Cris. O—!Tib. How now, Crispinus? CCris. O, I am sick—!Hor. A bason, a bason, quickly; our physic works. Faint not, man.Cris. O———retrograde———reciprocal———incubus.Caes. What's that, Horace?Hor. Retrograde, reciprocal, and incubus, are come up.Gal. Thanks be to Jupiter!Cris. O———glibbery———lubrical———defunct———O———!Hor. Well said; here's some store.Virg. What are they?Hor. Glibbery, lubrical, and defunct.Gal. O, they came up easy.Cris. O———O———!Tib. What's that?Hor. Nothing yet.Cris. Magnificate———Mec. Magnificate! That came up somewhat hard.Hor. Ay. What cheer, Crispinus?Cris. O! I shall cast up my———spurious———snotteries———Hor. Good. Again.Oris. Chilblain'd———O———O———clumsie———Hor. That clumsie stuck terribly.Mec. What's all that, Horace?Hor. Spurious, snotteries, chilblain'd, clumsie.Tib. O Jupiter!Gal. Who would have thought there should have been such a deal offilth in a poet?Cris. O———balmy froth———Caes. What's that?Cris.———Puffie———inflate———turgidious———-ventosity.Hor. Balmy, froth, puffie, inflate, turgidous, and ventosity arecome up.Tib. O terrible windy words.Gal. A sign of a windy brain.Cris. O———oblatrant———furibund———fatuate———strenuous—-Hor. Here's a deal; oblatrant, furibund, fatuate, strenuous.Caes. Now all's come up, I trow. What a tumult he had in his belly?Hor. No, there's the often conscious damp behind still.Cris. O———conscious———damp.Hor. It is come up, thanks to Apollo and AEsculapius: another; youwere best take a pill more.Cris. O, no; O———O———O———O———O!Hor. Force yourself then a little with your finger.Cris. O———O———prorumped.Tib. Prorumped I What a noise it made! as if his spirit would haveprorumpt with it.Cris. O———O———O!Virg. Help him, it sticks strangely, whatever it is.Cris. O———clutchtHor. Now it is come; clutcht.Caes. Clutcht! it is well that's come up; it had but a narrowpassage.Cris. O———!Virg. Again! hold him, hold his head there.Cris. Snarling gusts———quaking custard.Hor. How now, Crispinus?Cris. O———obstupefact.Tib. Nay, that are all we, I assure you.Hor. How do you feel yourself?Cris. Pretty and well, I thank you.Virg.These pills can but restore him for a time,Not cure him quite of such a malady,Caught by so many surfeits, which have fill'dHis blood and brain thus full of crudities:'Tis necessary therefore he observeA strict and wholesome diet. Look you takeEach morning of old Cato's principlesA good draught next your heart; that walk upon,Till it be well digested: then come home,And taste a piece of Terence, suck his phraseInstead of liquorice; and, at any hand,Shun Plautus and old Ennius: they are meatsToo harsh for a weak stomach.Use to read (But not without a tutor) the best Greeks,As Orpheus, Musaeus, Pindarus,Hesiod, Callimachus, and Theocrite,High Homer; but beware of Lycophron,He is too dark and dangerous a dish.You must not hunt for wild outlandish terms,To stuff out a peculiar dialect;But let your matter run before your words.And if at any time you chance to meetSome Gallo-Belgic phrase; you shall not straight.Rack your poor verse to give it entertainment,But let it pass; and do not think yourselfMuch damnified, if you do leave it out,When nor your understanding, nor the senseCould well receive it. This fair abstinence,In time, will render you more sound and clear:And this have I prescribed to you, in placeOf a strict sentence; which till he perform,Attire him in that robe. And henceforth learnTo bear yourself more humbly; not to swell,Or breathe your insolent and idle spiteOn him whose laughter can your worst affright.Tib. Take him away.Cris. Jupiter guard Caesar!Virg.And for a week or two see him lock'd upIn some dark place, removed from company;He will talk idly else after his physic.Now to you, sir. [to Demetrius.] The extremity of lawAwards you to be branded in the front,For this your calumny: but since it pleasethHorace, the party wrong'd, t' intreat of CaesarA mitigation of that juster doom,With Caesar's tongue thus we pronounce your sentence.Demetrius Fannius, thou shalt here put onThat coat and cap, and henceforth think thyselfNo other than they make thee; vow to wear themIn every fair and generous assembly,Till the best sort of minds shall take to knowledgeAs well thy satisfaction, as thy wrongs.Hor.Only, grave praetor, here, in open court,I crave the oath for good behaviourMay be administer'd unto them both.Virg.Horace, it shall: Tibullus, give it them.Tib. Rufus Laberius Crispinus, and Demetrius Fannius, lay yourhands on your hearts. You shall here solemnly attest and swear,that never, after this instant, either