THETHIRD SATIREOFJUVENAL.

The Poet gives us first a kind of humorous reason for his writing: thatbeing provoked by hearing so many ill poets rehearse their works, hedoes himself justice on them, by giving them as bad as they bring.But since no man will rank himself with ill writers, it is easy toconclude, that if such wretches could draw an audience, he thoughtit no hard matter to excel them, and gain a greater esteem with thepublic. Next, he informs us more openly, why he rather addictshimself to satire than any other kind of poetry. And here he discovers,that it is not so much his indignation to ill poets as to illmen, which has prompted him to write. He, therefore, gives us asummary and general view of the vices and follies reigning in histime. So that this first satire is the natural ground-work of all therest. Herein he confines himself to no one subject, but strikes indifferentlyat all men in his way. In every following satire he has chosensome particular moral which he would inculcate; and lashessome particular vice or folly, (an art with which our lampoonersare not much acquainted). But our poet being desirous to reformhis own age, and not daring to attempt it by an overt-act of namingliving persons, inveighs only against those who were infamous in thetimes immediately preceding his, whereby he not only gives a fairwarning to great men, that their memory lies at the mercy of futurepoets and historians, but also, with a finer stroke of his pen, brandseven the living, and personates them under dead men's names.I have avoided, as much as I could possibly, the borrowed learning ofmarginal notes and illustrations, and for that reason have translatedthis satire somewhat largely; and freely own, (if it be a fault,)that I have likewise omitted most of the proper names, because Ithought they would not much edify the reader. To conclude, if intwo or three places I have deserted all the commentators, it is becauseI thought they first deserted my author, or at least have lefthim in so much obscurity, that too much room is left for guessing.

I have avoided, as much as I could possibly, the borrowed learning ofmarginal notes and illustrations, and for that reason have translatedthis satire somewhat largely; and freely own, (if it be a fault,)that I have likewise omitted most of the proper names, because Ithought they would not much edify the reader. To conclude, if intwo or three places I have deserted all the commentators, it is becauseI thought they first deserted my author, or at least have lefthim in so much obscurity, that too much room is left for guessing.

