No More Learning

"
Dangerous to meet while in these frantic airs, 600
And terrible to look at, she prepares
To bathe at night; she issues her commands,
And in long ranks forth poor the obedient bands,
With tubs, cloths, oils:--for 'tis her dear delight
To sweat in clamor, tumult, and affright. 605
When her tired arms refuse the balls to ply,
And the lewd bath-keeper has rubbed her dry,
She calls to mind each miserable guest,
Long since with hunger, and with sleep oppress'd,
And hurries home; all glowing, all athirst, 610
For wine, whole flasks of wine! and swallows, first,
Two quarts, to clear her stomach, and excite
A ravenous, an unbounded appetite!
Huisch! up it comes, good heavens! meat, drink, and all,
And flows in purple torrents round the hall; 615
Or a gilt ewer receives the foul contents,
And poisons all the house with vinous scents.
So, dropp'd into a vat, a snake is said
To drink and spew:--the husband turns his head,
Sick to the soul, from this disgusting scene, 620
And struggles to suppress his rising spleen.
But she is more intolerable yet,
Who plays the critic when at table set;
Calls Virgil charming, and attempts to prove
Poor Dido right, in venturing all for love. 625
From Maro, and Mæonides, she quotes
The striking passages, and, while she notes
Their beauties and defects, adjusts her scales,
And accurately weighs which bard prevails.
The astonished guests sit mute: grammarians yield, 630
Loud rhetoricians, baffled, quit the field;
Even auctioneers and lawyers stand aghast,
And not a woman speaks! --So thick, and fast,
The wordy shower descends, that you would swear
A thousand bells were jangling in your ear, 635
A thousand basins clattering. Vex no more
Your trumpets and your timbrels, as of yore,
To ease the laboring moon; her single yell
Can drown their clangor, and dissolve the spell.
She lectures too in Ethics, and declaims 640
On the CHIEF GOOD! --but, surely, she who aims
To seem too learn'd, should take the male array;
A hog, due offering, to Sylvanus slay,
And, with the Stoic's privilege, repair
To farthing baths, and strip in public there! 645
Oh, never may the partner of my bed
With subtleties of logic stuff her head;
Nor whirl her rapid syllogisms around,
Nor with imperfect enthymemes confound!
Enough for me, if common things she know, 650
And boast the little learning schools bestow.
I hate the female pedagogue, who pores
O'er her Palæmon hourly; who explores
All modes of speech, regardless of the sense,
But tremblingly alive to mood and tense: 655
Who puzzles me with many an uncouth phrase,
From some old canticle of Numa's days;
Corrects her country friends, and can not hear
Her husband solecize without a sneer!
A woman stops at nothing, when she wears 660
Rich emeralds round her neck, and in her ears
Pearls of enormous size; these justify
Her faults, and make all lawful in her eye.
Sure, of all ills with which mankind are curs'd,
A wife who brings you money is the worst. 665
Behold! her face a spectacle appears,
Bloated, and foul, and plastered to the ears
With viscous paste:--the husband looks askew,
And sticks his lips in this detested glue.
She meets the adulterer bathed, perfumed, and dress'd, 670
But rots in filth at home, a very pest!
For him she breathes of nard; for him alone
She makes the sweets of Araby her own;
For him, at length, she ventures to uncase,
Scales the first layer of roughcast from her face, 675
And, while the maids to know her now begin,
Clears, with that precious milk, her frouzy skin,
For which, though exiled to the frozen main,
She'd lead a drove of asses in her train!
But tell me yet; this thing, thus daubed and oiled, 680
Thus poulticed, plastered, baked by turns and boiled,
Thus with pomatums, ointments, lackered o'er,
Is it a FACE, Ursidius, or a SORE?
'Tis worth a little labor to survey
Our wives more near and trace 'em through the day. 685
If, dreadful to relate! the night foregone,
The husband turned his back, or lay alone,
All, all is lost; the housekeeper is stripped,
The tiremaid chidden, and the chairman whipped:
Rods, cords, and thongs avenge the master's sleep, 690
And force the guiltless house to wake and weep.
There are, who hire a beadle by the year,
To lash their servants round; who, pleased to hear
The eternal thong, bid him lay on, while they,
At perfect ease, the silkman's stores survey, 695
Chat with their female gossips, or replace
The cracked enamel on their treacherous face.
No respite yet:--they leisurely hum o'er
The countless _items_ of the day before,
And bid him still lay on; till, faint with toil, 700
He drops the scourge; when, with a rancorous smile,
"Begone! " they thunder in a horrid tone,
"Now your accounts are settled, rogues, begone! "
But should she wish with nicer care to dress,
And now the hour of assignation press 705
(Whether the adulterer for her coming wait
In Isis' fane, to bawdry consecrate,
Or in Lucullus' walks), the house appears
A true Sicilian court, all gloom and tears.
The wretched Psecas, for the whip prepared, 710
With locks disheveled, and with shoulders bared,
Attempts her hair: fire flashes from her eyes,
And, "Strumpet! why this curl so high? " she cries.
Instant the lash, without remorse, is plied,
And the blood stains her bosom, back, and side. 715
But why this fury? --Is the girl to blame,
If your air shocks you, or your features shame?
Another, trembling, on the left prepares
To open and arrange the straggling hairs
In ringlets trim: meanwhile, the council meet: 720
And first the nurse, a personage discreet,
Late from the toilet to the wheel removed
(The effect of time), yet still of taste approved,
Gives her opinion: then the rest, in course,
As age, or practice, lends their judgment force. 725
So warm they grow, and so much pains they take,
You'd think her honor or her life at stake!
So high they build her head, such tiers on tiers,
With wary hands, they pile, that she appears,
Andromache, before:--and what behind? 730
A dwarf, a creature of a different kind. --
Meanwhile, engrossed by these important cares,
She thinks not on her lord's distress'd affairs,
Scarce on himself; but leads a separate life,
As if she were his neighbor, not his wife? 735
Or, but in this--that all control she braves;
Hates where he loves, and squanders where he saves.
Room for Bellona's frantic votaries! room
For Cybele's mad enthusiasts! lo, they come!
A lusty semivir, whose part obscene, 740
A broken shell has severed smooth and clean,
A raw-boned, mitred priest, whom the whole choir
Of curtailed priestlings reverence and admire,
Enters, with his wild rout; and bids the fair
Of autumn, and its sultry blasts, beware, 745
Unless she lustrate, with an hundred eggs,
Her household straight:--then, impudently begs
Her cast-off clothes, that every plague they fear
May enter them, and expiate all the year!
