THESECOND SATIREOFPERSIUS.DEDICATED TO HIS FRIENDPLOTIUS MACRINUS,ON HIS BIRTH-DAY.

'Tis fustian all; 'tis execrably bad;But if they will be fools, must you be mad?Your satires, let me tell you, are too fierce;The great will never bear so blunt a verse.Their doors are barred against a bitter flout;Snarl, if you please, but you shall snarl without.Expect such pay as railing rhymes deserve;You're in a very hopeful way to starve.

Persius.

Rather than so, uncensured let them be;All, all is admirably well, for me.My harmless rhyme shall 'scape the dire disgraceOf common-shoars, and every pissing-place.Two painted serpents[189]shall on high appear;'Tis holy ground; you must not urine here.This shall be writ, to fright the fry away,Who draw their little baubles when they play.Yet old Lucilius[190]never feared the times,But lashed the city, and dissected crimes.Mutius and Lupus both by name he brought;He mouthed them, and betwixt his grinders caught.Unlike in method, with concealed design,Did crafty Horace his low numbers join;And, with a sly insinuating grace,Laughed at his friend, and looked him in the face;Would raise a blush where secret vice he found,And tickle while he gently probed the wound;With seeming innocence the crowd beguiled,But made the desperate passes when he smiled.Could he do this, and is my muse controuledBy servile awe? Born free, and not be bold?At least, I'll dig a hole within the ground,And to the trusty earth commit the sound;The reeds shall tell you what the poet fears,"King Midas has a snout, and asses ears."[191]This mean conceit, this darling mystery,Which thou think'st nothing, friend, thou shalt not buy;Nor will I change for all the flashy wit,That flattering Labeo in his Iliads writ.Thou, if there be a thou in this base town,Who dares, with angry Eupolis, to frown;He who, with bold Cratinus, is inspiredWith zeal,[192]and equal indignation fired;Who at enormous villainy turns pale,And steers against it with a full-blown sail,Like Aristophanes, let him but smileOn this my honest work, though writ in homely style;And if two lines or three in all the veinAppear less drossy, read those lines again.May they perform their author's just intent,Glow in thy ears, and in thy breast ferment!But from the reading of my book and me,Be far, ye foes of virtuous poverty;Who fortune's fault upon the poor can throw,[193]Point at the tattered coat, and ragged shoe;Lay nature's failings to their charge, and jeerThe dim weak eye-sight when the mind is clear;When thou thyself, thus insolent in state,Art but, perhaps, some country magistrate,Whose power extends no farther than to speakBig on the bench, and scanty weights to break.Him also for my censor I disdain,Who thinks all science, as all virtue, vain;Who counts geometry, and numbers toys,And with his foot the sacred dust destroys;[194]Whose pleasure is to see a strumpet tearA cynick's beard, and lug him by the hair.Such all the morning to the pleadings run;}But when the business of the day is done,}On dice, and drink, and drabs, they spend their afternoon.}

FOOTNOTES:[174]Parnassus and Helicon were hills consecrated to the Muses, and the supposed place of their abode. Parnassus was forked on the top; and from Helicon ran a stream, the spring of which was called the Muses' well.[175]Pyrene, a fountain in Corinth, consecrated also to the Muses.[176]The statues of the poets were crowned with ivy about their brows.[177]Before the shrine; that is, before the shrine of Apollo, in his temple at Rome, called the Palatine.[178]Note I.[179]Note II.[180]Note III.[181]Note IV.[182]Note V.[183]Note VI.[184]Note VII.[185]Note VIII.[186]Note IX.[187]Note X.[188]Note XI.[189]Note XII.[190]Note XIII.[191]Note XIV.[192]Note XV.[193]Note XVI.[194]Note XVII.

[174]Parnassus and Helicon were hills consecrated to the Muses, and the supposed place of their abode. Parnassus was forked on the top; and from Helicon ran a stream, the spring of which was called the Muses' well.

