on the crowd below?
Be silent, and beware, if such you see;
‘Tis defamation but to say, ‘That's he!’
Against bold Turnus the great Trojan arm,
Amidst their strokes the poet gets no harm:
Achilles may in epic verse be slain,
And none of all his myrmidons complain:
Hylas may drop his pitcher, none will cry;
Not if he drown himself for company:
But when Lucilius brandishes his pen,
And flashes in the face of guilty men,
A cold sweat stands in drops on every part;
And rage succeeds to tears, revenge to smart:
Muse, be advised; ‘tis past considering time,
When enter'd once the dangerous lists of rhyme:
Since none the living villains dare implead
Arraign them in the persons of the dead.
 

I'm sick of Rome, and wish myself convey'd
Where freezing seas obstruct the merchant's trade;
When hypocrites read lectures, and a sot,
Because into a gown and pulpit got,
Though surfeit-gorged, and reeking from the stews,
Nothing but abstinence for his theme will choose.
The rakehells too pretend to learning--Why?
Chrysippus' statue decks their library.
Who makes his closet finest is most read:
The dolt that with an Aristotle's head,
Carved to the life, has once adorn'd his shelf,
Straight sets up for a Stagyrite himself.
Precise their look; but to the brothel come,
You'll know the price of philosophic bum.
You'd swear, if you their bristled hides survey'd,
That for a bear's caresses they are made;
Yet of their obscene part they take such care,
That (like baboons) they still keep Podex bare;
To see't so sleek and trimm'd the surgeon smiles,
And scarcely can, for laughing, lance the piles.
Since silence seems to carry wisdom's power,
The' affected rogues, like clocks, speak once an hour.
Those grizzled locks which Nature did provide,
In plenteous growth, their asses' ears to hide,
The formal slaves reduce to a degree
Short of their eyebrows--Now I honour thee,
Thee, Peribonius, thou profess'd he-whore,
And all thy crimes impute to Nature's score:
Thou, as in harlot's dress thou art attired,
For aught I know, with harlot's itch art fired;
Thy form seems for the Pathic trade design'd,
And generously thou dost own thy kind.
But what of those lewd miscreants must become,
Who preach morality, and shake the bum?
      Varillus cries, shall I fear Sextus' doom,
Whose haunches are the common sink of Rome?
Let him cry blackmoor-devil, whose skin is white;
And bandy legs, who treads himself upright;
Let him reprove that's innocent--In vain
The Gracchi of sedition must complain.
'Twould make you swear the planets from their spheres,
Should Verres peach thieves, Milo murderers,
Clodius tax bawds, Cethegus Catiline,
Or Scylla's pupils Scylla's rules decline.
Yet we have seen a modern magistrate
Restore those rigid laws that did create
In Mars and Venus dread, himself the while,
With impious drugs and potions, did beguile
The teeming Julia's womb, and thence did wrest
Crude births, that yet the' incestuous sire confess'd.
How shall such hypocrites reform the state,
On whom the brothels call recriminate?
      Of this wee have an instance great and new
In a cock zealot of this preaching crew,
Whose late harangue the gaping rabble drew.
His theme, as fate would have't, was fornication,
And as, i'the' fury of his declamation,
He cried 'Why sleeps the Julian law, that awed
This vice;'--Laronia, an industrious bawd
(As bawds will run to lectures), nettled much
To have her copyhold so nearly touch'd,
With a disdainful smile, replied, 'Bless'd times,
That made thee censor of the age's crimes!
Rome now must needs reform, and vice be stopp'd,
Since a third Cato from the clouds is dropp'd.
But tell me, sir, what perfume strikes the air
From your most reverend neck o'ergrown with hair?
For modestly we may presume, I trow,
'Tis not your natural grain--The price I'd know,
And where 'tis sold; direct me to the street,
And shop, for I with no such essence meet.
Let me entreat you, sir, for your own sake,
Use caution, and permit the laws to take
A harmless nap, lest the Scantinian wake.
Our wise forefathers took their measures right,
Nor wreak'd on fornicators all their spite,
But left a limbo for the sodomite.
If you commission-courts must needs erect
For manners, put the test to your own sect.
But you by number think yourselves secure,
While our thin squadron must the brunt endure.
With grief I must confess our muster's few,
And much with civil broils impair'd, while you
Are to the devil and to each other true.
Your penal laws against us are enlarged,
On whom no crimes, like what you act, are charged.
Flavia may now and then turn up for bread,
But chastely with Catulla lies abed.
Your Hispo acts both sexes' parts; before
A fornicator, and behind a whore:
We ne'er invade your walks; the client's cause
We leave to your confounding, and the laws.
If now and then an Amazonian dame
Dares fight a public prize, 'tis sure less shame
Than to behold your unnerved sex set in
To needle-work, and like a damsel spin.
How Hister's bondman his sole heir became,
And his conniving spouse so rich a dame,
Is known; that wife with wealth must needs be sped
Who is content to make a third in bed.
You nymphs, that would to coach and six arrive,
Marry, keep counsel, and ye are sure to thrive!
Yet these obnoxious men, without remorse,
Against our tribe will put the laws in force,
Clip the dove's wing, and give the vulture course.
      Thus spoke the matron:--The convicted crew
From so direct a charge, like lightning flew.
It must be so.--Nor, vain Metellus, shall
From Rome's tribunal thy harangues prevail
'Gainst harlotry, while thou art clad so thin,
That through thy cobweb robe we see thy skin.
      As thou declaim’st-- 'Fabulla is, you say,
A whore.'--I own it; so is Carfinia:
Rank prostitutes! therefore, without remorse,
Punish the strumpets; give the law its course:
But when ye'ave sentenced them, Metellus, know
They'd blush to' appear so loosely dress'd  as you.
You say the dogstar reigns, whose sultry fire
Melts you to death, e'en in that light attire;
Go naked, then; 'twere better to be mad
(Which has a privilege) than so lewdly clad!
How would our mountain sires, return'd from plough
Or battle, such a  silken judge allow?
Canst thou restore old manners, or retrench
Rome's pride, who comest transparent to the bench?
This mode in which thou singly dost appear,
By thy example shalt get footing here,
Till it has quite depraved the Roman stock,
As one infected sheep confounds the flock.
      Nor will this crime, Metellus, be thy worst;
No man e'er reach'd the heights of vice at first:
For vice, like virtue, by degrees must grow;
Thus from this wanton dress, Metellus, thou
With those polluted priests I at last shalt join,
Who female chaplets round their temples twine,
And with perverted rites profane the goddess' shrine;
Where such vile practices 'twixt males are pass'd,
As makes our matrons' lewd nocturnals chaste.
Cotyttus' orgies scarce are more obscene,
For thus the' effeminate priests themselves demean.
With jet black pencils one his eyebrows dyes,
And adds new fire to his lascivious eyes:
Another in a glass Priapus swills,
While twisted gold his platted tresses fills;
A female robe, and to complete the farce,
His servant not by Jove but Juno swears.
One holds a mirror, pathic Otho's shield,
In which he view'd before he march'd to field;
Nor Ajax with more pride his sevenfold targe did wield.
Oh, noble subject for new annals fit,
In musty fame's records unmention'd yet!
A looking-glass must load the' imperial car,
The most important carriage of the war!
Galba to kill, he thought a general's part,
But, as a courtier, used the nicest art
To keep his skin from tan: before the fight
Would paint, and set his soil'd complexion right.
A softness which Semiramis ne'er knew,
When once she had the field and foe in view,
Nor Egypt's queen, when she from Actium flew.
     No chaste discourse their festivals afford,
Obsceneness is the language of their board:
Soft lisping tones, taught by some bald-pate priest,
For skillful palate, master of the feast.
A pack of prostitutes; unnerved, and rife
For the' operation of a Phrygian knife.