Still shall I hear, and never quit the score,Stunned with hoarse Codrus'[51]Theseid, o'er and o'er?Shall this man's elegies and t'other's playUnpunished murder a long summer's day?Huge Telephus,[52]a formidable page,Cries vengeance; and Orestes'[53]bulky rage,Unsatisfied with margins closely writ,Foams o'er the covers, and not finished yet.No man can take a more familiar noteOf his own home, than I of Vulcan's grott,Or Mars his grove,[54]or hollow winds that blowFrom Ætna's top, or tortured ghosts below.I know by rote the famed exploits of Greece,The Centaurs' fury, and the Golden Fleece;Through the thick shades the eternal scribbler bawls,And shakes the statues on their pedestals.The best and worst[55]on the same theme employsHis muse, and plagues us with an equal noise.Provoked by these incorrigible fools,I left declaiming in pedantic schools;Where, with men-boys, I strove to get renown,Advising Sylla to a private gown.[56]But, since the world with writing is possest,}I'll versify in spite; and do my best,}To make as much waste paper as the rest.}But why I lift aloft the satire's rod,And tread the path which famed Lucilius[57]trod,Attend the causes which my muse have led:—When sapless eunuchs mount the marriage-bed;When mannish Mævia,[58]that two-handed whore,Astride on horseback hunts the Tuscan boar;When all our lords are by his wealth outvied,Whose razor on my callow beard was tried;[59]When I behold the spawn of conquered Nile,Crispinus, both in birth and manners vile,[60]Pacing in pomp, with cloak of Tyrian dye,Changed oft a-day for needless luxury;And finding oft occasion to be fanned,Ambitious to produce his lady-hand;Charged with light summer-rings his fingers sweat,[61]Unable to support a gem of weight:Such fulsome objects meeting every where,'Tis hard to write, but harder to forbear.To view so lewd a town, and to refrain,What hoops of iron could my spleen contain!When pleading Matho, borne abroad for air,[62]With his fat paunch fills his new-fashioned chair,And after him the wretch in pomp conveyed,Whose evidence his lord and friend betrayed,And but the wished occasion does attend}From the poor nobles the last spoils to rend,}Whom even spies dread as their superior fiend,}And bribe with presents; or, when presents fail,They send their prostituted wives for bail:When night-performance holds the place of merit,And brawn and back the next of kin disherit;(For such good parts are in preferment's way,)The rich old madam never fails to payHer legacies, by nature's standard given,One gains an ounce, another gains eleven:A dear-bought bargain, all things duly weighed,For which their thrice concocted blood is paid.With looks as wan, as he who in the brakeAt unawares has trod upon a snake;Or played at Lyons a declaiming prize,For which the vanquished rhetorician dies.[63]What indignation boils within my veins,}When perjured guardians, proud with impious gains,}Choke up the streets, too narrow for their trains!}Whose wards, by want betrayed, to crimes are ledToo foul to name, too fulsome to be read!When he who pilled his province 'scapes the laws,And keeps his money, though he lost his cause;His fine begged off, contemns his infamy,Can rise at twelve, and get him drunk ere three;Enjoys his exile, and, condemned in vain,Leaves thee, prevailing province, to complain.[64]Such villanies roused Horace into wrath;And tis more noble to pursue his path,[65]Than an old tale of Diomede to repeat,}Or labouring after Hercules to sweat,}Or wandering in the winding maze of Crete;}Or with the winged smith aloft to fly,Or fluttering perish with his foolish boy.With what impatience must the muse beholdThe wife, by her procuring husband sold?For though the law makes null the adulterer's deedOf lands to her, the cuckold may succeed,Who his taught eyes up to the ceiling throws,And sleeps all over but his wakeful nose.When he dares hope a colonel's command,Whose coursers kept, ran out his father's land;Who yet a stripling, Nero's chariot drove,}Whirled o'er the streets, while his vain master strove}With boasted art to please his eunuch love[66]}Would it not make a modest author dareTo draw his table-book within the square,And fill with notes, when, lolling at his ease,Mecænas-like,[67]the happy rogue he seesBorne by six wearied slaves in open view,Who cancelled an old will, and forged a new;Made wealthy at the small expence of signingWith a wet seal, and a fresh interlining?The lady, next, requires a lashing line,Who squeezed a toad into her husband's wine:So well the fashionable medicine thrives,That now 'tis practised even by country wives;Poisoning, without regard of fame or fear,And spotted corpse are frequent on the bier.Wouldst thou to honours and preferments climb?Be bold in mischief, dare some mighty crime,Which dungeons, death, or banishment deserves;For virtue is but dryly praised, and starves.Great men to great crimes owe their plate embost,}Fair palaces, and furniture of cost,}And high commands; a sneaking sin is lost.}Who can behold that rank old letcher keepHis son's corrupted wife, and hope to sleep?[68]Or that male-harlot, or that unfledged boy,Eager to sin, before he can enjoy?If nature could not, anger would inditeSuch woful stuff as I or Sh——ll[69]write.Count from the time, since old Deucalion's boat,Raised by the flood, did on Parnassus float,[70]And, scarcely mooring on the cliff, imploredAn oracle how man might be restored;When softened stones and vital breath ensued,And virgins naked were by lovers viewed;What ever since that golden age was done,What human kind desires, and what they shun;Rage, passions, pleasures, impotence of will,Shall this satirical collection fill.What age so large a crop of vices bore,Or when was avarice extended more?When were the dice with more profusion thrown?The well-filled fob not emptied now alone,But gamesters for whole patrimonies play;The steward brings the deeds which must conveyThe lost estate: what more than madness reigns,When one short sitting many hundreds drains,And not enough is left him to supply}Board-wages, or a footman's livery?}What age so many summer-seats did see?}Or which of our forefathers fared so well,As on seven dishes at a private meal?Clients of old were feasted; now, a poorDivided dole is dealt at the outward door;Which by the hungry rout is soon dispatched:The paltry largess, too, severely watched,Ere given; and every face observed with care,That no intruding guest usurp a share.Known, you receive; the crier calls aloud}Our old nobility of Trojan blood,}Who gape among the crowd for their precarious food.}The prætor's and the tribune's voice is heard;The freedman jostles, and will be preferred;First come, first served, he cries; and I, in spiteOf your great lordships, will maintain my right;Though born a slave, though my torn ears are bored,[71]'Tis not the birth, 'tis money makes the lord.The rents of five fair houses I receive;What greater honours can the purple give?The poor patrician is reduced to keep,In melancholy walks, a grazier's sheep:Not Pallus nor Licinius[72]had my treasure;Then let the sacred tribunes wait my leisure.Once a poor rogue, 'tis true, I trod the street,And trudged to Rome upon my naked feet:Gold is the greatest God; though yet we seeNo temples raised to money's majesty;No altars fuming to her power divine,Such as to valour, peace, and virtue shine,And faith, and concord; where the stork on high[73]}Seems to salute her infant progeny,}Presaging pious love with her auspicious cry.—}But since our knights and senators account,To what their sordid begging vails amount,Judge what a wretched share the poor attends,Whose whole subsistence on those alms depends!Their household fire, their raiment, and their food,Prevented by those harpies;[74]when a woodOf litters thick besiege the donor's gate,And begging lords and teeming ladies waitThe promised dole; nay, some have learned the trickTo beg for absent persons; feign them sick,Close mewed in their sedans, for fear of air;}And for their wives produce an empty chair.}This is my spouse; dispatch her with her share;}'Tis Galla.—Let her ladyship but peep.—No, sir, 'tis pity to disturb her sleep.[75]Such fine employments our whole days divide:The salutations of the morning tideCall up the sun; those ended, to the hallWe wait the patron, hear the lawyers bawl;Then to the statues; where amidst the race}Of conquering Rome, some Arab shows his face,}Inscribed with titles, and profanes the place;[76]}Fit to be pissed against, and somewhat more.The great man, home conducted, shuts his door.Old clients, wearied out with fruitless care,Dismiss their hopes of eating, and despair;Though much against the grain, forced to retire,Buy roots for supper, and provide a fire.Meantime his lordship lolls within at ease,Pampering his paunch with foreign rarities;Both sea and land are ransacked for the feast,And his own gut the sole invited guest.Such plate, such tables, dishes dressed so well,That whole estates are swallowed at a meal.Even parasites are banished from his board;(At once a sordid and luxurious lord;)Prodigious throat, for which whole boars are drest;(A creature formed to furnish out a feast.)But present punishment pursues his maw,When, surfeited and swelled, the peacock rawHe bears into the bath; whence want of breath,Repletions, apoplex, intestate death.His fate makes table-talk, divulged with scorn,And he, a jest, into his grave is borne.No age can go beyond us; future timesCan add no farther to the present crimes.Our sons but the same things can wish and do;}Vice is at stand, and at the highest flow.}Then, Satire, spread thy sails, take all the winds can blow!}Some may, perhaps, demand what muse can yieldSufficient strength for such a spacious field?From whence can be derived so large a vein,Bold truths to speak, and spoken to maintain,When godlike freedom is so far bereftThe noble mind, that scarce the name is left?Erescandalum magnatumwas begot,No matter if the great forgave or not;But if that honest licence now you take,}If into rogues omnipotent you rake,}Death is your doom, impaled upon a stake;}Smeared o'er with wax, and set on fire, to lightThe streets, and make a dreadful blaze by night.Shall they, who drenched three uncles in a draughtOf poisonous juice, be then in triumph brought,Make lanes among the people where they go,}And, mounted high on downy chariots, throw}Disdainful glances on the crowd below?}Be silent, and beware, if such you see;'Tis defamation but to say, That's he!Against bold Turnus the great Trojan arm,Amidst their strokes the poet gets no harm:Achilles may in epic verse be slain,And none of all his myrmidons complain:Hylas may drop his pitcher, none will cry,Not if he drown himself for company;But when Lucilius brandishes his pen,And flashes in the face of guilty men,A cold sweat stands in drops on every part,And rage succeeds to tears, revenge to smart.[77]Muse, be advised; 'tis past considering time,When entered once the dangerous lists of rhime;Since none the living villains dare implead,Arraign them in the persons of the dead.