[175]Pyrene, a fountain in Corinth, consecrated also to the Muses.

[176]The statues of the poets were crowned with ivy about their brows.

[177]Before the shrine; that is, before the shrine of Apollo, in his temple at Rome, called the Palatine.

[178]Note I.

[179]Note II.

[180]Note III.

[181]Note IV.

[182]Note V.

[183]Note VI.

[184]Note VII.

[185]Note VIII.

[186]Note IX.

[187]Note X.

[188]Note XI.

[189]Note XII.

[190]Note XIII.

[191]Note XIV.

[192]Note XV.

[193]Note XVI.

[194]Note XVII.

Should cry up Labeo's stuff, and cry me down.—P.208.

Nothing is remaining of Atticus Labeo (so he is called by the learned Casaubon); nor is he mentioned by any other poet, besides Persius. Casaubon, from an old commentator on Persius, says, that he made a very foolish translation of Homer's Iliads.

They comb, and then they order every hair;A gown, or white, or scoured to whiteness, wear;A birth-day jewel bobbing at their ear.—P.209.

He describes a poet, preparing himself to rehearse his works in public, which was commonly performed in August. A room was hired, or lent, by some friend; a scaffold was raised, and a pulpit placed for him who was to hold forth; who borrowed a new gown, or scoured his old one, and adorned his ears with jewels, &c.

Know, my wild fig-tree, which in rocks is bred,Will split the quarry, and shoot out the head.—P.209.

Trees of that kind grow wild in many parts of Italy, and make their way through rocks, sometimes splitting the tomb-stones.

In cedar tablets worthy to appear.—P.210.

The Romans wrote on cedar and cypress tables, in regard of the duration of the wood. Ill verses might justly be afraid of frankincense; for the papers in which they were written, were fit for nothing but to wrap it up.

Products of citron beds.—P.210.

Writings of noblemen, whose bedsteads were of the wood of citron.

Hadst thou but, Janus-like, a face behind.—P.211.

Janus was the first king of Italy, who refuged Saturn when he was expelled, by his son Jupiter, from Crete (or, as we now call it, Candia). From his name the first month of the year is called January. He was pictured with two faces, one before and one behind; as regarding the past time and the future. Some of the mythologists think he was Noah, for the reason given above.

Where Romulus was bred, and Quintius born.—P.212.

He speaks of the country in the foregoing verses; the praises of which are the most easy theme for poets, but which a bad poet cannot naturally describe: then he makes a digression to Romulus, the first king of Rome, who had a rustical education; and enlarges upon Quintius Cincinnatus, a Roman senator, who was called from the plough to be dictator of Rome.

With periods, points, and tropes, he slurs his crimes.—P.213.

Persius here names antitheses, or seeming contradictions; which, in this place, are meant for rhetorical flourishes, as I think, with Casaubon.

'Tis tagged with rhyme, like Berecynthian Atys,The mid-part chimes with art, which never flat is.—P.213.

Foolish verses of Nero, which the poet repeats; and which cannot be translated, properly, into English.

Their crooked horns the Mimallonian crewWith blasts inspired.—P.214.

Other verses of Nero, that were mere bombast. I only note, that the repetition of these and the former verses of Nero, might justly give the poet a caution to conceal his name.

Mænas and Atys.—P.214.

Poems on the Mænades, who were priestesses of Bacchus; and of Atys, who made himself an eunuch to attend on the sacrifices of Cybele, called Berecynthia by the poets. She was mother of the gods.

Two painted serpents shall on high appear.—P.215.

Two snakes, twined with each other, were painted on the walls, by the ancients, to show the place was holy.

Old Lucilius.—P.215.

Lucilius wrote long before Horace, who imitates his manner of satire, but far excels him in the design.

King Midas has a snout, and asses ears.—P.215.