But lo! another tribe! at whose command, 750
See her, in winter, near the Tiber stand,
Break the thick ice, and, ere the sun appears,
Plunge in the crashing eddy to the ears;
Then, shivering from the keen and eager breeze,
Crawl round the banks, on bare and bleeding knees. 755
Should milkwhite Iö bid, from Meroë's isle
She'd fetch the sunburnt waters of the Nile,
To sprinkle in her fane; for she, it seems,
Has heavenly visitations in her dreams--
Mark the pure soul, with whom the gods delight 760
To hold high converse at the noon of night!
For this she cherishes, above the rest,
Her Iö's favorite priest, a knave profess'd,
A holy hypocrite, who strolls abroad,
With his Anubis, his dog-headed god! 765
Girt by a linen-clad, a bald-pate crew
Of howling vagrants, who their cries renew
In every street, as up and down they run,
To find OSIRE, fit father to fit son!
He sues for pardon, when the liquorish dame 770
Abstains not from the interdicted game
On high and solemn days; for great the crime,
To stain the nuptial couch at such a time,
And great the atonement due;--the silver snake,
Abhorrent of the deed, was seen to quake! 775
Yet he prevails:--Osiris hears his prayers,
And, softened by a goose, the culprit spares.
Without her badge, a Jewess now draws near,
And, trembling, begs a trifle in her ear.
No common personage! she knows full well 780
The laws of Solyma, and she can tell
The dark decrees of heaven; a priestess she,
An hierarch of the consecrated tree!
Moved by these claims thus modestly set forth,
She gives her a few coins of little worth; 785
For Jews are moderate, and, for farthing fees,
Will sell what fortune, or what dreams you please.
The prophetess dismissed, a Syrian sage
Now enters, and explores the future page,
In a dove's entrails: there he sees express'd 790
A youthful lover: there, a rich bequest,
From some kind dotard: then a chick he takes,
And in its breast, and in a puppy's, rakes,
And sometimes in--an infant's: he will teach
The art to others, and, when taught, impeach! 795
But chiefly in Chaldeans she believes:
Whate'er they say, with reverence she receives,
As if from Hammon's secret fount it came;
Since Delphi now, if we may credit fame,
Gives no responses, and a long dark night 800
Conceals the future hour from mortal sight.
Of these, the chief (such credit guilt obtains! )
Is he, who, banished oft, and oft in chains,
Stands forth the veriest knave; he who foretold
The death of Galba--to his rival sold! 805
No juggler must for fame or profit hope,
Who has not narrowly escaped the rope;
Begged hard for exile, and, by special grace,
Obtained confinement in some desert place. --
To him your Tanaquil applies, in doubt 810
How long her jaundiced mother may hold out;
But first, how long her husband: next, inquires,
When she shall follow, to their funeral pyres,
Her sisters, and her uncles; last, if fate
Will kindly lengthen out the adulterer's date 815
Beyond her own;--content, if he but live,
And sure that heaven has nothing more to give!
Yet she may still be suffered; for, what woes
The louring aspect of old Saturn shows;
Or in what sign bright Venus ought to rise, 820
To shed her mildest influence from the skies;
Or what fore-fated month to gain is given,
And what to loss (the mysteries of heaven),
She knows not, nor pretends to know: but flee
The dame, whose Manual of Astrology 825
Still dangles at her side, smooth as chafed gum,
And fretted by her everlasting thumb! --
Deep in the science now, she leaves her mate
To go, or stay; but will not share his fate,
Withheld by trines and sextiles; she will look, 830
Before her chair be ordered, in the book,
For the fit hour; an itching eye endure,
Nor, till her scheme be raised, attempt the cure;
Nay, languishing in bed, receive no meat,
Till Petosyris bid her rise and eat. 835
The curse is universal: high and low
Are mad alike the future hour to know.
The rich consult a Babylonian seer,
Skilled in the mysteries of either sphere;
Or a gray-headed priest, hired by the state, 840
To watch the lightning, and to expiate.
The middle sort, a quack, at whose command
They lift the forehead, and make bare the hand;
While the sly lecher in the table pries,
And claps it wantonly, with gloating eyes. 845
The poor apply to humbler cheats, still found
Beside the Circus wall, or city mound;
While she, whose neck no golden trinket bears,
To the dry ditch, or dolphin's tower, repairs,
And anxiously inquires which she shall choose, 850
The tapster, or old-clothes man? which refuse?
Yet these the pangs of childbirth undergo,
And all the yearnings of a mother know;
These, urged by want, assume the nurse's care,
And learn to breed the children which they bear. 855
Those shun both toil and danger; for, though sped,
The wealthy dame is seldom brought to bed:
Such the dire power of drugs, and such the skill
They boast, to cause miscarriages at will!
Weep'st thou? O fool! the blest invention hail, 860
And give the potion, if the gossips fail;
For, should thy wife her nine months' burden bear,
An Æthiop's offspring might thy fortunes heir;
A sooty thing, fit only to affray,
And, seen at morn, to poison all the day! 865
Supposititious breeds, the hope and joy
Of fond, believing husbands, I pass by;
The beggars' bantlings, spawned in open air,
And left by some pond side, to perish there. --
From hence your Flamens, hence your Salians come; 870
Your Scauri, chiefs and magistrates of Rome!
Fortune stands tittering by, in playful mood,
And smiles, complacent, on the sprawling brood;
Takes them all naked to her fostering arms,
Feeds from her mouth, and in her bosom warms: 875
Then, to the mansions of the great she bears
The precious brats, and, for herself, prepares
A secret farce; adopts them for her own:
And, when her nurslings are to manhood grown,
She brings them forth, rejoiced to see them sped, 880
And wealth and honors dropping on their head!
Some purchase charms, some, more pernicious still,
Thessalian philters, to subdue the will
Of an uxorious spouse, and make him bear
Blows, insults, all a saucy wife can dare. 885
Hence that swift lapse to second childhood; hence
Those vapors which envelop every sense;
This strange forgetfulness from hour to hour;
And well, if this be all:--more fatal power,
More terrible effects, the dose may have, 890
And force you, like Caligula, to rave,
When his Cæsonia squeezed into the bowl
The dire excrescence of a new-dropp'd foal. --
Then Uproar rose; the universal chain
Of Order snapped, and Anarchy's wild reign 895
Came on apace, as if the queen of heaven
Had fired the Thunderer, and to madness driven.
Thy mushroom, Agrippine! was innocent,
To this accursed draught; that only sent
One palsied, bedrid sot, with gummy eyes, 900
And slavering lips, heels foremost to the skies:
This, to wild fury roused a bloody mind,
And called for fire and sword; this potion joined
In one promiscuous slaughter high and low,
And leveled half the nation at a blow. 905
Such is the power of philters! such the ill,
One sorceress can effect by wicked skill!
