THE SECOND SATIRE OF THE SECOND BOOK OF HORACE PRAPRHASED.
By the Author of the
FIRST.
LONDON:
Printed by
J. Wright
for LAWTON GILLIVER at
Homer
's
Head
against St.
Dunstan
's Church in
Fleetstreet,
M.DCC.XXXV. Price 1
s.
THE SECOND SATIRE OF THE SECOND BOOK OF HORACE PARAPHRASED.
SATIRE II.da.
Q UAE virtus & quanta, boni, sit vivere parvo,
(Nec meus hic Sermo, sed quem praecepit Ofellus
Rusticus,
abnormis
sapiens,
crassaueq Minerva)
Discite
non inter lanceis,
mensasque nitenteis,
Cum stupet
insanis acies fulgoribus, &
cum
Acclinis falsis animus meliora recusat;
Verum hic
impransi
mecum disquirite. Cur hoc?
Dicam si potero—
—
Leporem sectatus, equove Lassus—
Cum labor extuderit fastidia, siccus, inanis,
Sperne
cibum vilem.—
Foris est Promus, & atrum
Defendens pisces hyemat mare: cum sale panis
Latrantem stomachum bene leniet: unde? putas, aut
Quo partum? Non in caro nidore voluptas
Summa, sed in
teipso
est ***
Vix tamen eripiam, posito
pavone,
velis quin
Hoc potius quam
gallina,
tergere palatum—
Tanquam ad rem attineat quidquam. Num vesceris ista
Quam laudas, pluma?—
Laudas insane,
trilibrem
Mullum,
in singula quem minuas pulmenta necesse est.
Ducit te species video. Quo pertinet ergo
Proceros
odisse
lupos?
quia scilicet illis
Majorem natura modum dedit, his breve pondus.
Porrectum magno magnum spectare catino
Vellem
(ait
Harpyiis
gula digna rapacibus) at vos
Praesentes Austri! coquite horum opsonia: Quamvis
Putet aper, rhombusque recens, mala copia quando
Aegrum sollicitat stomachum, cum
rapula
plenus
Atque acidas mavult inulus,
Necdum
omnis
abacta
Pauperies
epulis regum: nam
vilibus ovis
Nigrisque est
oleis
hodie locus.—
Tutus erat rhombus, tutoque
ciconia
nido,
Donec vos auctor docuit
Pretorius.
Ergo
Siquis nunc
mergos
suaves edixerit
assos,
Parebit pravi docilis
Romana Juventus.
Sordidus a tenui victus distabit, Ofello
Judice: nam frustra vitium vitaveris istud,
Si te alio pravum detorseris. Avidienus
(Cui
Canis
ex vero ductum cognomen adhaeret)
Quinquennes oleas est, & sylvestria corna.
Ac nisi
mutatum
parcit defundere
vinum,
&
Cujus odorem olei nequeas perferre (licebit
Ille
repotia, natales,
aliosque dierum
Festus
albatus celebret) cornu ipse bilibri
Caulibus
instillat;
veteris non parcus aceti.
Quali igitur victu sapiens utetur, & horum
Utrum imitabitur? hac urget lupus, hac canis, aiunt.
Mundus erit qui non offendat sordibus, atque
In neutram partem cultus miser.
Hic neque
servis
Albuti senis exemplo, dum munia didit,
Saevus
erit: nec sic ut simplex
Naevius,
unctam
Convivis praebebit
aquam:
vitium hoc quoque magnum.
Accipe nunc, victus tenuis quae quantaque secum
Afferat.
In primis valeas bene: nam variae res
Ut noceant homini credas, memor illius escae
Quae simplex
olim
tibi sederat; at simul assis
Miscueris elixa, simul conchylia turdis,
Dulcia se in bilem vertunt, stomachoque tumultum
Lenta feret pituita.
Vides, ut pallidus omnis
Caena desurgat dubia? quin corpus onustum
Hesternis vitiis,
animum
quoque praegravat una,
Atque affigit humo
divinae particulam aurae.