FOOTNOTES:[51]Codrus, or it may be Cordus, a bad poet, who wrote the life and actions of Theseus.—[This and almost all the following notes are taken from Dryden's first edition. Those which are supplied by the present Editor, are distinguished by the letter E.][52]The name of a tragedy.[53]Another tragedy.[54]Some commentators take this grove to be a place where poets were used to repeat their works to the people; but more probably, both this and Vulcan's grott, or cave, and the rest of the places and names here mentioned, are only meant for the common places of Homer in his Iliads and Odyssies.[55]That is, the best and the worst poets.[56]This was one of the themes given in the schools of rhetoricians, in the deliberative kind; whether Sylla should lay down the supreme power of dictatorship, or still keep it?[57]Lucilius, the first satirist of the Romans, who wrote long before Horace.[58]Mævia, a name put for any impudent or mannish woman.[59]Juvenal's barber, now grown wealthy.[60]Crispinus, an Egyptian slave; now, by his riches, transformed into a nobleman.[61]The Romans were grown so effeminate in Juvenal's time, that they wore light rings in the summer, and heavier in the winter.[62]Matho, a famous lawyer, mentioned in other places by Juvenal and Martial.[63]Lyons, a city in France, where annual sacrifices and games were made in honour of Augustus Cæsar.[64]Here the poet complains, that the governors of provinces being accused for their unjust exactions, though they were condemned at their trials, yet got off by bribery.[65]Horace, who wrote satires; it is more noble, says our author, to imitate him in that way, than to write the labours of Hercules, the sufferings of Diomedes and his followers, or the flight of Dædalus, who made the Labyrinth, and the death of his son Icarus.[66]Nero married Sporus, an eunuch; though it may be, the poet meant Nero's mistress in man's apparel.[67]Mecænas is often taxed by Seneca and others for his effeminacy.[68]The meaning is, that the very consideration of such a crime will hinder a virtuous man from taking his repose.[69]Shadwell, our author's old enemy.—E.[70]Deucalion and Pyrrha, when the world was drowned, escaped to the top of Mount Parnassus, and were commanded to restore mankind, by throwing stones over their heads; the stones he threw became men, and those she threw became women.[71]The ears of all slaves were bored, as a mark of their servitude; which custom is still usual in the East Indies, and in other parts, even for whole nations, who bore prodigious holes in their ears, and wear vast weights at them.[72]Pallus, a slave freed by Claudius Cæsar, and raised by his favour to great riches. Licinius was another wealthy freedman belonging to Augustus.[73]Perhaps the storks were used to build on the top of the temple dedicated to Concord.[74]He calls the Roman knights, &c. harpies, or devourers. In those days, the rich made doles intended for the poor; but the great were either so covetous, or so needy, that they came in their litters to demand their shares of the largess; and thereby prevented, and consequently starved, the poor.[75]The meaning is, that noblemen would cause empty litters to be carried to the giver's door, pretending their wives were within them. "'Tis Galla," that is, my wife; the next words, "Let her ladyship but peep," are of the servant who distributes the dole; "Let me see her, that I may be sure she is within the litter." The husband answers, "She is asleep, and to open the litter would disturb her rest."[76]The poet here tells you how the idle passed their time; in going first to the levees of the great; then to the hall, that is, to the temple of Apollo, to hear the lawyers plead; then to the market-place of Augustus, where the statues of the famous Romans were set in ranks on pedestals; amongst which statues were seen those of foreigners, such as Arabs, &c. who, for no desert, but only on account of their wealth or favour, were placed amongst the noblest.[77]A poet may safely write an heroic poem, such as that of Virgil, who describes the duel of Turnus and Æneas; or of Homer, who writes of Achilles and Hector; or the death of Hylas, the catamite of Hercules, who, stooping for water, dropt his pitcher, and fell into the well after it: but it is dangerous to write satire, like Lucilius.