For from such pathics 'twere but just to take
Those manly parts, of which no use they make.
      Gracchus, 'tis said, gave to his trumpeter
Four hundred sesterces;--For what?--In dower.
The motion's liked, the parties are agreed;
And for performance seal a formal deed:
Guests are bespoke, a wedding-supper made,
The wonted joy is wish'd, that done--
The he-bride in his bridegroom's arms is laid.
0 peers of Rome! need these stupendous times
A censor, or aruspex, for such crimes ?
The prodigy less monstrous would appear,
If women calves, or heifers lambs should bear!
In bridal robe and veil the pathic's dress'd,
Who bore the ponderous shield at Mars his feast.
      Father of Rome! say what detested clime
Taught Latian shepherds so abhorr'd a crime?
Say, thundering Mars, from, whence the nettle sprung,
Whose venom first thy noble offspring stung?
Behold! a man by birth and fortune great
Weds with a man, yet from the' etherial seat
No rattling of thy brazen wheels we hear,
Nor is earth pierced with thy avenging spear.
Oh! if thy jurisdiction (Mars) fall short
To punish mischief of so vast import,
Complain to Jove, and move the higher court.
For shame, redress this scandal; or resign
Thy province to some power that's more divine,
Tomorrow early in Quirinus' vale
I must attend--Why?--Thereby hangs a tale,
A male friend's to be married to a male.
'Tis true, the wedding's  carried privately,
The parties being at present somewhat shy;
But that they own the match ere long you'll hear,
And see it in the public register.
      But one sore grief does these he-brides perplex;
Though they debase, they cannot change their sex;
Nor yet, by help of all their wicked art,
Bring off-springs to secure their husbands' heart.
Nature too much in the' dire embrace is forced,
And ne'er joins influence with desires so cursed:
Incestuous births, and monsters may appear;
But teeming males not earth nor hell can bear.
      Yet, Gracchus, thou degenerate son of fame,
Thy pranks are stigmatized with greater blame:
Theirs was a private, thine an open shame.
Who, like a fencer on a public stage,
Hast made thyself the scandal of the age
Nor can Rome's noblest blood with thine compare,
While thou makest pastime for the theatre.
      To what dire cause can we assign these crimes,
But to that reigning atheism of the times ?
Ghosts, Stygian lakes, and frogs with creaking note,
And Charon wafting souls in leaky boat,
Are now thought fables; to fright fools conceived
Or children, and by children scarce believed.
Yet, give thou credit. What can we suppose
The temperate Curii, and the Scipios?
What will Fabricius or Camillus think,
When they behold, from their Elysium's brink,
An atheist soul to last perdition sink?
How will they from the' assaulting banks rebound,
And wish for sacred rites to purge the' unhallow'd ground!
In vain, 0 Rome! thou dost thy conquest boast
Beyond the Orcades' short-nighted coast;
Since free the conquer'd provinces remain,
From crimes that thy imperial city stain.
Yet rumour speaks (if we may credit fame)
Of one Armenian youth, who since he came
Has learn'd the impious trade, and does exceed
The lewdest pathics of our Roman breed.
Blessings of commerce! he was sent, 'tis said,
For breeding hither: and he's fairly bred.
Fly, foreign youths, from our polluted streets,
And, ere unmann'd, regain your native seats,
Lest, while for traffic here too long you stay,
You learn at last to tread the' Italian way;
And, with cursed merchandise returning home,
Stock all your country with the figs of Rome.
 

Grieved though I am an ancient friend to lose,
I like the solitary seat he chose;
In quiet Cumae fixing his repose:
Where, far from noisy Rome secure he lives,
And one more citizen to Sibyl gives.
The road to Baiae, and that soft recess
Which all the gods with all their bounty bless.
Though I in Prochyta with greater ease
Could live than in a street of palaces.
What scene so desert, or so full of flight,
As towering houses tumbling in the night,
And Rome on fire beheld by its own blazing light?
But worse than all the clattering tiles, and worse
Than thousand padders, is the poet's curse:
Rogues that in dogdays cannot rhyme forbear;
But without mercy read, and make you hear.
      Now while my friend, just ready to depart,
Was packing all his goods in one poor cart;
He stopp'd a little at the conduit gate,
Where Numa model'd once the Roman state,
In mighty councils with his nymph retired:
Though now the sacred shades and founts are hired
By banish'd Jews, who their whole wealth can lay
In a small basket, on a wisp of hay;
Yet such our avarice is, that every tree
Pays for his head; not sleep itself is free:
Nor place, nor persons, now are sacred held,
From their own grove the Muses are expell'd:
Into this lonely vale our steps we bend,
I and my sullen discontented friend:
The marble caves and aqueducts we view;
But how adulterate now, and different from the true!
How much more beauteous had the fountain been
Embellish'd with her first created green,
Where crystal streams through living turf had run,
Contented with an urn of native stone!
Then thus Umbricius (with an angry frown,
And looking back on this degenerate town),
‘Since noble arts in Rome have no support,
And ragged virtue not a friend at court,
No profit rises from the' ungrateful stage,
My poverty increasing with my age,
'Tis time to give my just disdain a vent.
And, cursing, leave so base a government.
Where Dedalus his borrow'd wings laid by,
To that obscure retreat I choose to fly:
While yet few furrows on my face are seen,
While I walk upright, and old age is green,
And Lachesis has somewhat left to spin.
Now, now 'tis time to quit this cursed place,
And hide from villains my too honest face:
Here let Arturius I live, and such as he;
Such manners will with such a town agree.
Knaves who in full assemblies have the knack
Of turning truth to lies, and white to black;
Can hire large houses, and oppress the poor
By farm'd excise; can cleanse the common shore;
And rent the fishery; can bear the dead;
And teach their eyes dissembled tears to shed,
All this for gain; for gain they sell their very head.
These fellows (see what fortune's power can do)
Were once the minstrels of a country show:
Follow'd the prizes through each paltry town,
By trumpet-cheeks and bloated faces known.
But now grown rich, on drunken holidays,
At their own costs exhibit public plays:
Where, influenced by the rabble's bloody will,
With thumbs bent back they popularly kill.
From thence return'd, their sordid avarice rakes
In excrements again, and hires the jakes.
Why hire they not the town, not every thing,
Since such as they have fortune in a string?
Who, for her pleasure, can her fools advance;
And toss them topmost on the wheel of chance.
What's Rome to me, what business have I there,
I who can neither lie nor falsely swear?
Nor praise my patron’s undeserving rhymes,
Nor yet comply with him, nor with his times;
Unskill'd in schemes by planets to foreshow,
Like canting rascals, how the wars will go:
I neither will nor can prognosticate
To the young gaping heir his father's fate:
Nor in the entrails of a toad have pry'd,
Nor carried bawdy presents to a bride:
For want of these town virtues, thus alone,
I go conducted on my way by none:
Like a dead member from the body rent;
Maim'd, and unuseful to the government.
Who now is loved, but he who loves the times,
Conscious of close intrigues, and dipp'd in crimes;
Labouring with secrets which his bosom burn,
Yet never must to public light return?
They get reward alone who can betray:
For keeping honest counsels none will pay.
He who can Verres, when he will, accuse,
The purse of Verres may at pleasure use:
But let not all the gold which Tagus hides
And pays the sea in tributary tides,
Be bribe sufficient to corrupt the breast;
Or violate with dreams thy peaceful rest.
Great men with jealous eyes the friend behold,
Whose secrecy they purchase with their gold.
      I haste to tell thee (nor shall shame oppose)
What confidence our wealthy Romans chose:
And whom I most abhor. To speak my mind,
I hate in Rome a Grecian town to find:
To see the scum of Greece transplanted here,
Received like gods, is what I cannot bear.