The story is vulgar, that Midas, king of Phrygia, was made judge betwixt Apollo and Pan, who was the best musician: he gave the prize to Pan; and Apollo, in revenge, gave him asses ears. He wore his hair long to hide them; but his barber discovering them, and not daring to divulge the secret, dug a hole in the ground, and whispered into it: the place was marshy; and, when the reeds grew up, they repeated the words which were spoken by the barber. By Midas, the poet meant Nero.

Who dares, with angry Eupolis, to frown;He who, with bold Cratinus, is inspiredWith zeal.—P.215.

Eupolis and Cratinus, as also Aristophanes, mentioned afterwards, were all Athenian poets; who wrote that sort of comedy which was called the Old Comedy, where the people were named who were satirized by those authors.

Who fortune's fault upon the poor can throw.—P.216.

The people of Rome, in the time of Persius, were apt to scorn the Grecian philosophers, particularly the Cynics and Stoics, who were the poorest of them.

Who counts geometry, and numbers toys,And with his foot the sacred dust destroys.—P.216.

Arithmetic and geometry were taught on floors, which were strewed with dust, or sand; in which the numbers and diagrams were made and drawn, which they might strike out at pleasure.

THE ARGUMENT.

This Satire contains a most grave and philosophical argument, concerningprayers and wishes. Undoubtedly it gave occasion to Juvenal'stenth satire; and both of them had their original from oneof Plato's dialogues, called the "Second Alcibiades." Our authorhas induced it with great mystery of art, by taking his rise from thebirth-day of his friend; on which occasions, prayers were made, andsacrifices offered by the native. Persius, commending, first, the purityof his friend's vows, descends to the impious and immoral requests ofothers. The satire is divided into three parts. The first is the exordiumto Macrinus, which the poet confines within the compass offour verses: the second relates to the matter of the prayers andvows, and an enumeration of those things, wherein men commonlysinned against right reason, and offended in their requests: thethird part consists in showing the repugnances of those prayers andwishes, to those of other men, and inconsistencies with themselves.He shows the original of these vows, and sharply inveighs againstthem; and, lastly, not only corrects the false opinion of mankindconcerning them, but gives the true doctrine of all addresses made toheaven, and how they may be made acceptable to the powers above,in excellent precepts, and more worthy of a Christian than a Heathen.