[51]Codrus, or it may be Cordus, a bad poet, who wrote the life and actions of Theseus.—[This and almost all the following notes are taken from Dryden's first edition. Those which are supplied by the present Editor, are distinguished by the letter E.]

[52]The name of a tragedy.

[53]Another tragedy.

[54]Some commentators take this grove to be a place where poets were used to repeat their works to the people; but more probably, both this and Vulcan's grott, or cave, and the rest of the places and names here mentioned, are only meant for the common places of Homer in his Iliads and Odyssies.

[55]That is, the best and the worst poets.

[56]This was one of the themes given in the schools of rhetoricians, in the deliberative kind; whether Sylla should lay down the supreme power of dictatorship, or still keep it?

[57]Lucilius, the first satirist of the Romans, who wrote long before Horace.

[58]Mævia, a name put for any impudent or mannish woman.

[59]Juvenal's barber, now grown wealthy.

[60]Crispinus, an Egyptian slave; now, by his riches, transformed into a nobleman.

[61]The Romans were grown so effeminate in Juvenal's time, that they wore light rings in the summer, and heavier in the winter.

[62]Matho, a famous lawyer, mentioned in other places by Juvenal and Martial.

[63]Lyons, a city in France, where annual sacrifices and games were made in honour of Augustus Cæsar.

[64]Here the poet complains, that the governors of provinces being accused for their unjust exactions, though they were condemned at their trials, yet got off by bribery.

[65]Horace, who wrote satires; it is more noble, says our author, to imitate him in that way, than to write the labours of Hercules, the sufferings of Diomedes and his followers, or the flight of Dædalus, who made the Labyrinth, and the death of his son Icarus.

[66]Nero married Sporus, an eunuch; though it may be, the poet meant Nero's mistress in man's apparel.

[67]Mecænas is often taxed by Seneca and others for his effeminacy.

[68]The meaning is, that the very consideration of such a crime will hinder a virtuous man from taking his repose.

[69]Shadwell, our author's old enemy.—E.

[70]Deucalion and Pyrrha, when the world was drowned, escaped to the top of Mount Parnassus, and were commanded to restore mankind, by throwing stones over their heads; the stones he threw became men, and those she threw became women.

[71]The ears of all slaves were bored, as a mark of their servitude; which custom is still usual in the East Indies, and in other parts, even for whole nations, who bore prodigious holes in their ears, and wear vast weights at them.

[72]Pallus, a slave freed by Claudius Cæsar, and raised by his favour to great riches. Licinius was another wealthy freedman belonging to Augustus.

[73]Perhaps the storks were used to build on the top of the temple dedicated to Concord.

[74]He calls the Roman knights, &c. harpies, or devourers. In those days, the rich made doles intended for the poor; but the great were either so covetous, or so needy, that they came in their litters to demand their shares of the largess; and thereby prevented, and consequently starved, the poor.

[75]The meaning is, that noblemen would cause empty litters to be carried to the giver's door, pretending their wives were within them. "'Tis Galla," that is, my wife; the next words, "Let her ladyship but peep," are of the servant who distributes the dole; "Let me see her, that I may be sure she is within the litter." The husband answers, "She is asleep, and to open the litter would disturb her rest."

[76]The poet here tells you how the idle passed their time; in going first to the levees of the great; then to the hall, that is, to the temple of Apollo, to hear the lawyers plead; then to the market-place of Augustus, where the statues of the famous Romans were set in ranks on pedestals; amongst which statues were seen those of foreigners, such as Arabs, &c. who, for no desert, but only on account of their wealth or favour, were placed amongst the noblest.

[77]A poet may safely write an heroic poem, such as that of Virgil, who describes the duel of Turnus and Æneas; or of Homer, who writes of Achilles and Hector; or the death of Hylas, the catamite of Hercules, who, stooping for water, dropt his pitcher, and fell into the well after it: but it is dangerous to write satire, like Lucilius.

THE ARGUMENT.