Nor Greeks alone, but Syrians here abound,
Obscene Orontes driving under ground,
Conveys his wealth to Tiber's hungry shores,
And fattens Italy with foreign whores
Hither their crooked harps and customs come:
All find receipt in hospitable Rome.
The barbarous harlots crowd the public place:
Go, fools, and purchase an unclean embrace;
The painted mitre court, and the more painted face.
Old Romulus and father Mars, look down;
Your herdsman primitive, your homely clown
Is turn'd a, beau, in a loose tawdry gown.
His once unkemm'd and horrid locks behold,
'Stilling sweet oil; his neck inchain'd with gold:
Aping the foreigners in every dress;
Which, bought at greater cost, becomes him less.
Meantime they wisely leave their native land;
From Sycion, Samos, and from Alaband,
And Amydon, to Rome they swarm in shoals:
So sweet and easy is the gain from fools.
Poor refugees at first, they purchase here,
And, soon as denizen'd, they domineer;
Grow to the great, a flattering servile rout;
Work themselves inward, and their patrons out:
Quick-witted, brazen-faced, with fluent tongues,
Patient of labours, and dissembling wrongs.
Riddle me this, and guess him if you can,
Who bears a nation in a single man?
A cook, a conjurer, a rhetorician,
A painter, pedant, a geometrician,
A dancer on the ropes, and a physician.
All things the hungry Greek  exactly knows:
And bid him go to heaven, to heaven he goes.
In short, no Scythian, Moor, or Thracian born,
But in that town, which arms and arts adorn,
Shall he be placed above me at the board,
In purple clothed, and lolling like a lord?
Shall he before me sign, whom t’other day
A small craft vessel hither did convey;
Where, stow'd with prunes and rotten figs, he lay?
How little is the privilege become
Of being born a citizen of Rome!
The Greeks get all by fulsome flatteries;
A most peculiar stroke they have at lies.
They make a wit of their insipid friend;
His blobber-lip, and beetle-brows commend;
His long crane-neck and narrow shoulders praise;
You'd think they were describing Hercules.
A creaking voice for a clear treble goes;
Though harsher than a cock that treads and crows.
We can as grossly praise; but, to our grief,
No flattery but from Grecians gains belief.
Besides these qualities, we must agree
They mimic better on the stage than we:
The wife, the whore, the shepherdess they play,
In such a free, and such a graceful way,
That we believe a very woman shown,
And fancy something underneath the gown.
But not Antiochus, nor Stratocles,
Our ears and ravish'd eyes can only please;
The nation is composed of such as these.
All Greece is one comedian: laugh, and they
Return it louder than an ass can bray:
Grieve, and they grieve; if you weep silently,
There seems a silent echo in their eye:
They cannot mourn like you, but they can cry.
Call for a fire, their winter clothes they take:
Begin but you to shiver, and they shake:
In frost and snow, if you complain of heat,
They rub the' unsweating brow, and swear they sweat.
We live not on the square with such as these,
Such are our betters who can better please:
Who day and night are like a  looking-glass;
Still ready to reflect their patron's face.
The panegyric hand and lifted eye,
Prepared for some new piece of flattery.
E’en nastiness occasions will afford;
They praise a belching, or well p-g lord.
Besides, there's nothing sacred, nothing free
From bold attempts of their rank lechery.
Through the whole family their labours run;
The daughter is debauch'd, the wife is won:
Nor scapes the bridegroom, or the blooming son.
If none they find for their lewd purpose fit,
They with the walls and very floors commit:
They search the secrets of the house, and so
Are worship'd there, and fear'd for what they know.
      And now we talk of Grecians, cast a view
On what in schools their men of morals do:
A rigid stoic his own pupil slew;
A friend against a friend of his own cloth
Turn'd evidence, and murder'd on his oath.
What room is left for Romans in a town
Where Grecians rule, and cloaks control the gown?
Some Diphilus, or some Protogenes,
Look sharply out, our senators to seize:
Engross them wholly by their native art,
And fear no rivals in their bubble's heart:
One drop of poison in my patron's ear,
One slight suggestion of a senseless fear,
Infused with cunning, serves to ruin me;
Disgraced and banish'd from the family.
In vain forgotten services I boast ;
My long dependence in an hour is lost:
Look round the world, what country will appear,
Where friends are left with greater ease than here?
At Rome (nor think me partial to the poor)
All offices of ours are out of door :
In vain we rise, and to the levees run;
My lord himself is up before, and gone:
The praetor bids his lictors mend their pace,
Lest his colleague outstrip him in the race:
The childish matrons are long since awake;
And, for affronts, the tardy visits take.
      'Tis frequent here to see a freeborn son
On the left hand of a rich hireling run;
Because the wealthy rogue can throw away,
For half a brace of bouts, a tribune's pay:
But you, poor sinner, though you love the vice,
And like the whore, demur upon the price:
And, frighted with the wicked sum, forbear
To lend a hand, and help her from the chair.
      Produce a witness of unblemish'd life,
Holy as Numa or as Numa's wife,
Or him who bid the' unhallow'd flames retire,
And snatch'd the trembling goddess from the fire!
The question is not put how far extends
His piety, but what he yearly spends:
Quick to the business; how he lives and eats;
How largely gives; how splendidly he treats:
How many thousand acres feed his sheep,
What are his rents? what servants does he keep?
The' account is soon cast up; the judges rate
Our credit in the court by our estate.
Swear by our gods, or those the Greeks adore,
Thou art as sure forsworn, as thou art poor:
The poor must gain their bread by perjury;
And e'en the gods, that other means deny,
In conscience must absolve them when they lie.
       Add, that the rich have still a gibe in store;
And will be monstrous witty on the poor:
For the torn surtout and the tatter'd vest,
The wretch and all his wardrobe are a jest:
The greasy gown, sullied with often turning
Gives a good hint to say, ‘The man's in mourning:’
Or if the shoe be ripp'd, or patches put,
'He's wounded! see the plaister on his foot.'
Want is the scorn of every wealthy fool;
And wit in rags is turn'd to ridicule.
‘Pack hence, and from the cover'd benches rise
(The master of the ceremonies cries),
This is no place for you, whose small estate
Is not the value of the settled rate;'
The sons of happy punks, the pander's heir,
Are privileged to sit in triumph there,
To clap the first, and rule the theatre.
Up to the galleries for shame retreat;
For, by the Roscian law, the poor can claim no seat.
Who ever brought to his rich daughter's bed
The man that poll'd but twelvepence for his head?
Who ever named a poor man for his heir,
Or call'd him to assist the judging chair ?
The poor were wise who, by the rich oppress'd,
Withdrew, and sought a sacred place of rest.
Once they did well, to free themselves from scorn;
But had done better, never to return.
Rarely they rise by virtue's aid, who lie
Plunged in the depth of helpless poverty.
At Rome ‘tis worse; where house-rent by the year,
And servants' bellies cost so devilish dear;
And tavern bills run high for hungry cheer.
To drink or eat in earthenware we scorn,
Which cheaply country cupboards does adorn:
And coarse blue hoods on holidays are worn.
Some distant parts of Italy are known,
Where none but only dead men wear a gown:
On theatres of turf, in homely state
Old plays they act, old feasts they celebrate:
The same rude song returns upon the crowd,
And by tradition is for wit allow'd.
The mimic yearly gives the same delights;
And in the mother's arms the clownish infant frights,
Their habits (undistinguish'd by degree)
Are plain alike; the same simplicity,
Both on the stage, and in the pit, you see.
In his white cloak the magistrate appears;
The country bumpkin the same livery wears.
But here, attired beyond our purse we go,
For useless ornament and flaunting show:
We take on trust, in purple robes to shine;
And poor are yet ambitious to be fine.
This is a common vice, though all things here
Are sold, and sold unconscionably dear.