Let this auspicious morning be exprestWith a white stone,[195]distinguished from the rest,White as thy fame, and as thy honour clear,And let new joys attend on thy new added year.Indulge thy genius, and o'erflow thy soul,Till thy wit sparkle, like the cheerful bowl.Pray; for thy prayers the test of heaven will bear,Nor need'st thou take the gods aside to hear;While others, even the mighty men of Rome,Big swelled with mischief, to the temples come,And in low murmurs, and with costly smoke,Heaven's help to prosper their black vows, invoke:So boldly to the gods mankind revealWhat from each other they, for shame, conceal.Give me good fame, ye powers, and make me just;Thus much the rogue to public ears will trust:In private then,—When wilt thou, mighty Jove;My wealthy uncle from this world remove?Or, O thou Thunderer's son, great Hercules,That once thy bounteous deity would pleaseTo guide my rake upon the chinking soundOf some vast treasure, hidden under ground![196]O were my pupil fairly knocked o' the head,I should possess the estate if he were dead!He's so far gone with rickets, and with the evil,That one small dose would send him to the devil.This is my neighbour Nerius his third spouse,Of whom in happy time he rids his house;But my eternal wife!—Grant, heaven, I maySurvive to see the fellow of this day!Thus, that thou may'st the better bring aboutThy wishes, thou art wickedly devout;In Tyber ducking thrice, by break of day,To wash the obscenities of night away.[197]But, pr'ythee, tell me, ('tis a small request,)With what ill thoughts of Jove art thou possest?Wouldst thou prefer him to some man? SupposeI dipped among the worst, and Staius chose?Which of the two would thy wise head declareThe trustier tutor to an orphan heir?Or, put it thus:—Unfold to Staius, straight,What to Jove's ear thou didst impart of late:He'll stare, and O, good Jupiter! will cry,Canst thou indulge him in this villainy?And think'st thou Jove himself with patience thenCan hear a prayer condemned by wicked men?That, void of care, he lolls supine in state,And leaves his business to be done by fate,Because his thunder splits some burly tree,And is not darted at thy house and thee;Or that his vengeance falls not at the time,Just at the perpetration of thy crime,And makes thee a sad object of our eyes,Fit for Ergenna's prayer and sacrifice?[198]What well-fed offering to appease the God,What powerful present to procure a nod,Hast thou in store? What bribe hast thou prepared,To pull him, thus unpunished, by the beard?Our superstitions with our life begin;[199]The obscene old grandam, or the next of kin,The new-born infant from the cradle takes,And, first, of spittle a lustration makes;Then in the spawl her middle-finger dips,Anoints the temples, forehead, and the lips,Pretending force of magic to prevent,By virtue of her nasty excrement;Then dandles him with many a muttered prayer,That heaven would make him some rich miser's heir,Lucky to ladies, and in time a king;Which to ensure, she adds a length of navel-string.But no fond nurse is fit to make a prayer,And Jove, if Jove be wise, will never hear;Not though she prays in white, with lifted hands.A body made of brass the crone demandsFor her loved nursling, strung with nerves of wire,Tough to the last, and with no toil to tire;Unconscionable vows, which, when we use,We teach the gods, in reason, to refuse.Suppose they were indulgent to thy wish,Yet the fat entrails in the spacious dishWould stop the grant; the very over-careAnd nauseous pomp, would hinder half the prayer.Thou hop'st with sacrifice of oxen slainTo compass wealth, and bribe the god of gainTo give thee flocks and herds, with large increase;Fool! to expect them from a bullock's grease!And think'st that when the fattened flames aspire,Thou see'st the accomplishment of thy desire!Now, now, my bearded harvest gilds the plain,}The scanty folds can scarce my sheep contain,}And showers of gold come pouring in amain!}Thus dreams the wretch, and vainly thus dreams on,Till his lank purse declares his money gone.Should I present them with rare figured plate,Or gold as rich in workmanship as weight;O how thy rising heart would throb and beat,And thy left side, with trembling pleasure, sweat!Thou measur'st by thyself the powers divine;Thy gods are burnished gold, and silver is their shrine.The puny godlings of inferior race,Whose humble statues are content with brass,Should some of these, in visions purged from phlegm,Foretel events, or in a morning dream;[200]Even those thou would'st in veneration hold,And, if not faces, give them beards of gold.The priests in temples now no longer careFor Saturn's brass,[201]or Numa's earthen ware;[202]Or vestal urns, in each religious rite;This wicked gold has put them all to flight.O souls, in whom no heavenly fire is found,Fat minds, and ever grovelling on the ground!We bring our manners to the blest abodes,And think what pleases us must please the gods.Of oil and cassia one the ingredients takes,And, of the mixture, a rich ointment makes;Another finds the way to dye in grain,And makes Calabrian wool[203]receive the Tyrian stain;Or from the shells their orient treasure takes,Or for their golden ore in rivers rakes,Then melts the mass. All these are vanities,Yet still some profit from their pains may rise:But tell me, priest, if I may be so bold,What are the gods the better for this gold?The wretch, that offers from his wealthy storeThese presents, bribes the powers to give him more;As maids to Venus offer baby-toys,[204]To bless the marriage-bed with girls and boys.But let us for the gods a gift prepare,Which the great man's great chargers cannot bear;A soul, where laws, both human and divine,In practice more than speculation shine;A genuine virtue, of a vigorous kind,Pure in the last recesses of the mind:When with such offerings to the gods I come,A cake, thus given, is worth a hecatomb.[205]

FOOTNOTES:[195]Note I.[196]Note II.[197]Note III.[198]Note IV.[199]Note V.[200]Note VI.[201]Note VII.[202]Note VIII.[203]Note IX.[204]Note X.[205]Note XI.