They hate their husband's spurious issue:--this,
If this were all, were not, perhaps, amiss:
But they go farther; and 'tis now some time 910
Since poisoning sons-in-law scarce seemed a crime.
Mark then, ye fatherless! what I advise,
And trust, O, trust no dainties, if you're wise:
Ye heirs to large estates! touch not that fare,
Your mother's fingers have been busy there; 915
See! it looks livid, swollen:--O check your haste,
And let your wary fosterfather taste,
Whate'er she sets before you: fear her meat,
And be the first to look, the last to eat.
But this is fiction all! I pass the bound 920
Of Satire, and encroach on Tragic ground!
Deserting truth, I choose a fabled theme,
And, like the buskined bards of Greece, declaim,
In deep-mouthed tones, in swelling strains, on crimes
As yet unknown to our Rutulian climes! 925
Would it were so! but Pontia cries aloud,
"No, I performed it. " See! the fact's avowed--
"I mingled poison for my children, I;
'Twas found upon me, wherefore then deny? "
What, two at once, most barbarous viper! two! 930
"Nay, seven, had seven been mine: believe it true! "
Now let us credit what the tragic stage
Displays of Progne and Medea's rage;
Crimes of dire name, which, disbelieved of yore,
Become familiar, and revolt no more; 935
Those ancient dames in scenes of blood were bold,
And wrought fell deeds, but not, as ours, for gold:--
In every age, we view, with less surprise,
Such horrors as from bursts of fury rise,
When stormy passions, scorning all control, 940
Rend the mad bosom, and unseat the soul.
As when impetuous winds, and driving rain,
Mine some huge rock that overhangs the plain,
The cumbrous mass descends with thundering force,
And spreads resistless ruin in its course. 945
Curse on the woman, who reflects by fits,
And in cold blood her cruelties commits! --
They see, upon the stage, the Grecian wife
Redeeming with her own her husband's life;
Yet, in her place, would willingly deprive 950
Their lords of breath to keep their dogs alive!
Abroad, at home, the Belides you meet,
And Clytemnestras swarm in every street;
But here the difference lies:--those bungling wives,
With a blunt axe hacked out their husbands' lives; 955
While now, the deed is done with dexterous art,
And a drugged bowl performs the axe's part.
Yet, if the husband, prescient of his fate,
Have fortified his breast with mithridate,
She baffles him e'en there, and has recourse 960
To the old weapon for a last resource.


SATIRE VII.

TO TELESINUS.

Yes, all the hopes of learning, 'tis confess'd,
And all the patronage, on CÆSAR rest:
For he alone the drooping Nine regards--
When, now, our best, and most illustrious bards,
Quit their ungrateful studies, and retire, 5
Bagnios and bakehouses, for bread, to hire;
With humbled views, a life of toil embrace,
And deem a crier's business no disgrace;
Since Clio, driven by hunger from the shade,
Mixes in crowds, and bustles for a trade. 10
And truly, if (the bard's too frequent curse)
No coin be found in your Pierian purse,
'Twere not ill done to copy, for the nonce,
Machæra, and turn auctioneer at once.
Hie, my poetic friend; in accents loud, 15
Commend your precious lumber to the crowd,
Old tubs, stools, presses, wrecks of many a chest,
Paccius' damned plays, Thebes, Tereus, and the rest. --
And better so--than haunt the courts of law,
And swear, for hire, to what you never saw: 20
Leave this resource to Cappadocian knights,
To Gallogreeks, and such new-fangled wights,
As want, or infamy, has chased from home,
And driven, in barefoot multitudes, to Rome.
Come, my brave youths! --the genuine sons of rhyme, 25
Who, in sweet numbers, couch the true sublime,
Shall, from this hour, no more their fate accuse,
Or stoop to pains unworthy of the Muse.
Come, my brave youths! your tuneful labors ply,
Secure of favor; lo! the imperial eye 30
Looks round, attentive, on each rising bard,
For worth to praise, for genius to reward!
But if for other patronage you look,
And therefore write, and therefore swell your book,
Quick, call for wood, and let the flames devour 35
The hapless produce of the studious hour;
Or lock it up, to moths and worms a prey,
And break your pens, and fling your ink away:--
Or pour it rather o'er your epic flights,
Your battles, sieges (fruit of sleepless nights), 40
Pour it, mistaken men, who rack your brains
In dungeons, cocklofts, for heroic strains;
Who toil and sweat to purchase mere renown,
A meagre statue, and an ivy crown!
Here bound your expectations: for the great, 45
Grown, wisely, covetous, have learned, of late,
To praise, and ONLY praise, the high-wrought strain,
As boys, the bird of Juno's glittering train.
Meanwhile those vigorous years, so fit to bear
The toils of agriculture, commerce, war, 50
Spent in this idle trade, decline apace,
And age, unthought of, stares you in the face:--
O then, appalled to find your better days
Have earned you naught but poverty and praise,
At all your barren glories you repine, 55
And curse, too late, the unavailing Nine!
Hear, now, what sneaking ways your patrons find,
To save their darling gold:--they pay in kind!
Verses, composed in every Muse's spite,
To the starved bard, they, in their turn, recite; 60
And, if they yield to Homer, let him know,
'Tis--that he lived a thousand years ago!
But if, inspired with genuine love of fame,
A dry rehearsal only be your aim,
The miser's breast with sudden warmth dilates, 65
And lo! he opes his triple-bolted gates;
Nay, sends his clients to support your cause,
And rouse the tardy audience to applause:
But will not spare one farthing to defray
The numerous charges of this glorious day, 70
The desk where, throned in conscious pride, you sit,
The joists and beams, the orchestra and the pit.
Still we persist; plow the light sand, and sow
Seed after seed, where none can ever grow:
Nay, should we, conscious of our fruitless pain, 75
Strive to escape, we strive, alas! in vain;
Long habit and the thirst of praise beset,
And close us in the inextricable net.
The insatiate itch of scribbling, hateful pest,
Creeps like a tetter, through the human breast, 80
Nor knows, nor hopes a cure; since years, which chill
All other passions, but inflame the ill!
But HE, the bard of every age and clime,
Of genius fruitful, ardent and sublime,
Who, from the glowing mint of fancy, pours 85
No spurious metal, fused from common ores,
But gold, to matchless purity refined,
And stamped with all the godhead in his mind;
He whom I feel, but want the power to paint,
Springs from a soul impatient of restraint, 90
And free from every care; a soul that loves
The Muse's haunts, clear founts and shady groves.
Never, no never, did He wildly rave,
And shake his thyrsus in the Aonian cave,
Whom poverty kept sober, and the cries 95
Of a lean stomach, clamorous for supplies:
No; the wine circled briskly through the veins,
When Horace poured his dithyrambic strains! --
What room for fancy, say, unless the mind,
And all its thoughts, to poesy resigned, 100
Be hurried with resistless force along,
By the two kindred Powers of Wine and Song!