The story of this satire speaks itself. Umbritius, the supposedfriend of Juvenal, and himself a poet, is leaving Rome, and retiringto Cumæ. Our author accompanies him out of town.Before they take leave of each other, Umbritius tells his friendthe reasons which oblige him to lead a private life, in an obscureplace. He complains, that an honest man cannot get his bread atRome; that none but flatterers make their fortunes there; thatGrecians, and other foreigners, raise themselves by those sordidarts which he describes, and against which he bitterly inveighs.He reckons up the several inconveniences which arise from a citylife, and the many dangers which attend it; upbraids the noblemenwith covetousness, for not rewarding good poets; and arraignsthe government for starving them. The great art of thissatire is particularly shown in common-places; and drawing inas many vices, as could naturally fall into the compass of it.

Grieved though I am an ancient friend to lose,}I like the solitary seat he chose,}In quiet Cumæ[78]fixing his repose:}Where, far from noisy Rome, secure he lives,And one more citizen to Sybil gives;The road to Baiæ,[79]and that soft recessWhich all the gods with all their bounty bless;Though I in Prochyta[80]with greater easeCould live, than in a street of palaces.What scene so desert, or so full of fright,}As towering houses, tumbling in the night,}And Rome on fire beheld by its own blazing light?}But worse than all the clattering tiles, and worseThan thousand padders, is the poet's curse;Rogues, that in dog-days cannot rhyme forbear,[81]But without mercy read, and make you hear.Now while my friend, just ready to depart,Was packing all his goods in one poor cart,He stopt a little at the Conduit-gate,Where Numa modelled once the Roman state,[82]In mighty councils with his nymph retired;[83]Though now the sacred shades and founts are hiredBy banished Jews, who their whole wealth can layIn a small basket, on a wisp of hay;[84]Yet such our avarice is, that every treePays for his head, nor sleep itself is free;Nor place, nor persons, now are sacred held,From their own grove the muses are expelled.Into this lonely vale our steps we bend,I and my sullen discontented friend;The marble caves and aqueducts we view;But how adulterate now, and different from the true!How much more beauteous had the fountain beenEmbellished with her first created green,Where crystal streams through living turf had run,Contented with an urn of native stone!Then thus Umbritius, with an angry frown,And looking back on this degenerate town:—Since noble arts in Rome have no support,And ragged virtue not a friend at court,No profit rises from the ungrateful stage,My poverty encreasing with my age;'Tis time to give my just disdain a vent,And, cursing, leave so base a government.Where Dædalus his borrowed wings laid by,[85]To that obscure retreat I chuse to fly:While yet few furrows on my face are seen,}While I walk upright, and old age is green,}And Lachesis has somewhat left to spin.[86]}Now, now 'tis time to quit this cursed place,And hide from villains my too honest face:Here let Arturius live,[87]and such as he;Such manners will with such a town agree.Knaves, who in full assemblies have the knackOf turning truth to lies, and white to black,Can hire large houses, and oppress the poorBy farmed excise; can cleanse the common-shore,And rent the fishery; can bear the dead,}And teach their eyes dissembled tears to shed;}All this for gain; for gain they sell their very head.}These fellows (see what fortune's power can do!)Were once the minstrels of a country show;Followed the prizes through each paltry town,By trumpet-cheeks and bloated faces known.But now, grown rich, on drunken holidays,At their own costs exhibit public plays;Where, influenced by the rabble's bloody will,With thumbs bent back, they popularly kill.[88]From thence returned, their sordid avarice rakesIn excrements again, and hires the jakes.Why hire they not the town, not every thing,Since such as they have fortune in a string,Who, for her pleasure, can her fools advance,And toss them topmost on the wheel of chance?What's Rome to me, what business have I there?I who can neither lie, nor falsely swear?Nor praise my patron's undeserving rhymes,Nor yet comply with him, nor with his times?Unskilled in schemes by planets to foreshow,Like canting rascals, how the wars will go:I neither will, nor can, prognosticateTo the young gaping heir, his father's fate;Nor in the entrails of a toad have pried,Nor carried bawdy presents to a bride:For want of these town-virtues, thus aloneI go, conducted on my way by none;Like a dead member from the body rent,Maimed, and unuseful to the government.Who now is loved, but he who loves the times,Conscious of close intrigues, and dipt in crimes,Labouring with secrets which his bosom burn,Yet never must to public light return?They get reward alone, who can betray;For keeping honest counsels none will pay.He who can Verres[89]when he will accuse,The purse of Verres may at pleasure use:But let not all the gold which Tagus hides,And pays the sea in tributary tides,[90]Be bribe sufficient to corrupt thy breast,Or violate with dreams thy peaceful rest.Great men with jealous eyes the friend behold,Whose secrecy they purchase with their gold.I haste to tell thee,—nor shall shame oppose,—What confidents our wealthy Romans chose;And whom I must abhor: to speak my mind,I hate, in Rome, a Grecian town to find;To see the scum of Greece transplanted here,Received like gods, is what I cannot bear.Nor Greeks alone, but Syrians here abound;Obscene Orontes,[91]diving under ground,Conveys his wealth to Tyber's hungry shores,And fattens Italy with foreign whores:Hither their crooked harps and customs come;All find receipt in hospitable Rome.The barbarous harlots crowd the public place:—}Go, fools, and purchase an unclean embrace;}The painted mitre court, and the more painted face.