[195]Note I.

[196]Note II.

[197]Note III.

[198]Note IV.

[199]Note V.

[200]Note VI.

[201]Note VII.

[202]Note VIII.

[203]Note IX.

[204]Note X.

[205]Note XI.

Let this auspicious morning be exprestWith a white stone.——P.222.

The Romans were used to mark their fortunate days, or any thing that luckily befel them, with a white stone, which they had from the island Creta, and their unfortunate with a coal.

——Great Hercules,That once thy bounteous deity would pleaseTo guide my rake upon the chinking soundOf some vast treasure, hidden under ground.—P.222.

Hercules was thought to have the key and power of bestowing all hidden treasure.

In Tyber ducking thrice, by break of day,To wash the obscenities of night away.—P.223.

The ancients thought themselves tainted and polluted by night itself, as well as bad dreams in the night; and therefore purified themselves by washing their heads and hands every morning, which custom the Turks observe to this day.

Fit for Ergenna's prayer and sacrifice.—P.223.

When any one was thunderstruck, the soothsayer (who is here called Ergenna) immediately repaired to the place, to expiate the displeasure of the gods, by sacrificing two sheep.

Our superstitions with our life begin.—P.223.

The poet laughs at the superstitious ceremonies which the old women made use of in their lustration, or purification days, when they named their children, which was done on the eighth day to females, and on the ninth to males.

Should some of these, in visions purged from phlegm,Foretel events, or in a morning dream.—P.225.

It was the opinion both of Grecians and Romans, that the gods, in visions and dreams, often revealed to their favourites a cure for their diseases, and sometimes those of others. Thus Alexander dreamed of an herb which cured Ptolemy. These gods were principally Apollo and Esculapius; but, in aftertimes, the same virtue and good-will was attributed to Isis and Osiris. Which brings to my remembrance an odd passage in Sir Thomas Brown's Religio Medici, or in his Vulgar Errors; the sense whereof is, that we are beholden, for many of our discoveries in physic, to the courteous revelation of spirits. By the expression, of "visions purged from phlegm," our author means such dreams or visions as proceed not from natural causes, or humours of the body, but such as are sent from heaven; and are, therefore, certain remedies.

The priests in temples, now no longer careFor Saturn's brass.—P.225.

Brazen vessels, in which the public treasures of the Romans were kept: it may be the poet means only old vessels, which were called Κρονια, from the Greek name of Saturn. Note also, that the Roman treasury was in the temple of Saturn.

----Or Numa's earthen ware.—P.225.

Under Numa, the second king of Rome, and for a long time after him, the holy vessels for sacrifice were of earthen-ware; according to the superstitious rites which were introduced by the same Numa: though afterwards, when Memmius had taken Corinth, and Paulus Emilius had conquered Macedonia, luxury began amongst the Romans, and then their utensils of devotion were of gold and silver, &c.

And makes Calabrian wool, &c.—P.225.

The wool of Calabria was of the finest sort in Italy, as Juvenal also tells us. The Tyrian stain is the purple colour dyed at Tyrus; and I suppose, but dare not positively affirm, that the richest of that dye was nearest our crimson, and not scarlet, or that other colour more approaching to the blue. I have not room to justify my conjecture.

As maids to Venus offer baby-toys.—P.225.

Those baby-toys were little babies, or poppets, as we call them; in Latin, pupæ; which the girls, when they came to the age of puberty, or child bearing, offered to Venus; as the boys, at fourteen or fifteen, offered theirbullæ, or bosses.

A cake, thus given, is worth a hecatomb.—P.226.