Alter ubi dicto citius curata sopori
Membra dedit, vegetus praescripta ad munia surgit.
Hic tamen ad melius poterit transcurrere quondam:
Sive
diem festum
rediens advexerit annus,
Seu recreare volet
tenuatum corpus:
ubique
Accedent anni, &
tractari mollius
aetas
Imbecilla
volet.
Tibi quidnam accedet ad istam
Quam puer & validus prae-sumis mollitiem, seu
Dura valetudo inciderit, seu tarda senectus?
Rancidum aprum
antiqui laudabant, non quia nasus
Illis nullus erat, sed
(credo)
hac mente, quod hospes
Tardius adveniens, vitiatum commodius, quam
Integrum edax dominus consumeret.
Hos utinam inter
Heroas natum tellus me prima tulisset!
Das aliquid
Famae?
(quae
carmine gratior
aurem
Occupat humanam.) Grandes rhombi, patinaeque
Grande ferent una
cum
damno dedecus.
Adde
Iratum patruum, vicinos, te tibi iniquum,
Et frustra mortis cupidum, cum deerit egenti
As,
laquei
pretium.—
—
Jure, inquis, Thrasius istis
Jurgatur verbis; ego vectigalia magna
Divitiasque habeo tribus amplas regibus.
Ergo
Quod
superat,
non est
melius quo
insumere possis?
Cur eget indignus
quisquam
te divite? quare
Templa
ruunt
antiqua
Deum? cur
improbe!
carae
Non aliquid
patriae
tanto emetiris acervo?
Uni nimirum tibi recte semper erunt res?
O magnus posthac inimicis risus! uter-ne
Ad casus dubios fidet sibi certius? hic, qui
Pluribus assuerit mentem corpusque superbum?
An qui contentus parvo, metuensque futuri,
In pace, ut sapiens, aptarit idonea bello?
Quo magis hoc credas, puer hunc ego parvus
Ofellum
Integris
opibus novi non latius usum,
Quam nunc
accisis.
Videas,
metato
in agello,
Non ego, narrantem, temere edi luce profesta
Quidquam praeter
olus,
fumosae cum pede pernae.
At mihi cum
longum post tempus
venerit hospes,
Sive
operum vacuo,
&c.—bene erit, non
piscibus
urbe petitis,
Sed
pullo
atque
haedo;
tum—
—
pensilis uva
secundas
Et
nux
ornabit mensas, cum
duplice ficu.
Posthac ludus erit
Cuppa potare Magistra,
Ac
venerata Ceres,
ut culmo surgeret alto,
Explicuit vino contractae seria frontis.
Saeviat atque novas moveat Fortuna tumultus!
Quantum hinc imminuit? quanto aut
ego
parcius, aut
vos
O pueri nituistis, ut huc
novus Incola
venit?
Nam
propriae telluris
herum natura neque illum
Nec me, aut quemquam statuit; nos expulit ille,
Illum aut
Nequities,
aut
vafri inscitia juris,
Postremo expellit certe
vivacior haeres,
Nunc ager
Umbreni sub nomine,
nuper
Ofelli
Dictus, erit nulli proprius, sed cedet in usum
Nunc mihi, nunc alii.
Quocirca vivite fortes!
Fortiaque adversis opponite pectora rebus.
SATIRE II.
W HAT, and how great, the Virtue and the Art
To live on little with a chearful heart,
(A Doctrine sage, but truly none of mine)
Lets talk, my friends, but talk
before we dine:
Not when a gilt Buffet's reflected pride
'Turns you from sound Philosophy aside;
Not when from Plate to Plate your eyeballs roll,
And the brain dances to the mantling bowl.
Hear
Bethel
's Sermon, one not vers'd in schools,
But strong in sense, and wise without the rules.
Go work, hunt, exercise! (he thus began)
Then scorn a homely dinner if you can.