What will you give that Cossus may but view
Your face, and in the crowd distinguish you?
May take your incense like a gracious god,
And answer only with a civil nod?
To please our patrons, in this vicious age,
We make our entrance by the favorite page:
Shave his first down, and when he pulls his hair,
The consecrated locks to temples bear:
Pay tributary cracknels, which he sells,
And with our offerings, help to raise his vails.
      Who fears in country towns a house's fall,
Or to be caught betwixt a riven wall?
But we inhabit a weak city here;
Which buttresses and props but scarcely bear:
And 'tis the village mason's daily calling
To keep the world's metropolis from falling,
To cleanse the gutters, and the chinks to close;
And  for one night, secure his lord's repose.
At Cumae we can sleep quite round the year,
Nor falls, nor fires, nor nightly dangers fear;
While rolling flames from Roman turrets fly,
And the pale citizens for buckets cry.
Thy neighbour has removed his wretched store
(Few hands will rid the lumber of the poor);
Thy own third story smokes, while thou, supine,
Art drenched in fumes of undigested wine,
For if the lowest floors already burn,
Cocklofts and garrets soon will take the turn;
Where thy tame pigeons next the tiles were bred,
Which, in their nests unsafe, are timely fled.
       Codrus had but one bed, so short to boot,
That his short wife's short legs hung dangling out;
His cupboard's head six earthen pitchers graced,
Beneath them was his trusty tankard placed;
And, to support this noble plate, there lay
A bending Chiron cast from honest clay.
His few Greek books a rotten chest contain'd,
Whose covers much of mouldiness complain'd:
Where mice and rats devour'd poetic bread;
And with heroic verse luxuriously were fed.
'Tis true, poor Codrus nothing had to boast,
And yet poor Codrus all that nothing lost.
Begg'd naked through the streets of wealthy Rome;
And found not one to feed, or take him home.
       But if the palace of Arturius burn,
The nobles change their clothes, the matrons mourn;
The city-praetor will no pleadings hear;
The very name of fire we hate and fear;
And look aghast, as if the Gauls were here.
While yet it burns, the’ officious nation flies,
Some to condole, and some to bring supplies:
One sends him marble to rebuild, and one
With naked statues of the Parian stone,
The work of Polyclete, that seem to live;
While others images for altars give;
One books and skreens, and Pallas to the breast;
Another bags of gold, and he gives best.
Childless Arturius, vastly rich before,
Thus by his losses multiplies his store;
Suspected for accomplice to the fire,
That burn'd his palace but to build it higher,
      But, could you be content to bid adieu
To the dear playhouse, and the players too:
Sweet country seats are purchased everywhere,
With lands and gardens, at less price than here
You hire a darksome doghole by the year.
A small convenience decently prepared,
A shallow well that rises in your yard,
That spreads his easy crystal streams around,
And waters all the pretty spot of ground.
There love the fork, thy garden cultivate,
And give thy frugal friends a Pythagorean treat;
'Tis somewhat to be lord of some small ground
In which a lizard may, at least, turn round.
      'Tis frequent here, for want of sleep, to die;
Which fumes of undigested feasts deny;
And, with imperfect heat, in languid stomachs fry.
What house secure from noise the poor can keep,
When e'en the rich can scarce afford to sleep:
So dear it costs to purchase rest in Rome;
And hence the sources of diseases come.
The drover who his fellow drover meets
In narrow passages of winding streets;
The wagoners that curse their standing teams,
Would wake e'en drowsy Drusius from his dreams.
And yet the wealthy will not brook delay,
But sweep above our heads, and make their way:
In lofty litters borne, and read and write,
Or sleep at ease: the shutters make it night.
Yet still he reaches first the public place:
The press before him stops the client's pace;
The crowd that follows crush his panting sides,
And trip his heels; he walks not, but he rides.
One elbows him, one justles in the shole:
A rafter breaks his head, or chairman's pole:
Stocking'd with loads of fat town dirt he goes;
And some rogue-soldier, with his hobnail'd shoes,
Indents his legs behind in bloody rows.
      See with what smoke our doles we celebrate:
A hundred guests, invited, walk in state:
A hundred hungry slaves, with their Dutch kitchens, wait.
Huge pans the wretches on their head must bear,
Which scarce gigantic Corbulo could rear:
Yet they must walk upright beneath the load;
Nay, run, and running blow the sparkling flames abroad.
Their coats, from botching newly brought, are torn.
Unwieldly timber-trees in wagons borne,
Stretch'd at their length, beyond their carriage lie;
That nod, and threaten ruin from on high.
For should their axle break, its overthrow
Would crush, and pound to dust, the crowd below:
Nor friends their friends, nor sires their sons could know;
Nor limbs, nor bones, nor carcass would remain;
But a mash'd heap, a hotchpotch of the slain.
One vast destruction; not the soul alone,
But bodies like the soul, invisibly, are flown.
Meantime, unknowing of their fellows' fate,
The servants wash the platter, scour the plate,
Then blow the fire with puffing cheeks, and lay
The rubbers, and the bathing-sheets display:
And oil them first; and each is handy in his way.
But he for whom this busy care they take,
Poor ghost, is wandering by the Stygian lake
Affrighted with the ferryman’s grim face;
New to the horrors of that uncouth place;
His passage begs with unregarded prayer:
And wants two farthings to discharge his fare.
      Return we to the dangers of the night:
And first behold our houses' dreadful height;
From whence come broken potsherds tumbling down;
And leaky ware from garret windows thrown:
Well may they break our heads, that mark the flinty stone:
'Tis want of sense to sup abroad too late;
Unless thou first hast settled thy estate.
As many fates attend thy steps to meet
As there are waking windows in the street.
Bless the good gods, and think thy chance is rare
To have a pisspot only for thy share.
The scouring drunkard, if he does not fight
Before his bedtime, takes no rest that night.
Passing the tedious hours in greater pain
Than stern Achilles, when his friend was slain:
'Tis so ridiculous, but so true withal,
A bully cannot sleep without a brawl:
Yet though his youthful blood be fired with wine,
He wants not wit the danger to decline:
Is cautious to avoid the coach and six,
And on the lackeys will no quarrel fix.
His train of flambeaux, and embroider'd coat,
May privilege my lord to walk secure on foot:
But me, who must by moonlight homeward bend,
Or lighted only with a candle's end,
Poor me he fights, if that be fighting, where
He only cudgels, and I only bear.
He stands, and bids me stand: I must abide;
For he's the stronger, and is drunk beside.
      ‘Where did you whet your knife to-night (he cries),
And shred the leeks that in your stomach rise?
Whose windy beans have stuff'd your guts, and where
Have your black thumbs been dipp'd in vinegar?
With what companion cobbler have you fed,
On old ox-cheeks, or he goat's tougher head?
What, are you dumb? quick, with your answer, quick;
Before my foot salutes you with a kick.
Say, in what nasty cellar under ground,
Or what church-porch, your rogueship may be found?'
Answer, or answer not, 'tis all the same:
He lays me on, and makes me bear the blame.
Before the bar, for beating him, you come;
This is a poor man's liberty in Rome.
You beg his pardon; happy to retreat
With some remaining teeth to chew your meat.
      Nor is this all: for, when retired, you think
To sleep securely; when the candles wink,
When every door with iron chains is barr'd,
And roaring taverns are no longer heard;
The ruffian robbers, by no justice awed,
And unpaid cut-throat soldiers, are abroad.
Those venal souls, who, hardened in each ill,
To save complaints and prosecution, kill:
Chased from their woods and bogs, the padders come
To this vast city, as their native home;
To live at ease, and safely skulk in Rome.
      The forge in fetters only is employ'd;
Our iron mines exhausted and destroy'd
In shackles; for these villains scarce allow
Goads for the teams, and ploughshares for the plough.