A cake of barley, or coarse wheat-meal, with the bran in it. The meaning is, that God is pleased with the pure and spotless heart of the offerer, and not with the riches of the offering. Laberius, in the fragments of his "Mimes," has a verse like this—Puras,Deus, non plenas aspicit manus.—What I had forgotten before, in its due place, I must here tell the reader, that the first half of this satire was translated by one of my sons, now in Italy; but I thought so well of it, that I let it pass without any alteration.

THE ARGUMENT.

Our author has made two Satires concerning study, the first and thethird: the first related to men; this to young students, whom he desiredto be educated in the Stoic philosophy. He himself sustains theperson of the master, or preceptor, in this admirable Satire, wherehe upbraids the youth of sloth, and negligence in learning. Yet he beginswith one scholar reproaching his fellow-students with late rising totheir books. After which, he takes upon him the other part of the teacher;and, addressing himself particularly to young noblemen, tells them,that, by reason of their high birth, and the great possessions of theirfathers, they are careless of adorning their minds with precepts ofmoral philosophy: and, withal, inculcates to them the miserieswhich will attend them in the whole course of their life, if they donot apply themselves betimes to the knowledge of virtue, and the endof their creation, which he pathetically insinuates to them. The titleof this satire, in some ancient manuscripts, was, "the Reproach of Idleness;"though in others of the scholiasts it is inscribed, "Againstthe Luxury and Vices of the Rich." In both of which, the intentionof the poet is pursued, but principally in the former.[I remember I translated this satire when I was a king's scholar at Westminster school, for a Thursday-night's exercise; and believe, that it, and many other of my exercises of this nature in English verse, are still in the hands of my learned master, the Rev. Dr Busby.]

[I remember I translated this satire when I was a king's scholar at Westminster school, for a Thursday-night's exercise; and believe, that it, and many other of my exercises of this nature in English verse, are still in the hands of my learned master, the Rev. Dr Busby.]