}Old Romulus,[92]and father Mars, look down!}Your herdsman primitive, your homely clown,}Is turned a beau in a loose tawdry gown.}His once unkem'd and horrid locks, behold'Stilling sweet oil; his neck enchained with gold;Aping the foreigners in every dress,Which, bought at greater cost, becomes him less.Meantime they wisely leave their native land;From Sycion, Samos, and from Alaband,And Amydon, to Rome they swarm in shoals:So sweet and easy is the gain from fools.Poor refugees at first, they purchase here;And, soon as denizened, they domineer;Grow to the great, a flattering, servile rout,Work themselves inward, and their patrons out.Quick-witted, brazen-faced, with fluent tongues,Patient of labours, and dissembling wrongs.Riddle me this, and guess him if you can,Who bears a nation in a single man?A cook, a conjurer, a rhetorician,}A painter, pedant, a geometrician,}A dancer on the ropes, and a physician;}All things the hungry Greek exactly knows,And bid him go to heaven, to heaven he goes.In short, no Scythian, Moor, or Thracian born,But in that town which arms and arts adorn.[93]Shall he be placed above me at the board,In purple clothed, and lolling like a lord?Shall he before me sign, whom t'other day}A small-craft vessel hither did convey,}Where, stowed with prunes, and rotten figs, he lay?}How little is the privilege becomeOf being born a citizen of Rome!The Greeks get all by fulsome flatteries;A most peculiar stroke they have at lies.They make a wit of their insipid friend,His blubber-lips and beetle-brows commend,His long crane-neck and narrow shoulders praise,—You'd think they were describing Hercules.A creaking voice for a clear treble goes;Though harsher than a cock, that treads and crows.We can as grossly praise; but, to our grief,No flattery but from Grecians gains belief.Besides these qualities, we must agree,They mimic better on the stage than we:The wife, the whore, the shepherdess, they play,In such a free, and such a graceful way,That we believe a very woman shown,And fancy something underneath the gown.But not Antiochus, nor Stratocles,[94]}Our ears and ravished eyes can only please;}The nation is composed of such as these.}All Greece is one comedian; laugh, and theyReturn it louder than an ass can bray;Grieve, and they grieve; if you weep silently,}There seems a silent echo in their eye;}They cannot mourn like you, but they can cry.}Call for a fire, their winter clothes they take;Begin but you to shiver, and they shake;In frost and snow, if you complain of heat,They rub the unsweating brow, and swear they sweat.We live not on the square with such as these;Such are our betters who can better please;Who day and night are like a looking-glass,Still ready to reflect their patron's face;The panegyric hand, and lifted eye,Prepared for some new piece of flattery.Even nastiness occasions will afford;They praise a belching, or well-pissing lord.Besides, there's nothing sacred, nothing freeFrom bold attempts of their rank lechery.Through the whole family their labours run;}The daughter is debauched, the wife is won;}Nor 'scapes the bridegroom, or the blooming son.}If none they find for their lewd purpose fit,They with the walls and very floors commit.They search the secrets of the house, and soAre worshipped there, and feared for what they know.And, now we talk of Grecians, cast a view}On what, in schools, their men of morals do.}A rigid stoick his own pupil slew;}A friend, against a friend of his own cloth,Turned evidence, and murdered on his oath.[95]What room is left for Romans in a townWhere Grecians rule, and cloaks controul the gown?Some Diphilus, or some Protogenes,[96]Look sharply out, our senators to seize;Engross them wholly, by their native art,And fear no rivals in their bubbles' heart:One drop of poison in my patron's ear,One slight suggestion of a senseless fear,Infused with cunning, serves to ruin me;Disgraced, and banished from the family.In vain forgotten services I boast;My long dependence in an hour is lost.Look round the world, what country will appear,Where friends are left with greater ease than here?At Rome (nor think me partial to the poor)All offices of ours are out of door:In vain we rise, and to the levees run;My lord himself is up before, and gone:The prætor bids his lictors mend their pace,Lest his colleague outstrip him in the race.The childless matrons are, long since, awake,And for affronts the tardy visits take.'Tis frequent here to see a free-born sonOn the left hand of a rich hireling run;Because the wealthy rogue can throw away,For half a brace of bouts, a tribune's pay;But you, poor sinner, though you love the vice,And like the whore, demur upon the price;And, frighted with the wicked sum, forbearTo lend a hand, and help her from the chair.Produce a witness of unblemished life,Holy as Numa, or as Numa's wife,Or him who bid the unhallowed flames retire,And snatched the trembling goddess from the fire;[97]The question is not put how far extendsHis piety, but what he yearly spends;Quick, to the business; how he lives and eats;How largely gives; how splendidly he treats;How many thousand acres feed his sheep;What are his rents; what servants does he keep?The account is soon cast up; the judges rateOur credit in the court by our estate.Swear by our gods, or those the Greeks adore,Thou art as sure forsworn, as thou art poor:The poor must gain their bread by perjury;}And e'en the gods, that other means deny,}In conscience must absolve them, when they lie.