Oh! happy ages of our ancestors,
Beneath the kings and tribunitial powers!
One gaol did all their criminals restrain;
Which now the walls of Rome can scarce contain.
      More I could say, more causes I could show
For my departure; but the sun is low:
The wagoner grows weary of my stay;
And whips his horses forwards on their way.
Farewell! and when like me o'er whelm'd with care,
You to your own Aquinum shall repair,
To take a mouthful of sweet country air,
Be mindful of your friend; and send me word
What joys your fountains and cool shades afford:
Then to assist your satires I will come,
And add new venom when you write of Rome.
 

What’s the advantage, or the real good,
In tracing from the source our ancient blood?
To have our ancestors in paint or stone,
Preserved as relics, or like monsters shown?
The brave Aemilii, as in triumph placed,
The virtuous Curii, half by time defaced;
Corvinus, with a mouldering nose, that bears
Injurious scars, the sad effects of years;
And Galba, grinning, without nose or ears?
       Vain are their hopes who fancy to inherit,
By trees of pedigrees, or fame or merit;
Through plodding heralds through each branch may trace
Old captains, and dictators of their race,
While their ill lives that family belie,
And grieve the brass which stands dishonour'd by.
'Tis mere burlesque, that to our generals' praise,
Their progeny immortal statues raise;
Yet (far from that old gallantry) delight
To game before their images all night,
And steal to bed at the approach of day,
The hour when these their ensigns did display.
      Why should soft Fabius impudently bear
Names gain’d by conquests in the Gallic war?
Why lays he claim to Hercules’ strain,
Yet dares be base, effeminate, and vain?
The glorious altar to that hero built
Adds but a greater lustre to his guilt
Whose tender limbs and polish’d skin disgrace
The grisly beauty of his manly race;
And who, by practicing the dismal skill
Of poisoning, and such treacherous ways to kill,
Makes his unhappy kindred marble sweat,
When his degenerate head by theirs is set.
      Long galleries of ancestors, and all
The follies which ill grace a country hall,
Challenge no wonder or esteem from me;
‘Virtue alone is true nobility.’
Live therefore well: to men and gods appear
Such as good Paulus, Cossus, Drusus, were;
And in thy consular triumphal show,
Let these before thy father's statues go:
Place them before the ensigns of the state,
As choosing rather to be good than great.
Convince the world that you're devout and true,
Be just in all you say, and all you do;
Whatever be your birth, you're sure to be
A peer of the first magnitude to me:
Rome for your sake shall push her conquests on,
And bring new titles home from nations won,
To dignify so eminent a son.
With your bless'd name shall every region sound,
Loud as mad Egypt, when her priests have found
A new Osiris, for the ox they drown'd.
      But who will call those noble who deface,
By meaner acts, the glories of their race?
Whose only title to our fathers' fame
Is couch'd in the dead letters of their name?
A dwarf as well may for a giant pass;
A negro for a swan; a crook-back’d lass
Be call'd Europa; and a cur may bear
The name of tiger, lion, or whatever
Denotes the noblest or the fiercest beast:
Be therefore careful, lest the world in jest
Should thee just so with the mock-titles greet,
Of Camerinus, or of conquer’d Crete.
‘To whom is this advice and censure due?’
Rubellius Plancus, 'tis applied to you:
Who think your person second to divine,
Because descended from the Drusian line;
Though yet you no illustrious act have done,
To make the world distinguish Julia's son
From the vile offspring of a trull, who sits
By the town wall, and for her living knits.
‘You are poor rogues (you cry), the baser scum
And inconsiderable dregs of Rome;
Who know not from what corner of the earth
The obscure wretch who got you stole his birth:
Mine I derive from Cecrops.’--May your grace
Live and enjoy the splendour of your race.
Yet of these base plebeians we have known
Some, who, by charming eloquence, have grown
Great senators, and honours to that gown:
Some at the bar with subtilty defend
The cause of an unlearned noble friend;
Or on the bench the knotty laws untie;
Others their stronger youth to arms apply,
Go to Euphrates, or those forces join
Which garrison the conquests near the Rhine.
While you, Rubellius, on your birth rely;
Though you resemble your great family
No more than those rough statues on the road
(Which we call Mercuries) are like that god:
Your blockhead though excels in this alone,
You are a living statue--that of stone.
      Great son of Troy! who ever praised a beast
For being of a race above the rest,
But rather meant his courage and his force?
To give an instance: we commend a horse
(Without regard of pasture or of breed)
For his undaunted mettle and his speed;
Who wins most plates with greatest ease, and first
Prints with his hoofs his conquest on the dust.
But if fleet Dragon's progeny at last
Proves jaded, and in frequent matches cast,
No favour for the stallion we retain,
And no respect for the degenerate strain;
The worthless brute is from Newmarket brought,
And at an underrate in Smithfield brought,
To turn a mill, or drag a loaded life,
Beneath two panniers and a baker's wife.
      That we may therefore you, not yours, admire;
First, sir, some honour of your own acquire;
Add to that stock which justly we bestow
Oil those bless'd shades to whom you all things owe.
      This may suffice the haughty youth to shame,
Whose swelling veins (if we may credit Fame)
Burst  almost with the vanity and pride,
That their rich blood to Nero's is allied:
The rumour's likely; for ‘We seldom find
Much sense with an exalted fortune join’d.’
      But, Ponticus, I would not you should raise
Your credit by hereditary praise;
Let your own acts immortalize your name;
‘ 'Tis poor relying on another's fame;’
For take the pillars but away, and all
The superstructure must in ruins fall;
As a vine droops, when by divorce removed
From the embraces of the elm she loved.
      Be a good soldier, or upright trustee,
An arbitrator from corruption free;
And if a witness in a doubtful cause,
Where a bribed judge means to elude the laws,
Though Phalaris’ brazen bull were there,
And he would dictate what he'd have you swear,
Be not so profligate, but rather choose
To guard your honour, and your life to lose,
Rather than let your virtue be betray'd;
Virtue, the noblest cause for which you're made.
       Improperly we measure life by breath,
Such do  not  truly live who merit death;
Though they their wanton senses nicely please
With all the charms of luxury and ease;
Though mingled flowers adorn their careless brow,
And round them costly sweets neglected flow,
As if they in their funeral state were laid;
And to the world, as they're to virtue, dead.
When you the province you expect obtain,
From passion and from avarice refrain;
Let our associates’ poverty provoke
Thy generous heart not to increase their yoke,
Since riches cannot rescue from the grave,
Which claims alike the monarch and the slave.
      To what the laws enjoin submission pay;
And what the senate shall command obey;
Think what rewards upon the good attend,
And how those fall unpitied who offend:
Tutor and Capito may warnings be,
Who felt the thunder of the state's decree,
For robbing the Cilicians, though they
(Like lesser pikes) only subsist on prey.
But what avails the rigour of their doom,
Which cannot future violence o'ercome,
Nor give the miserable province ease?
Since what one plunderer left, the next will seize.
      Cherippus then in time yourself bethink,
And what your rags will yield by auction, sink;
Ne'er put yourself to charges to complain
Of wrongs which heretofore you did sustain;
Make not a voyage to detect the theft;
'Tis mad to lavish what their rapine left.
      When Rome at first our rich allies subdued,
From gentle taxes noble spoils accrued;
Each wealthy province, but in part oppress'd,
Thought the loss trivial, and enjoy'd the rest.
All treasuries did then with heaps abound;
In every wardrobe costly silks were found;
The least apartment of the meanest house
Could all the wealthy pride of art produce;
Pictures which from Parrhasius did receive
Motion and warmth; and statues taught to live;
Some Polyclete's, some Myron's work declared;
In others Phidias’ masterpiece appear'd;
And crowding plate did on the cupboard stand,
Emboss'd by curious Mentor’s artful hand.