at booksellers' stalls, intaverns, two-penny rooms, tyring-houses, noblemen's butteries,puisents chambers, (the best and farthest places where you areadmitted to come,) you shall once offer or dare (thereby to endearyourself the more to any player, enghle, or guilty gull in yourcompany) to malign, traduce, or detract the person or writings ofQuintus Horatius Flaccus, or any other eminent men, transcendingyou in merit, whom your envy shall find cause to work upon, eitherfor that, or for keeping himself in better acquaintance, orenjoying better friends, or if, transported by any sudden anddesperate resolution, you do, that then you shall not under thebatoon, or in the next presence, being an honourable assembly ofhis favourers, be brought as voluntary gentlemen to undertake thefor-swearing of it. Neither shall you, at any time, ambitiouslyaffecting the title of the Untrussers or Whippers of the age,suffer the itch of writing to over-run your performance in libel,upon pain of being taken up for lepers in wit, and, losing bothyour time and your papers, be irrecoverably forfeited to thehospital of fools. So help you our Roman gods and the Genius ofgreat Caesar.Virg. So! now dissolve the court.Bor. Tib. Gal. Mec. And thanks to Caesar, That thus hath exercisedhis patience.Caes.We have, indeed, you worthiest friends of Caesar.It is the bane and torment of our ears,To hear the discords of those jangling rhymers,That with their bad and scandalous practicesBring all true arts and learning in contempt.But let not your high thoughts descend so lowAs these despised objects; let them fall,With their flat grovelling souls: be you yourselves;And as with our best favours you stand crown'd,So let your mutual loves be still renown'd.Envy will dwell where there is want of merit,Though the deserving man should crack his spirit.Blush, folly, blush; here's none that fearsThe wagging of an ass's ears,Although a wolfish case he wears.Detraction is but baseness' varlet;And apes are apes, though clothed in scarlet. [Exeunt.Rumpatur, quisquis rumpitur invidi!
"Here, reader, in place of the epilogue, was meant to thee anapology from the author, with his reasons for the publishing ofthis book: but, since he is no less restrained than thou deprivedof it by authority, he prays thee to think charitably of what thouhast read. till thou mayest hear him speak what he hath written."
HORACE AND TREBATIUS.A DIALOGUE.Sat. 1. Lib. 2.Hor.There are to whom I seem excessive sour,And past a satire's law t' extend my power:Others, that think whatever I have writWants pith and matter to eternise it;And that they could, in one day's light, discloseA thousand verses, such as I compose.What shall I do, Trebatius? say.Treb. Surcease.Hor. And shall my muse admit no more increase?Treb. So I advise.Hor.An ill death let me die,If 'twere not best; but sleep avoids mine eye,And I use these, lest nights should tedious seem.Treb.Rather, contend to sleep, and live like them,That, holding golden sleep in special price,Rubb'd with sweet oils, swim silver Tyber thrice,And every even with neat wine steeped be:Or, if such love of writing ravish thee,Then dare to sing unconquer'd Caesar's deeds;Who cheers such actions with abundant meeds.Hor.That, father, I desire; but, when I try,I feel defects in every faculty:Nor is't a labour fit for every pen,To paint the horrid troops of armed men,The lances burst, in Gallia's slaughter'd forces;Or wounded Parthians, tumbled from their horses:Great Caesar's wars cannot be fought with words.Treb.Yet, what his virtue in his peace affords,His fortitude and justice thou canst shewAs wise Lucilius honour'd Scipio.Hor.Of that, my powers shall suffer no neglect,When such slight labours may aspire respect:But, if I watch not a most chosen time,The humble words of Flaccus cannot climbTh' attentive ear of Caesar; nor must IWith less observance shun gross flattery:For he, reposed safe in his own merit,Spurns back the gloses of a fawning spirit.Treb.But how much better would such accents soundThan with a sad and serious verse to woundPantolabus, railing in his saucy jests,Or Nomentanus spent in riotous feasts?In satires, each man, though untouch'd, complainsAs he were hurt; and hates such biting strains.Hor.What shall I do? Milonius shakes his heelsIn ceaseless dances, when his brain once feelsThe stirring fervour of the wine ascend;And that his eyes false numbers apprehend.Castor his horse, Pollux loves handy-fights;A thousand heads, a thousand choice delights.My pleasure is in feet my words to close,As, both our better, old Lucilius does:He, as his trusty friends, his books did trustWith all his secrets; nor, in things unjust,Or actions lawful, ran to other men:So that the old man's life described, was seenAs in a votive table in his lines:And to his steps my genius inclines;Lucanian, or Apulian, I know not whether,For the Venusian colony ploughs either;Sent thither, when the Sabines were forced thence,As old Fame sings, to give the place defence'Gainst such as, seeing it empty, might make roadUpon the empire; or there fix abode:Whether the Apulian borderer it were,Or the Lucanian violence they fear.