O! 'tis the exclusive business of a breast
Impetuous, uncontrolled--not one distress'd
With household cares, to view the bright abodes, 105
The steeds, the chariots, and the forms of gods:
And the fierce Fury, as her snakes she shook,
And withered the Rutulian with a look!
Those snakes, had Virgil no Mæcenas found, }
Had dropp'd, in listless length, upon the ground; } 110
And the still slumbering trump, groaned with no mortal sound. }
Yet we expect, from Lappa's tragic rage,
Such scenes as graced, of old, the Athenian stage;
Though he, poor man, from hand to mouth be fed,
And driven to pawn his furniture for bread! 115
When Numitor is asked to serve a friend,
"He can not; he is poor. " Yet he can send
Rich presents to his mistress! he can buy
Tame lions, and find means to keep them high!
What then? the beasts are still the lightest charge; 120
For your starved bards have maws so devilish large!
Stretched in his marble palace, at his ease,
Lucan may write, and only ask to please;
But what is this, if this be all you give,
To Bassus and Serranus? They must live! 125
When Statius fixed a morning, to recite
His Thebaid to the town, with what delight
They flocked to hear! with what fond rapture hung
On the sweet strains, made sweeter by his tongue!
Yet, while the seats rung with a general peal 130
Of boisterous praise, the bard had lacked a meal,
Unless with Paris he had better sped,
And trucked a virgin tragedy for bread.
Mirror of men! he showers, with liberal hands,
On needy poets, honors and commands:-- 135
An actor's patronage a peer's outgoes,
And what the last withholds, the first bestows!
--And will you still on Camerinus wait,
And Bareas? will you still frequent the great?
Ah, rather to the player your labors take, 140
And at one lucky stroke your fortune make!
Yet envy not the man who earns hard bread
By tragedy: the Muses' friends are fled! --
Mæcenas, Proculeius, Fabius, gone,
And Lentulus, and Cotta--every one! 145
THEN worth was cherished, then the bard might toil,
Secure of favor, o'er the midnight oil;
Then all December's revelries refuse,
And give the festive moments to the Muse.
So fare the tuneful race: but ampler gains 150
Await, no doubt, the grave HISTORIANS' pains!
More time, more study they require, and pile
Page upon page, heedless of bulk the while,
Till, fact conjoined to fact with thought intense,
The work is closed, at many a ream's expense! 155
Say now, what harvest was there ever found,
What golden crop, from this long-labored ground?
'Tis barren all; and one poor plodding scribe
Gets more by framing pleas than all the tribe.
True:--'tis a slothful breed, that, nursed in ease, 160
Soft beds, and whispering shades, alone can please.
Say then, what gain the LAWYER'S toil affords,
His sacks of papers, and his war of words?
Heavens! how he bellows in our tortured ears;
But then, then chiefly, when the client hears, 165
Or one prepared, with vouchers, to attest
Some desperate debt, more anxious than the rest,
Twitches his elbow: then, his passions rise!
Then, forth he puffs the immeasurable lies
From his swollen lungs! then, the white foam appears, 170
And, driveling down his beard, his vest besmears!
Ask you the profit of this painful race?
'Tis quickly summed: Here, the joint fortunes place
Of five-score lawyers; there, Lacerta's sole--
And that one charioteer's, shall poise the whole! 175
The Generals take their seats in regal wise.
You, my pale Ajax, watch the hour, and rise,
In act to plead a trembling client's cause,
Before Judge Jolthead--learned in the laws.
Now stretch your throat, unhappy man! now raise 180
Your clamors, that, when hoarse, a bunch of bays,
Stuck in your garret window, may declare,
That some victorious pleader nestles there!
O glorious hour! but what your fee, the while?
A rope of shriveled onions from the Nile, 185
A rusty ham, a jar of broken sprats,
And wine, the refuse of our country vats;
Five flagons for four causes! if you hold,
Though this indeed be rare, a piece of gold;
The brethren, _as per contract_, on you fall, 190
And share the prize, solicitors and all!
Whate'er he asks, Æmilius may command,
Though more of law be ours: but lo! there stand
Before his gate, conspicuous from afar,
Four stately steeds, yoked to a brazen car: 195
And the great pleader, looking wary round,
On a fierce charger that disdains the ground,
Levels his threatening spear, in act to throw,
And seems to meditate no common blow.
Such arts as these, to beggary Matho brought, 200
And such the ruin of Tongillus wrought,
Who, with his troop of slaves, a draggled train,
Annoyed the baths, of his huge oil-horn vain;
Swept through the Forum, in a chair of state,
To every auction--villas, slaves, or plate; 205
And, trading on the credit of his dress,
Cheapened whate'er he saw, though penniless!
And some, indeed, have thriven by tricks like these:
Purple and violet swell a lawyer's fees;
Bustle and show above his means conduce 210
To business, and profusion proves of use.
The vice is universal: Rome confounds
The wealthiest;--prodigal beyond all bounds!
Could our old pleaders visit earth again,
Tully himself would scarce a brief obtain, 215
Unless his robe were purple, and a stone,
Diamond or ruby, on his finger shone.
The wary plaintiff, ere a fee he gives,
Inquires at what expense his counsel lives;
Has he eight slaves, ten followers? chairs to wait, 220
And clients to precede his march in state?
This Paulus knows full well, and, therefore, hires
A ring to plead in; therefore, too, acquires
More briefs than Cossus:--preference not unsound,
For how should eloquence in rags be found? 225
Who gives poor Basilus a cause of state?
When, to avert a trembling culprit's fate,
Shows he a weeping mother? or who heeds
How close he argues, and how well he pleads?
Unhappy Basilus! --but he is wrong: 230
Would he procure subsistence by his tongue,
Let him renounce the forum, and withdraw
To Gaul, or Afric, the dry-nurse of law.
But Vectius, yet more desperate than the rest,
Has opened (O that adamantine breast! ) 235
A RHETORIC school; where striplings rave and storm
At tyranny, through many a crowded form. --
The exercises lately, sitting, read,
Standing, distract his miserable head,
And every day and every hour affords 240
The selfsame subjects, in the selfsame words;
Till, like hashed cabbage served for each repast,
The repetition--kills the wretch at last!
Where the main jet of every question lies,
And whence the chief objections may arise, 245
All wish to know; but none the price will pay.
"The price," retorts the scholar, "do you say!
What have I learned? " There go the master's pains,
Because, forsooth, the Arcadian brute lacks brains!