Prizes like these oppressors might invite,
These Dolabella’s rapine did excite,
These Anthony for his own theft thought fit,
Verres for these did sacrilege commit;
And when their reigns were ended, ships full fraught
The hidden fruits of their exaction brought,
Which made in peace a treasure richer far
Than what is plunder’d in the rage of war.
      This was of old: but our confederates now
Have nothing left but oxen for the plough,
Or some few mares reserved alone for breed:
Yet lest this provident design succeed,
They drive the father of the herd away,
Making both stallion and his pasture prey.
Their rapine is so abject and profane,
They nor from trifles, nor from gods refrain;
But the poor Lares from the niches seize,
If they be little images that please.
Such are the spoils which now provoke their theft,
And are the greatest; nay, they're all that’s left.
      Thus may you Corinth, or weak Rhodes, oppress,
Who dare not bravely what they feel redress
(For how can fops thy tyranny control,
Smooth limbs are symptoms of a servile soul):
But trespass not too far oft on sturdy Spain,
Sclavonia, France ; thy gripes from those restrain,
Who with their sweat Rome’s luxury maintain,
And send us plenty, while our wanton day
Is lavish'd at the Circus, or the play.
For should you to extortion be inclined,
Your cruel guilt will little booty find,
Since gleaning Marius has already seized
All that from that sunburnt Afric can be squeezed.
      But above all,  ‘Be careful to withold
Your talons from the wretched and the bold;
Tempt not the brave and needy to despair;
For, though your violence should leave them bare
Of gold and silver, swords and darts remain,
And will revenge the wrongs which they sustain:
The plunder'd still have arms.--
      Think not the precept I have here laid down
A fond uncertain notion of try own;
No, ‘tis a Sibyl's leaf what I relate,
As fix’d and sure as the decrees of fate.
      Let none but men of honour you attend,
Choose him that has most virtue for your friend;
And give no way to any darling youth
To sell your favour, and pervert the truth.
Reclaim you wife from strolling up and down,
To all assizes, and through every town,
With claws like harpies, eager for the prey
(For which your justice and your fame will pay).
Keep yourself free from scandals such as these;
Then trace your birth from Picus, if you please.
If he's too modern, and your pride aspire
To seek the author of your being higher,
Choose any Titan who the gods withstood,
To be the founder of your ancient blood,
Prometheus, and that race before the flood;
Or any other story you can find
From heralds, or in poets, to your mind.
      But should you prove ambitious, lustful, vain;
Or could you see, with pleasure and disdain,
Rods broke on our associates' bleeding backs,
And headsmen labouring till they blunt their axe;
Your father's glory will your sin proclaim,
And to a clearer light expose your shame;
For, still more public scandal vice extends,
As he is great and noble who offends.
      How dare you then your high extraction plead?
Yet blush not when you go to forge a deed,
In the same temple which your grandsire built;
Making his statue privy to the guilt.
Or in a bawdy masquerade are led,
Muffled by night, to some polluted bed.
Fat Lateranus does his revels keep,
Where his forefathers' peaceful ashes sleep;
Driving himself a chariot down the hill,
And (though a consul) links himself the wheel:
To do him justice, 'tis indeed by night,
Yet the moon sees, and every smaller light
Pries as a witness of the shameful sight.
Nay, when his year of honour's ended, soon
He'll leave that nicety, and mount at noon:
Nor blush should he some grave acquaintance meet,
But (proud of being known) will jerk and greet:
And when his fellow beasts are weary grown,
He'll play the groom, give oats, and rub them down.
If after Numa's ceremonial way
He at Jove's altar would a victim slay,
To no clean goddess he directs his prayers,
But by Hippona most devoutly swears;
Or some rank deity, whose filthy face
We suitably o'er stinking stables place.
      When he has run his length, and does begin
To steer his course directly for the inn
(Where they might have watch’d, expecting him all night),
A greasy Syrian, ere he can alight,
Presents him essence; while his courteous host
(Well knowing nothing by good breeding's lost)
Tags every sentence with some fawning word,
Such as, ‘My king, my prince,’ at least ‘My lord;’
And a tight maid, ere he for wine can ask,
Guesses his meaning, and unoils the flask.
      Some (friends to vice) industriously defend
These innocent diversions, and pretend
That I the tricks of youth too roughly blame,
Alleging that when young we did the same.
I grant we did; yet when that age was pass'd,
The frolic humour did no longer last;
We did not cherish and indulge the crime:
What's foul in acting should be left in time.
‘Tis true, some faults, of course, with childhood end;
We therefore wink at wags when they offend,
And spare the boy, in hopes the man may mend.
      But Lateranus (now his vigorous age
Should prompt him for his country to engage,
The circuit, of our empire to extend,
And all our lives, in Caesar’s, to defend),
Mature in riots, places his delight
All day in plying bumpers, and at night
Reels to the bawds, over whose doors are set
Pictures and bills with ‘Here are whores to let.’
Should any desperate unexpected fate
Summon all heads and hands to guard the state,
Caesar, send quickly to secure the port;
‘But where's the general? Where does he resort?’
Send to the sutler's; there you're sure to find
The bully match'd with rascals of his kind,
Quacks, coffin makers, fugitives, and sailors;
Rooks, common soldiers, hangmen, thieves, and tailors;
With Cybele's priests, who, wearied with processions,
Drink there, and sleep with knaves of all professions,
A friendly gang!  each equal to the best;
And all, who can, have liberty to jest:
One flaggon walks the round (that none should think
They either change, or stint him of his drink),
And lest exceptions may for place be found,
Their stools are all alike, their table round.
      What think you, Ponticus, yourself might do,
Should any slave, so lewd, belong to you?
No doubt, you'd send the rogue in fetters bound
To work in Bridewell, or to plough your ground:
But, nobles, you who trace your birth from Troy,
Think, you the great prerogative enjoy
Of doing ill, by virtue of that race;
As if what we esteem in cobblers base
Would the high family of Brutus grace.
      Shameful are these examples; yet we find
(To Rome's disgrace) far worse than these behind:
Poor Damasippus, whom we once have known
Fluttering with coach and six about the town,
Is forced to make the stage his last retreat,
And pawns, his voice, the all he has, for meat:
For now he must (since his estate is lost)
Or represent, or be himself, a ghost:
And Lentulus acts hanging with such art,
Were I a judge, he should not feign the part.
Nor would I their vile insolence acquit,
Who can with patience, nay diversion, sit,
Applauding my lord's buffoonery for wit.
And clapping farces acted by the court,
While the peers cuff, to make the rabble sport:
Or hirelings, at a prize, their fortunes try;
Certain to fall unpitied if they die;
Since none can have the favourable thought,
That to obey a tyrant's will they fought,
But that their lives they willingly expose,
Brought by the praetors to adorn their shows.
       Yet say the stage and lists were both in sight,
And you must either choose to act or fight;
Death never sure bears such a ghastly shape,
That a rank coward basely would escape
By playing a foul harlot's jealous tool,
Or a feign'd Andrew to a real fool.
Yet a peer actor is no monstrous thing,
Since Rome has own'd a fiddler for a king:
After such pranks, the world itself at best
May be imagined nothing but a jest.
      Go to the lists where feats of arms are shown,
There you'll find Gracchus, (from Patrician grown)
A fencer, and the scandal of the town.
Nor will he the Mirmillo's weapons bear,
The modest helmet he disdains to wear;
As Retiarius he attacks his foe:
First waves his trident ready for the throw,
Next casts his net, but neither level'd right,
He stares about, exposed to public sight,
Then places all his safety in his flight.