—-But this my style no living man shall touch,If first I be not forced by base reproach;But like a sheathed sword it shall defendMy innocent life; for why should I contendTo draw it out, when no malicious thiefRobs my good name, the treasure of my life?O Jupiter, let it with rust be eaten,Before it touch, or insolently threatenThe life of any with the least disease;So much I love, and woo a general peace.But, he that wrongs me, better, I proclaim,He never had assay'd to touch my fame.For he shall weep, and walk with every tongueThroughout the city, infamously sung.Servius the praetor threats the laws, and urn,If any at his deeds repine or spurn;The witch Canidia, that Albutius got,Denounceth witchcraft, where she loveth not;Thurius the judge, doth thunder worlds of ill,To such as strive with his judicial will.All men affright their foes in what they may,Nature commands it, and men must obey.Observe with me: The wolf his tooth doth use,The bull his horn; and who doth this infuse,But nature? There's luxurious Scaeva; trustHis long-lived mother with him; his so justAnd scrupulous right-hand no mischief will;No more than with his heel a wolf will kill,Or ox with jaw: marry, let him aloneWith temper'd poison to remove the croan.But briefly, if to age I destined be,Or that quick death's black wings environ me;If rich, or poor; at Rome; or fate commandI shall be banished to some other land;What hue soever my whole state shall bear,I will write satires still, in spite of fear.Treb.Horace, I fear thou draw'st no lasting breath;And that some great man's friend will be thy death.Hor.What! when the man that first did satiriseDurst pull the skin over the ears of vice,And make who stood in outward fashion clear,Give place, as foul within; shall I forbear?Did Laelius, or the man so great with fame,That from sack'd Carthage fetch'd his worthy name,Storm that Lucilius did Metellus pierce,Or bury Lupus quick in famous verse?Rulers and subjects, by whole tribes he checkt,But virtue and her friends did still protect:And when from sight, or from the judgment-seat,The virtuous Scipio and wise Laelius met,Unbraced, with him in all light sports they shared,Till their most frugal suppers were prepared.Whate'er I am, though both for wealth and witBeneath Lucilius I am pleased to sit;Yet Envy, spite of her empoison'd breast,Shall say, I lived in grace here with the best;And seeking in weak trash to make her wound,Shall find me solid, and her teeth unsound:'Less learn'd Trebatius' censure disagree.Treb.No, Horace, I of force must yield to thee;Only take heed, as being advised by me,Lest thou incur some danger: better pause,Than rue thy ignorance of the sacred laws;There's justice, and great action may be sued'Gainst such as wrong men's fames with verses lewd.Hor.Ay, with lewd verses, such as libels be,And aim'd at persons of good quality:I reverence and adore that just decree.But if they shall be sharp, yet modest rhymes,That spare men's persons, and but tax their crimes,Such shall in open court find current pass,Were Caesar judge, and with the maker's grace.Treb.Nay, I'll add more; if thou thyself, being clear,Shall tax in person a man fit to bearShame and reproach, his suit shall quickly beDissolved in laughter, and thou thence set free.
TO THE READERIf, by looking on what is past, thou hast deserved that name, I amwilling thou should'st yet know more, by that which follows, anAPOLOGETICAL DIALOGUE; which was only once spoken upon the stageand all the answer I ever gave to sundry impotent libels then castout (and some yet remaining) against me, and this play. Wherein Itake no pleasure to revive the times; but that posterity may make adifference between their manners that provoked me then, and minethat neglected them ever, For, in these strifes, and on suchpersons, were as wretched to affect a victory, as it is unhappy tobe committed with them.
Non annorum canities est laudanda, sed morum.