And yet this oaf, every sixth morn, prepares 250
To split my head with Hannibal's affairs,
While he debates at large, "Whether 'twere right
To take advantage of the general fright,
And march to Rome; or, by the storm alarmed,
And all the elements against him armed, 255
The dangerous expedition to delay,
And lead his harassed troops some other way. "
--Sick of the theme, which still returns, and still
The exhausted wretch exclaims, Ask what you will,
I'll give it, so you on his sire prevail, 260
To hear, thus oft, the booby's endless tale!
So Vectius speeds: his brethren, wiser far,
Have shut up school, and hurried to the bar.
Adieu the idle fooleries of Greece,
The soporific drug, the golden fleece, 265
The faithless husband, and the abandoned wife,
And Æson, coddled to new light and life,
A long adieu! on more productive themes,
On actual crimes, the sophist now declaims:
Thou too, my friend, would'st thou my counsel hear, 270
Should'st free thyself from this ungrateful care;
Lest all be lost, and thou reduced, poor sage,
To want a tally in thy helpless age!
Bread still the lawyer earns; but tell me yet,
What your Chrysogonus and Pollio get 275
(The chief of rhetoricians), though they teach
Our youth of quality, THE ART OF SPEECH?
Oh, no! the great pursue a nobler end:--
Five thousand on a bath they freely spend;
More on a portico, where, while it lours, 280
They ride, and bid defiance to the showers.
Shall they, for brighter skies, at home remain,
Or dash their pampered mules through mud and rain?
No: let them pace beneath the stately roof,
For there no mire can soil the shining hoof. 285
See next, on proud Numidian columns rise
An eating-room, that fronts the eastern skies,
And drinks the cooler sun. Expensive these!
But (cost whate'er they may), the times to please,
Sewers for arrangement of the board admired, 290
And cooks of taste and skill must yet be hired.
Mid this extravagance, which knows no bounds,
Quintilian gets, and hardly gets, ten pounds:--
On education all is grudged as lost,
And sons are still a father's lightest cost. 295
Whence has Quintilian, then, his vast estate?
Urge not an instance of peculiar fate:
Perhaps, by luck. The lucky, I admit,
Have all advantages; have beauty, wit,
And wisdom, and high blood: the lucky, too, 300
May take, at will, the senatorial shoe;
Be first-rate speakers, pleaders, every thing;
And, though they croak like frogs, be thought to sing.
O, there's a difference, friend, beneath what sign
We spring to light, or kindly or malign! 305
FORTUNE IS ALL: She, as the fancy springs,
Makes kings of pedants, and of pedants kings.
For, what were Tullius, and Ventidius, say,
But great examples of the wondrous sway
Of stars, whose mystic influence alone, 310
Bestows, on captives triumphs, slaves a throne?
He, then, is lucky; and, amid the clan,
Ranks with the milk-white crow, or sable swan:
While all his hapless brethren count their gains,
And execrate, too late, their fruitless pains. 315
Witness thy end, Thrasymachus! and thine,
Unblest Charinas! --Thou beheld'st him pine,
Thou, Athens! and would'st naught but bane bestow;
The only charity--thou seem'st to know!
Shades of our sires! O, sacred be your rest, 320
And lightly lie the turf upon your breast!
Flowers round your urns breathe sweets beyond compare,
And spring eternal shed its influence there!
You honored tutors, now a slighted race,
And gave them all a parent's power and place. 325
Achilles, grown a man, the lyre assayed
On his paternal hills, and, while he played,
With trembling eyed the rod;--and yet, the tail
Of the good Centaur, scarcely, then, could fail
To force a smile: such reverence now is rare, 330
And boys with bibs strike Rufus on his chair,
Fastidious Rufus, who, with critic rage,
Arraigned the purity of Tully's page!
Enough of these. Let the last wretched band,
The poor GRAMMARIANS, say, what liberal hand 335
Rewards their toil: let learned Palæmon tell,
Who proffers what his skill deserves so well.
Yet from this pittance, whatsoe'er it be
(Less, surely, than the rhetorician's fee),
The usher snips off something for his pains, 340
And the purveyor nibbles what remains.
Courage, Palæmon! be not over-nice,
But suffer some abatement in your price;
As those who deal in rugs, will ask you high,
And sink by pence and half-pence, till you buy. 345
Yes, suffer this; while something's left to pay
Your rising hours before the dawn of day,
When e'en the laboring poor their slumbers take,
And not a weaver, not a smith's awake:
While something's left to pay you for the stench 350
Of smouldering lamps, thick spread o'er every bench,
Where ropy vapors Virgil's pages soil,
And Horace looks one blot, all soot and oil!
Even then, the stipend thus reduced, thus small,
Without a lawsuit, rarely comes at all. 355
Add yet, ye parents, add to the disgrace,
And heap new hardships on this wretched race.
Make it a point that all, and every part,
Of their own science, be possessed by heart;
That general history with our own they blend, 360
And have all authors at their fingers' end:
Still ready to inform you, should you meet,
And ask them at the bath, or in the street,
Who nursed Anchises; from what country came
The step-dame of Archemorus, what her name; 365
How long Acestes flourished, and what store
Of generous wine the Phrygians from him bore--
Make it a point too, that, like ductile clay,
They mould the tender mind, and day by day
Bring out the form of Virtue; that they prove 370
A father to the youths, in care and love;
And watch that no obscenities prevail--
And trust me, friend, even Argus' self might fail,
The busy hands of schoolboys to espy,
And the lewd fires which twinkle in their eye. 375
All this, and more, exact; and, having found
The man you seek, say--When the year comes round,
We'll give thee for thy twelve months' anxious pains,
As much--as, IN AN HOUR, A FENCER GAINS!


SATIRE VIII.

TO PONTICUS.

"Your ancient house! " no more. --I can not see
The wondrous merits of a pedigree:
No, Ponticus;--nor of a proud display
Of smoky ancestors, in wax or clay;
Æmilius, mounted on his car sublime, 5
Curius, half wasted by the teeth of time,
Corvinus, dwindled to a shapeless bust,
And high-born Galba, crumbling into dust.
What boots it, on the LINEAL TREE to trace,
Through many a branch, the founders of our race, 10
Time-honored chiefs; if, in their sight, we give
A loose to vice, and like low villains live?
Say, what avails it, that, on either hand,
The stern Numantii, an illustrious band,
Frown from the walls, if their degenerate race 15
Waste the long night at dice, before their face?
If, staggering, to a drowsy bed they creep,
At that prime hour when, starting from their sleep,
Their sires the signal of the fight unfurled,
And drew their legions forth, and won the world? 20
Say, why should Fabius, of the Herculean name,
To the GREAT ALTAR vaunt his lineal claim,
If, softer than Euganean lambs, the youth,
His wanton limbs, with Ætna's pumice, smooth,
And shame his rough-hewn sires? if greedy, vain, 25
If, a vile trafficker in secret bane,
He blast his wretched kindred with a bust,
For public vengeance to--reduce to dust!