}Add, that the rich have still a gibe in store,And will be monstrous witty on the poor;For the torn surtout and the tattered vest,The wretch and all his wardrobe, are a jest;The greasy gown, sullied with often turning,Gives a good hint, to say,—The man's in mourning;Or, if the shoe be ripped, or patches put,—He's wounded! see the plaister on his foot.Want is the scorn of every wealthy fool,And wit in rags is turned to ridicule.Pack hence, and from the covered benches rise,(The master of the ceremonies cries,)This is no place for you, whose small estateIs not the value of the settled rate;The sons of happy punks, the pandar's heir,}Are privileged to sit in triumph there,}To clap the first, and rule the theatre.}Up to the galleries, for shame, retreat;For, by the Roscian law,[98]the poor can claim no seat.—Who ever brought to his rich daughter's bed,The man that polled but twelve pence for his head?Who ever named a poor man for his heir,Or called him to assist the judging chair?The poor were wise, who, by the rich oppressed,Withdrew, and sought a secret place of rest.[99]Once they did well, to free themselves from scorn;But had done better, never to return.Rarely they rise by virtue's aid, who liePlunged in the depth of helpless poverty.At Rome 'tis worse, where house-rent by the year,}And servants' bellies, cost so devilish dear,}And tavern-bills run high for hungry cheer.}To drink or eat in earthen-ware we scorn,}Which cheaply country-cupboards does adorn,}And coarse blue hoods on holidays are worn.}Some distant parts of Italy are known,Where none but only dead men wear a gown;[100]On theatres of turf, in homely state,Old plays they act, old feasts they celebrate;The same rude song returns upon the crowd,And, by tradition, is for wit allowed.The mimic yearly gives the same delights;And in the mother's arms the clownish infant frights.Their habits (undistinguished by degree)}Are plain, alike; the same simplicity,}Both on the stage, and in the pit, you see.}In his white cloak the magistrate appears;The country bumpkin the same livery wears.But here attired beyond our purse we go,For useless ornament and flaunting show;We take on trust, in purple robes to shine,And poor, are yet ambitious to be fine.This is a common vice, though all things hereAre sold, and sold unconscionably dear.What will you give that Cossus[101]may but viewYour face, and in the crowd distinguish you;May take your incense like a gracious God,And answer only with a civil nod?To please our patrons, in this vicious age,We make our entrance by the favourite page;Shave his first down, and when he polls his hair,The consecrated locks to temples bear;Pay tributary cracknels, which he sells,And with our offerings help to raise his vails.Who fears in country-towns a house's fall,Or to be caught betwixt a riven wall?But we inhabit a weak city here,Which buttresses and props but scarcely bear;And 'tis the village-mason's daily calling,To keep the world's metropolis from falling,To cleanse the gutters, and the chinks to close,And, for one night, secure his lord's repose.At Cumæ we can sleep quite round the year,Nor falls, nor fires, nor nightly dangers fear;While rolling flames from Roman turrets fly,And the pale citizens for buckets cry.Thy neighbour has removed his wretched store,Few hands will rid the lumber of the poor;Thy own third story smokes, while thou, supine,Art drenched in fumes of undigested wine.For if the lowest floors already burn,Cock-lofts and garrets soon will take the turn,Where thy tame pigeons next the tiles were bred,[102]Which, in their nests unsafe, are timely fled.Codrus[103]had but one bed, so short to boot,That his short wife's short legs hung dangling out;His cupboard's head six earthen pitchers graced,Beneath them was his trusty tankard placed;And, to support this noble plate, there layA bending Chiron cast from honest clay;His few Greek books a rotten chest contained,Whose covers much of mouldiness complained;Where mice and rats devoured poetic bread,And with heroic verse luxuriously were fed.'Tis true, poor Codrus nothing had to boast,And yet poor Codrus all that nothing lost;Begged naked through the streets of wealthy Rome,And found not one to feed, or take him home.But, if the palace of Arturius burn,The nobles change their clothes, the matrons mourn;The city-prætor will no pleadings hear;}The very name of fire we hate and fear,}And look aghast, as if the Gauls were here.}While yet it burns, the officious nation flies,Some to condole, and some to bring supplies.One sends him marble to rebuild, and oneWhite naked statues of the Parian stone,The work of Polyclete, that seem to live;While others images for altars give;One books and skreens, and Pallas to the breast;Another bags of gold, and he gives best.Childless Arturius, vastly rich before,Thus, by his losses, multiplies his store;Suspected for accomplice to the fire,That burnt his palace but to build it higher.But, could you be content to bid adieuTo the dear playhouse, and the players too,Sweet country-seats are purchased every where,}With lands and gardens, at less price than here}You hire a darksome dog-hole by the year.}A small convenience decently prepared,A shallow well, that rises in your yard,That spreads his easy crystal streams around,And waters all the pretty spot of ground.There, love the fork, thy garden cultivate,And give thy frugal friends a Pythagorean treat;[104]'Tis somewhat to be lord of some small ground,In which a lizard may, at least, turn round.'Tis frequent here, for want of sleep, to die,}Which fumes of undigested feasts deny,}And, with imperfect heat, in languid stomachs fry.