Your wine lock'd up, your Butler stroll'd abroad,
Or kept from fish, (the River yet un-thaw'd)
If then plain bread and milk will do the feat,
The pleasure lies in you, not in the meat.
Preach as I please, I doubt our curious men
Will chuse a Pheasant still before a Hen;
Yet Hens of Guinea full as good I hold,
Except you eat the feathers green and gold.
Of Carps and Mullets why prefer the great,
(Tho' cut in pieces e'er my Lord can eat)
Yet for small Turbots such esteem profess?
Because God made these large, the other less.
Oldfield, with more than Harpy throat endu'd,
Cries, "send me, Gods! a whole Hog
A
West-Indian
Term of Gluttony, a Hog roasted whole, stuff'd with Spice, and basted with
Madera
Wine.
barbecu'd!"
Oh blast it,
South-winds! till a stench exhale
Rank as the ripeness of a Rabbit's tail.
By what Criterion do ye eat, d'ye think,
If this is priz'd for sweetness, that for stink?
When the tir'd Glutton labours thro' a Treat,
He'll find no relish in the sweetest Meat,
He calls for something bitter, something sour,
And the rich feast concludes extremely poor:
Cheap eggs, and herbs, and olives still we see,
Thus much is left of old Simplicity!
The
Robin-red-breast
till of late had rest,
And children sacred held a
Martin
's nest,
Till
Becca-ficos
sold so dev'lish dear,
To one that was, or would have been a Peer.
Let me extoll a
Cat
on Oysters fed,
I'll have a Party at the
Bedford Head,
Or ev'n to crack live
Crawfish
recommend,
I'd never doubt at Court to make a friend.
'Tis yet in vain, I own, to keep a pother
About one vice, and fall into the other:
Between Excess and Famine lies a mean,
Plain, but not sordid, tho' not splendid, clean.
Avidien
or his Wife (no matter which,
For him you'll call a
dog, and her a bitch)
Sell their presented Partridges, and Fruits,
And humbly live on rabbits and on roots:
One half-pint bottle serves them both to dine,
And is at once their vinegar and wine.
But on some
lucky day (as when they found
A lost Bank-bill, or heard their Son was drown'd)
At such a feast,
old vinegar to spare,
Is what two souls so gen'rous cannot bear,
Oyl, tho' it stink, they drop by drop impart,
But sowse the Cabbage with a bounteous heart.
He knows to live, who keeps the middle state,
And neither leans on this side, or on that:
Nor
stops, for one bad Cork, his Butler's pay,
Swears, like Albutius, a good Cook away;
Nor lets, like
Naevius, ev'ry error pass,
The musty wine, foul cloth, or greasy glass,
Now hear what blessings Temperance can bring:
(Thus said our Friend, and what he said I sing)
First Health:
The stomach (cramm'd from ev'rydish,
A Tomb of boil'd, and roast, and flesh, and fish,
When Bile, and wind, and phlegm, and acid jar,
And all the Man is one intestine war)
Remembers oft
the School-boys simple fare,
The temp'rate fleeps, and spirits light as air.
How pale, each Worshipful and rev'rend Guest
Rise from a Clergy, or a City, feast!
What life in all that ample Body, say,
What heav'nly Particle inspires the clay?
The Soul subsides, and wickedly inclines
To seem but mortal, ev'n in sound Divines.
On morning wings how active springs the Mind
That leaves the load of yesterday behind?
How easy ev'ry labour it pursues?
How coming to the Poet ev'ry Muse?
Not but we may exceed, some Holy time,
Or tir'd in search of Truth, or search of Rhyme;
Ill Health some just indulgence may engage,
And more, the Sickness of long Life, Old-age;
For fainting Age what cordial drop remains,
If our intemp'rate Youth the Vessel drains?
Our Fathers prais'd rank Ven'son. You suppose
Perhaps, young men! our Fathers had no nose?
Not so: a Buck was then a week's repast,
And 'twas their point, I ween, to make it last:
Better to keep it till their friends could come,
Than eat the sweetest by themselves at home.