Fond man! though all the heroes of your line
Bedeck your halls, and round your galleries shine 30
In proud display; yet, take this truth from me,
VIRTUE ALONE IS TRUE NOBILITY.
Set Cossus, Drusus, Paulus, then, in view,
The bright example of their lives pursue;
Let these precede the statues of your race, 35
And these, when Consul, of your rods take place.
O give me inborn worth! dare to be just,
Firm to your word, and faithful to your trust:
These praises hear, at least deserve to hear,
I grant your claim, and recognize the peer. 40
Hail! from whatever stock you draw your birth,
The son of Cossus, or the son of Earth,
All hail! in you, exulting Rome espies
Her guardian Power, her great Palladium rise;
And shouts like Egypt, when her priests have found, 45
A new Osiris, for the old one drowned!
But shall we call those noble, who disgrace
Their lineage, proud of an illustrious race?
Vain thought! --but thus, with many a taunting smile,
The dwarf an Atlas, Moor a swan, we style; 50
The crookbacked wench, Europa; and the hound,
With age enfeebled, toothless, and unsound,
That listless lies, and licks the lamps for food,
Lord of the chase, and tyrant of the wood!
You, too, beware, lest Satire's piercing eye 55
The slave of guilt through grandeur's blaze espy,
And, drawing from your crime some sounding name,
Declare at once your greatness and your shame.
Ask you for whom this picture I design?
Plautus, thy birth and folly make it thine. 60
Thou vaunt'st thy pedigree, on every side
To noble and imperial blood allied;
As if thy honors by thyself were won,
And thou hadst some illustrious action done,
To make the world believe thee Julia's heir, 65
And not the offspring of some easy fair,
Who, shivering in the wind, near yon dead wall,
Plies her vile labor, and is all to all.
"Away, away! ye slaves of humblest birth,
Ye dregs of Rome, ye nothings of the earth, 70
Whose fathers who shall tell! my ancient line
Descends from Cecrops. " Man of blood divine!
Live, and enjoy the secret sweets which spring
In breasts, affined to so remote a king! --
Yet know, amid these "dregs," low grandeur's scorn, 75
Will those be found whom arts and arms adorn:
Some, skilled to plead a noble blockhead's cause,
And solve the dark enigmas of the laws;
Some, who the Tigris' hostile banks explore,
And plant our eagles on Batavia's shore: 80
While thou, in mean, inglorious pleasure lost,
With "Cecrops! Cecrops! " all thou hast to boast,
Art a full brother to the crossway stone,
Which clowns have chipped the head of Hermes on:
For 'tis no bar to kindred, that thy block 85
Is formed of flesh and blood, and theirs of rock.
Of beasts, great son of Troy, who vaunts the breed,
Unless renowned for courage, strength, or speed?
'Tis thus we praise the horse, who mocks our eyes,
While, to the goal, with lightning's speed, he flies! 90
Whom many a well-earned palm and trophy grace,
And the Cirque hails, unrivaled in the race!
--Yes, he is noble, spring from whom he will,
Whose footsteps, in the dust, are foremost still;
While Hirpine's stock are to the market led, 95
If Victory perch but rarely on their head:
For no respect to pedigree is paid,
No honor to a sire's illustrious shade.
Flung cheaply off, they drag the cumbrous wain,
With shoulders bare and bleeding from the chain; 100
Or take, with some blind ass in concert found,
At Nepo's mill, their everlasting round.
That Rome may, therefore, YOU, not YOURS, admire,
By virtuous actions, first, to praise aspire;
Seek not to shine by borrowed light alone, 105
But with your father's glories blend your own.
THIS to the youth, whom Rumor brands as vain,
And swelling--full of his Neronian strain;
Perhaps, with truth:--for rarely shall we find
A sense of modesty in that proud kind. 110
But were my Ponticus content to raise
His honors thus, on a forefather's praise,
Worthless the while--'twould tinge my cheeks with shame--
'Tis dangerous building on another's fame,
Lest the substructure fail, and on the ground 115
Your baseless pile be hurled, in fragments, round. --
Stretched on the plain, the vine's weak tendrils try
To clasp the elm they drop from; fail--and die!
Be brave, be just; and when your country's laws
Call you to witness in a dubious cause, 120
Though Phalaris plant his bull before your eye,
And, frowning, dictate to your lips the lie,
Think it a crime no tears can e'er efface,
To purchase safety with compliance base,
At honor's cost a feverish span extend, 125
AND SACRIFICE FOR LIFE, LIFE'S ONLY END!
LIFE! 'tis not life--who merits death is dead;
Though Gauran oysters for his feasts be spread,
Though his limbs drip with exquisite perfume,
And the late rose around his temples bloom! 130
O, when the province, long desired, you gain,
Your boiling rage, your lust of wealth, restrain,
And pity our allies: all Asia grieves--
Her blood, her marrow, drained by legal thieves.
Revere the laws, obey the parent state; 135
Observe what rich rewards the good await.
What punishments the bad: how Tutor sped,
While Rome's whole thunder rattled round his head!
And yet what boots it, that one spoiler bleed,
If still a worse, and still a worse succeed; 140
If neither fear nor shame control their theft,
And Pansa seize the little Natta left?
Haste then, Chærippus, ere thy rags be known,
And sell the few thou yet canst call thine own,
And O, conceal the price! 'tis honest craft; 145
Thou could'st not keep the hatchet--save the haft.
Not such the cries of old, nor such the stroke,
When first the nations bowed beneath our yoke.
Wealth, then, was theirs, wealth without fear possess'd,
Full every house, and bursting every chest-- 150
Crimson, in looms of Sparta taught to glow,
And purple, deeply dyed in grain of Co;
Busts, to which Myro's touch did motion give,
And ivory, taught by Phidias' skill to live;
On every side a Polyclete you viewed, 155
And scarce a board without a Mentor stood.
These, these, the lust of rapine first inspired,
These, Antony and Dolabella fired.
And sacrilegious Verres:--so, for Rome
They shipped their secret plunder; and brought home 160
More treasures from our friends, in peace obtained,
Than from our foes, in war, were ever gained!
Now all is gone! the stallion made a prey,
The few brood mares and oxen swept away,
The Lares--if the sacred hearth possess'd } 165
One little god, that pleased above the rest-- }
Mean spoils, indeed! but such were now their best }
Perhaps you scorn (and may securely scorn)
The essenced Greek, whom arts, not arms, adorn:
Soft limbs, and spirits by refinement broke, 170
Would feebly struggle with the oppressive yoke.