}What house secure from noise the poor can keep,When even the rich can scarce afford to sleep?So dear it costs to purchase rest in Rome,And hence the sources of diseases come.The drover, who his fellow-drover meetsIn narrow passages of winding streets;The waggoners, that curse their standing teams,Would wake even drowsy Drusus from his dreams.And yet the wealthy will not brook delay,But sweep above our heads, and make their way,In lofty litters borne, and read and write,Or sleep at ease, the shutters make it night;Yet still he reaches first the public place.The press before him stops the client's pace;The crowd that follows crush his panting sides,And trip his heels; he walks not, but he rides.One elbows him, one jostles in the shole,A rafter breaks his head, or chairman's pole;Stocking'd with loads of fat town-dirt he goes,}And some rogue-soldier, with his hob-nailed shoes,}Indents his legs behind in bloody rows.}See, with what smoke our doles we celebrate:}A hundred guests, invited, walk in state;}A hundred hungry slaves, with their Dutch kitchens, wait.}Huge pans the wretches on their heads must bear,Which scarce gigantic Corbulo[105]could rear;Yet they must walk upright beneath the load,Nay run, and, running, blow the sparkling flames abroad.Their coats, from botching newly brought, are torn.Unwieldy timber-trees, in waggons borne,Stretched at their length, beyond their carriage lie,That nod, and threaten ruin from on high;For, should their axle break, its overthrow}Would crush, and pound to dust, the crowd below;}Nor friends their friends, nor sires their sons could know;}Nor limbs, nor bones, nor carcase, would remain,But a mashed heap, a hotchpotch of the slain;One vast destruction; not the soul alone,But bodies, like the soul, invisible are flown.Meantime, unknowing of their fellow's fate,The servants wash the platter, scower the plate,Then blow the fire, with puffing cheeks, and lay}The rubbers, and the bathing-sheets display,}And oil them first; and each is handy in his way.}But he, for whom this busy care they take,Poor ghost! is wandering by the Stygian lake;Affrighted with the ferryman's grim face,New to the horrors of that uncouth place,His passage begs, with unregarded prayer,And wants two farthings to discharge his fare.Return we to the dangers of the night.—And, first, behold our houses' dreadful height;From whence come broken potsherds tumbling down,}And leaky ware from garret-windows thrown;}Well may they break our heads, that mark the flinty stone.}'Tis want of sense to sup abroad too late,Unless thou first hast settled thy estate;As many fates attend thy steps to meet,As there are waking windows in the street.Bless the good Gods, and think thy chance is rare,To have a piss-pot only for thy share.The scouring drunkard, if he does not fightBefore his bed-time, takes no rest that night;Passing the tedious hours in greater painThan stern Achilles, when his friend was slain;'Tis so ridiculous, but so true withal,A bully cannot sleep without a brawl.Yet, though his youthful blood be fired with wine,He wants not wit the danger to decline;Is cautious to avoid the coach and six,And on the lacquies will no quarrel fix.His train of flambeaux, and embroidered coat,May privilege my lord to walk secure on foot;But me, who must by moon-light homeward bend,Or lighted only with a candle's end,Poor me he fights, if that be fighting, whereHe only cudgels, and I only bear.He stands, and bids me stand; I must abide,For he's the stronger, and is drunk beside.Where did you whet your knife to-night, he cries,And shred the leeks that in your stomach rise?Whose windy beans have stuft your guts, and whereHave your black thumbs been dipt in vinegar?With what companion-cobler have you fed,On old ox-cheeks, or he-goat's tougher head?What, are you dumb? Quick, with your answer, quick,Before my foot salutes you with a kick.Say, in what nasty cellar, under ground,Or what church-porch, your rogueship may be found?—Answer, or answer not, 'tis all the same,He lays me on, and makes me bear the blame.Before the bar for beating him you come;This is a poor man's liberty in Rome.You beg his pardon; happy to retreatWith some remaining teeth, to chew your meat.Nor is this all; for when, retired, you thinkTo sleep securely, when the candles wink,When every door with iron chains is barred,And roaring taverns are no longer heard;The ruffian robbers, by no justice awed,And unpaid cut-throat soldiers, are abroad;Those venal souls, who, hardened in each ill,To save complaints and prosecution, kill.Chased from their woods and bogs, the padders come}To this vast city, as their native home,}To live at ease, and safely skulk in Rome.}The forge in fetters only is employed;Our iron mines exhausted and destroyedIn shackles; for these villains scarce allowGoads for the teams, and plough-shares for the plough.Oh, happy ages of our ancestors,Beneath the kings and tribunitial powers!One jail did all their criminals restrain,Which now the walls of Rome can scarce contain.More I could say, more causes I could showFor my departure, but the sun is low;The waggoner grows weary of my stay,And whips his horses forwards on their way.Farewell! and when, like me, o'erwhelmed with care,}You to your own Aquinam[106]shall repair,}To take a mouthful of sweet country air,}Be mindful of your friend; and send me word,What joys your fountains and cool shades afford.Then, to assist your satires, I will come,And add new venom when you write of Rome.

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