Why had not I in those good times my birth,
E're Coxcomb-pyes or Coxcombs were on earth?
Unworthy He, the voice of Fame to hear,
(
That sweetest Musick to an honest ear;
For 'faith Lord Fanny! you are in the wrong,
The World's good word is better than a Song)
Who has not learn'd,
fresh Sturgeon and Ham pye
Are no rewards for Want, and Infamy!
When Luxury has lick'd up all thy pelf,
Curs'd by thy
Neighbours, thy Trustees, thy self,
To friends, to fortune, to mankind a shame,
Think how Posterity will treat thy name;
And
buy a Rope, that future times may tell
Thou hast at least bestow'd one penny well.
"Right, cries his Lordship, for a Rogue in need
"To have a Taste, is Insolence indeed:
"In me 'tis noble, suits my birth and state,
"My wealth unwieldy, and my heap too great."
Then, like the Sun, let
Bounty spread her ray,
And shine that Superfluity away.
Oh Impudence of wealth! with all thy store,
How dar'st thou let one worthy man be poor?
Shall half the
new-built Churches round thee fall?
Make Keys, build Bridges, or repair White-hall:
Or to thy Country let that heap be lent,
As M ** o's was, but not at five
per Cent.
Who thinks that Fortune cannot change her mind,
Prepares a dreadful Jest for all mankind!
And
who stands safest, tell me? is it he
That spreads and swells in puff'd Prosperity,
Or blest with little, whose preventing care
In Peace provides fit arms against a War?
Thus Bethel spoke, who always speaks his thought,
And always thinks the very thing he ought:
His equal mind I copy what I can,
And as I love, would imitate the Man.
In
South-sea
days not happier, when surmis'd
The Lord of thousands, than ev'n now
Excis'd;
In Forests planted by a Father's hand,
Than in five acres now of rented land.
Content with little, I can piddle here
On
Broccoli and mutton, round the year;
But
ancient friends, (tho' poor, or out of play)
That touch my Bell, I cannot turn away.
'Tis true, no
Turbots dignify my boards,
But gudgeons, flounders, what my Thames affords:
To Hounslow-heath I point, and Bansted-down,
Thence comes your mutton, and these chicks my own:
From yon old wallnut-tree a show'r shall fall;
And grapes, long-lingring on my only wall,
And figs, from standard and Espalier join:
The dev'l is in you if you cannot dine.
Then
chearful healths (your Mistress shall have place.
And, what's more rare, a Poet shall say
Grace.
Fortune not much of humbling me can boast;
Tho' double-tax'd, how little have I lost?
My Life's amusements have been just the same,
Before, and after
Standing Armies came.
My lands are sold, my Father's house is gone;
I'll hire another's: is not that my own,
And yours, my friends? thro' whose free-opening gate
None comes too early, none departs too late;
(For I, who hold sage Homer's rule the best,
Welcome the coming, speed the going guest.)
"Pray heav'n it last! (cries Swift) as you go on;
"I wish to God this house had been your own:
"Pity! to build, without a son or wife:
"Why, you'll enjoy it only all your life."—
Well, if the Use be mine, can it concern one,
Whether the Name belong to Pope or Vernon?
What's
Property?
dear Swift! you see it alter
From you to me, from me to
Peter Walter,
Or, in a mortgage, prove the Lawyer's share,
Or, in a jointure, vanish from the Heir,
Or in pure
Equity (the case not clear)
The Chanc'ry takes your rents for twenty year:
At best, it falls to some
ungracious son,
That cries, my father's damn'd, and all's my own.
Shades, that to Ba ** n could retreat afford,
Are now the portion of a booby Lord;
And Hemsley, once proud
Villers Duke of Buckingham.
Buckingham's delight,
Slides to a Scriv'ner or a City Knight.
Let lands and houses have what Lords they will,
Let Us be fix'd, and our own Masters still