But spare the Gaul, the fierce Illyrian spare,
And the rough Spaniard, terrible in war;
Spare too the Afric hind, whose ceaseless pain
Fills our wide granaries with autumnal grain, 175
And pampers Rome, while weightier cares engage
Her precious hours--the Circus and the Stage!
For, should you rifle them, O think in time,
What spoil would pay the execrable crime,
When greedy Marius fleeced them all so late, 180
And bare and bleeding left the hapless state!
But chief the brave, and wretched--tremble there;
Nor tempt too far the madness of despair:
For, should you all their little treasures drain,
Helmets, and spears, and swords, would still remain; 185
THE PLUNDERED NE'ER WANT ARMS. What I foretell }
Is no trite apophthegm, but--mark me well-- }
True as a Sibyl's leaf! fixed as an oracle! }
If men of worth the posts beneath you hold,
And no spruce favorite barter law for gold; 190
If no inherent stain your wife disgrace,
Nor, harpy-like, she flit from place to place,
A fell Celæno, ever on the watch,
And ever furious, all she sees to snatch;
Then choose what race you will: derive your birth 195
From Picus, or those elder sons of earth,
Who shook the throne of heaven; call him your sire,
Who first informed our clay with living fire;
Or single from the songs of ancient days,
What tale may suit you, and what parent raise. 200
But--if rash pride, and lust, your bosom sway,
If, with stern joy, you ply, from day to day
The ensanguined rods, and head on head demand,
Till the tired axe drop from the lictor's hand;
Then, every honor, by your father won, 205
Indignant to be borne by such a son,
Will, to his blood, oppose your daring claim,
And fire a torch to blaze upon your shame! --
Vice glares more strongly in the public eye,
As he who sins, in power or place is high. 210
SEE! by his great progenitors' remains
Fat Damasippus sweeps, with loosened reins.
Good Consul! he no pride of office feels,
But stoops, himself, to clog his headlong wheels.
"But this is all by night," the hero cries. 215
Yet the MOON sees! yet the STARS stretch their eyes,
Full on your shame! --A few short moments wait,
And Damasippus quits the pomp of state:
Then, proud the experienced driver to display,
He mounts his chariot in the face of day, 220
Whirls, with bold front, his grave associate by,
And jerks his whip, to catch the senior's eye:
Unyokes his weary steeds, and, to requite
Their service, feeds and litters them, at night.
Meanwhile, 'tis all he can, what time he stands 225
At Jove's high altar, as the law commands,
And offers sheep and oxen, he forswears
The Eternal King, and gives his silent prayers
To thee, Hippona, goddess of the stalls,
And gods more vile, daubed on the reeking walls! 230
At night, to his old haunts he scours, elate
(The tavern by the Idumean gate),
Where, while the host, bedrenched with liquid sweets,
With many a courteous phrase his entrance greets,
And many a smile; the hostess nimbly moves, 235
And gets the flagon ready, which he loves.
Here some, perhaps, my growing warmth may blame:
"In youth's wild hours," they urge, "we did the same. "
'Tis granted, friends; but then we stopped in time,
Nor hugged our darling faults beyond our prime. 240
Brief let our follies be! and youthful sin
Fall, with the firstlings of the manly chin! --
Boys we may pity, nay, perhaps, excuse:
But Damasippus STILL frequents the stews,
Though now mature in vigor, ripe in age, 245
Of Cæsar's foes to check the headlong rage,
On Tigris' banks, in burnished arms, to shine,
And sternly guard the Danube, or the Rhine.
"The East revolts. " Ho! let the troops repair
To Ostium, quick! "But where's the General? " Where! 250
Go, search the taverns; there the chief you'll find,
With cut-throats, plunderers, rogues of every kind,
Bier-jobbers, bargemen, drenched in fumes of wine,
And Cybele's priests, mid their loose drums, supine!
There none are less, none greater than the rest, 255
There my lord gives, and takes the scurvy jest;
There all who can, round the same table sprawl.
And there one greasy tankard serves for all.
Blessings of birth! --but, Ponticus, a word:
Owned you a slave like this degenerate lord, 260
What were his fate? your Lucan farm to till,
Or aid the mules to turn your Tuscan mill.
But Troy's great sons dispense with being good,
And boldly sin by courtesy of blood;
Wink at each other's crimes, and look for fame 265
In what would tinge a cobbler's cheek with shame.
And have I wreaked on such foul deeds my rage,
That worse should yet remain to blot my page! --
See Damasippus, all his fortune lost,
Compelled, for hire, to play a squealing ghost! 270
While Lentulus, his brother in renown,
Performs, with so much art, the perjured clown,
And suffers with such grace, that, for his pains,
I hold him worthy of--the CROSS he feigns.
Nor deem the heedless rabble void of blame:-- 275
Strangers alike to decency and shame,
They sit with brazen front, and calmly see
The hired patrician's low buffoonery;
Laugh at the Fabii's tricks, and grin to hear
The cuffs resound from the Mamerci's ear! 280
Who cares how low their blood is sold, how high? --
No Nero drives them, now, their fate to try:
Freely they come, and freely they expose
Their lives for hire, to grace the public shows!
But grant the worst: suppose the arena here, 285
And there the stage; on which would you appear?
The first: for who of death so much in dread,
As not to tremble more, the stage to tread,
Squat on his hams, in some blind nook to sit,
And watch his mistress, in a jealous fit! -- 290
But 'tis not strange, that, when the Emperor tunes
A scurvy harp, the lords should turn buffoons;
The wonder is, they turn not fencers too,
Secutors, Retiarians--AND THEY DO!
Gracchus steps forth: No sword his thigh invests-- 295
No helmet, shield--such armor he detests,
Detests and spurns; and impudently stands,
With the poised net and trident in his hands.
The foe advances--lo! a cast he tries,
But misses, and in frantic terror flies 300
Round the thronged Cirque; and, anxious to be known,
Lifts his bare face, with many a piteous moan.
"'Tis he! 'tis he! --I know the Salian vest,
With golden fringes, pendent from the breast;
The Salian bonnet, from whose pointed crown 305
The glittering ribbons float redundant down.
O spare him, spare! "--The brave Secutor heard,
And, blushing, stopped the chase; for he preferred
Wounds, death itself, to the contemptuous smile,
Of conquering one so noble, and--so vile! 310
Who, Nero, so depraved, if choice were free,
To hesitate 'twixt Seneca and thee?
Whose crimes, so much have they all crimes outgone,
Deserve more serpents, apes, and sacks, than one.