Is this thy daily course? The glaring sun}Breaks in at every chink; the cattle run}To shades, and noon-tide rays of summer shun;}Yet plunged in sloth we lie, and snore supine,As filled with fumes of undigested wine.This grave advice some sober student bears,And loudly rings it in his fellow's ears.The yawning youth, scarce half awake, essaysHis lazy limbs and dozy head to raise;Then rubs his gummy eyes, and scrubs his pate,And cries,—I thought it had not been so late!My clothes, make haste!—why then, if none be near,He mutters, first, and then begins to swear;And brays aloud, with a more clamorous note,Than an Arcadian ass can stretch his throat.With much ado, his book before him laid,And parchment with the smoother side displayed,[206]He takes the papers; lays them down again,And with unwilling fingers tries the pen.Some peevish quarrel straight he strives to pick,His quill writes double, or his ink's too thick;Infuse more water,—now 'tis grown so thin,It sinks, nor can the characters be seen.O wretch, and still more wretched every day!Are mortals born to sleep their lives away?Go back to what thy infancy began,Thou, who wert never meant to be a man;Eat pap and spoon-meat, for thy gewgaws cry;Be sullen, and refuse the lullaby.No more accuse thy pen; but charge the crimeOn native sloth, and negligence of time.Think'st thou thy master, or thy friends, to cheat?Fool, 'tis thyself, and that's a worse deceit.Beware the public laughter of the town;Thou spring'st a leak already in thy crown;A flaw is in thy ill-baked vessel found;'Tis hollow, and returns a jarring sound.Yet thy moist clay is pliant to command,Unwrought, and easy to the potter's hand:Now take the mould; now bend thy mind to feelThe first sharp motions of the forming wheel.But thou hast land; a country seat, secureBy a just title; costly furniture;A fuming pan thy Lares to appease:[207]What need of learning when a man's at ease?If this be not enough to swell thy soul,Then please thy pride, and search the herald's roll,Where thou shalt find thy famous pedigree}Drawn from the root of some old Tuscan tree,[208]}And thou, a thousand off, a fool of long degree;}Who, clad in purple, can'st thy censor greet,[209]And loudly call him cousin in the street.Such pageantry be to the people shown:There boast thy horse's trappings, and thy own.I know thee to thy bottom, from withinThy shallow centre, to the utmost skin:Dost thou not blush to live so like a beast,So trim, so dissolute, so loosely drest?But 'tis in vain; the wretch is drenched too deep,His soul is stupid, and his heart asleep;Fattened in vice, so callous, and so gross,He sins, and sees not, senseless of his loss.Down goes the wretch at once, unskilled to swim,Hopeless to bubble up, and reach the water's brim.Great father of the gods, when for our crimesThou send'st some heavy judgment on the times;Some tyrant-king, the terror of his age,The type, and true vicegerent of thy rage;Thus punish him: set virtue in his sight,With all her charms, adorned with all her graces bright;But set her distant, make him pale to seeHis gains outweighed by lost felicity!Sicilian tortures, and the brazen bull,[210]Are emblems, rather than express the fullOf what he feels; yet what he fears is more:The wretch, who, sitting at his plenteous board,Looked up, and viewed on high the pointed swordHang o'er his head, and hanging by a twine,Did with less dread, and more securely dine.[211]Even in his sleep he starts, and fears the knife,And, trembling, in his arms takes his accomplice wife;Down, down he goes; and from his darling friendConceals the woes his guilty dreams portend.When I was young, I, like a lazy fool,Would blear my eyes with oil, to stay from school:Averse from pains, and loth to learn the partOf Cato, dying with a dauntless heart;Though much my master that stern virtue praised,Which o'er the vanquisher the vanquished raised;And my pleased father came with pride to seeHis boy defend the Roman liberty.But then my study was to cog the dice,And dexterously to throw the lucky sice;To shun ames-ace, that swept my stakes away,}And watch the box, for fear they should convey}False bones, and put upon me in the play;}Careful, besides, the whirling top to whip,And drive her giddy, till she fell asleep.Thy years are ripe, nor art thou yet to learnWhat's good or ill, and both their ends discern:Thou in the Stoic-porch,[212]severely bred,Hast heard the dogmas of great Zeno read;Where on the walls, by Polygnotus' hand,The conquered Medians in trunk-breeches stand;[213]Where the shorn youth to midnight lectures rise,Roused from their slumbers to be early wise;Where the coarse cake, and homely husks of beans,From pampering riot the young stomach weans;And where the Samian Y directs thy steps to runTo Virtue's narrow steep, and broad-way Vice to shun.[214]And yet thou snor'st, thou draw'st thy drunken breath,Sour with debauch, and sleep'st the sleep of death:Thy chaps are fallen, and thy frame disjoined;Thy body is dissolved as is thy mind.Hast thou not yet proposed some certain end,To which thy life, thy every act, may tend?Hast thou no mark, at which to bend thy bow?Or, like a boy, pursuest the carrion crowWith pellets, and with stones, from tree to tree,A fruitless toil, and livestextempore?Watch the disease in time; for when withinThe dropsy rages, and extends the skin,In vain for hellebore the patient cries,And fees the doctor, but too late is wise;Too late, for cure he proffers half his wealth;Conquest and Guibbons[215]cannot give him health.Learn, wretches, learn the motions of the mind,}Why you were made, for what you were designed,}And the great moral end of human kind.