SCENE, The Author's Lodgings.Enter NASUTUS and POLYPOSUS.Nas. I pray You let' s go see him, how he looksAfter these libels.Pol. O vex'd, vex'd, I warrant you.Nas. Do you think so? I should be sorry for him,If I found that.Pol. O, they are such bitter things,He cannot choose.Nas. But, is he guilty of them?Pol. Fuh! that's no matter.Nas. No!Pol. No. Here's his lodging.We'll steal upon him: or let's listen; stay.He has a humour oft to talk t' himself.Nas. They are your manners lead me, not mine own.[They come forward; the scene opens, and discovers theAuthor in his study.Aut.The fates have not spun him the coarsest thread,That (free from knots of perturbation)Doth yet so live, although but to himself,As he can safely scorn the tongues of slaves,And neglect fortune, more than she can him.It is the happiest thing this, not to beWithin the reach of malice; it providesA man so well, to laugh off injuries;And never sends him farther for his vengeance,Than the vex'd bosom of his enemy.I, now, but think how poor their spite sets off,Who, after all their waste of sulphurous terms,And burst-out thunder of their charged mouths,Have nothing left but the unsavoury smokeOf their black vomit, to upbraid themselves:Whilst I, at whom they shot, sit here shot-free,And as unhurt of envy, as unhit.[Pol. and Nas. discover themselves.Pol.Ay, but the multitude they think not so, sir,They think you hit, and hurt: and dare give out,Your silence argues it in not rejoiningTo this or that late libel.Aut.'Las, good rout!I can afford them leave to err so still;And like the barking students of Bears-college,To swallow up the garbage of the timeWith greedy gullets, whilst myself sit by,Pleased, and yet tortured, with their beastly feeding.'Tis a sweet madness runs along with them,To think, all that are aim'd at still are struck:Then, where the shaft still lights, make that the mark:And so each fear or fever-shaken foolMay challenge Teucer's hand in archery.Good troth, if I knew any man so vile,To act the crimes these Whippers reprehend,Or what their servile apes gesticulate,I should not then much muse their shreds were liked;Since ill men have a lust t' hear others' sins,All good men have a zeal to hear sin shamed.But when it is all excrement they vent,Base filth and offal; or thefts, notableAs ocean-piracies, or highway-stands;And not a crime there tax'd, but is their own,Or what their own foul thoughts suggested to them;And that, in all their heat of taxing others,Not one of them but lives himself, if known,Improbior satiram scribente cinaedoWhat should I say more, than turn stone with wonder!Nas.I never saw this play bred all this tumult:What was there in it could so deeply offendAnd stir so many hornets?Aut. Shall I tell you?Nas. Yea, and ingeniously.Aut.Then, by the hopeWhich I prefer unto all other objects,I can profess, I never writ that pieceMore innocent or empty of offence.Some salt it had, but neither tooth nor gall,Nor was there in it any circumstanceWhich. in the setting down, I could suspectMight be perverted by an enemy's tongue;Only it had the fault to be call'd mine;That was the crime.Pol.No! why, they say you tax'dThe law and lawyers, captains and the players,By their particular names.Aut. It is not so.I used no name. My books have still been taughtTo spare the persons, and to speak the vices.These are mere slanders, and enforced by suchAs have no safer ways to men's disgraces.But their own lies and loss of honesty:Fellows of practised and most laxative tongues,Whose empty and eager bellies, in the year,Compel their brains to many desperate shifts,(I spare to name them, for their wretchednessFury itself would pardon). These, or such,Whether of malice, or of ignorance,Or itch t' have me their adversary, I know not,Or all these mixt; but sure I am, three yearsThey did provoke me with their petulant stylesOn every stage: and I at last unwilling,But weary, I confess, of so much trouble,Thought I would try if shame could win upon 'em,'And therefore chose Augustus Caesar's times,When wit and area were at their height in Rome,To shew that Virgil, Horace, and the restOf those great master-spirits, did not wantDetractors then, or practicers against them:And by this line, although no parallel,I hoped at last they would sit down and blush;But nothing I could find more contrary.And though the impudence of flies be great,Yet this hath so provok'd the angry wasps,Or, as you said, of the next nest, the hornets,That they fly buzzing, mad, about my nostrils,And, like so many screaming grasshoppersHeld by the wings, fill every ear with noise.And what? those former calumnies you mention'd.First, of the law: indeed I brought in OvidChid by his angry father for neglectingThe study of their laws for poetry:And I am warranted by his own words:Saepe pater dixit, studium quid inutile tentas!Maeonides nullas ipse reliquit opes.And in far harsher terms elsewhere, as these:Non me verbosas leges ediscere, non meIngrato voces prostituisse foro.But how this should relate unto our laws,Or the just ministers, with least abuse,I