‘Room for the noble gladiator! See,
His coat and hatband show his quality:’--
Thus when at last the brave Mirmillo knew
'Twas Gracchus was the wretch he did pursue,
To conquer such a coward grieved him more
Than if he many glorious wounds had bore.
      Had we the freedom to express our mind,
There's not a wretch so much to vice inclined,
But will own Seneca did far excel
His pupil, by whose tyranny he fell:
To expiate whose complicated guilt,
With some proportion to the blood he spilt,
Rome should more serpents, apes, and sacks provide
Than one, for the compendious parricide.
'Tis true Orestes a like crime did act;
Yet weigh the cause, there's difference in the fact:
He slew his mother at the gods' command
They bid him strike, and did direct his hand
To punish falsehood, and appease the ghost
Of his poor father treacherously lost,
Just in the minute when the flowing bowl
With a full tide enlarged his cheerful soul.
Yet kill'd he not his sister, or his wife,
Nor aim'd at any near relation's life:
Orestes, in the heat of all his rage,
Ne’er play'd or sung upon a public stage;
Never on verse did his wild thoughts employ,
To paint the horrid scene of burning Troy,
Like Nero, who to raise his fancy higher,
And finish the great work, set Rome on fire.
Such crimes make treason just, and might compel
Virginius, Vindex, Galba, to rebel:
For what could Nero's self have acted worse
To aggravate the wretched nation’s curse?
      These are the bless'd endowments, studies, arts,
Which exercise our mighty emperor's parts:
Such frolics with his roving genius suit,
On foreign theaters to prostitute
His voice and honour, for the poor renown
Of putting all the Grecian actors down,
And winning at a wake their parsley-crown.
Let this triumphal chaplet find some place
Among the other trophies of thy race;
By thee Domitii's statues shall be laid,
The habit and the mask in which you play'd
Antigone’s or bold Thyestes' part,
(While your wild nature little wanted art);
And on the marble pillar shall be hung
The lute to which the royal madman sung.
      Who, Catiline, can boast a nobler line
Than thy lewd friend Cethegus's and thine?
Yet you took arms, and did by night conspire
To set our houses and our gods, on fire
(An enterprise which might indeed become
Our enemies the Gauls, not sons of Rome;
To recompense whose barbarous intent,
Pitch'd shirts would be too mild a punishment)
But Cicero, our wise consul, watch'd the blow,
With care discover'd, and disarm'd the foe:
Cicero, the humble mushroom, scarcely known,
The lowly native of a country town
(Who, till of late, could never reach the height
Of being honour’d as a Roman knight),
Throughout the trembling city placed a guard,
Dealing an equal share to every ward;
And by the peaceful robe got more renown
Within our walls than young Octavius won
By victories at Actium, or the plain
Of Thessaly, discolour’d by the slain:
Him, therefore, Rome in gratitude decreed
The father of his country, which he freed.
      Marius (another consul we admire),
In the same village born, first plough’d for hire;
His next advance was to the soldier’s trade,
Where, if he did not nimbly ply the spade,
His surly officer ne’er fail’d to crack
His knotty cudgel on his tougher back.
Yet he alone secured the tottering state,
Withstood the Cimbrians, and redeem’d our fate:
So when the eagles to their quarry flew
(Who never such a goodly banquet knew),
Only a second laurel did adorn
His colleague Catulus, though nobly born;
He shared the pride of the triumphal bay,
But Marius won the glory of the day.
      From a mean stock the pious Decii came;
Small their estates, and vulgar was their name:
Yet such their virtues, that their loss alone
For Rome and all our legions did atone;
Their country’s doom they by their own retrieved;
Themselves more worth than all the host they saved.
The last good king who willing Rome obey’d,
Was the poor offspring of a captive maid;
Yet he those robes of empire justly bore
Which Romulus, our sacred founder, wore:
Nicely he gain’d, and well possess’d the throne,
Nor for his father’s merit, but his own;
And reign’d, himself a family alone.
      When Tarquin, his proud successor, was quell’d,
And with him lust and tyranny expell’d;
The consul’s sons (who for their country’s good,
And to enhance the honour of their blood,
Should have asserted what their father won;
And, to confirm that liberty, have done
Actions, which Cocles might have wish’d his own;
What might to Mutius wonderful appear:
And what bold Clelia might with envy hear)
Open’d the gates, endeavouring to restore
Their banish’d king, and arbitrary power:
Whilst a poor slave, with scarce a name, betray’d
The horrid ills these well born rogues had laid;
Who, therefore, for their treason justly bore
The rods and axe, ne’er used in Rome before.
      If you have strength Achilles’ arms to bear,
And courage to sustain a ten years’ war;
Though foul Thersites got thee, thou shalt be
More loved by all, and more esteem’d by me,
Than if by chance you from some hero came,
In nothing like your father but his name.
      Boast then your blood, and your long lineage stretch
As high as Rome, and its great founders reach:
You’ll find, in these hereditary tales,
Your ancestors the scum of broken gaols;
And Romulus, your honour’s ancient source,
But a poor shepherd’s boy, or something worse.

Satire 9
 

Tell me, why, sauntering thus from place to place,
I meet thee (Nevolus) with a clouded face?
What human ills can urge to this degree?
Not vanquish’d Marsyas' had a brow like thee;
Nor Ravola so sneak'd and hung his head,
Catch'd with that lewd bawd, Rhodope, in bed:
Our grand beau Pollio seem'd not half so sad
When not a drachma could in Rome be had:
When treble use he proffer'd for a friend,
And tempting bribes did to the scriveners send;
Yet none he found so much a fool to lend.
Hard fate! untroll'd is now the charming dye,
The playhouse and the parks unvisited must lie;
The beauteous nymph in vain he does adore,
And his gilt chariot wheels must roll no more.
      But why these frightful wrinkles in thy prime?
That show old age so long before the time:
At lowest ebb of fortune when you lay,
(Contented then) how merry was the day.
But, oh! the curse of wishing to be great!
Dazzled with hope we cannot see the cheat;
Where wild ambition in the heart we find,
Farewell content and quiet of the mind.
For glittering clouds we leave the solid shore.
And wonted happiness returns no more.
Till such aspiring thoughts had fill'd thy breast,
No man so pleasant, such a cheerful guest;
So brisk, so gay, of that engaging air,
No mirth was crown'd till Nevolus was there:
The scene's now changed, that frolic genius fled,
And gloomy thought seems enter'd in its stead;
Thy clothes worn out, not hands nor linen clean,
And thy bare skin through the large rents is seen;
Thy locks uncomb'd, like a rough wood appear.
And every part seems suited to thy care.
Where's now that labour'd niceness in thy dress,
And all those arts that did the spark express ?
A look so pale no quartan ever gave,
Thy dwindled legs seem crawling to a grave:
When we are touch'd with some important ill,
How vainly silence would our grief conceal!
Sorrow nor joy can be disguised by art,
Our foreheads blab the secrets of our heart;
By which (alas!) 'tis evident and plain
Thy hopes are dash'd, and thy endeavours, vain.
And yet ’tis strange! But late thou wert known
For the most envied stallion of the town.
What conscious shrine, what cell by thee unsought,
Where love's dark pleasures might be sold and bought?
From human view you hid these deeds of lust,
But gods in brass and marble you could trust:
Ceres herself not scaped; for where can be
From bawds and prostitutes an altar free?
Nor didst thou only for the females burn,
The husband and the wife succeeded in their turn.
[Nev.] This life I own to some has prosperous been;
But I have no such golden minutes seen:
Right have you hit the cause of my distress,
None has earn'd more, and been rewarded less;
All I can gain is but a threadbare coat,
And that with utmost pains and drudging got:
Some single money too, but that, alas!
Broken and counterfeit, will hardly pass.
Whilst others, pamper'd in their shameless pride,
Are served in plate, and in their chariots ride:
Tell me what mortal call his grief contain,
That has, like me, such reason to complain?