}Study thyself, what rank, or what degree,The wise Creator has ordained for thee;And all the offices of that estatePerform, and with thy prudence guide thy fate.Pray justly to be heard, nor more desireThan what the decencies of life require.Learn what thou owest thy country, and thy friend;What's requisite to spare, and what to spend:Learn this; and after, envy not the storeOf the greased advocate, that grinds the poor;Fat fees[216]from the defended Umbrian draws,And only gains the wealthy client's cause;To whom the Marsians more provision send,Than he and all his family can spend.Gammons, that give a relish to the taste,And potted fowl, and fish come in so fast,That ere the first is out, the second stinks,And mouldy mother gathers on the brinks.But here some captain of the land, or fleet,Stout of his hands, but of a soldier's wit,Cries,—I have sense to serve my turn in store,And he's a rascal who pretends to more.Damn me, whate'er those book-learned blockheads say,Solon's the veriest fool in all the play.Top-heavy drones, and always looking down,(As over ballasted within the crown,)Muttering betwixt their lips some mystic thing,Which, well examined, is flat conjuring;Mere madmen's dreams; for what the schools have taught,}Is only this, that nothing can be brought}From nothing, and what is can ne'er be turned to nought.}Is it for this they study? to grow pale,And miss the pleasures of a glorious meal?For this, in rags accoutered, are they seen,And made the may-game of the public spleen?—Proceed, my friend, and rail; but hear me tellA story, which is just thy parallel:—A spark, like thee, of the man-killing trade,Fell sick, and thus to his physician said,—Methinks I am not right in every part;I feel a kind of trembling at my heart,My pulse unequal, and my breath is strong,Besides a filthy fur upon my tongue.The doctor heard him, exercised his skill,And after bade him for four days be still.Three days he took good counsel, and beganTo mend, and look like a recovering man;The fourth he could not hold from drink, but sendsHis boy to one of his old trusty friends,Adjuring him, by all the powers divine,}To pity his distress, who could not dine}Without a flaggon of his healing wine.}He drinks a swilling draught; and, lined within,Will supple in the bath his outward skin:Whom should he find but his physician there,Who wisely bade him once again beware.Sir, you look wan, you hardly draw your breath;Drinking is dangerous, and the bath is death.'Tis nothing, says the fool; but, says the friend,This nothing, sir, will bring you to your end.Do I not see your dropsy belly swell?Your yellow skin?—No more of that; I'm well.I have already buried two or three}That stood betwixt a fair estate and me,}And, doctor, I may live to bury thee.}Thou tell'st me, I look ill; and thou look'st worse.I've done, says the physician; take your course.The laughing sot, like all unthinking men,Bathes, and gets drunk; then bathes, and drinks again:His throat half throttled with corrupted phlegm,And breathing through his jaws a belching steam,Amidst his cups with fainting shivering seized,His limbs disjointed, and all o'er diseased,His hand refuses to sustain the bowl,}And his teeth chatter, and his eye-balls roll,}Till with his meat he vomits out his soul;}Then trumpets, torches, and a tedious crewOf hireling mourners, for his funeral due.Our dear departed brother lies in state,}His heels stretched out, and pointing to the gate;[217]}And slaves, now manumized, on their dead master wait.}They hoist him on the bier, and deal the dole,And there's an end of a luxurious fool.But what's thy fulsome parable to me?My body is from all diseases free;My temperate pulse does regularly beat;}Feel, and be satisfied, my hands and feet:}These are not cold, nor those opprest with heat.}Or lay thy hand upon my naked heart,And thou shalt find me hale in every part.I grant this true; but still the deadly woundIs in thy soul, 'tis there thou art not sound.Say, when thou see'st a heap of tempting gold,Or a more tempting harlot dost behold;Then, when she casts on thee a side-long glance,Then try thy heart, and tell me if it dance.Some coarse cold sallad is before thee set;}Bread with the bran, perhaps, and broken meat;}Fall on, and try thy appetite to eat.}These are not dishes for thy dainty tooth:What, hast thou got an ulcer in thy mouth?Why stand'st thou picking? Is thy palate sore,That bete and radishes will make thee roar?Such is the unequal temper of thy mind,Thy passions in extremes, and unconfined;Thy hair so bristles with unmanly fears,As fields of corn, that rise in bearded ears;And when thy cheeks with flushing fury glow,}The rage of boiling cauldrons is more slow,}When fed with fuel and with flames below.}With foam upon thy lips and sparkling eyes,Thou say'st, and dost, in such outrageous wise,That mad Orestes,[218]if he saw the show,Would swear thou wert the madder of the two.

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