reverence both too much to understand!Then, for the captain, I will only speakAn epigram I here have made: it isUNTO TRUE SOLDIERS.That's the lemma: mark it.Strength of my country, whilst I bring to viewSuch: as are miss-call'd captains, and wrong you,And your high names; I do desire, that thence,Be nor put on you, nor you take offence:I swear by your true friend, my muse, I loveYour great profession which I once did prove;And did not shame it with my actions then,No more than I dare now do with my pen.He that not trusts me, having vowed thus much,But's angry for the captain, still: is such.Now for the players, it is true, I tax'd them,And yet but some; and those so sparingly,As all the rest might have sat still unquestion'd,Had they but had the wit or conscienceTo think well of themselves. But impotent, theyThought each man's vice belong'd to their whole tribe;And much good do't them! What they have done 'gainst me,I am not moved with: if it gave them meat,Or got them clothes, 'tis well; that was their end.Only amongst them, I am sorry forSome better natures, by the rest so drawn,To run in that vile line.Pol. And is this all!Will you not answer then the libels?Aut. No.Pol. Nor the Untrussers?Aut. Neither.Pol. Y'are undone then.Aut. With whom?Pol. The world.Aut. The bawd!Pol. It will be takenTo be stupidity or tameness in you.Aut.But they that have incensed me, can in soulAcquit me of that guilt. They know I dareTo spurn or baffle them, or squirt their eyesWith ink or urine; or I could do worse,Arm'd with Archilochus' fury, write Iambics,Should make the desperate lashers hang themselves;Rhime them to death, as they do Irish ratsIn drumming tunes. Or, living, I could stampTheir foreheads with those deep and public brands,That the whole company of barber-surgeon aShould not take off with all their art and plasters.And these my prints should last, still to be readIn their pale fronts; when, what they write 'gainst meShall, like a figure drawn in water, fleet,And the poor wretched papers be employedTo clothe tobacco, or some cheaper drug:This I could do, and make them infamous.But, to what end? when their own deeds have mark'd 'em;And that I know, within his guilty breastEach slanderer bears a whip that shall torment himWorse than a million of these temporal plagues:Which to pursue, were but a feminine humour,And far beneath the dignity of man.Nas.'Tis true; for to revenge their injuries,Were to confess you felt them. Let them go,And use the treasure of the fool, their tongues,Who makes his gain, by speaking worst of beat.Pol. O, but they lay particular imputations—Aut. As what?Pol. That all your writing is mere railing.Aut. Ha?If all the salt in the old comedyShould be so censured, or the sharper witOf the bold satire termed scolding rage,What age could then compare with those for buffoons?What should be said of Aristophanes,Persius, or Juvenal, whose names we nowSo glorify in schools, at least pretend it?—-Have they no other?Pol.Yes; they say you are slow,And scarce bring forth a play a year.Aut. 'Tis true.I would they could not say that I did that!There' s all the joy that I take in their trade,Unless such scribes as these might be proscribedTh' abused theatres. They would think it strange, now,A man should take but colts-foot for one day,And, between whiles, spit out a better poemThan e'er the master of art, or giver of wit,Their belly, made. Yet, this is possible,If a free mind had but the patience,To think so much together and so vile.But that these base and beggarly conceitsShould carry it, by the multitude of voices,Against the most abstracted work, opposedTo the stuff'd nostrils of the drunken rout!O, this would make a learn'd and liberal soulTo rive his stained quill up to the back,And damn his long-watch'd labours to the fire,Things that were born when none but the still nightAnd his dumb candle, saw his pinching throes,Were not his own free merit a more crownUnto his travails than their reeling claps.This 'tis that strikes me silent, seals my lips,And apts me rather to sleep out my time,Than I would waste it in contemned strifesWith these vile Ibides, these unclean birds,That make their mouths their clysters, and still purgeFrom their hot entrails. But I leave the monstersTo their own fate. And, since the Comic MuseHath proved so ominous to me, I will tryIf TRAGEDY have a more kind aspect;Her favours in my next I will pursue,Where, if I prove the pleasure but of one,So he judicious be, he shall be aloneA theatre unto me; Once I'll sayTo strike the ear of time in those fresh strains,As shall, beside the cunning of their ground,Give cause to some of wonder, some despite,And more despair, to imitate their sound.I, that spend half my nights, and all my days,Here in a cell, to get a dark paleface,To come forth worth the ivy or the bays,And in this age can hope no other grace—-Leave me! There's something come into my thought,That must and shall be sung high and aloof,Safe from the wolfs black jaw, and the dun ass's hoofNas. I reverence these raptures, and obey them.[The scene closes—-