On fate alone man's happiness depends,
To parts conceal’d fate's prying power extends;
And if our stars of their kind influence fail,
The gifts of nature, what will they avail ?
The gifts of nature ! Curse upon the thought,
By that alone I am to ruin brought.
Old Virro did the fatal secret hear
(But curse on fame that bore it to his ear).
What soft address his wooing did begin!
What oaths, what promises to draw me in!
Scarce could they fail to make a virgin sin.
Who would not then swear Nevolus had sped,
And golden showers were dropping on his head?
But oh! this wretch, this prodigy behold!
A slave at once to lechery and gold!
For in the act of his lewd brutal joy,
‘Sirrah! my rogue, (he cries) mine own dear boy!
My lad, my life! already ask for more?
I paid last bout, and you must quit the score.’
Poor five sestertia have been all my gains,
And what is that for such detested pains?
What is an ease and pleasure, couldst thou say
(Where nature's law forbids) to force my way
To the digested meals of yesterday?
The slave more toil'd and harass'd will be found,
Who digs his master's buttocks, than his ground:
But sure old Virro thinks himself a boy,
Whom Jove once more might languish to enjoy;
Sees not his wither'd face and grizzly hair,
But would be thought smooth, charming, soft, and fair ;
With female pride would have his love be sought,
And every smile with a rich present bought.
Say, goat, for whom this mass of wealth you heap?
For whom thy hoarded bag, in silence sleep ?
Apulian farms, for the rich soil admired?
And thy large fields where falcons may be tired?
Thy fruitful vineyards on Campanian hills?
(Though none drink less, yet none more vessels fills)
From such a store 'tis barbarous to grudge
A small relief to your exhausted drudge,
Weigh well the matter, were’t not fitter much,
The poor inhabitants of yonder thatch
Call'd me their lord (who to extremes am driven)
Than to some worthless sycophant be given?
(Yet what smooth sycophant by thee can gain,
When lust itself strikes thy flint heart in vain?)
A beggar! Fie! 'tis impudence, he cried;
And such mean shifting answers still replied:
But rent unpaid says, beg till Virro grant;
(How ill does modesty consist with want!)
My single boy (like Polyphemus' eye)
Mourns his harsh fate, and weeps for a supply.
One will not do, hard labour’d and hard fed,
How then shall hungry two expect their bread?
What shall I say, when rough December storms?
When frosts and snow have cramp’d their naked arms?
What comforts without money can I bring?
Will they be satisfied to think on spring?
      These motives urged to his obdurate mind,
Is casting water to the adverse wind:
But one thing yet, base wretch, I must impart,
Thyself shalt own, ungrateful as thou art.
At your entreaties, had not I obey'd,
Still your deluded wife had been a maid:
Down on the bridal bed a maid she lay,
A maid she rose at the approaching day.
Another night thy lumpish love she tried,
But still she rose a virgin and a bride.
What could have touch'd her more! away she flung,
And every street of thy lost manhood rung.
Her speaking eyes were full of thy disgrace;
And her vex'd thoughts abhorr'd the cold embrace.
Such wrongs what wishing woman could have borne?
In rage the marriage-articles were torn:
Yet when she vow'd to see thy face no more,
And, heartless, thou stood'st whining at the door,
I met the angry fair, all over charms,
And catch'd her flying from thy frozen arms.
Much pains it cost to right the injured dame;
A whole night's vigour to repair thy shame;
Witness yourself, who heard the labouring bed,
And shrieks at the departing maidenhead:
Thus many a spouse, who would her choice recant,
Is kept obedient by a kind gallant.
Now could you shift all this, and pass it o'er,
Yet (monster) I have left one instance more.
Think, if so well her business I have done,
As that night's service may produce a son;
Our Roman laws great privilege afford
To him that stands a father on record:
Thyself, 'tis true, a cuckold thou must own,
But that reproach is in my breast alone;
To me the pleasure be, to thee the fame,
My brat shalt thy abilities proclaim:
And free thee ever  from inglorious shame.
Let circling wreaths adorn thy crowded door,
Matrons and girls shalt hoot at thee no more,
But stories to thy lasting credit raise,
While fumbling fribbles grudge thy borrow'd praise.
[Juv.] True, Nevolus, most aptly you complain;
But though your griefs are just, they are in vain;
Your service past he does with scorn forget.
And seeks some other fool, like thee, to cheat.
[Nev.] Beware, my friend, and what I now reveal
As the great secret of thy life conceal;
A lustful pathic, when he turns a foe,
He gives, like destiny, a wardless blow:
His crimes are such, they will not bear a jest,
And fire and sword pursue the conscious breast.
For sweet revenge no drugs will be too dear;
In lust a miser; but a spendthrift here.
Then slight him not, nor with his scandal sport,
But be as mute as was the Athenian court:
[Juv.] Dull Corydon! Art thou so stupid grown
To think a rich man's faults can be unknown?
Has he not slaves about him? Would not they
Rejoice and laugh, such secrets to betray?
What more effectual to revenge their wrongs
Than the unbounded freedom of their tongues?
Or grant it possible to silence those,
Dumb beasts, and statues would his crimes expose;
Try to imprison the resistless wind,
So swift is guilt, so hard to be confined;
Though crafty tears should cast a veil between,
Yet in the dark his vices would be seen:
And there’s a lust in man no charm can tame,
Of loudly publishing our neighbour’s shame:
On eagle wings immortal scandals fly,
While virtuous actions are but born, and die.
      Let us live well, were it alone for this,--
The baneful tongues of servants to despise.
Slander (the worst of poisons) ever finds
An easy entrance to ignoble minds;
And they, whose vicious lives such abject foes must fear,
More mean and wretched far than their own slaves appear.
[Nev.] Your counsel’s good and useful; ‘tis confess'd;
But (oh) to me it is in vain address’d:
Let the great man, whom gaping crowds attend,
Fear a scourged slave, or a dissembling friend;
No matter what I do, or what I say,
I have no spies about me to betray:
And you advise me now my time is lost,
And all my hopes of prosperous hours are cross’d;
My full-blown youth already trades apace,
(Of our short being ‘tis the shortest space!)
While melting pleasures in our arms are found,
While lovers smile, and while the bowl goes round;
While in surprising joys entranced we lie,
Old age creeps on us ere we think it nigh.
[Juv.] Fear not; thy trade will never find an end;
While yon hills stand thou canst not want a friend:
By land and sea, from every point they come,
Then dread no dearth of prostitutes at Rome.
[Nev.]  Tell this to happier men, for I am sped,
If all my drudging can procure me bread.
      Ye deities ! The substitutes of Heaven!
To whom the guide of human life is given ;
At whose loved altars, with an ample zeal
(Though slender sacrifice), I daily kneel;
His ebbing hours let your poor suppliant see,
From the mean crutch, and a thatch'd cottage, free;
No shameful want, nor troublesome disease,
But easy death approaching by degrees:
Necessity supplied would comfort bring;
Yet constant store would be a glorious thing.
To treat a friend, methinks, I would afford,
While silver bowls stand smiling on my board;
And when the cares of Rome to pleasure yield,
Two Maesian slaves should bear me to the field;
Where, on their brawny shoulders mounted high,
While the brave youth their various manhood try,
I would the thrones of emperors defy.
Superfluous wealth, and pomp, I not desire;
But what content and decency require.
Then might I live by my own surly rules, 
Not forced to worship knaves, nor flatter fools:
And thus, secured of ease by shunning strife,
With pleasure would I sail down the swift stream of life.
      But oh!  ridiculous vain wish, for one
Already lost, and doom'd to be undone.
Alas! what hope remains! for to my prayers
Regardless fortune stops her wounded ears:
As to the Syrens' charms, Ulysses mariners.