Not so, thou say'st; there are, whom I could name, 315
As deep in guilt, and as accursed in fame;
Orestes slew HIS mother. True; but know,
The same effects from different causes flow:
A father murdered at the social board,
And heaven's command, unsheathed his righteous sword. 320
Besides, Orestes, in his wildest mood,
Poisoned no cousin, shed no consort's blood,
Buried no poniard in a sister's throat,
Sung on no public stage, NO TROICS WROTE. --
THIS topped his frantic crimes! THIS roused mankind! 325
For what could Galba, what Virginius find,
In the dire annals of that bloody reign,
Which called for vengeance in a louder strain?
Lo here, the arts, the studies that engage
The world's great master! on a foreign stage, 330
To prostitute his voice for base renown,
And ravish, from the Greeks, a parsley crown!
Come then, great prince, great poet! while we throng
To greet thee, recent from triumphant song,
Come, place the unfading wreath, with reverence meet, 335
On the Domitii's brows! before their feet
The mask and pall of old Thyestes lay,
And Menalippé; while, in proud display,
From the colossal marble of thy sire,
Depends, the boast of Rome, thy conquering lyre! 340
Cethegus! Catiline! whose ancestors
Were nobler born, were higher ranked, than yours?
Yet ye conspired, with more than Gallic hate,
To wrap in midnight flames this hapless state;
On men and gods your barbarous rage to pour, 345
And deluge Rome with her own children's gore:
Horrors, which called, indeed, for vengeance dire,
For the pitched coat and stake, and smouldering fire!
But Tully watched--your league in silence broke,
And crushed your impious arms, without a stroke. 350
Yes he, poor Arpine, of no name at home,
And scarcely ranked among the knights at Rome,
Secured the trembling town, placed a firm guard
In every street, and toiled in every ward:--
And thus, within the walls, the GOWN obtained, 355
More fame, for Tully, than Octavius gained
At Actium and Philippi, from a SWORD,
Drenched in the eternal stream by patriots poured!
For Rome, free Rome, hailed him, with loud acclaim,
THE FATHER OF HIS COUNTRY--glorious name! 360
Another Arpine, trained the ground to till,
Tired of the plow, forsook his native hill,
And joined the camp; where, if his adze was slow,
The vine-twig whelked his back with many a blow:
And yet, when the fierce Cimbri threatened Rome 365
With swift, and scarcely evitable doom,
This man, in the dread hour, to save her rose,
And turned the impending ruin on her foes!
For which, while ravening birds devoured the slain,
And their huge bones lay whitening on the plain, 370
His high-born colleague to his worth gave way,
And took, well pleased, the secondary bay.
The Decii were plebeians! mean their name,
And mean the parent stock from which they came:
Yet they devoted, in the trying hour, 375
Their heads to Earth, and each infernal Power;
And by that solemn act, redeemed from fate, }
Auxiliars, legions, all the Latian state; }
More prized than those they saved, in heaven's just estimate! }
And him, who graced the purple which he wore 380
(The last good king of Rome), a bondmaid bore.
The Consul's sons (while storms yet shook the state,
And Tarquin thundered vengeance at the gate),
Who should, to crown the labors of their sire,
Have dared what Cocles, Mutius, might admire, 385
And she, who mocked the javelins whistling round,
And swam the Tiber, then the empire's bound;
Had to the tyrant's rage the town exposed,
But that a slave their dark designs disclosed. --
For Him, when stretched upon his honored bier, 390
The grateful matrons shed the pious tear,
While, with stern eye, the patriot and the sire
Saw, by the axe, the high-born pair expire:
They fell--just victims to the offended laws,
And the first sacrifice to FREEDOM'S cause! 395
For me, who naught but innate worth admire,
I'd rather vile Thersites were thy sire,
So thou wert like Achilles, and could'st wield
Vulcanian arms, the terror of the field,
Than that Achilles should thy father be, 400
And, in his offspring, vile Thersites see.
And yet, how high soe'er thy pride may trace
The long-forgotten founders of thy race,
Still must the search with that Asylum end,
From whose polluted source we all descend. 405
Haste then, the inquiry haste; secure to find
Thy sire some vagrant slave, some bankrupt hind,
Some--but I mark the kindling glow of shame,
And will not shock thee with a baser name.


SATIRE IX.

JUVENAL, NÆVOLUS.

Juv. still drooping, Nævolus! What, prithee, say,
Portends this show of grief from day to day,
This copy of flayed Marsyas? what dost thou
With such a rueful face, and such a brow,
As Ravola wore, when caught--Not so cast down 5
Looked Pollio, when, of late, he scoured the town,
And, proffering treble rate, from friend to friend,
Found none so foolish, none so mad, to lend!
But, seriously, for thine's a serious case,
Whence came those sudden wrinkles in thy face? 10
I knew thee once, a gay, light-hearted slave,
Contented with the little fortune gave;
A sprightly guest, of every table free,
And famed for modish wit and repartee.
Now all's reversed: dejected is thy mien, 15
Thy locks are like a tangled thicket seen;
And every limb, once smoothed with nicest care,
Rank with neglect, a shrubbery of hair!
What dost thou with that dull, dead, withered look,
Like some old debauchee, long ague-shook? 20
All is not well within; for, still we find
The face the unerring index of the mind,
And as THIS feels or fancies joys or woes,
THAT pales with sorrow, or with rapture glows.
What should I think? Too sure the scene is changed, 25
And thou from thy old course of life estranged:
For late, as I remember, at all haunts,
Where dames of fashion flock to hire gallants,
At Isis and at Ganymede's abodes,
At Cybele's, dread mother of the gods, 30
Nay, at chaste Ceres' (for at shame they spurn,
And even her temples now to brothels turn),
None was so famed: the favorites of the town,
Baffled alike in business and renown,
Murmuring retired; wives, daughters, were thy own, 35
And--if the truth MUST come--not THEY alone.
NÆV. Right: and to some this trade has answered yet;
But not to me: for what is all I get?
A drugget cloak, to save my gown from rain, }
Coarse in its texture, dingy in its grain, } 40
And a few pieces of the "second vein! " }
FATE GOVERNS ALL. Fate, with full sway, presides
Even o'er those parts, which modest nature hides;
And little, if her genial influence fail,
Will vigor stead, or boundless powers avail: 45
Though Virro, gloating on your naked charms,
Foam with desire, and woo you to his arms,
With many a soothing, many a flattering phrase--
For your cursed pathics have such winning ways!
Hear now this prodigy, this mass impure, 50
Of lust and avarice! "Let us, friend, be sure:
I've given thee this, and this;--now count the sums:"
(He counts, and woos the while), "behold! it comes
To five sestertia, five! --now, look again,
And see how much it overpays thy pain:" 55
What! "overpays? "--but you are formed for love,
And worthy of the cup and couch of Jove!
--Will those relieve a client! --those, who grudge
A wretched pittance to the painful drudge
That toils in their disease?